Outrage de-7

by Arnaldur Indridason

  She was planning a new cookery book so she made careful notes of all she did. Her first, More than Just Desserts, had sold well; she’d been invited to appear on a TV chat show and had been interviewed in the press. She hoped the next book would enjoy equal success.

  She heard Teddi come in. She recognised the sounds of each member of the family: Valthór would slam the door behind him, kick off his shoes, chuck his bag on the floor and disappear into his bedroom without so much as a hello. Aron had been tending to do the same lately; after all, he was a teenager now and strove to be just like his big brother. He invariably dumped his coat on the hall floor, however many times he was reminded to hang it up. Theodóra entered quietly, closing the door softly behind her, hung up her coat, and if her parents were at home she would join them in the kitchen for a chat. Teddi sometimes made a noisy entrance via the garage: invariably cheerful, he often came in humming a song that had been on the radio as he drove home. He cleared up as he went — hung the boys’ coats up, put their bags away, arranged their shoes on the rack — before coming into the kitchen to greet Elínborg with a kiss.

  ‘Hey! You’re home!’ he said.

  ‘I promised to cook the kids a steak ages ago,’ she said. ‘And there’s tandoori on the barbecue for us. Would you mind putting the rice on?’

  ‘So have you solved the case?’ asked Teddi as he searched out a packet of rice.

  ‘I don’t know. We’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘What a clever girl you are,’ remarked Teddi, pleased to have Elínborg home at a reasonable hour. He had become a regular customer at various unappetising fried-chicken places at this time of the evening, and he had been missing his wife and her home cooking.

  ‘What do you say? Shall we have a drop of red wine to celebrate?’

  Elínborg’s mobile started to ring in her coat pocket in the hall.

  Teddi’s smile faded. He recognised the ringtone of her work phone. ‘Aren’t you going to take that?’ he asked, reaching for a bottle.

  ‘Don’t I always?’ answered Elínborg, making for the hall. She would have liked to switch the device off and actually considered doing so as she dug it out of her pocket.

  Teddi’s jacket was lying over a chair in the hall.

  ‘Are you at home?’ asked Sigurdur Óli.

  ‘Yes,’ snapped Elínborg. ‘What do you want? What’s up?’

  ‘I was just going to congratulate you, but if you’re going to bite my head off I might as well-’

  ‘Congratulate me?’

  ‘He confessed.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man you took into custody,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Your mate with the wonky leg. Hopalong Cassidy. He’s confessed to killing Runólfur.’

  ‘Konrád? When?’

  ‘Just now.’

  ‘So was it all straightforward?’

  ‘Yeah. They were finishing up for the day, and he said he gave up. I wasn’t there but that’s the gist of it. He confessed. He said he went crazy when he saw what had happened. He claims he didn’t force Runólfur to swallow anything but he did notice that he was under the influence of something. He used one of the kitchen knives, apparently, and threw it in the sea on the way home. Can’t remember exactly where.’

  Elínborg was not convinced. ‘The last thing he told me was that they were both innocent.’

  ‘He must have just had enough. I can’t read his mind.’

  ‘Does his daughter know about his confession?’

  ‘No, she hasn’t been told. I don’t suppose we’ll tell her till tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Elínborg.

  ‘Well, it’s all down to your good work, pardner,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Who’d have believed your Indian spices and sauces would solve the case? I wouldn’t.’

  ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Elínborg broke the connection and absent-mindedly picked up her husband’s jacket. The garment smelt strongly of the motor workshop where he worked and a smell of lubricants and tyres filled the hall. Teddi usually took care not to bring the grime of his work into the house but this time he had forgotten. Maybe because he was so pleased to find her at home, thought Elínborg. She carried his jacket into the garage, hung it up, then returned to the kitchen.

  ‘What was the call about?’ Teddi asked.

  ‘We’ve got a confession,’ said Elínborg. ‘In the Thingholt case.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Teddi, a wine bottle in his hand. ‘I wasn’t sure whether to open it.’

  ‘Yeah, go ahead,’ said Elínborg flatly. ‘You left your jacket in the hall.’

  ‘Sorry, I was in a bit of a hurry. What’s the matter? The case is solved, isn’t it?’

  He drew the cork from the bottle, with a loud pop. Teddi poured two glasses of wine and handed one to his wife. ‘Cheers!’ he said.

  Elínborg toasted him back, her attention elsewhere. Teddi could see that she was distracted as she watched the rice boiling in the pan. He took a sip and watched her. He did not want to interrupt her train of thought.

  ‘Could it be?’ exclaimed Elínborg.

  ‘Could what be?’

  ‘He’s got it all wrong,’ said Elínborg.

  ‘What?’ asked Teddi, bewildered. ‘Is there something wrong with the rice?’

  ‘Rice?’

  ‘Yes — I just did the usual amount.’

  ‘He thought it was paraffin, but he was wrong,’ said Elínborg.

  ‘What?’

  Elínborg stared at Teddi. Then she went out to the garage and fetched his jacket. She brought it back and handed it to him. ‘Can you tell me what this smell is, exactly?’

  ‘The smell on the jacket?’

  ‘Yes. Is it paraffin?’

  ‘No, not exactly …’ said Teddi as he sniffed at the garment. ‘It’s engine lubricant. Oil.’

  ‘Who was this Runólfur?’ said Elínborg under her breath. ‘What kind of a man was he? Konrád asked me that today, and I had no answer for him, because I don’t understand him. But I should.’

  ‘What should you understand?’

  ‘Konrád didn’t smell paraffin. Dear God! We should have found out more about him. I knew it. We should have paid far more attention to Runólfur.’

  28

  Elínborg sat in the car for a while before she entered the filling station. Busy as she was, she allowed herself the time to listen to the closing minutes of a radio programme playing golden oldies. Her first husband, Bergsteinn, had been a devotee of classic popular songs. He would often wax lyrical about the good old days of simple, innocent dance tunes, which had given way to raw, angry, confrontational music.

  These familiar songs reminded her of Erlendur, who had gone east to where he had lived as a boy. In his desire to be left alone, it looked as if he had left his phone behind and severed all contact with the outside world. On the rare occasions when he took time off to go to the east, that was what he did as a rule. She wondered what he got up to over there. She had taken the liberty of asking about him at the guest house in the village of Eskifjördur, but he had not been seen there. She had hesitated to make the call: she knew Erlendur at least as well as anyone else and she was well aware that he loathed any such interference.

  Elínborg walked into the filling station. By trawling through old reports of fatal road accidents she had traced the driver of the lorry that had collided with Runólfur’s father’s car, killing him. The man had worked for a haulage company in Reykjavík. Elínborg had gone to the company offices to ask about the driver and had spoken to the manager:

  ‘I was wondering if Ragnar Thór was available. I’ve only got a mobile number and he’s not answering,’ said Elínborg, after introducing herself.

  ‘Ragnar Thór?’ the manager said. ‘He hasn’t worked here for years.’

  ‘Oh? Who’s he driving for now?’

  ‘Driving? No, Ragnar doesn’t drive any more. Not since the accident.’

  ‘The accident where the other driver died?’

&n
bsp; ‘Yes — he gave up driving after that.’

  ‘Because of the accident?’

  ‘Yes.’ The manager was standing in his office, flicking through bills of lading. He had scarcely looked up from his paperwork.

  ‘Do you know where he’s working now?’

  ‘Yes — he’s at a filling station in Hafnarfjördur. I saw him last a couple of months ago. He’s probably still there.’

  ‘So it affected him badly, did it?’

  ‘Yes. Like I said, he quit driving. Stopped there and then.’

  Elínborg had left the haulage company to drive straight to the filling station that the manager had mentioned. It was a quiet time of day and the place was peaceful. A man was standing at a pump, filling the tank himself to save a few krónur. Inside, at the till, were a woman of about thirty and an older man. The woman ignored Elínborg, looking out at the forecourt, but the man stood up, smiled, and asked if he could help.

  ‘I’m looking for Ragnar Thór,’ said Elínborg.

  ‘Yes, that’s me,’ the man replied.

  ‘Your mobile doesn’t seem to be working.’

  ‘Oh, were you trying to get hold of me? I haven’t got round to buying a new one.’

  ‘Could we speak in private?’ asked Elínborg, looking at the woman on the till. ‘I need to ask you something. It won’t take long.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the man. He also looked at the woman. ‘We can step outside. Who are you?’

  They went outside, and Elínborg explained that she was a police officer, working on a delicate case. To cut a long story short, she wanted to ask him about the accident he had been in some years ago, when he’d collided head-on with a car whose driver was killed.

  ‘The crash?’ replied Ragnar Thór cautiously.

  ‘I’ve read the reports,’ said Elínborg. ‘But I know things get left out of the written versions. I gather you stopped driving after that?’

  ‘I … I don’t see how I can help you,’ said Ragnar Thór, stepping away from her. ‘I’ve never discussed it.’

  ‘I understand. It must have been an awful experience.’

  ‘With all due respect, you can’t understand it unless it happens to you. I don’t think I can help you, so please leave me alone. I’ve never talked to anyone about it and I’m not going to start now. I hope you’ll respect that.’ He made as if to go back to his work.

  ‘The case I’m investigating is the Thingholt Murder,’ Elínborg said. ‘Have you heard about it?’

  Ragnar Thór halted. A car pulled up at one of the pumps.

  ‘The young man who was killed — had his throat cut, in fact — was the son of the man who died in the accident.’

  Ragnar Thór looked at her, baffled. ‘His son?’

  ‘Runólfur was his name. He lost his father in that crash.’

  The driver who had stopped at the pump sat in his car, waiting to be served. The woman on the till did not move.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ muttered Ragnar Thór. ‘The accident wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘I think that’s generally accepted, Ragnar. He swerved across in front of you.’

  The waiting driver tooted his horn. Ragnar Thór glanced over at him. The woman on the till was ignoring them. He went over to the car. The driver lowered his window and, without a word, handed him a 5,000-krónur note, then closed the window again.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ asked Ragnar Thór, when he had started the pump.

  ‘Was there anything odd about the accident? Something you didn’t mention in your statement? Something to explain how it happened? The report only reaches the conclusion that Runólfur’s father seems to have lost control of the vehicle.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘His wife says he fell asleep at the wheel. Is that true? Or did something else happen? Maybe something distracted him? Did he drop a cigarette on the seat?’

  ‘That lad in Thingholt was his son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Well, now you do.’

  ‘If I tell you what I left out of my statement, you mustn’t tell anyone else.’

  ‘I won’t. You can rely on me.’

  Ragnar Thór finished filling the car. They stood by the pump. It was midday, a chilly day. ‘It was suicide,’ said Ragnar Thór.

  ‘Suicide? How do you know?’

  ‘You can’t breathe a word of this.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He smiled at me.’

  ‘Smiled?’

  Ragnar Thór nodded. ‘He was smiling when the lorry hit him. He had picked me out — my rig, because it was a big juggernaut with a trailer. He pulled over right in front of me, with no warning. There was nothing I could do. I had no time to react. He steered his car head-on into me and just before the vehicles collided he smiled — from ear to ear.’

  The half-empty plane took off from Reykjavík’s domestic airport in the afternoon, climbing fast to its cruising altitude. There was talk of abolishing this route unless the government stepped in with an even larger subsidy for the service. Departure had been delayed by fog at their destination, and it was past two p.m. when conditions improved sufficiently for the plane to take off. The captain greeted the passengers over the public-address system: he apologised for the delay, told them when he expected to land, and informed them that there was low cloud at their destination, with a strong breeze. The temperature there was minus four degrees Centigrade. He wished them a pleasant journey.

  Elínborg tightened her seat belt, and recalled her last flight, a few days ago. She thought she recognised the captain’s voice. They flew above the clouds for most of the way, and Elínborg enjoyed having the sun on her left. It had not broken through the clouds very often during the overcast autumn days in Reykjavík.

  Elínborg had brought the case file with her and was reading a transcript of Konrád’s confession. He was standing by it and swore that he did not want to change anything. Elínborg knew that being held in custody could have strange and unpredictable effects on people.

  ‘I want to see my daughter,’ said Konrád, according to the transcript. ‘I won’t answer any more questions until you let me see her.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen,’ was the police officer’s reply. Elínborg thought it was probably Finnur, who had tipped them off about the possible connection between Edvard and Lilja.

  ‘How is she?’ asked Konrád.

  ‘We think she’s on the point of breaking. It’s just a matter of time.’

  Elínborg grimaced. Konrád was always asking after his daughter and Elínborg felt that the police officer was attempting a rather simplistic form of psychological intimidation.

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s all right. For now.’

  ‘What do you mean, for now?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s no picnic for her, being held in custody, of course.’

  A little while later Konrád gave up all resistance. He was being questioned about how he got into the house. The questions were repeated over and over again until he put his foot down. Elínborg pictured him in the interview room, straightening up where he sat and sighing heavily: ‘I can’t go on like this. I don’t know how I thought I could get away with it. I should have contacted you at once, after I cut him. Then Nína wouldn’t have had to go through all this, for nothing. It was a stupid mistake but I maintain I did it in self-defence.’

  ‘Are you …?’

  ‘I killed him. Now leave Nína alone. It was me. I’m just sorry I dragged her into my lies. It was my fault. All my fault. When I saw the state Nína was in, and what had been done to her, I was overcome with rage. She had rung me, told me where she was, where the man lived. I received that horrific call for help from her and hurried over. Nína had managed to open the door for me. I went inside and the first thing I saw was the knife on the table. I thought he’d threatened Nína with it. I didn’t understand the situation. Nína was sitting on the floor, with a half-nak
ed man standing over her. I’d never seen him before. I thought he was going to harm my daughter so I grabbed the knife and cut his throat. He never saw me. I picked up what I could find of her clothes and then took her out, through the garden, down to the next street and to the car. I stopped the car on the way home to throw the knife in the sea. I don’t remember exactly where. That’s what happened. That’s the truth.’

  The police had interviewed Konrád’s wife that morning. If his confession was to be relied upon, she was an accessory. She confirmed that he had returned to the car with their daughter, but claimed not to remember Konrád pulling over to dispose of the murder weapon. She, like her husband and daughter, had been in a state of shock so she was not sure whether she had the correct order of events, or even if she remembered everything that had happened. It did not seem necessary at this point to take her into custody.

  The plane hit a patch of turbulence and Elínborg gasped as it plunged and juddered. She grasped the armrests and her papers slithered to the floor. The commotion continued for several minutes. Once everything was back to normal, the captain addressed the passengers, explained about the turbulence, and requested them to stay seated with their seat belts fastened. Elínborg picked up her papers and rearranged them in the correct order in the file. She did not like these tinny propeller planes.

  She returned to her reading. Konrád was questioned about various details and gave clear answers. But he could not answer the question that interested Elínborg most: what about the Rohypnol found in Runólfur’s body? Konrád had not forced him to swallow it, and Nína had almost no memory of events.

  The plane was making its descent towards the runway. A light layer of snow still lay on the ground, contrasting with the muted hues of the landscape. Elínborg knew that two police officers were waiting for her at the little airport as before, to take her to Runólfur’s home village. She thought back to her kitchen at home, and Teddi’s bewildered expression when she had been struggling to understand the connection between what Konrád had said and the oily odour in the hall from Teddi’s jacket.