Arctic Chill

21

Erlendur heard the phone through his sleep. It took him a long time to surface. He had nodded off in his chair and his whole body ached. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was well past nine. He looked out of the window and for a moment did not know if it was night or day. The ringing persisted and he got laboriously to his feet to answer.

'Were you asleep?'

Sigurdur óli was a famous early bird who generally arrived at work long before anyone else, after an energetic swim in one of the city's many pools and a hearty breakfast.

'What now?' Erlendur grunted, still half asleep.

'I should put you onto the new granola I had this morning, it sets you up for the day.'

'Sigurdur.'

'Yes?'

'Is there something you want to tell me before I—?'

'It's the scratch,' Sigurdur óli said hurriedly.

'What about it?'

'Three other cars were vandalised in the vicinity of the school over the preceding few days,' Sigurdur óli said. 'It emerged this morning at a meeting where your presence was sorely missed.'

'Was it the same sort of damage?'

'Yes. Scratches all along the bodywork.'

'Do we know who did it?'

'No, not yet. Forensics are examining the other cars, if they haven't been resprayed already. It's conceivable that the same instrument was used. And another thing: Kjartan has given us permission to examine his Volvo. He claims that Elías never set foot in his car but I thought it would be better to make sure.'

'Is he being cooperative?' Erlendur asked.

'Well, a bit better,' Sigurdur óli said. 'And there's one more thing.'

'You've been very busy. Is it the granular?'

'Granola,' Sigurdur óli corrected him. 'Maybe we should take a closer look at Niran's relationship with his stepfather.'

'In what way?'

Erlendur was waking up. He should not have been caught napping at home like this and knew he deserved Sigurdur óli's teasing.

'Elínborg thinks we should have another chat with ódinn. I'm going to drop round and see him. To ask about Niran.'

'Do you think he'll be home?'

'Yes. I phoned just now.'

'See you there, then.'

ódinn was looking unkempt, his eyes were bloodshot and his voice hoarse. He had been granted compassionate leave from work and dropped round to see Sunee from time to time with his mother but mostly stayed at home waiting for news. He invited Erlendur and Sigurdur óli into his living room and put on some coffee.

'Tell us a bit about Niran,' Erlendur said when ódinn sat down with them in the living room.

'What about Niran?'

'What kind of boy is he?'

'A very ordinary boy,' ódinn said. 'Should he be somehow ... ? What do you mean?'

'Did you have a good relationship?'

'You couldn't really say that. I had nothing to do with him.'

'Do you know if the boy has been in any trouble recently?'

'I haven't had any real contact with him,' ódinn said.

'Did Niran have any reason to be hostile towards you?' Erlendur said. He did not know how to express the question any better.

ódinn looked from one of them to the other.

'He wasn't hostile to me,' he said. 'Things were okay between us. He had nothing to do with me and I had nothing to do with him.'

'Do you think he's gone into hiding because of you?' Erlendur asked. 'Because of something he thought you might do?'

'No, I can't imagine that,' ódinn said. 'Of course, it came as a bit of a shock when she told me about him. I stayed out of it when she sent for him.'

'Why did you get divorced?' Sigurdur óli asked.

'It was over.'

'Was it because of anything in particular?'

'Maybe. This and that. Like in any normal marriage. People break up and start again. That's how it goes. Sunee's an independent woman. She knows what she wants. We quarrelled about the boys sometimes, especially Elías. She wanted him to speak Thai but I said it would only confuse him. It was more important for him to speak Icelandic'

'You weren't afraid of not being able to understand them? Of losing control of the home? Being left out?'

ódinn shook his head.

'She likes living in Iceland, except perhaps the weather sometimes. It gives her a chance to support her family in Thailand, and she stays in close contact with them. She wants to keep in touch with her roots.'

'Don't we all?' Erlendur said.

No one spoke.

'You don't think that Niran could be hiding because of you?' Erlendur repeated.

'Definitely not,' ódinn said. 'I've never done anything to him.'

The mobile rang in Erlendur's pocket. It took him a little while to work out who the man on the phone was. He said his name was Egill and that they had spoken together in his car the other day; the woodwork teacher.

'Oh yes, hello,' Erlendur said, when he finally clicked who it was.

'It, you see, the thing is, it's always happening,' Egill said, and Erlendur pictured him with his beard, sitting in his car, smoking. 'So I don't know if it's significant at all,' Egill continued. 'But I wanted to talk to you anyway.'

'What is it?' Erlendur asked. 'What's always happening?'

'Those knives are always being stolen,' Egill said.

'What knives?'

'Er, the wood-carving knives,' Egill said. 'So I don't know if it'll help you at all.'

'What is it? What's happened?'

'But I keep a close eye on them,' Egill continued, as if he had not heard the question. 'I always try to keep a close eye on the knives. They're not cheap. I counted them the other day, maybe two weeks ago, but just now I noticed that one of them is missing. One of the carving knives has gone from the box. That's all I wanted to tell you.'

'And?'

'And nothing. I haven't found the thief or anything. I just wanted to inform you that there's a knife missing. I thought you'd want to know.'

'Of course,' Erlendur said, 'thank you for telling me. Who steals these knives?'

'Oh, the pupils probably.'

'Yes, but do you know which ones in particular? Have you caught anyone? Is it the same pupils again and again or...?

'Why don't you just come and take a look for yourself?' Egill asked. 'I'll be here all day.'

Twenty minutes later Erlendur and Sigurdur óli parked in front of the school. Teaching was under way and there was not a soul to be seen in the playground.

Egill was in the woodwork room. Nine teenage kids were busy with assignments at the carpentry tables, armed with chisels and small saws, but stopped what they were doing when the two detectives entered the classroom. Egill looked at his watch and informed the kids that they could finish ten minutes early. They gazed at him in astonishment as if such an offer from him was unthinkable, then jumped into action and started tidying away. The workshop emptied in a matter of minutes.

Egill closed the door behind the kids. He took a good long look at Sigurdur óli.

'Didn't I teach you once?' he asked, then walked over to a cupboard in the corner, bent down, took out a wooden box and laid it on the table.

'I was at school here years ago,' Sigurdur óli said. 'I don't know if you remember me.'

'I remember you all right,' Egill said. 'You were mixed up in those riots in 'seventy-nine.'

Sigurdur óli darted a glance at Erlendur who pretended to be oblivious.

'I keep the carving knives here,' Egill said, taking them out of the box one at a time and laying them on the table. 'There should be thirteen of them. It didn't occur to me to check them after the attack.'

'Nor us,' Erlendur said, with a glance at Sigurdur óli.

'It isn't necessarily significant,' Sigurdur óli said, as if to excuse himself. 'Even if something is missing.'

'Then this morning,' Egill continued, 'when we needed to use them, one of the pupils came to me and said he didn't have a knife to work with. There were thirteen of them in the group and I knew there should be exactly the right number of knives. I counted them. There were twelve. So I collected them, put them back in the box in the cupboard, double-checked the workshop, then called you. I know there were thirteen about two weeks ago, no longer.'

'Is this cupboard kept locked?' Erlendur asked.

'No, that is, not during lessons. But apart from that, yes, these cupboards are kept locked.'

'And all the pupils have access to them?'

'Yes, in reality. We haven't regarded woodwork knives as potential murder weapons until now.'

'But people steal them?' Sigurdur óli said.

'That's nothing new,' Egill said, stroking his beard. 'Things go missing. Chisels. Screwdrivers. Even saws. Always something every year.'

'Wouldn't it be a good idea to lock the cupboards then?' Erlendur said. 'Hand out the tools under some sort of supervision?'

Egill glared at him.

'Is that any of your business?' he asked.

'They're knives,' Erlendur said. 'Carving knives, what's more.'

'The classroom is kept locked, isn't it?' Sigurdur óli said hurriedly.

'Wood-carving knives are only a weapon in the hands of morons,' Egill said, ignoring Sigurdur óli. 'Why should the rest of us always have to suffer because of a few morons?'

'What about—' Sigurdur óli began, but got no further.

'In addition to which,' Egill persisted, 'the kids use these tools in here and can stab themselves or slip them into their schoolbags whenever they like. It's difficult to keep them under constant supervision.'

'And presumably all the kids in the school will have attended woodwork lessons since you last counted the knives,' Erlendur pointed out.

'Yes,' Egill said, his face flushing an angry red. 'The workshop is locked between classes. I don't leave until the last kid has gone, for safety reasons. I always lock up after myself and I'm the one who opens the door when I arrive in the morning and after all the breaks. No one else. Ever.'

'What about the cleaners?' Sigurdur óli asked.

'Oh, and them, of course,' Egill said. 'But I haven't been aware that any of the cupboards have been broken into.'

'So in your view the most likely scenario is that the knife was taken during a lesson?' Sigurdur óli said.

'Don't start blaming me for that!' Egill almost shouted, beside himself with indignation. 'I can't possibly be expected to keep an eye on everything that goes on here! If some stupid kids want to steal from the workshop it wouldn't exactly be difficult. And, yes, I reckon it must have been during a lesson. I can't see how else it could have happened.'

Erlendur picked up one of the knives and tried to recall what the pathologist had said about the instrument used to stab Elías. A broad but not very long blade, he remembered. The carving knife had a very sharp point, a short blade and a broad reverse by the wooden handle. It was razor sharp. Erlendur imagined that it would not require much force to push it deep into someone's flesh. It struck him that it would also be possible to produce satisfying scratches on cars with a tool like a carving knife.

'How many kids do you think we're talking about?' he asked. 'If we assume that the knife was stolen during a lesson?'

Egill considered.

'Most of the kids in the school, I expect,' he said.

'We'll have to get a photo of one of these knives and circulate it,' Erlendur said.

'Is this the boy you were asking me about in the car?' Egill asked Erlendur, his eyes fixed on Sigurdur óli.

A faint smile twisted Erlendur's lips. He had riled the woodwork teacher and now Egill was after revenge.

'We should get moving,' Erlendur said to Sigurdur óli.

'Has he told you what happened here in 'seventy-nine?' Egill continued. 'About the riot?'

They had reached the door. Sigurdur óli opened it and stepped out into the corridor.

'Thanks for your help,' Erlendur said, half turning back to Egill. 'This knife business could be very important. You never know what may come out of it'

Erlendur looked at Sigurdur óli, who didn't seem to know what was happening, then closed the door in Egill's face.

'The old bugger,' he said as they walked down the corridor. 'What's this riot he was referring to?'

'It was nothing,' Sigurdur óli said.

'What happened?'

'Nothing, it was just a stupid prank.'

They had emerged into the open air and were heading towards the car.

'I find it hard to imagine you involved in a stupid prank,' Erlendur said. 'You weren't at this school very long. Did you get into some sort of trouble?'

Sigurdur óli sighed heavily. He opened the car door and got behind the wheel. Erlendur took the passenger seat.

'Me and three others,' Sigurdur óli said. 'We refused to go outside during the break. It was all very innocent. The weather was terrible and we said we weren't going outside.'

'Bloody silly of you,' Erlendur said.

'We chose the wrong teacher,' Sigurdur óli continued in a serious tone. 'He was a temporary supply teacher and we didn't know him but he managed to get on our nerves. That was probably how it started. Some of the boys had tried to disrupt his lessons by taking the piss out of him and so on. Things got out of hand. He started hurling abuse at us and we answered him back insolently. He got angrier and angrier, and starting trying to drag us outside but we fought back. Then some other teachers and pupils joined in and it ended up in a massive brawl throughout the building. People were injured. It was like everyone was venting their rage at once, pupils on teachers and teachers on pupils. When all attempts to calm the situation failed, someone called the police. It ended up in the papers.'

'And it was all your fault,' Erlendur said.

'I was involved and got suspended for two weeks,' Sigurdur óli said. 'All four of us were suspended, along with some others who'd got a bit carried away in the fight. My father went ballistic'

Erlendur had never heard Sigurdur óli talk about his father before, never heard him so much as mention his name, and wondered if he should take the opportunity to find out more. The whole thing was completely novel to him. He couldn't imagine Sigurdur óli being suspended from school.

'It... I...' Sigurdur óli wanted to say more but floundered in his attempt to find the words. 'It wasn't like me at all. I'd never been mixed up in anything like that before and I've never lost control of myself since.'

Erlendur said nothing.

'I injured the teacher really badly,' Sigurdur óli said.

'What happened?'

'That's why everyone remembers it. He was taken to hospital.'

'Why?'

'He fell and cracked his head on the floor,' Sigurdur óli said. 'I knocked him down and he landed on his head. At first I didn't think he was going to pull through.'

'You can't have been very happy with that on your conscience.'

'I ... I wasn't very happy at the time. There were various things that...'

'You don't have to tell me.'

'They got divorced,' Sigurdur óli said. 'My parents. That summer.'

Ah,' Erlendur said.

'I moved out with my mother. We'd only been here two years.'

'It's always rough on the kids. When their parents split up.'

'Were you discussing me with that woodwork teacher?' Sigurdur óli asked.

'No, he recognised you,' Erlendur said. 'Remembered the riot'

'Did he mention my dad at all?' Sigurdur óli said.

'He may have done,' Erlendur said guardedly.

'Dad was always working. I don't think he ever realised why she left him.'

'Had it been on the cards for a long time?' Erlendur asked, amazed that Sigurdur óli was willing to discuss this with him.

'I didn't know the background. Still don't really know what happened. My mother didn't much like talking about it.'

'You're an only child, aren't you?'

Erlendur recalled that Sigurdur óli had once alluded to the fact.

'I spent a lot of time alone at home,' Sigurdur óli said, nodding. 'Especially after the divorce, when we moved house. Then we moved again. After that we were always moving.'

Neither of them spoke.

'It's weird coming back here after all this time,' Sigurdur óli said.

'Small world, this town.'

'What did he say about Dad?'

'Nothing.'

'Dad was a plumber. He was known as Permaflush.'

'Really?' Erlendur said, feigning ignorance.

'Egill remembered me clearly. I could tell at once. I remember him too. We were all a bit scared of him.'

'Well, he's not exactly Mr Nice Guy,' Erlendur said.

'I know people used to call Dad that, he was the type. You could make fun of him. Some people are like that. He didn't mind but I couldn't stand it.'

Sigurdur óli looked at Erlendur.

'I've tried to be everything he wasn't.'



She greeted Erlendur at the door with a smile, a small woman in her sixties with thick, brown, shoulder-length hair and friendly eyes that radiated complete ignorance about the purpose of his visit. Erlendur was alone. He had popped over at lunchtime on the off-chance that he would find her at home. The woman lived in Kópavogur and was called Emma, that was all he knew.

He introduced himself and when she heard that he was a detective she invited him into an overheated sitting room. He hastily removed his coat and unbuttoned his jacket. It was minus nine outside. They sat down. Everywhere there were signs that she lived alone. She had an aura of extraordinary calm, a serenity that suggested a solitary existence.

'Have you always lived alone?' he asked to break the ice and help her relax, only realising too late what a personal question it was. She seemed to think so too.

'Is that something the police need to know?' she asked, her manner so deadpan that he wasn't sure if she was teasing him.

'No,' Erlendur said sheepishly. 'Of course not.'

'What do the police want with me?' the woman asked.

'We're looking for a man,' he said. 'He was once a neighbour of yours. You lived in the flat opposite him. It's rather a long time ago, so I don't know if you'll remember him, but I thought it was worth a try.'

'Does it have something to do with that terrible case in the news, with that boy?'

'No,' Erlendur said, telling himself that this was not strictly a lie. He didn't know exactly what he was looking for or why he was intruding on this woman.

'It's dreadful knowing that something like that can happen,' the woman said. 'That a child should be attacked like that, it's quite incomprehensible, an incomprehensible outrage.'

'Yes, it is,' Erlendur said.

'I've only lived in three places in my life,' the woman added. 'The place where I was born, the block of flats you're talking about and here in Kópavogur. That's it. What year was this?'

'I'm not absolutely certain, but we're probably talking about the end of the sixties or beginning of the seventies. It was a small family. A mother and son. She may possibly have been living with a man at the time she was resident in the block. It's him I'm looking for. He wasn't the boy's father.'

'Why are you looking for him?'

'It's a police matter,' Erlendur said and smiled. 'Nothing serious. We just need to have a word with him. The woman's name was Sigurveig. The boy was called Andrés.'

Emma hesitated.

'What?' Erlendur said.

'I remember them well,' she said slowly. 'I remember that man. And the boy. The mother, Sigurveig, was an alcoholic. I used to see her coming home late at night, drunk. I don't think she looked after the boy properly. I don't think he was very happy.'

'What can you tell me about the man she lived with?'

'His name was R?gnvaldur. I don't know his patronymic, I never heard it. He was at sea, wasn't he? Anyway, he wasn't home much. I don't think he drank, at least not like her. I didn't really understand what they saw in each other, they were such different types.'

'Do you mean they didn't seem fond of each other or ... ?'

'I never understood that relationship. I used to hear them quarrelling, I could hear it through their door if I was on the landing—'

She abruptly broke off her account as if she felt it necessary to clarify.

'I wasn't eavesdropping,' she said, with a faint smile. 'They used to argue pretty loudly. The laundry was in the basement and I'd be on my way down there or coming home ...'

'I see,' Erlendur said, picturing her standing on the landing with ears pricked outside her neighbours' door.

'He spoke to her as if she was worthless. Always denigrating her, mocking and humiliating her. I didn't like him, from what little I had to do with him, not that that was much. But I heard what he was like. Nasty. A nasty piece of work.'

'What about the boy?' Erlendur asked.

'Quiet as a mouse, poor little thing. He avoided the man completely. I had the impression he wasn't happy. I don't know what it was, he was somehow so forlorn. Oh, those poor little dears, some of them are just so vulnerable ...'

'Can you describe this R?gnvaldur for me?' Erlendur asked when she trailed off in mid-sentence.

'I can do better than that,' Emma said. 'I believe I have a photo of him somewhere.'

'You do?'

'Where he's walking past the block of flats. My friend took a picture of me standing outside the front door and it turned out that he was in the background.'

She stood up and went over to a cabinet. Inside were a number of photograph albums, one of which she removed. Erlendur looked around the flat. Everything was spotlessly tidy. He guessed that she put her photos in an album the moment she had them developed. Probably numbered them and labelled them with the date and a short caption. What else was one to do alone in a flat like this during the long, dark winter evenings?

'One of his forefingers was missing,' Emma said as she brought the album over. 'I noticed it once. He must have had an accident'

'I see,' Erlendur said.

'Maybe he was doing some carpentry. It was only a stump. On his left hand.'

Emma sat down with the album and turned the pages until she found the picture. Erlendur was right, the photos were carefully arranged in chronological order and clearly labelled. He suspected that every single one had a place in her memory.

'I simply adore looking through these albums,' Emma said, inadvertently confirming Erlendur's guess.

'They can be precious,' he said. 'Memories.'

'Here it is,' she said. 'It's actually not a bad picture of him.'

She handed Erlendur the album and pointed to the photo. There was Emma, more than thirty years younger, smiling at the camera, a slender figure wearing a headscarf, a pretty little cardigan and Capri pants. The picture was in black and white. Behind her he saw the man she referred to as R?gnvaldur. He was also looking at the camera but had raised a hand as if to shield his face, as if it had dawned on him too late that he might be caught in the shot. He was thin with a receding hairline, fairly large protruding eyes and delicate eyebrows below a high, intelligent forehead.

Erlendur stared at the man's face and a shiver ran down his spine when he realised that he had seen him before, very recently. He had changed extraordinarily little despite the passage of time.

'What's the matter?' Emma asked.

'It's him!' Erlendur groaned.

'Him?' Emma said. 'Who?'

'That man! Is it possible? What did you say his name was?'

'R?gnvaldur.'

'No, his name's not R?gnvaldur.'

'Oh, then I must be mistaken. Do you know him?'

Erlendur looked up from the album.

'Is it possible?' he whispered.

He looked again at the man in the picture. He didn't know anything about him but he had been inside his home and knew who he was.

'Did he call himself R?gnvaldur?'

'Yes, that was his name,' Emma said. 'I don't think I'm making it up.'

'I don't believe it,' Erlendur said.

'Why? What's the matter?'

'He wasn't called R?gnvaldur when I met him,' Erlendur said.

'You've met him?'

'Yes, I've met that man.'

'So? If he wasn't called R?gnvaldur, what was his name?'

Erlendur didn't answer immediately.

'What was he called?' Emma repeated.

'He was called Gestur,' Erlendur said absently, staring at the picture of Sunee's neighbour from across the landing, the man who had invited him in, the man who knew both Elías and Niran.