After a moment's pause Erlendur went over to the rubbish store and threw the door wide open. It was pitch dark inside and he searched for the switch to turn on the lights. A naked bulb hung from the ceiling. Dustbins stood in rows along the walls, and beneath the chute was a bin chock-a-block with rubbish. It was cold and there was a sour stench of old food and other refuse. Erlendur hesitated. Then he turned off the light and pulled the door to.
It was then that he heard the whimpering.
It took him a while to work out what the sound was. Perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps he had not interpreted it correctly. He tore open the door and switched the light back on.
'Is there anyone in there?' he called.
Receiving no answer, he went inside the storage room, shifting dustbins about and searching between them. He pushed the bin away from beneath the chute and behind it discovered a black-haired boy sitting huddled up with his head buried between his knees, as if trying to make himself invisible.
'Niran?' Erlendur said.
The boy did not move.
'Is that you, Niran?'
The boy did not answer him. Erlendur knelt down and tried to make him look up, but the boy buried his head even deeper between his knees. He was clasping his legs together in a locked position that could not be budged.
'Come along out of here,' Erlendur said, but the boy behaved as if he was not there.
'Your mother's looking for you.'
Erlendur took hold of the boy's hand. It was as cold as an icicle. The boy bowed his head down to his chest. It was as if he thought Erlendur would just go away and leave him be.
After a while Erlendur felt he had tried everything, so he stood up slowly and walked backwards out of the rubbish store. He rang Sunee's entryphone. The interpreter answered. Erlendur said he thought he had found Niran. He was safe but his mother would have to come down and talk to him. Sunee, her brother and mother-in-law and the interpreter soon came running down the stairs. Erlendur met them at the door and showed Sunee alone the way into the storage room.
The moment she saw the boy hunched up beneath the chute she gave a little shriek, ran over to him and hugged him. Then for the first time the boy released his grip on himself, and burrowed into his mother's arms.
Some time later that evening Erlendur returned home to his lair, as Eva Lind had once called his flat when he thought that their relationship was improving. She said that he crawled into it to celebrate his misery. Those were not the words she used; Eva had a very limited and monotonous vocabulary, but that was the gist of it. He did not switch on the light The illumination from the street cast a pale glow into the living room where his books were and he sat down in his armchair. He had often sat alone in the dark, looking out of the large living-room window. When he sat like that, looking out, there was nothing in the window but the endless sky. Occasional stars glittered in the winter stillness. Sometimes he watched the moon riding past his window in all its cold and distant glory. Sometimes the sky was dark and overcast, like now, and Erlendur stared into the blackness as if wanting to be able to disperse his weary thoughts out into the void.
He pictured Elías lying in the back garden of the flats, and once again an old image entered his mind, of another boy who all those years ago, that unfathomable eternity, had died in a raging blizzard. It was his brother, eight years old. He did not realise until he was sitting at home in his own living room, alone in the calm of night, how profound an effect the discovery of the boy's body by the block of flats had had on him. Erlendur could not help thinking about his own brother. The wound that his death left behind had never healed. Guilt had gnawed at Erlendur ever since, because he felt that he was to blame for his younger brother's fate. He was supposed to take care of him, and he had failed. No one but Erlendur himself made this unfair judgement. No one had ever mentioned that he could have done better. If he had not lost his grip on his brother in the blizzard, they would have been found together when the search party was sent out and Erlendur was dug out of the snowdrift in remarkably good shape.
He thought back to Niran when Sunee led him in tears out of the rubbish store. Did he feel that he should have been his brother's keeper?
Erlendur heaved a sigh and closed his eyes. All those endless thoughts that cut into his mind like shards of glass on his descent into a dreamless sleep.
He thinks about Elínborg snuggling up exhausted against her little daughter, as if to protect her from all harm.
He sees a worried-looking Sigurdur Óli creeping into his house, taking care not to wake Bergthóra.
Elías lies in the back garden of the flats in a ripped anorak, his broken eyes watching the snow drifting past.
Ódinn paces the floor on Snorrabraut.
Niran lies in his room, his lips trembling in silent anguish.
Sunee sits alone on the sofa, weeping quietly beneath the yellow dragon.
The woman he is searching for bobs gently in the lapping waves.
His eight-year-old brother lies frozen in a blizzard that will last for ever.
In a sun-drenched dream, a little bird flicks its tail in its new bird-house and sings for its friend.
9
When Erlendur arrived at the school the following morning with Elínborg and Sigurdur Óli, the bell had just rung for break. The children were walking quietly along the corridors. Teachers and assistants were controlling the flood and all the exits stood wide open. It had snowed towards morning. The younger children intended to use every second of the break to play outside. The older ones were more blasé, huddling by the walls or strolling in small groups down to the shop.
Erlendur knew that trauma counselling was available for the children in Elías's class and that some of the parents had taken advantage of it. They had accompanied their children to school and told the teachers of their concerns. The principal had decided to gather all the pupils and staff in the assembly hall at lunchtime for a period of quiet reflection in memory of Elías. The local clergyman was going to address the pupils and a representative from the police would ask anyone who knew about Elías's movements, or had any information that might prove useful in the investigation into his death, to notify a teacher, the principal or the police. An emergency telephone number would be given for anonymous callers. All leads would be investigated, however trivial they might seem. Sigurdur Óli and Elínborg were going to ask Elías's classmates about his last day alive, although this process was complicated by the fact that parental permission was required before a child could be questioned. Agnes, Elías's form teacher, had been very helpful and telephoned the parents first thing, and had received permission from most of them to allow the police, in cooperation with the Reykjavík Child Welfare Agency, to gather important information. She emphasised that this would not involve proper questioning, only information collection. Some parents wanted to be present when their children were interviewed and stood in the corridor with anxious expressions on their faces. Sigurdur Óli and Elínborg were already sitting down with the children, one at a time, in an empty classroom they had been allocated for the purpose.
Erlendur met the principal and asked specifically about the woodwork teacher. He understood that, like the Icelandic teacher, Egill had expressed some antipathy towards Asian women who immigrated to Iceland. The principal, who was rather stressed about preparing for the lunchtime meeting with the police representative, showed Erlendur to the woodwork room. No one was there. Erlendur returned to the staff room and was told that the woodwork teacher was probably sitting in his car out in the car park. This was a long break and he had the habit of going out to his car sometimes to smoke a cigarette or two, Erlendur was told.
The police investigation was still focusing on the immediate vicinity, the school and the estate. It transpired that a repeat offender lived in a block of flats not far from Elías's. He had been brought in for questioning that night but, paralytic with drink, he had assaulted the officers and was detained in custody. Towards morning a search warrant was o
btained for his flat, but so far nothing had been found that could be linked to Elías's murder. The police also investigated several of the usual suspects, who might conceivably be connected with stabbings – debt collectors and people who had been picked up by the police due to clashes with immigrants or even tourists.
Niran had not spoken a word since he was found. A child psychologist had been called in that night and a social worker from the Child Welfare Agency, but Niran remained wrapped in a blanket and said nothing, no matter how they pressed him. He was repeatedly asked where he had been that day and whether he knew about his brother's fate, whether he knew what had happened, who could have committed the deed, when he had last seen his brother, what they had talked about. While all these questions rained down on him, especially from his mother, Niran never opened his mouth, sitting instead in silence in his blanket and staring into space. It was as if he had withdrawn into a closed world; into a sanctuary that he alone knew.
Eventually Erlendur told the experts to leave and went home himself, leaving Sunee and Niran in peace. Sigrídur had left by then and the interpreter had also gone home, but Sunee's brother stayed behind with the mother and son in the flat.
It did not seem to be common knowledge that Sunee had a lover. Gudný told Erlendur that she had no idea what he was talking about; she had never heard any mention of the man. Sunee's ex-mother-in-law was equally in the dark. It was not until Erlendur asked Sunee's brother Virote that he received a positive response. He knew about a man in his sister's life but the relationship had not been going on for long, and he said he had never met the man and did not know who he was. Not wanting to disturb Sunee now that she had reclaimed Niran, Erlendur told Virote to ask her for details about the man and then get in touch. He had not done so as yet.
Erlendur soon found the woodwork teacher's silver-grey car. He knocked on the driver's window and the man wound it down. A cloud of cigarette smoke escaped into the winter air.
'Can I join you?' Erlendur asked. 'I'm from the police.'
The woodwork teacher grunted. He gave a reluctant nod, as if doubting that he could avoid having to talk to Erlendur. He clearly disliked being disturbed during his smoking break. Unruffled, Erlendur sat down in the passenger seat and took out a pack of cigarettes.
'Egill, isn't it?'
'Yes.'
'Do you mind if I smoke too?' Erlendur asked, waving a cigarette.
A grimace formed on Egill's face, which Erlendur found difficult to interpret.
'No peace anywhere,' the woodwork teacher said.
Erlendur lit up and the two men sat in silence for a little while, enjoying their tobacco.
'You're here about the boy, of course,' Egill said at last. He was a large, fat man aged about fifty, who did not fit particularly comfortably into the driver's seat. Big-boned, bald as a coot, he had a large nose, high, protruding cheekbones and a beard. When his huge hand raised the cigarette to his mouth it almost disappeared inside. On top of his bald head, towards the front, was a large, pink lump that Erlendur stole occasional glances at when he thought Egill would not notice. He did not know why, but the lump fascinated him.
'Was he good at woodwork?' Erlendur asked.
'Yes, reasonably,' Egill said, stretching out his big paw to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray. It creaked under the strain. 'Do you have any idea what happened?'
'No, none,' Erlendur said, 'except that he was stabbed close to the school here.'
'This society's going to the dogs,' Egill grunted. 'And you lot can't do a thing about it. Is it a distinctively Icelandic trait, being so lax towards criminals? Can you tell me that?'
Erlendur was not sure what the teacher was getting at.
'I read in the papers the other day,' Egill went on, 'that some jerks had broken into someone's house to collect a minor debt, smashed the place to pieces and mutilated the owner. They were caught in the act but the whole gang were released after questioning! What kind of bollocks is that anyway?'
'I—'
Erlendur could not get his answer in.
'They ought to take those men and throw them straight into jail,' Egill continued. 'When they're caught or confess, they ought to be sentenced immediately. They shouldn't see the light of day until they've spent at least ten years inside. But you let them go as if nothing had happened. Is it surprising that everything here's going to hell? Why do repeat offenders always get such ridiculously light sentences? What is it in our society that produces such a submissive attitude towards criminal scum?'
'It's the law,' Erlendur said. 'It always operates in that lot's favour.'
'Change it then,' Egill said, agitated.
'I understand you're against immigrants too,' Erlendur said, accustomed to hearing tirades against Iceland's lenient sentencing and peculiarly soft treatment of criminals.
'Who says I'm against immigrants?' Egill asked in a surprised voice.
'No one in particular,' Erlendur said.
'Is it because of the meeting the other day?'
'What meeting?'
'I took the liberty of siding with Jónas Hallgrímsson. At a parents' meeting for one of the years here someone proposed singing a few lines of his poem "Iceland, Prosperous Land" with the children. They'd been learning about the poet. Sometimes they teach a bit of sense in this school. A couple of parents started finding fault with the idea, saying that the school was a multicultural society. Like it was racist to sing Icelandic songs. There was a bit of a debate and I spoke up to ask if these people were soft in the head. I think I might have used those very words. Of course, some of them complained to the principal about me. Felt I was being rude. The poor old sod was shaking in his shoes when he talked to me about it. I told him to go ahead and fire me. I've taught here for more than a quarter of a century and I'd welcome it if someone would be kind enough to kick me out. I don't have the balls to get myself out of here.'
Another cigarette appeared in Egill's huge hand and when Erlendur darted a glance at the lump on his bald head it seemed to be turning red. He took it as a sign that Egill was becoming angry at the very thought of the parents' meeting. Or perhaps it was the quarter century that he felt he had wasted teaching woodwork at the school.
'I've got nothing against immigrants,' Egill said, lighting his cigarette. 'But I'm against changing everything that's traditional and Icelandic just to pander to something called multiculturalism, when I don't even know what it means. I'm against the conservatives too. I'm also against having to sit out here in this wreck of a car to smoke. But what say do I have?'
'It was more than just poetry, I'm led to believe,' Erlendur said. 'You made remarks about Asian women that upset people. If I understand correctly you expressed strong antipathy against these women coming to Iceland.'
The bell rang to signal the end of break and the children started to file back into the school. Instead of making a move, Egill sat tight, inhaling the toxic fumes of his cigarette.
'Strong antipathy!' he mimicked Erlendur. 'I've got nothing against immigrants! Those buggers started arguing with me and I told them what I thought. We're still allowed to have opinions at least. I said I thought it was terrible, the circumstances under which many of those women come to Iceland. They generally appear to be fleeing appalling poverty and think they can find a better life here. I said something along those lines. I didn't criticise those women. I respect self-reliance in any form and I think they've got on very well in Iceland.'
Clearing his throat, Egill reached forward to the ashtray with difficulty and stubbed out his cigarette.
'I think that applies to all these races who come to settle in Iceland,' he went on. 'But that doesn't mean we shouldn't honour Icelandic culture and promote it everywhere, especially in schools. On the contrary, I think the more immigrants there are in this country, the more effort we should make to introduce them to our heritage, and encourage anyone who actually wants to come and live here in the cold not to reject it out of hand. We ought to support religious ins
truction, not shoot it down like something we're embarrassed about. I told that to the people who were glorifying the multicultural society. In my opinion, people who want to live here ought to be allowed to and we should help them in every way we can, but that doesn't mean we have to lose our Icelandic language and culture.'
Arctic Chill Page 10
