Arctic Chill

14

The girl reminded him slightly of Eva Lind, apart from being younger and considerably fatter; Eva had always been painfully thin. The girl was wearing a short leather jacket over a thin green T-shirt, and dirty camouflage trousers, and had a metal piercing through one eyebrow. She had on black lipstick and one of her eyes was circled with black. Sitting down opposite Erlendur, she looked like a real tough cookie. The expression on her face betrayed an obstinate revulsion towards everything that the police could possibly represent. Beside him, Elinborg gave the girl a look that suggested she wanted to stuff her in a washing machine and switch it to rinse.

They had already questioned her elder sister, who seemed to be more or less the role model for the younger one. She was all mouth, a hardened character with a string of convictions for handling and selling drugs. Because she had never been caught with large amounts on her at any one time, she had only received short suspended sentences. As was customary, she refused to reveal the names of the dealers she sold for, and when asked whether she realised what she was doing to her sister by dragging her into the world of drugs, she laughed in their faces and said: “Get a life.”

Erlendur tried to make the younger sister understand that he did not care what she was up to at the school. Drug-dealing was not his department and she would not be in any trouble with him, but if she did not give satisfactory answers to his questions he would have her sent to a smallholding in the middle of nowhere for the next two years.

“Smallholding?” the girl snorted. “What the hell’s that?”

“It’s where milk comes from,” Elinborg said.

“I don’t drink milk,” the girl said, wide-eyed, as if that could be to her advantage.

Looking at her, Erlendur could not help smiling in spite of everything. In front of him sat an example of the most wretched depths that a human life could descend to, a young girl who knew nothing but neglect and squalor. The girl could do little about the state she was in. She was from a typical problem home and had largely been left to bring herself up. Her elder sister, her role model and possibly one of the people who were supposed to look after her, had talked her into selling drugs and naturally into taking them as well. But that was probably not the worst of it. He knew from his own daughter how the debts were paid, what it cost to buy a gram, what they sometimes had to do to buy their bliss, the kind of life this young girl lived.

She was nicknamed Heddy and appeared to fit the profile that the police had of playground dealers. She was finishing compulsory schooling, lived in the neighbourhood and hung around with twenty-year-old men, her big sister’s friends. She was the go-between and they had heard various unsavoury details about her at the school.

“Did you know Elias? The boy who died?” Erlendur asked.

They were sitting in the interview room. With the girl was a child welfare officer. Her parents could not be reached. She knew why she had been called in. The welfare officer spoke to her and told her they were only gathering information.

“No,” Heddy said, “I didn’t know him at all. I don’t know who killed him. It wasn’t me.”

“No one’s saying it was you,” Erlendur said.

“It wasn’t me.”

“Do you know of any … ?” Erlendur paused. He was going to ask if there had been any altercations between Elias and anyone in particular at the school, but was uncertain whether she would understand the word “altercation’. So he began again: “Do you know if Elias had any particular enemies at the school?”

“No,” the girl said. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about this Elias kid. I’m not dealing there. That’s just bullshit!”

“Did you try to sell him dope?” Elinborg asked.

“What sort of cunt are you?” the girl snarled. “I don’t talk to cunts like you.”

Elinborg smiled.

“Did you sell him dope?” she asked again. “We’ve heard that you force the younger kids to give you money. You even force them to buy dope from you. Maybe your sister’s taught you how to go about it, because she’s experienced and knows how to make the kids scared of her. Maybe you’re scared of big sister too. We don’t give a damn about that. We couldn’t care less about a girl like you—”

“Hey, listen …” the child welfare officer objected.

“You heard what she called me,” Elinborg said, slowly turning her head to the welfare officer, a woman of about thirty. “You kept your mouth shut then and you should keep it shut now as well. We want to know if Elias was scared of you,” she continued, looking back at Heddy. “If you chased him to frighten him and stabbed him with a knife. We know that you like preying on smaller kids, because that’s the only thing you’re any good at in this miserable existence of yours. Did you attack Elias too?”

Heddy stared at Elinborg.

“No,” she said after a long silence. “I never went near him.”

“Do you know his brother?” Erlendur asked.

“I know Niran,” she said.

“How do you know Niran? Are you friends?”

“No way,” she said, “we’re not friends. I hate gooks. Never go near them. Not that Elias either. I never went near him and I don’t know who attacked him.”

“Why did you say that you know Niran?”

The girl smiled, revealing adult teeth that were completely out of proportion with her small mouth and childlike face.

“They’re the ones who sell,” she said. “They sell the fucking dope. The fucking gooks!”

Marion Briem was asleep when Erlendur visited the hospital towards evening. Peace reigned in the terminal ward. A radio was switched on somewhere, broadcasting the weather report. The temperature had dropped to ten degrees below, exacerbated by the dry northerly wind. Few people went out in such cold. They stayed at home, switched on all the lights and turned up the central heating. The television showed sunny films from Spain and Italy featuring blue skies, Mediterranean warmth and vibrant colours.

Marion’s eyes opened when Erlendur had been standing at the foot of the bed for several minutes. One hand lay on the duvet and lifted up excruciatingly slowly. After a moment’s hesitation Erlendur moved closer, took hold of the hand and sat down by the bedside.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

Marion’s eyes closed and that big head shook as if it did not matter any more. The moment of departure was approaching. There was not much time left. Erlendur noticed a small handheld mirror on the table by Marion’s bedside and wondered what it was doing there. He had never known Marion to care for appearances.

“The case?” Marion said. “What’s happening in the case?”

Erlendur knew precisely what was expected of him. Even at death’s door, Marion was absorbed in the latest investigation. From the weary eyes that rested on him, Erlendur read the question that he had been asking himself, sleeping and waking: who could do such a thing? How could something like this happen?

Erlendur began to report the progress of the investigation. Marion listened with eyes closed again. Erlendur did not know whether his old boss was asleep. He had slight pangs of conscience about not necessarily visiting Marion for purely compassionate reasons. He longed to ask the dying patient about something he knew he would never find in the police records. Erlendur took his time. It helped him, too, to go through the case slowly. Once during the account, Marion’s eyes opened and Erlendur thought he should stop, only to be given a sign to continue.

“There’s one point I need to ask you about,” Erlendur said when he had finally completed his story about the visit to Andres. Marion seemed to be sleeping, with eyes closed and breathing barely perceptible. The hand that Erlendur held was limp. But it was as if Marion realised that Erlendur was not merely making a courtesy call. Those tired eyes opened a fraction and the grip on Erlendur’s hand tightened, as a signal to goon.

“It’s about Andres,” Erlendur said.

Marion squeezed his hand.

“He told us about a man he knew and implied that he was a paedophile, but would not reveal his identity. He did something to Andres when he was a child. All we know is that this man lives in the neighbourhood where the murder was committed. We have no name and no description. I don’t think he’s on our register. Andres told us he was too clever for that. I was wondering if you could help us. The investigation is all over the place at the moment and we have to examine anything we find suspicious. I don’t have to tell you that. You know it. We’re in a hurry as usual. But more than ever this time. I thought you might be able to help us with a shortcut.”

A long silence followed Erlendur’s words. He thought that Marion had dozed off. The hand he was holding had gone slack and peace had descended over his former boss’s face.

“Andres … ?” Marion said at last. It was more like a groan or a sigh.

“I checked,” Erlendur said. “He was born and bred in the capital. If anything happened it was most likely here in Reykjavik. We don’t know. Andres is silent as the grave.”

Marion said nothing. Erlendur thought the situation was hopeless. He had not really expected anything, but felt it was worth a try. He knew Marion Briem’s capacities, that memory and the talent for making the most unlikely connections in an instant. Perhaps he was taking advantage of his ex-boss. Perhaps this was going too far. He decided to forget it. Marion should be allowed to die in peace.

“He had . . .” Marion strained to say, and the grip on Erlendur’s hand tightened.

“What? What did he have?”

Erlendur thought he could discern a hint of a smile playing across Marion’s face. At first he thought he was imagining this, but became convinced that Marion was actually smiling.

“… stepfather,” Marion gasped.

Silence again.

“Erlendur,” Marion said after a long while. The patient’s eyes remained closed but a grimace slowly appeared.

“Yes,” Erlendur said.

“There’s … no … time …” Marion whispered.

“I know,” Erlendur said. “I …”

He was lost for words. He did not know how to say goodbye, could not find a way to express a last farewell. What was there to say? Marion was still holding his hand. Erlendur struggled for words, for something he thought Marion would want to hear. When he found nothing he sat in silence holding that old hand with its yellow nicotine stains and long nails.

“Read to … me,” Marion said.

Marion’s final ounce of strength went into those words. Erlendur leaned forward to hear better.

“Read …”

Marion groped helplessly for the mirror on the bedside table.

Erlendur picked up the mirror and put it into Marion’s hands to prop up and confront the face of death.

Erlendur took out a book he had brought with him. It was dog-eared and tattered. He opened it at a page he had often consulted and began to read.

For centuries a mountain path lay from Eskifjordur to Fljotsdalsherad across Eskifjordur moor. It was an old horse-track skirting north of the Eskifordur River, inland along the ridge Langihryggur, up the river Innri-Steinsa through Vinardalur valley and over Vinarbrekkur slopes to Midheidarendi, and from there up to the Urdarflot plateau and along the cliffs of Urdarklettur to the boundary of the Eskifjordur district. Thverardalur valley bisects the mountains Andri and Hardskafi to the north, and Holafjall and Selheidi even further north.

Bakkasel was once a tenant croft near the head of the Eskifjordur valley, on the old mountain path to Fljotsdalsherad. It is now abandoned, but in the middle of the century Sveinn Erlendsson farmed there with his wife Aslaug Bergsdottir and their two sons, of eight and ten years old. Sveinn kept a few sheep . . .

Erlendur stopped reading.

“Marion?” he whispered.

A deep silence spread over the ward. The early darkness of winter had descended upon the city, which was transforming into a glittering sea of lights. Erlendur saw his own reflection in the window overlooking the hospital garden. The large pane of glass was like a muted painting, a still-life portraying them at the final moment. He stared into the window until he confronted his own face, and the image became like the closing lines of a poem that crept into his mind.

. . . Am I the one, who lives on, or the other, who died?

Erlendur returned to his senses when the little mirror fell to the floor and broke. He clasped the limp hand and checked the pulse. Marion had departed from this world.