Outrage

20

Elínborg was in no hurry. She did not contact Konrád to arrange a second interview until the following day. He answered the phone himself and said she was welcome to call on him around midday — he was not planning to go anywhere. He asked why she found it necessary to speak to him again, but she simply said she had a few more questions. He sounded quite calm. Elínborg had the impression that he knew what to expect.

She did not tell Konrád that she had made arrangements to ensure that neither he nor any member of his immediate family could leave the country. She doubted whether it was strictly necessary but she did not want to take any risks with the case she was building. Elínborg also ensured that Edvard would be apprehended if he tried to flee.

During the night she lay awake for a long time, thinking about a conversation with Valthór. When Elínborg had come home she had entered his room and sat down. Teddi had been asleep, as were Theodóra and Aron, but Valthór, as usual, had been at his computer. The television had also been on. When Elínborg had said she needed to talk to him he said nothing.

‘Are you OK, dear?’ she asked.

‘Yeah,’ he replied brusquely.

Elínborg was worn out after a long day. She knew Valthór was a good boy at heart. Over the years they had been close, but as a teenager he had entered a rebellious phase of ferocious independence and his hostility seemed to be directed mainly at her.

After several attempts to get a response, Elínborg switched off the TV. Valthór stopped what he was doing.

‘I want to talk to you for a minute. How can you be on the Internet and watch telly at the same time?’

‘Easy,’ answered Valthór. ‘How’s the hunt going?’

‘All right. Look, I don’t want you blogging about me. I don’t want you writing about our private business. This family’s private business.’

‘So don’t read it,’ he snorted.

‘Whether I read it or not, it’s on the net. Theodóra’s uncomfortable with it, too. You go too far on your blog, Valthór. You write about things that are nobody’s affair but ours. And who are these girls you’re always writing about? Do you think it’s any fun for them to read that stuff about themselves?’

‘Jesus,’ said Valthór. ‘You just don’t get it. Everyone does it, it’s no problem. Nobody thinks anything of it — it’s just a joke, no one takes it seriously.’

‘You could write about something else.’

Valthór suddenly changed the subject: ‘I’m thinking of moving out.’

‘Moving out?’

‘Kiddi and me thought we’d rent a place together. I told Dad earlier.’

‘And where will the money come from?’

‘I’ll get a part-time job.’

‘What about your schoolwork?’

‘I’m going to see how it goes. I know I won’t have any trouble finding work. And Birkir moved out. He went all the way to Sweden.’

‘You’re not Birkir.’

‘No.’

There was a note in his voice Elínborg did not like. ‘What do you mean, no?’

‘Oh, forget it. You don’t want to hear it, anyway.’

‘What don’t I want to hear?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I told Birkir that if he wanted to meet his natural father, that was absolutely fine. Of course it was. But it was an awful shock when he suddenly decided to go and live with his father. In Sweden! I thought we were his family but he obviously didn’t agree with me, or with your dad. In the end Birkir went his own way.’

‘You forced him to leave.’

‘That is just not true, Valthór.’

‘That’s what he says. And he’s dropped out of touch. We hardly hear from him, and he never speaks to you. You think that’s OK, do you?’

‘Birkir was at a difficult age, just like you are now. Do you really believe it’s all my fault? I hope he’s changed his opinion now that he’s older.’

‘He told me he never felt like one of the family.’

Elínborg was dumbstruck. ‘What?’

‘Birkir felt the difference.’

‘What difference?’

‘You never treated him the same as the rest of us. He always felt he was in the way. As if he was just a visitor.’

‘Did Birkir say that? He never said anything about it to me.’

‘Do you think he’d say something like that to you? He told me when he left, and said I must keep my mouth shut.’

‘But that’s nonsense. He has no right to talk like that.’

‘He can say what he wants.’

‘Look, Valthór, you know perfectly well that Birkir was always one of the family. I know it was hard on him, losing his mum. It wasn’t easy for him to come here to live with his uncle — and with me, who he didn’t know at all. And then you kids came along. I always understood the position he was in and I always, always did my best to make him happy. We never treated him any differently from you three. He was one of our children. You can’t imagine how much it hurts to know that he says that about us.’

‘I wish he hadn’t left,’ said Valthór.

‘So do I,’ said Elínborg.

Elínborg lay in bed, wide awake. She glanced at her alarm clock: 02.47.

She started counting down: 9,999. 9,998 …

She really must sleep.

Konrád led her into the living room, as he had done the day before. He limped ahead of her, apparently quite calm and unruffled. Elínborg was alone; she was not expecting any trouble. She had been delayed slightly at the station when the DNA results for the hairs found on the shawl and in Runólfur’s bed came in.

‘I thought I’d told you everything I know yesterday,’ said Konrád once they were seated.

‘We’re always receiving new information,’ answered Elínborg. ‘Perhaps I could start by telling you about a man …’

‘Would you like coffee?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Quite sure?’

‘Yes. I just want to tell you about the man who was killed in Thingholt,’ she said. Konrád nodded. He placed his bad leg up on a footstool and listened. She told him the known facts. Runólfur had been born in a little coastal village just over thirty years ago. His mother still lived there, while his father had died in an accident several years before. The community was dying: the young generation were all moving away, and Runólfur himself had left as soon as he had the chance. He did not have a close relationship with his mother, who had a reputation as a harsh woman and a strict disciplinarian and, on the rare occasions that he returned, he barely visited her. He settled in Reykjavík where he trained at technical college, and once he was qualified he started work as a telecoms engineer. He did not marry or have children and his only known relationships with women were one-night stands. He lived in rented flats and apparently moved quite frequently. Through his work he came into contact with a lot of people, in their homes and workplaces, and was invariably regarded as hard-working and reliable. He seemed to have had an interest in comic-book and film superheroes. Nothing was known of any other interests.

Konrád listened in silence. She wondered whether he grasped what she was doing by presenting these facts to him. He might have asked What’s all this got to do with me? but he said nothing. He merely sat there, frowning, as Elínborg continued with her account of Runólfur.

‘We believe — and we have evidence of this — that Runólfur, having met women through his work, sometimes ran into them later at bars around town. It’s possible that the women were of a similar type: young, single, and dark-haired. Perhaps he encountered them by chance, but we do know of one case where he had found out from the woman in question which bar she generally went to.

‘Runólfur had acquired a date-rape drug, Rohypnol, and he was carrying it when he was murdered — when his throat was slashed with a razor-sharp blade. The pills were found in his pocket. We have a theory about how he got hold of them. It appears very likely that Runólfur had been with a young dark-haired woman when he was killed. She left a shawl at his home.’

The police had been waiting for the results of the DNA tests, which showed that the hairs from the shawl matched the hairs from Runólfur’s bed.

‘I’ve got the shawl here,’ Elínborg continued. She opened her bag, removed the shawl, and spread it out. ‘It’s beautiful. When it was found it had a very strong smell, which is almost gone now. A smell of Indian cuisine — tandoori.’

Konrád did not say a word.

‘We’re pretty sure that there was a woman with Runólfur when he was killed. We think he met her in the same way as he did other women, by setting up a supposedly chance encounter at a bar. We believe he initially went to her home to install telephone or TV equipment, a fibre-optic connection or broadband, whatever telecoms engineers do. He may have returned shortly afterwards on the pretext that he had left some small thing behind, like a screwdriver or a torch. He had a pleasant manner and would have made conversation easily. They were of a similar age. They would have chatted about this and that, and he would have steered the conversation towards certain subjects in order to elicit information from her. She told him which were her usual bars and he also learned that she was unattached, lived alone and was a university student. That background knowledge made it easier to approach her later in public. By that time she must almost have felt she knew him.’

‘I don’t know why you’re telling me all this,’ said Konrád. ‘I can’t see that it has any relevance to me.’

‘No,’ replied Elínborg. ‘I understand, but I still want to ask your opinion. We have various small clues that I want to ask you about. Runólfur persuaded the woman to go home with him. He had the drug in his pocket, and it’s very likely that he slipped something in her glass while they were still at the bar. Or he may not have drugged her until they got to his flat.’ Elínborg glanced at the graduation photo of Konrád’s daughter, which she had examined the day before. ‘We don’t know what happened there,’ she said. ‘What we do know is that Runólfur was killed, and the young woman who was with him left the scene.’

‘I see,’ said Konrád.

‘Do you know anything about it?’

‘As I told you, I didn’t notice anything when I passed through. I’m sorry.’

‘How old is your daughter?’

‘She’s twenty-eight.’

‘Does she live alone?’

‘She rents a place near the university campus. Why do you ask?’

‘Is she interested in Indian cookery?’

‘She’s interested in all sorts of things,’ answered Konrád.

‘Do you recognise this shawl?’ asked Elínborg. ‘You can pick it up if you like.’

‘There’s no need,’ said Konrád. ‘I don’t recognise it. I’ve never seen it before.’

‘It smelt strongly of tandoori spices. I recognised the smell, because I’m keen on Asian cuisine myself. I have a special tandoori pot, which I use a lot. It’s essential for cooking those dishes. Does your daughter have a tandoori pot?’

‘I really couldn’t say.’

‘We know you bought one last autumn — I can show you a copy of the receipt if you like. Was it for your own use?’

‘Have you been investigating me?’ asked Konrád.

‘I need to know what happened in Runólfur’s flat when he was killed,’ said Elínborg. ‘If you can tell me, then you’re the person I’ve been looking for.’

Now Konrád stared at his daughter’s photograph.

‘This hasn’t been made public, but when Runólfur’s throat was slit he was wearing a T-shirt,’ said Elínborg. ‘It looks like a woman’s garment and I believe it was your daughter’s. You said she went to San Francisco with you, on your second visit. I believe she bought the T-shirt there. It has the words San Francisco on the front.’

Konrád’s gaze remained fixed on the photograph.

‘You were observed near the scene,’ said Elínborg. ‘You were hurrying, and talking on your mobile. I think you went to her aid. Somehow she managed to make a phone call and tell you where she was. When you got there and saw what had happened, when you realised what had been done to your daughter, you lost it, grabbed a knife …’

Konrád shook his head.

‘… that you had brought with you, and you went for Runólfur.’

Konrád looked steadily at Elínborg.

‘Did Runólfur visit your daughter’s home twice, about two months ago?’ she asked.

He made no reply.

‘We have a record of Runólfur’s call-outs. It lists all the homes and businesses he went to and it shows that he called twice within a few days at the home of Nína Konrádsdóttir. I think I’m right in saying she’s your daughter?’

‘I don’t keep tabs on exactly who calls on my daughter.’

Elínborg sensed that the man’s confidence was dwindling. ‘Did she ever mention his name?’

Konrád dragged his gaze from the graduation photo and turned to Elínborg.

‘What are you trying to say?’

‘I think you killed Runólfur,’ she said quietly.

Konrád sat staring at Elínborg, as if he were trying to work out what he should say, what he could say, to make the detective accept it and go away, so the problem would be over with once and for all and nobody would ask any more awkward questions. But he could find no words. He could not speak. Seconds ticked past and before long his features expressed defeat, followed by helplessness, as he spoke haltingly:

‘I … I can’t do this any more.’

‘I know it must be hard-’

‘You don’t understand,’ he interrupted. ‘You can’t possibly understand how awful it is. What a nightmare it’s been for all of us. Don’t even try to understand it.’

‘I didn’t mean to …’

‘You don’t know what it was like. You don’t know what happened. You can’t imagine.’

‘Tell me.’

‘He raped her. That’s what happened. He violated her! He raped my daughter!’ Konrád took a deep, shuddering breath. He avoided meeting Elínborg’s gaze. He reached for the photo, held it in his hands and studied his daughter’s face, her dark hair, her pretty brown eyes, and her happy face on that sunny day.

Then he groaned. ‘I wish it had been me that killed him.’