Outrage

10

Indian restaurants in Reykjavík were few and far between, and Elínborg was familiar with all of them. She did the rounds in the hope of tracing the owner of the shawl, which she took with her and showed to the restaurant workers. The pungent aroma had faded now and nobody said they had seen the shawl before. Elínborg could rule the restaurant staff out easily: they were few in number, and most worked in family businesses; they had no difficulty providing alibis for where they’d been at the time of the crime.

The restaurants had a number of regular customers; the police gathered information about them and investigated them, again without result. The same applied to the very few Indians who lived in Iceland. Within a short time the police were able to conclude that none of them was involved in the case.

Elínborg knew of only one place in Reykjavík that sold tandoori pots, along with other equipment — supplies, spices, oils and so on — for Indian cuisine. She shopped there herself and was acquainted with the owner, who was also the only employee. Jóhanna was about Elínborg’s age, an Icelander who had once lived in India. She was a very frank woman, ready to tell anyone and everyone all about herself, so Elínborg knew that Jóhanna had travelled widely in the east when she’d been young, and that for her India was a promised land. She had spent two years there before returning to Iceland and opening a shop selling Asian imports.

‘I don’t sell a lot of tandoori pots,’ said Jóhanna. ‘One or two a year, I’d say. And some people don’t want them for cooking, but as ornaments.’

She knew that Elínborg was a police officer; she was familiar with her interest in cookery and had commented favourably on Elínborg’s cookbook. Elínborg had explained that she was looking for a young woman of around thirty, who might be interested in Indian cuisine. She said no more and did not mention the case in which the girl was involved, but Jóhanna was far too inquisitive and talkative to settle for such meagre information.

‘What do you want with her?’ Jóhanna asked.

‘It concerns a drugs case,’ Elínborg replied. She did not feel she was straying too far from the truth. ‘I’m not necessarily thinking of tandoori pots as such, but the spices in general: the saffron, coriander, annatto, garam masala, nutmeg. Do you have a customer who buys them regularly — maybe someone with dark hair, maybe about thirty?’

‘A drugs case?’

Elínborg smiled.

‘So I won’t get any more out of you?’

‘It’s just a routine enquiry,’ answered Elínborg.

‘It’s not that murder in Thingholt, is it? Aren’t you working on that case?’

‘Does anyone come to mind?’ asked Elínborg, avoiding Jóhanna’s question.

‘Business isn’t all that good at the minute,’ said Jóhanna. ‘People can buy a lot of these supplies online, or in the better supermarkets. I don’t have many good, dependable customers like you. Not that I’m complaining.’

Elínborg waited patiently. Jóhanna saw that she was not interested in hearing about the challenges of running a small business.

‘I can’t think of anyone in particular,’ she said. ‘All sorts of people come here, as you know. Including women of about thirty. A lot of dark-haired ones.’

‘This one might have been in a few times. She’s probably interested in Asian cookery, Indian food, tandoori dishes. You might have talked to her about it.’

Jóhanna did not speak for a long time. Then she shook her head.

Elínborg took the shawl out of her bag and unfolded it on the counter. All the necessary tests had now been completed. ‘Can you remember a young woman coming into the shop wearing this shawl?’

Jóhanna examined the shawl carefully. ‘Isn’t this cashmere?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s beautiful. It’s an Indian design. Where was it made?’ She looked for a laundry label, but found none. ‘I don’t recall ever seeing it before,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘That’s all right,’ answered Elínborg. ‘Thank you.’ She folded the shawl up and returned it to her bag.

‘Are you looking for its owner?’ asked Jóhanna.

Elínborg nodded.

‘I can give you a few names,’ said Jóhanna after a lot of thought. ‘I … there are names on credit-card receipts, and so on.’

‘That would be a great help,’ said Elínborg.

‘You mustn’t say where you got the information,’ said Jóhanna. ‘I don’t want anyone to know.’

‘I understand.’

‘I don’t want my customers finding out that I’ve told the police about my dealings with them.’

‘Of course. I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.’

‘Do you want to go back a long way?’

‘Just start with the last six months, if you don’t mind.’

Of the people Runólfur had met through his work, the majority described a polite and personable engineer who came and dealt with their problems with their telephone, broadband or TV. Whether he had visited them at home or at a place of work, they all spoke well of him. The list of his call-outs over the past two months was quite extensive. Runólfur had been sent on such house calls once or twice a day throughout that period; in some cases he had returned to the same place twice, or even three times. His reputation was excellent. People found him helpful and easy to talk to; he was efficient, made a good impression and was unfailingly courteous. When a job took an unusually long time he had sometimes accepted a cup of coffee. Elsewhere his visits had been much briefer; if there was no major repair, he just dashed in and out again.

Police questions about whether there had been anything odd in the engineer’s conduct yielded no results — until Elínborg called on a single mother named Lóa in her second-floor flat in Kópavogur. In her early thirties, Lóa was divorced and had a twelve-year-old son. At the time of Runólfur’s death she had been away for the weekend with three friends.

‘Yes, I remember it clearly. I got broadband for Kiddi,’ she said when Elínborg asked her if she remembered Runólfur’s visit.

They sat down in the living room. The flat was small, a riot of clean laundry and dirty clothes, unwashed dishes, a CD player, a hi-fi, two video-game handsets, a large TV, free newspapers and junk mail. Lóa apologised for the mess. She said she worked a lot, and the boy couldn’t be bothered to do anything around the place. ‘He just sits at the computer all day long,’ she said wearily. Elínborg nodded, thinking of Valthór.

Lóa was not particularly surprised that the police wanted to talk to her when she heard that the enquiry was connected with Runólfur’s death. She had seen the news reports and remembered meeting Runólfur when he’d installed the broadband connection; she found it hard to believe that he had met such a violent end. ‘How can you slit someone’s throat?’ she murmured.

Elínborg shrugged. She took to Lóa at once. There was absolutely no pretence in her, and everything she said came straight from the heart. It was clear that she had been through trials and tribulations but she also gave an impression of resilience. She smiled charmingly, with her eyes as well as her lips: Elínborg found her both likeable and interesting.

‘That poor man,’ said Lóa.

‘This Kiddi, is that …?’

‘My son. He’d been asking for broadband for a whole year — some wireless Internet thing. So I eventually agreed, and I don’t regret it. It’s such an improvement, having a fast connection. Kiddi said he could set it up himself but it all went wrong, so I rang up and they sent that man.’

‘I see,’ said Elínborg.

‘So what’s this got to do with me, anyway?’ Lóa asked. ‘Why are you asking me about him? Have I …?’

‘We’re trying to get information from people who had any kind of contact with him,’ answered Elínborg. ‘We don’t know much about Runólfur, or how he came to be killed. We have to try to get an idea of the events. He was from a small village and he didn’t have many friends here in Reykjavík, other than colleagues at work. There’s hardly anyone else.’

‘But, I mean, I didn’t know the guy at all. He just came and installed the broadband.’

‘Yes, I know. What did you make of him?’

‘He was fine. He came after five, when I’d got home from work, just like you. He just got on with it, connected us to the Internet. It didn’t take long. Then he left.’

‘And he came just that once?’

‘No, actually he called back the following day, or the day after, because he’d left something behind — a screwdriver, I think. He wasn’t in so much of a hurry that time.’

‘So you chatted, did you, or …?’

‘A bit. He was very pleasant. Nice enough. He told me he went to a gym.’

‘Do you work out too? Did he recognise you from there?’

‘No, he didn’t know me. I can’t be bothered with gyms and I told him so. I bought a year’s gym membership once. Highly optimistic. But I stopped going after a few weeks. He said he was never tempted to give up.’

‘Did you get the impression he was coming on to you?’ asked Elínborg. ‘Did he say anything like that?’

‘No, nothing like that. He was just pleasant.’

‘That’s what everybody says. That he was a good guy.’ Elínborg smiled briefly, and thought to herself that this interview had given her nothing. She was about to go when Lóa took her by surprise.

‘Then, later, I bumped into him in town,’ she said.

‘You did?’

‘I was out for the evening and there he was, all at once. He started talking to me like we were old friends. He was very friendly, wanted to buy me a drink and all that. Really nice.’

‘So you met by chance?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Did he know you’d be there?’

‘No, not at all. It was quite random.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Happened? Nothing did. We just chatted and … nothing.’

‘Were you alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘No one was with you?’

‘No.’

‘When you were chatting here, did you tell him where you like to go for an evening out? What your favourite places were, or anything?’

Lóa thought back. ‘We mentioned it, but only in passing. I never thought … Hang on, are you connecting this to …?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Elínborg.

‘He was talking about nightlife. He said he lived downtown and he asked me what it was like here in the suburbs, in Kópavogur. So we talked a bit about that when he came back that time, for his screwdriver or whatever. So far as I remember, it was something like that.’

‘And did you mention anywhere?’

Lóa thought again.

‘There’s one place I always go.’

‘Which one?’

‘Thorvaldsen.’

‘Is that where you met him?’

‘Yes.’

‘By chance?’

‘It is a bit odd, when you put it like that.’

‘What’s odd?’

‘I had the feeling, somehow, that he’d been waiting for me. I don’t quite know what it was but there was something fake about the way he was so pleased to see me, and surprised to meet me there, and all that. What a pleasant coincidence it was, and so on. He … I don’t know. Anyway, nothing happened. All of a sudden he seemed to lose interest, and then he went off.’

‘You say he offered you a drink?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you accepted?’ asked Elínborg.

‘No. Well, yes, but not an alcoholic one.’

‘Yes? What?’ Elínborg was trying not to push her but she failed abjectly.

‘I’ve given up drinking,’ said Lóa. ‘I can’t. Not a drop.’

‘I understand.’

‘My husband left me, you see, and everything was such a mess, and I thought they were going to take Kiddi away from me, but I managed to stop. I go to meetings, and everything. It’s saved my life.’

‘So Runólfur suddenly lost interest?’ asked Elínborg.

‘Yes.’

‘Because you didn’t want a drink?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He offered you a drink, but you didn’t accept, because you don’t drink, and he lost interest.’

‘I had a ginger ale. He bought it for me.’

‘It’s not the same,’ said Elínborg.

‘The same as what?’

‘Alcohol. When he was here, did you tell him you don’t drink?’

‘No, it was none of his business. What are you getting at?’

Elínborg said nothing.

‘So will I never meet anyone ever again, because I don’t drink?’

Elínborg smiled at her reasoning. ‘It’s possible that Runólfur was rather unusual in that respect,’ she said. ‘I can’t say any more.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Haven’t you seen the news?’

‘Sort of.’

‘There have been reports that a particular drug was found in Runólfur’s home. A date-rape drug.’

Lóa gazed at her. ‘That he used?’ she asked.

‘Possibly.’

‘Don’t they put it into alcoholic drinks?’

‘Yes. The alcohol intensifies the effect — it affects the memory as well. It’s more likely to cause amnesia if it’s taken with alcohol.’

Lóa started connecting the dots: the telecoms engineer who came twice to her home, whom she then ran into by chance at a bar in town; the reports of date-rape drugs slipped into women’s drinks; the alcoholism with which she had battled for many years; the soft drinks she always ordered when she went out; how Runólfur suddenly lost interest; his violent death. All at once she saw herself in a bizarre, chilly, terrifying place. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she sighed, looking at Elínborg in astonishment. ‘Are you kidding me?’

Elínborg did not say a word.

‘Was he planning to rape me?’

‘I don’t know,’ answered Elínborg.

‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Lóa in a sudden fury. ‘He didn’t find the screwdriver when he came back here. He said he’d left one behind. Looked everywhere. Talked to me as if we were old friends. Maybe there was no screwdriver. Was he having me on?’

Elínborg shrugged.

‘What a bastard!’ said Lóa, staring at Elínborg. ‘I would have killed him, that bloody shit. I would so have fucking killed him! What on earth is wrong with these men?’

‘They’re crazy,’ said Elínborg.

Binna Geirs was short for a far more sonorous name: Brynhildur Geirhardsdóttir. Elínborg thought it suited her: she was tall and heavily built, almost like a trollwife from a book of fairy tales, with long hair cascading down her back like thickets of vegetation. She had a large-featured face with a red nose, a powerful jaw and neck, and long arms. Her legs were like tree trunks. Next to her Fridbert seemed almost elflike: small and puny, with a completely bald head, big protruding ears, and small eyes under furry brows.

Solla had been right; Berti, sometimes known as Shorty for obvious reasons, had moved in with Binna. They were living in a small wooden house — which Binna had inherited from her parents — on Njálsgata near the city centre. She had somehow contrived not to lose it through the many vicissitudes of her life. The once-elegant little house with its traditional corrugated-iron cladding was now dilapidated, with a leaky roof, draughty windows and creeping rust. Looking after her possessions was not one of Binna’s talents.

Binna and Berti were both at home the second time Elínborg called round. The first time she had knocked at the door there had been no answer, and she had seen no sign of life when she peeked in at the window. On the second occasion the door was flung open and Brynhildur Geirhardsdóttir herself stood in the doorway, displeased at the interruption. She was wearing an old woollen sweater and faded jeans, and in one hand she held a wooden spoon.

‘Hello, Binna,’ said Elínborg. She was not sure whether Binna was in any state to recognise her. ‘I’m looking for Berti.’

‘Berti?’ snapped Binna. ‘What do you want with him?

‘I just need a word with him. Is he in?’

‘He’s asleep in there,’ said Binna, gesturing towards the darkened interior. ‘Has he done something wrong?’

Elínborg saw that Binna knew who she was. Like Solla, Binna was one of the many people that Elínborg had run into in the course of her work when Binna had fallen foul of the police. Being so big and strong she sometimes got into fights. She had a difficult personality and drink had a bad effect upon her, making her even more moody and aggressive. Binna had assaulted police officers more than once when the worse for wear, and had been taken in handcuffs down to the station to sleep it off. She had been involved with various men over the years, and by one of them she had had a son, long ago. Elínborg was wary of Binna Geirs, although the two of them had never clashed. She had intended to take Sigurdur Óli along for moral support but had not been able to reach him.

‘No, not so far as I know,’ said Elínborg. ‘Can I come in and talk to him?’

Binna glowered down at Elínborg as if to weigh her up, before opening the door wider and letting her in. A familiar odour filled Elínborg’s nostrils: Binna was boiling air-cured haddock. It was early evening and daylight was fading. No lights were on in the house and only the faint glow from outside illuminated the interior. It was cold, too, as if the heating was off. Berti lay on a sofa, asleep. Binna tapped him with the wooden spoon and told him to wake up. Berti did not respond so she grabbed his legs and shoved them off the sofa, bringing him tumbling to the floor. He awoke with a start, jumped to his feet, then sat back down on the sofa.

‘What’s up?’ he asked blearily.

‘You’ve got a visitor, and the grub’s nearly ready,’ said Binna, and retreated into the kitchen.

Elínborg’s eyes gradually grew accustomed to the dark. She saw patches of damp on the old wallpaper, ancient worn-out furniture, filthy rugs on bare boards.

‘What the hell do you want?’

‘I’d like to ask you a few questions,’ Elínborg replied.

‘Questions? Who are you?’ asked Berti, peering at her in the dim light.

‘My name is Elínborg. I’m from the police.’

‘A copper?’

‘I won’t keep you long. We’re trying to find out how a man who was murdered recently got his hands on a drug, Rohypnol. You may have seen something about it on the news.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’ retorted Berti in a hoarse, sleepy voice. He was struggling to understand what was happening.

‘We know you sometimes sell prescription medications,’ said Elínborg.

‘Me? I don’t sell them. I don’t sell anything.’

‘Come off it. You’re on our list. You’ve done time for dealing drugs.’

Elínborg took a photo of Runólfur out of her pocket and passed it to Berti. ‘Did you know Runólfur?’

Berti took the picture from her. He reached over to a table lamp and switched it on, then put on a pair of reading glasses. He took his time examining the photo of the dead man.

‘Isn’t this the photo that was in the papers?’ he asked.

‘It’s the same picture,’ answered Elínborg.

‘I’d never seen this man before he was on the news,’ said Berti. He placed the photograph on the table between them. ‘Why was he killed?’

‘We’re trying to find out. He was carrying Rohypnol, which hadn’t been prescribed by a doctor. We think he bought it from someone like you. He might have used it to spike the drinks of women he met.’

Berti gave Elínborg a long look. She knew he was weighing up the pros and cons of agreeing to help her or of keeping his mouth firmly shut. A rattling of dishes was heard from the kitchen where Binna was hard at work. Berti had been inside for various offences — breaking and entering, forgery, drug dealing — but he was no career criminal. ‘I don’t sell to blokes like that,’ he observed at last.

‘Blokes like that?’

‘Who use it for that.’

‘What would you know about how they use it?’

‘I just know. I don’t sell to pervs. I don’t sell to blokes like that. And I’ve never met that guy. I’m not lying. I’ve never sold anything to him. I know who I sell to, and who I don’t.’

Binna appeared in the doorway and glowered at Berti, still clutching the wooden spoon. The odour of cured fish wafted with her out of the kitchen.

‘Where else could he have got hold of it?’ asked Elínborg.

‘I don’t know,’ answered Berti.

‘Who sells roofies?’

‘There’s no point asking me. I don’t know anything about it. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.’ A faint, gleeful smile flickered across Berti’s features.

‘Is this about that perv that got sliced up?’ Binna asked Elínborg sharply.

‘Yes.’

‘The one with the date-rape drug?’

Elínborg nodded. ‘We’re trying to find out where he got it from.’

‘Did you sell it to him?’ Binna asked Berti, with a fierce glare.

He did not meet her gaze. ‘No, I never sold him anything,’ he replied. ‘I just told her, I never saw that bloke.’

‘There you are, then,’ said Binna.

‘Maybe he can tell me about someone else who might have got the roofies for him,’ said Elínborg.

Binna watched her for a long time, deep in thought. ‘He was a rapist, wasn’t he, that perv?’ she asked.

‘He might have been,’ said Elínborg. ‘There are indications.’

‘Come and eat your grub, Berti,’ said Binna. ‘Tell her what you know, then come and eat.’

Berti stood up. ‘I can’t tell her what I don’t know,’ he complained.

Binna had turned to go back into the kitchen, but she stopped in the doorway, spun on her heel and pointed the wooden spoon threateningly at Berti. ‘Tell her!’ she ordered him.

Berti grimaced at Elínborg.

Binna went into the kitchen, and shouted over her shoulder: ‘Then come and have your fish!’