Outrage

27

Elínborg spent the rest of the day shopping. She bought a selection of healthy foods, which she was forever trying to encourage her sons and their father to eat but with limited success. She bought a steak; she was planning to keep her promise to serve Valthór his favourite. He liked his meat rare, but Elínborg was not keen on bloody meat. She relaxed as she shopped, and tried not to think about the case which was weighing so heavily on her. Into the trolley went a jar of artichoke hearts, Colombian coffee, Icelandic yoghurt.

When she got home she soaked in a hot bath, and unwound so completely that she fell fast asleep. She had not realised how tired the strain of the last few days had left her. She awoke to hear someone moving around the house — one of the children, home from school. She tried in vain to keep her mind off her work. Edvard kept entering her mind. His squalid little house, the rusty old banger parked outside, and the twisted branches of the tree that loomed over the roof like eerie claws. The more she thought about Lilja, the more repulsive she found the house and its owner, Edvard, who shuffled around the rooms, hunched, unshaven, with unkempt hair, nervy and graceless. She could not honestly imagine him hurting anyone, but that proved nothing. Edvard’s character could not be judged by outward appearances, except for the obvious fact that he was a slob.

Elínborg wanted to go back up to Akranes, to talk to more people who had known Lilja and Edvard. His colleagues on the college staff might have information that they regarded as unimportant, but could be useful to her. She wanted to re-interview Lilja’s mother, who had taken refuge in religion. She might also have to question the girl’s father, who had dealt with his grief by withdrawal and silence. It would be difficult to interview them without anything firm to go on, and Elínborg was not sure how far she ought to push it. She did not want to give them false hope. That would be no help to anyone.

She wanted to find out more about Runólfur, too. Konrád had asked her who the man was, and what the police knew about him, and the answer was: not much. Perhaps she should fly back to his village and interview more of the locals.

Elínborg changed out of her work clothes, and went into the kitchen. Theodóra had brought two friends home and they were in her room. Valthór too was in his room: she decided not to disturb him. She wanted to avoid conflict for the rest of the evening.

Before turning her attention to the steak, Elínborg unpacked two cuts of lamb to which she had treated herself for one of her culinary experiments. She went out into the back garden and lit the barbecue, to give it enough time to get good and hot. She took out her tandoori pot and mixed a marinade using Icelandic herbs. She cut the lamb into chunks, which she plunged into the marinade and set aside for half an hour. The grill was very hot when she lifted the tandoori pot on to it along with several large potatoes, which she baked among the coals to serve with the steak. She called Teddi, who said he was on his way home.

Whenever Elínborg focused on her cooking she attained a rare state of calm. She permitted herself to slow down and retreat from the stressful daily round, to concentrate on something other than work and take a break from the family. She emptied her mind of everything but the consideration of different ingredients, and how she could apply her insight and artistry to producing perfection from chaos. In her kitchen she found an outlet for her creativity: she took the ingredients and transformed their nature, taste, texture, aroma. For Elínborg the three stages of cookery — preparation, cooking, and eating — were a recipe for life itself.

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.’