Arctic Chill

20

The block of flats was still under police guard. Erlendur spoke briefly to the officer on duty on the staircase. He had nothing to report. The residents had trickled home from work towards evening and a variety of cooking smells began to permeate the landing. Sunee had been at home all day. Her brother was with her.

It was late. Erlendur was on his way home but still had a few calls to make. The first was to the morgue on Barónsstígur. He saw at once that something terrible had happened. Two bodies covered in white sheets were carried into the building on stretchers. People were gathering, Erlendur did not know why, until he was informed that a serious accident had occurred on the main road out of town, near Mosfellsbaer. He had not heard the news. Three people had lost their lives in a five-car pile-up, an elderly woman and two teenage boys, one of whom had only recently passed his driving test. An ambulance pulled up, bringing the last body. The families of the deceased were standing around in a state of shock. There was blood on the floor. Someone threw up.

Erlendur was about to make his escape when he ran into the pathologist. He was acquainted with him through work. The man sometimes indulged in gallows humour, which Erlendur guessed was his method of coping in a pretty grim profession. He was in no mood for jokes now, however, as he stared at Erlendur in momentary confusion. Erlendur said he would call back another time.

'Your boy's in there,' the pathologist said, nodding towards a closed door.

'I'll come back later,' Erlendur repeated.

'I haven't found anything,' the pathologist said.

'It's all right, I—'

'There was dirt under his fingernails but I don't think that's anything out of the ordinary. Two of his nails were broken. We found traces of fibres. There must have been a struggle. That's obvious from the bad rip in his anorak too. Didn't the mother say it had been in good condition? I assume you'll be able to make some kind of connection if you can trace the article of clothing. Your forensics team is analysing the fibres to find out what type of material they come from, though of course they could be from his own clothes.'

'And the stab wound?'

'Nothing new there,' the pathologist said, opening the door. 'The wound penetrated the liver and the boy would have bled to death relatively quickly. The incision is not particularly large, the instrument that inflicted it would have been fairly broad but needn't have been especially long. I simply can't work out what kind of instrument it was.'

'A screwdriver?'

The pathologist frowned. He paused in the doorway. He was needed elsewhere.

'I hardly think so. Something sharper. It's really a very neat incision.'

'He wasn't stabbed through his anorak?'

'No, his anorak was unzipped. He was stabbed through a cheap sweater and vest. They were the only obstacles, his only protection.'

'Would there have been splashes of blood?'

'Not necessarily. It's a single straightforward stab wound which caused massive internal haemorrhaging. The blood wouldn't necessarily have splashed his assailant, but he might have had to clean himself up.'

The pathologist closed the door. Erlendur walked over to the body and lifted the sheet that covered it. Looking at the neat little stab wound, he pondered the possibility which had occurred to him earlier that day: that the same instrument had been used to stab the boy as the one used to scratch Kjartan's car. The incision in his side was so small as to be barely visible but it was in precisely the right place to inflict irreversible damage. A few centimetres either way and Elías might have survived the attack. Erlendur had already discussed this detail with the pathologist who would not commit himself but admitted that it was conceivable the attacker knew what he was doing.

As he draped the sheet over Elías's body again, he wondered how Sunee must feel, knowing that her son was in this grim place. Surely she must start cooperating with the police soon; the alternative was unthinkable. Maybe she believed her son was in danger. Maybe she was protecting Niran from the furore that had raged in society since his brother's death. Maybe she did not want pictures of him in the press and on television. Maybe she did not want all that attention. And maybe, just maybe, Niran knew something that had forced Sunee to send him into hiding.

The cold had intensified by the time Erlendur drove away, his eyes reflecting the frozen grief at the morgue.

Sunee met him at the door. She assumed that he was bringing news of the investigation but Erlendur said straight away that nothing new had emerged. She was still up; her brother Virote was asleep in her room and he sensed that she was glad of the company. He had not spoken to her before without the presence of either her brother or the interpreter. She invited him into the living room, then went into the kitchen to make tea. When she returned she sat down on the sofa and poured out two cups.

'All people come outside,' she said.

'We don't want that kind of violence,' Erlendur said. 'Nobody does.'

'I thank everything,' Sunee said. 'It was so beautiful.'

'Will you trust me with your son?' Erlendur asked.

Sunee shook her head.

'You can't hide him for ever.'

'You find murderer,' she said. 'I look after Niran.'

'All right'

'Elías good boy. Not do nothing.'

'I don't believe he was attacked because of anything he did. But it's possible he was attacked because of what he was. Do you understand?'

Sunee nodded.

'Have you any idea who might have wanted to attack him?'

'No,' Sunee said.

'Are you quite sure?'

'Yes.'

'The kids at school?'

'No.'

'One of the teachers?'

'No. No one. All good to Elías.'

'What about Niran? He doesn't seem very happy.'

'Niran good boy. Just angry. Not want to live in Iceland.'

'Where is he?'

She didn't answer.

'All right,' Erlendur said. 'It's up to you. Think about it. Maybe you'll tell me tomorrow. We need to talk to him. It's very important.'

Sunee looked at him in silence.

'I know it's difficult for you and that you want to do what you feel is right. I understand that. But you must also understand that this is a sensitive murder investigation.'

Sunee remained mute.

'Did Niran mention anything about the Icelandic teacher, Kjartan?'

'No.'

'Nothing about a quarrel between them?'

'No.'

'What did he say to you?'

'Not much. He just scared. Me too.'

Sunee glanced over at the small corridor leading to the bedrooms, where her brother now appeared. She held out her hand to him.

'Do you mind if I take a quick look in Elías's room?' Erlendur asked, rising to his feet.

'Okay,' Sunee said.

She met his eye.

'I want to help,' she said. 'But I look after Niran too.'

Erlendur smiled and went through the little corridor to the boys' room. He switched on a small desk lamp that cast a feeble glow over the room.

He didn't know exactly what he was looking for. The police had already searched the room without finding any clues as to where Niran might be hiding. He sat down on a chair and recalled that he and his brother Bergur had shared a room like this in the old days at home in the east.

As Erlendur examined the room, he reflected on the brutal act that had cut short Elías's life. He tried to fit it into the criminal landscape that he knew so well but was completely at a loss. No mercy had been shown to Elías when he fell wounded on the path. No one had been there to help him in his pathetic struggle to reach home. No one had been there to warm him when he froze to the icy ground behind the block of flats.

He looked around. Model dinosaurs of every shape and size trooped round the room. Two pictures of dinosaurs were Blu-Tacked to the wall above the bunks. In one a menacing tyrannosaurus bared its teeth above its prey.

He noticed an exercise book on Elías's bunk and reached for it. On the cover was written 'Story Book' and Elías's name. It contained creative-writing exercises and drawings. Elías had written about 'Space' and illustrated it with a colour drawing of Saturn. He had also written about 'A Trip to the Shopping Mall' that he had made with his mother. And one piece was entitled 'My Favourite Movie', about a recent fantasy film that Erlendur had not heard of. He read the stories, which were written in an attractive, childish hand, and turned the pages to the point Elías had reached in the book. He had written the title of the most recent exercise at the top of the page but had got no further.

Closing the exercise book, Erlendur replaced it on Elías's bed and stood up. What had he wanted to be? A doctor, maybe. A bus driver. Or a cop. The possibilities were infinite, the world a new and exciting place. His life had barely begun.

He went back to join Sunee in the living room. Her brother was in the kitchen.

'Do you know what he wanted to be when he grew up?' Erlendur asked.

'Yes,' Sunee said. 'He say often. Big word, I learn it.'

'What was it?'

'Palaeontologist.'

Erlendur smiled.

'It used to be a cop,' he said, 'or a bus driver.'

On his way out he again asked the police officer on the staircase if he had been aware of any suspicious comings and goings on or near the landing but the answer was negative. He asked about the neighbour, Gestur, who lived in the flat opposite Sunee's, but the officer had not been aware of him.

'No one's had any reason to come up here,' the officer said, and Erlendur said goodbye and left.



Although it was fairly late by now, Erlendur still had one last visit to make. He had phoned the man that afternoon and arranged to go round to his house. The man answered the door promptly when Erlendur rang the bell, and invited him in. Erlendur had felt uneasy during his previous visit; he could not put his finger on the exact reason. It was something about the atmosphere, something about the owner of the house.

The man had been watching television but he switched it off and offered him coffee. Erlendur declined, looked at his watch and said he would not stay long. He did not apologise for the lateness of his visit. His gaze fell on a photo of the couple on the table. They were both smiling. They had gone to a photographer before the wedding reception and had their picture taken in all their finery. She was holding a small bouquet.

'Not very popular with your exes, are you?' Erlendur said. 'I've been hearing what they have to say.'

'Tell me something I don't know,' the man said.

Erlendur could see why women fell for him if they happened to like the type. He was a slim, neat man with a friendly face, dark hair, brown eyes, an attractive, olive complexion and elegant hands. He dressed with a good taste that was completely foreign to Erlendur. His home was furnished with handsome, trendy furniture, a magnificent kitchen and expensive flooring. Graphic prints decorated the walls. All that was lacking was the faintest sign that anyone actually lived there.

Erlendur wondered if he should tell him about the phone calls he had received, which were in all probability from his wife. The man had a right to know about them. If Erlendur's suspicions were correct, his wife was alive and the news would surely bring him joy. Erlendur did not really know why he didn't tell him everything. There was something ugly about this case that he could not quite fathom.

'No, of course,' Erlendur said. 'One of them claimed you threatened to kill her.'

He said it matter-of-factly, as if remarking on the weather, but the man did not bat an eyelid. Perhaps he was expecting it.

'Silla's not right in the head,' he said after a moment's pause. 'She never has been.'

'So you know the episode I'm referring to?'

'It's just something you say, you've probably said it yourself some time. You don't mean anything by it.'

'That's not what she says.'

'Are you focusing your investigation on me now? You think I've done something to her? To my own wife?'

'I don't kn—'

'She's gone missing!' the man interrupted. 'I didn't touch her. It's just a normal missing-person case!'

'I've never heard of a "normal missing-person case" before,' Erlendur said.

'You know perfectly well what I mean. Stop twisting everything I say.'

Erlendur did know what he meant. A normal missing-person case. He wondered if there was any other country in the world where they talked about 'a normal missing-person case'. Perhaps history had taught the Icelanders not to make too much of a fuss when people went missing.

'There's nothing normal about her disappearance,' Erlendur said.

He paused a moment. The case was heading in a direction from which there would be no turning back. From now on the nature of the inquiry would be different and more serious.

'Did you threaten to kill her?' Erlendur asked.

The man glared at him.

'Are you investigating it as a murder now?' he asked.

'Why did she leave home?'

'I've told you over and over again, I don't have a clue what happened. I came home and she wasn't here! That's all I know. You have to believe me. I've done nothing to hurt her and I find it abhorrent that you should imply anything else!'

He took a step towards Erlendur.

'I mean it,' he said. 'Abhorrent!'

'We have to examine all the possibilities,' Erlendur said. 'You must understand that. We've carried out a very thorough search for her, combed the beaches, advertised in the papers and on television. She's not going to come forward. She may be dead. When people disappear like this it's generally a sign that they're unhappy, so unhappy that they're capable of doing something stupid. Was your wife unhappy? Why? Was it something you did to her? Did she reproach herself? Did she regret the whole thing? Did she regret the affair, the divorce, the marriage? Did she regret losing her children? Was the whole thing a fatal mistake?'

'You've been talking to her friends, haven't you?' the man said.

Erlendur did not answer. Up to now he had spared the man the third degree, but the phone calls had changed that.

'They're crazy!' the man continued. 'I've never liked them. They've never liked me. What do you expect?'

'She was depressed,' Erlendur said. 'She regretted losing her family and she believed you had started cheating on her.'

'Bullshit!'

'Found a new one, have you?'

'A new one? What are you talking about?'

'Had you started cheating on her?'

'I don't know what you're talking about'

'Her friends say she suspected there was another woman,' Erlendur said. 'Is that true?'

'It's all a pack of lies! There is no "other woman".'

Erlendur vacillated a moment.

'Over the past couple of days I've been receiving phone calls from a woman who won't reveal her name,' he said after a pause. 'She's distraught; she knows I'm handling the case but doesn't trust herself to come forward. I don't know whether that's because she doesn't dare or can't. What she says doesn't help much either because she's always in such a state when she phones; she's probably had to steel herself to make the call, but when it comes to the crunch she backs off and hangs up on me.'

'You mean it's her?' the man asked, stunned. 'She's been in touch with you? Is ... is she alive ? Is she all right?'

'If it is her,' Erlendur said, instantly regretting having mentioned the phone calls. He ought to have waited, waited until he had heard from the woman at least once more and persuaded her to meet him and tell him the truth.

'If?' the man said. ' If it's her? You mean you're not sure?'

'I'm as sure as I can be,' Erlendur said. 'But that's not saying much.'

'My God! What's she thinking of? And what... what does she say? Why is she doing this?'

'Is this some sort of scam you two are cooking up?' Erlendur asked.

'Scam? No. Is that what she's saying, that it's a scam? Is that what she's saying?'

'No,' Erlendur said, trying to damp the man's eagerness. 'As a matter of fact, she doesn't say much. She ...'

He was about to say that all she did was sob down the phone, but stopped himself.

'What... what does she say? Why is she calling you?'

'She's in distress,' Erlendur said. 'That's obvious from talking to her. But she won't tell me anything. Can you enlighten me? Do you know more than you're letting on?'

'Why doesn't she talk to me?' the man said.

Instead of answering, Erlendur simply stared at the man as if to throw the question back at him. Why doesn't she talk to you?

'I haven't done anything to her!' the man shouted. 'It's a lie! I'm not cheating on her. Okay, okay, I have done, but not now. I haven't been cheating on her. You have to understand that! You have to believe me!'

'I have no idea what to believe,' Erlendur said.

'You have to believe me,' the man repeated, with all the sincerity he was capable of.

'Then again it could be the new woman you're seeing,' Erlendur said. 'You have affairs. That's no lie. Time passes. You revert to your old habits, meet another woman. You have this little secret together. Then your wife finds out and disappears.'

'That's rubbish,' the man said.

'The new mistress gets cold feet. Her conscience is killing her. She calls me and ...'

'What are you doing?' the man groaned.

'Isn't it rather a question of what you've done?'

'I've never threatened to kill anyone,' the man said. 'It's a lie!'

'Were you cheating on your wife?' Erlendur asked. 'Is that why she left you?'

The man stared at him for a long time without saying anything. Erlendur had not taken a seat and they stood eyeball to eyeball in the living room like two bulls, neither prepared to back down. Erlendur saw the rage seething in the man. He had succeeded in goading him to fury.

'Did your mistress call her?' Erlendur asked.

'You have no idea what you're talking about,' the man said through gritted teeth.

'It has been known to happen.'

'It's bullshit!'

'Was that how your wife found out that you were cheating on her?'

'I think you should leave now,' the man said.

'It's not just a simple missing-person case, is it?' Erlendur said.

'Get out,' the man said.

'You must see that something doesn't fit.'

'I have nothing more to say to you. Get out!'

'Oh, I can leave,' Erlendur said, 'but this case is not going anywhere. 'You can't drive it away. Sooner or later the truth will out'

'It is the truth,' the man yelled. 'I don't know what's happened. Try to understand that. For God's sake, try to understand! I don't know what's happened!'



When Erlendur finally got home he sat down in his armchair without turning on the lights in the flat and lay back, grateful for the rest. He looked out of the window and his thoughts went to Eva Lind and the dream that she wanted to tell him.

His mind conjured up an image of a horse struggling in a bog, with eyes bulging and nostrils flaring. He heard the sucking noise when it managed to free a foreleg before sinking even deeper.

He longed to be at peace. He longed to see the stars that were obscured behind the clouds. He wanted to seek solace in them: the awareness of something greater and more important than his own consciousness, the awareness of vast tracts of time and space where he could lose himself for a while.



The family had lived in rather cramped conditions in the little house that now stood derelict. The brothers had to share a bedroom. Their parents had the other bedroom, and apart from that there was a big kitchen with a pantry opening off it, and a little parlour containing old furniture and family photographs, some of which now hung in the sitting room of Erlendur's flat. He took a trip out east every few years to sleep in the ruins of what had once been his home. From there he would walk or ride up onto the moors, and even sleep under the open sky. He enjoyed travelling alone; the gradual sensation of being overwhelmed by the profound solitude of his childhood haunts, surrounded by places and incidents from a past that was still so vivid to him, that filled him with nostalgia. He knew it only existed in his memory. When he was gone there would be nothing left. When he was gone it would be as if none of it had ever existed.

Like the evening when he and Bergur were lying in the darkness of their room, too over-excited to sleep, and heard a car drive into the yard. They heard the front door open and their parents' voices inviting someone in. They heard but did not recognise the visitor's deep voice. Visitors were rare at this time of night. The brothers did not dare to leave their room but Erlendur opened the door a crack and they lay and eaves-dropped. They could see the kitchen, the visitor's feet, solid black shoes and black trousers, his crossed legs. They could see one of his hands resting on the kitchen table, big, with thick fingers and a gold ring sunk into the flesh. They could not hear what was said. Their mother stood by the table, half turned away from them, and they could see one of their father's shoulders where he sat diagonally opposite the visitor. Erlendur went to the window and peered out at the car. He did not know the make, had never seen the car before.

He decided to tiptoe into the passage. He meant to go alone but Bergur threatened to tell, so he allowed him to come too. They opened the door with extreme caution and crept out. Their mother did not notice them, their father and the visitor were hidden from sight. Erlendur began to make out what they were saying. The visitor's deep voice became clearer, the words more distinct, whole sentences took shape. He spoke calmly and clearly, as if to ensure that what he said would have the right impact. Erlendur noticed the smell the visitor brought with him, a strangely sweet fragrance hung in the air. He crept closer, Bergur on his heels, making such an effort to be silent that he had got down on all fours in his stripy pyjamas.

Erlendur was seven years old. It was the first time he heard mention of the vilest crime of all.

'... which means it could well be,' the visitor said.

'When was this?' their mother asked.

'Around dinnertime. The murder was probably committed in the afternoon. It was a gruesome scene. He must have gone off his head. Gone completely off his head and run amok in the room.'

'With a filleting knife?' their father whispered.

'You never know with these incomers,' the visitor said. 'He'd been working at the fish factory for two months. They say he was very quiet. Taciturn and withdrawn.'

'The poor girl,' their mother groaned.

'As I say, we haven't noticed anyone out this way today,' their father said.

'Could he be hiding nearby?' their mother asked and Erlendur could hear the anxiety in her voice.

'If he means to cross on foot, he may pass this way. There's a possibility that he will. We wanted to let you know. He was spotted heading in this direction. We're watching the roads but I don't know what good that will do.'

'What should we do?' their father asked.

'Oh my God,' Erlendur heard his mother whisper under her breath. He looked at Bergur behind him and gestured to him not to make a sound.

'We'll catch him,' the visitor said from behind the kitchen door. Erlendur stared at the solid black shoes. 'It's only a question of time. There's back-up on the way from Reykjavík. They'll help us. But you're right, of course; it's horrific to have something like this happen here in the East Fjords.'

'At least you know who it is,' their father said.

'You'd better lock your doors tonight and keep tuned to the news,' the visitor said. 'I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily but better safe than sorry. The murderer may still be armed. With a knife, that is. We don't know what he's capable of

'And the girl?' their mother asked falteringly.

The visitor was silent for a space before answering.

'Sigga and Leifi's daughter,' he said eventually.

'No!' their mother gasped. 'You can't mean it? Dagga? Little Dagga?'

Erlendur saw his mother sink slowly onto the kitchen bench, staring at the stranger in horror.

'We can't find Leifi,' the visitor said. 'He's out there somewhere with a shotgun. He may come this way too. If you see him, try to talk him out of it. He'll only make matters worse by going after this man. Sigga said he was beside himself.'

'Oh, the poor man!' Erlendur heard his mother whisper.

'I can understand him only too well,' their father said.

Erlendur didn't know what to do as he stood rooted to the spot by the kitchen door. Bergur was on his feet beside him. He did not understand the seriousness of the matter, but he wanted to hold his brother's hand and slipped his little paw into Erlendur's. Erlendur looked down at him and again gave him a sign not to make a sound. He heard their father put the question that had begun to prey on his own mind.

Are we in any danger?'

'I don't think so,' the stranger said. 'But all the same it makes sense to take care. You never know when something like this happens. I wanted you to know. I've still got one more place to visit, then—'

A chair scraped on the kitchen floor, the visitor was standing up. Erlendur squeezed his brother's hand and they fled back down the passage to their room and shut the door behind them. They heard their parents say goodbye to the man at the front door and when they looked out of the window they saw a shadowy figure stride swiftly to the car and climb inside. The engine started, the headlights came on and the car drove off and disappeared down the drive.

Erlendur opened the door a crack and peered out. He saw his parents talking quietly by the front door, then his father did something he had never done before: he thoroughly locked both the front door and the back door to the laundry. His mother checked the windows and firmly closed those that were open. When he saw her heading his way, he and Bergur leaped into bed just before the door opened and she appeared in the gap to check on them. She came into the room and made sure that the window was locked. Then she tiptoed out again and shut the door.

Erlendur could not sleep. He heard his parents whispering in the kitchen but did not dare go out to them. His brother, who understood nothing, soon dozed off but Erlendur lay wide awake in the darkness, dwelling on thoughts about the murderer who might be heading towards their house, about the girl's father, hunting for him with a shotgun, beside himself with rage and hatred and grief. He listened as the night sounds magnified around him. What had previously been the friendly creaking of a loose sheet of corrugated iron out in the sheepsheds now became blood-curdling proof that someone was lurking outside. If he heard the bleating of a ewe he was sure it was the murderer on the prowl. A gust of wind against the house made his stomach lurch.

He pictured Dagga and the filleting knife, visualising the grisly scene until he thought his heart would burst. They knew the girl well. She was from a neighbouring fjord, the daughter of friends, and had babysat for the brothers on several occasions when their parents had to go out.

Erlendur had never before heard of the existence of crime, let alone murder, but in an instant that evening this changed and his world became a different and more pitiless place. There was some destructive force in humans whose existence he had never suspected before, a force he feared and could not comprehend. The following day his parents talked to him and Bergur about what had happened but spared them the details. They stayed inside all day. Erlendur asked why men did such things but his parents had no answers. He kept up an endless stream of questions; he wanted to understand what had happened even though it was incomprehensible, but his parents could not give him the answers he was looking for. He discovered that the man with the gold ring and black shoes was the local magistrate. The radio news reported the murder and the exhaustive hunt that was now under way for the man who had committed the atrocity. As the family sat in the kitchen listening, Erlendur saw the anxiety on his parents' faces, sensed the horror and grief and devastation and knew that from now on nothing would ever be the same again.

The murderer was apprehended two days later in the northern town of Akureyri. He had never been anywhere near them. People were certain that if the girl's father had found him first he would have shot the killer dead. The father had roamed around with his gun all night and half the next day before he was picked up by the police, a broken man.

It was then that Erlendur learned of the existence of something called murder. Later he had stood face to face with murderers and although he did not show it, he sometimes felt deep down just as he had done that evening when the magistrate came on his unexpected visit and warned them about the man with the filleting knife.