"I suppose you could say that," the man answered, sitting down in an armchair and gesturing to them to sit on some chairs in the middle of the room. "I started building this place 40 years ago and moved everything here in my old Lada about five years ago. Or was it six years? It all becomes a blur. I couldn't be bothered to live in Reykjavik any more. An awful place, that city, so . . ."
"Was there a house up here on the hill then, maybe a summer chalet like this but not necessarily used for that purpose?" Sigurdur Óli hurried to ask, not wanting to listen to a lecture. "I mean, 40 years ago, when you started building yours?"
"A summer chalet but not a summer chalet . . . ?"
"Standing by itself on this side of Grafarholt," Elínborg said. "Built some time before the war." She looked out of the sitting-room window. "You would have seen it from this window."
"I remember a house there, not painted, not properly finished. It disappeared ages ago. It was definitely quite a sizeable chalet, or should have been, quite big, bigger than mine, but a total shambles. Almost falling down. The doors were gone and the windows were broken. I used to walk up there sometimes when I could still be bothered to fish in the lake. Gave that up years ago."
"So no one lived in the house?" Sigurdur Óli asked.
"No, there was no one in the house then. No one could have lived in it. It was on the verge of collapse."
"And it was never occupied, as far as you know?" Elínborg said. "You don't remember anyone from the house?"
"Why do you want to know about that house anyway?"
"We found a human skeleton on the hill," Sigurdur Óli said. "Didn't you see it on the news?"
"A skeleton? No. From the people in that house?"
"We don't know. We still don't know the history of the house and the people who lived there," Elínborg said. "We know who the owner was but he died a long time ago and we still haven't found anyone registered as living in it. Do you remember the wartime barracks on the other side of the hill? On the south side. A depot or something like that?"
"There were barracks all over the countryside," the old man said. "British and American too. I don't recall any on the hill here in particular, that was before my time anyway. Quite a way before my time. You ought to talk to Róbert."
"Róbert?" Elínborg said.
"If he isn't dead. He was one of the first people to build a chalet on this hill. I know he was in an old people's home. Róbert Sigurdsson. You'll find him, if he's still alive."
Since there was no bell at the entrance, Erlendur banged on the thick oak door with the palm of his hand in the hope of being heard inside. The house was once owned by Benjamín Knudsen, a businessman from Reykjavik, who died in the early 1960s. His brother and sister inherited it, moved in when he died and lived there for the rest of their lives. They were both unmarried, as far as Erlendur knew, but the sister had a daughter. She was a doctor, and now lived on the middle floor and rented out the flats above and below. Erlendur had spoken to her on the telephone. They were to meet at midday.
Eva Lind's condition was unchanged. He had dropped in to see her before going to work and sat by her bedside for a good while, looking at the instruments monitoring her vital signs, the tubes in her mouth and nose and veins. She could not breathe unaided and the pump gave out a suction noise as it rose and fell. The cardiac monitor line was steady. On his way out of intensive care he talked to a doctor who said that no change had been noted in her condition. Erlendur asked whether there was anything he could do and the doctor replied that even though his daughter was in a coma, he should talk to her as often as he could. Let her hear his voice. It often did the family as much good to talk to the patient under such circumstances. Helped them to deal with the shock. Eva Lind was certainly not lost to him and he ought to treat her as such.
The heavy oak door finally opened and a woman aged around 60 held out her hand and introduced herself as Elsa. She was slender with a friendly face, wearing a little make-up, her hair dyed dark, cut short and parted on one side; she was dressed in jeans and a white shirt, no rings or bracelets or necklaces. She showed him in to the sitting room and offered him a seat. She was firm and self-confident.
"And what do you think these bones are?" she asked once he had told her his business.
"We don't know yet, but one theory is that they are connected with the chalet which used to stand next to them, and which was owned by your uncle Benjamín. Did he spend a lot of time up there?"
"I don't think he ever went to the chalet," she said in a quiet voice. "It was a tragedy. Mother always told us how handsome and intelligent he was and how he earned a fortune, but then he lost his fiancée. One day she just disappeared. She was pregnant."
Erlendur's thoughts turned to his own daughter.
"He went into a depression, lost all interest in his shop and his properties and everything went to ruin, I think, until all he had left was this house here. He died in the prime of life, so to speak."
"How did she disappear, his fiancée?"
"It was rumoured she threw herself into the sea," Elsa said. "At least, that's what I heard."
"Was she a depressive?"
"No one ever mentioned that."
"And she was never found?"
"No. She . . ."
Elsa stopped mid-sentence. Suddenly she seemed to follow his train of thought and she stared at him, disbelieving at first, then hurt and shocked and angry, all at once. She blushed.
"I don't believe you."
"What?" Erlendur said, watching her suddenly turn hostile.
"You think it's her. Her skeleton!"
"I don't think anything. This is the first time I've heard about this woman. We don't have the faintest idea who's in the ground up there. It's far too early to say who it may or may not be."
"So why are you so interested in her? What do you know that I don't?"
"Nothing," Erlendur said, confounded. "Didn't it occur to you when I told you about the skeleton there? Your uncle had a chalet nearby. His fiancée went missing. We find a skeleton. It's not a difficult equation."
"Are you mad? Are you suggesting . . ."
"I'm not suggesting anything."
". . . that he killed her? That Uncle Benjamín murdered his fiancée and buried her without telling anyone all those years until he died, a broken man?"
Elsa had stood up and was pacing the floor.
"Hang on a minute, I haven't said any such thing," Erlendur said, wondering whether he could have been more diplomatic. "Nothing of the sort," he said.
"Do you think it's her? The skeleton you found? Is it her?"
"Definitely not," Erlendur said, with no basis for doing so. He wanted to calm her down at any price. He had been tactless. Suggested something not based on any evidence, and regretted it. It was all too sudden for her.
"Do you know anything about the chalet?" he said in an effort to change the subject. "Whether anyone lived in it 50, 60 years ago? During the war or just afterwards? They can't find the details in the system at the moment."
"My God, what a thought!" Elsa groaned, her mind elsewhere. "Sorry. What were you saying?"
"He might have rented out the chalet," Erlendur said quickly. "Your uncle. There was a great housing shortage in Reykjavik from the war onwards, rents soared and it occurred to me that he might have rented it out on the cheap. Or even sold it. Do you know anything about that?"
"Yes, I think there was some talk of him renting the place out, but I don't know to whom, if that's what you're getting at. Excuse me for acting this way. It's just so . . . What sort of bones are they? A whole skeleton, male, female, a child?"
Calmer. Back on track. She sat down again and looked him inquisitively in the eye.
"It looks like an intact skeleton, but we haven't exposed all of it yet," Erlendur said. "Did your uncle keep any records of his business or properties? Anything that hasn't been thrown away?"
"The cellar is full of his stuff. All kinds of papers and boxes that I've never
got round to throwing away and never been bothered to sort through. His desk and some cabinets are downstairs. I'll soon have the time to go through it."
She said this with an air of regret and Erlendur wondered if she might not be satisfied with her lot in life, living alone in a large house that was a legacy from times gone by. He looked around the room and had the feeling that somehow her entire life was a legacy.
"Do you think we . . . ?"
"Be my guest. Look as much as you want," she said with a vacant smile.
"I was wondering about one thing," Erlendur said, standing up. "Do you know why Benjamín would have rented out the chalet? Was he short of money? He didn't seem to have needed money that much. With this house here. His business. You said he lost it in the end, but during the war he must have earned a decent living and more besides."
"No, I don't think he needed the money."
"So what was the reason?"
"I think someone asked him to. When people started moving to Reykjavík from the countryside during the war. I think he must have taken pity on someone."
"Then he wouldn't necessarily even have charged any rent?"
"I don't know anything about that. I can't believe that you think Benjamín . . ."
She stopped mid-sentence as if reluctant to articulate what she was thinking.
"I don't think anything," Erlendur tried to smile. "It's far too early to start thinking anything."
"I just don't believe it."
"Tell me another thing."
"Yes?"
"Does she have any relatives who are still alive?"
"Who?"
"Benjamín's fiancée. Is there anyone I could talk to?"
"Why? What do you want to look into that for? He would never have done a thing to her."
"I understand that. All the same, we have these bones and they belong to someone and they won't go away. I have to investigate all the avenues."
"She had a sister who I know is still alive. Her name's Bára."
"When did she go missing, this girl?"
"It was 1940," Elsa said. "They told me it was on a beautiful spring day."
9
Róbert Sigurdsson was still alive, but just barely, Sigurdur Óli thought. He sat with Elínborg in the old man's room, thinking to himself as he looked at Róbert's pallid face that he would not want to be 90 years old. He shuddered. The old man was toothless, with anaemic lips, his cheeks sunken, tufts of hair standing up from his ghoulish head in all directions. He was connected to an oxygen cylinder which stood on a trolley beside him. Every time he needed to say something he took off his oxygen mask with a trembling hand and let out a couple of words before he had to put it back on.
Róbert had sold his chalet long ago and it had changed hands twice more before eventually it was demolished and a new one built nearby. Sigurdur Óli and Elínborg woke up the owner of the new chalet shortly before noon to hear this rather vague and disjointed story.
They had the office staff locate the old man while they were driving back from the hill. It turned out that he was in the National Hospital, just turned 90.
Elínborg did the talking at the hospital and explained the case to Róbert while he sat shrivelled up in a wheelchair, gulping down pure oxygen from the cylinder. A lifelong smoker. He seemed in full command of his faculties, despite his miserable physical state, and nodded to show that he understood every word and was well aware of the detectives' business. The nurse who showed them in to him and stood behind his wheelchair told them that they ought not to tire him by spending too long with him.
"I remember . . ." he said in a low, hoarse voice. His hand shook as he put the mask back on and inhaled the oxygen. Then he took the mask off again.
". . . that house, but . . ."
Mask up.
Sigurdur Óli looked at Elínborg and then at his watch, making no attempt to conceal his impatience.
"Don't you want . . ." she began, but the mask came off again.
". . . I only remember . . ." Róbert interjected, wracked with breathlessness.
Mask up.
"Why don't you go to the canteen and get something to eat?" Elínborg said to Sigurdur Óli, who looked again at his watch, at the old man and then at her, sighed, stood up and disappeared from the room.
Mask down.
". . . one family who lived there."
Mask up. Elínborg waited a moment to see whether he would continue, but Róbert said nothing and she pondered how to phrase the questions so that he only needed to answer with a yes or a no, and could use his head without having to speak. She told him she wanted to try that and he nodded. Clear as a bell, she thought.
"Did you own a chalet there during the war?"
Róbert nodded.
"Did this family live there during the war?"
Róbert nodded.
"Do you remember the names of the people who lived in the house at that time?"
Róbert shook his head. No.
"Was it a big family?"
Róbert shook his head again. No.
"A couple with two, three children, more?"
Róbert nodded and held out three anaemic fingers.
"A couple with three children. Did you ever meet these people? Did you have any contact with them or not know them at all?" Elínborg had forgotten her rule about yes and no and Róbert took off his mask.
"Didn't know them." Mask up again. The nurse was growing restless as she stood behind the wheelchair glaring at Elínborg as if she ought to stop immediately and looking ready to intervene at any second. Róbert took off his mask.
". . . die."
"Who? Those people? Who died?" Elínborg leaned over closer to him, waiting for him to take the mask off again. Yet again he put a trembling hand to the oxygen mask and took it off.
"Useless . . ."
Elínborg could tell that he was having trouble speaking and she strained with all her might to urge him on. She stared at him and waited for him to say more.
Mask down.
". . . vegetable."
Róbert dropped his mask, his eyes closed and his head sank onto his chest.
"Ah," the nurse said curtly, "So now you've finished him off for good." She picked up the mask and stuck it over Róbert's nose and mouth with unnecessary force as he sat with his head on his chest and his old eyes closed as if he had fallen asleep. Maybe he really was dying for all Elínborg knew. She stood up and watched the nurse push Róbert over to his bed, lift him like a feather out of the wheelchair and lay him down there.
"Are you trying to kill the poor man with this nonsense?" the nurse said, a strapping woman aged about 50 with her hair in a bun, wearing a white coat, white trousers and white clogs. She glared ferociously at Elínborg. "I should never have allowed this," she muttered in self-reproach. "He'll hardly live until the morning," she said in a loud voice directed back at Elínborg, with an obvious tone of accusation.
Silence Of The Grave Page 8
