Outrage Page 11

‘He said he was buying them for a friend. That’s what they all say – when they’re new and don’t know what sad little losers they are.’

  ‘And it was definitely Rohypnol he bought?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How much did you sell him?’

  ‘One bottle. Ten pills.’

  ‘Did he come here? To your place?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Was he alone?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And was it Runólfur?’

  ‘Yes. No. Look, he said his name was Runólfur but it wasn’t him.’

  ‘Not the Runólfur who was murdered?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t that bloke whose picture was in the papers.’

  ‘So was he posing as Runólfur?’

  ‘How would I know? Maybe his name was Runólfur too. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Do you think I give a fuck?’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘About my height, probably thirty-something. Fat face, balding, with a bit of a beard. I don’t remember him very clearly.’

  Elínborg looked at Valur. Suddenly she recalled the man she had interviewed in her office, Runólfur’s friend. Edvard. The description fitted him well.

  ‘Anything else?’ she asked.

  ‘No. I don’t know anything else.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever. Now fuck off out of here.’

  ‘At least he takes good care of the baby,’ sighed Elínborg once they were back in the car. ‘Her nappy was dry, and she’d just been fed. She was fine with her daddy.’

  ‘He’s a piece of shit.’

  ‘No doubt.’

  ‘Have you heard from Erlendur at all?’ asked Sigurdur Óli.

  ‘No, he hasn’t been in touch. He said he was going to the east for a few days, didn’t he?’

  ‘How long’s he been gone?’

  ‘Must be over a week.’

  ‘How much holiday was he taking?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What was he planning to do there?’

  ‘He’s visiting the place where he lived as a boy.’

  ‘Have you heard anything from that woman he’s been seeing?’

  ‘Valgerdur? No. I probably ought to give her a ring. See if she’s heard from him.’

  13

  It was evening when Elínborg and Sigurdur Óli pulled up outside Edvard’s home, a dilapidated house on the west side of town. Edvard was unmarried, and childless. His car was parked beside the house – a Japanese hatchback, several years old. Elínborg knocked, and they heard movement from within. But nobody came to the door. Lights were visible in two windows and they had noticed the glow of a television, which was suddenly extinguished. They knocked again, then a third time. Sigurdur Óli hammered at the door, and finally Edvard appeared. He recognised Elínborg at once.

  ‘Is this a bad time?’ she asked.

  ‘No, well, it’s … is something the matter?’

  ‘We’ve got some more questions about Runólfur,’ explained Elínborg. ‘Can we come in?’

  ‘It’s really not convenient now,’ answered Edvard. ‘I was on my way out.’

  ‘It’ll only take a minute,’ said Sigurdur Óli.

  They stood at the threshold while Edvard stubbornly blocked their way.

  ‘I really can’t invite you in at the moment,’ he protested. ‘I’d appreciate it if you could come back later – maybe tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, well, no, I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ Elínborg replied. ‘It’s to do with Runólfur, as I said, and we have to speak to you now.’

  ‘What about him?’ asked Edvard.

  ‘We’d really prefer not to have this conversation here, on the doorstep.’

  Edvard glanced out into the street. The house was cloaked in darkness, with no street lamp nearby and no porch light. It faced straight on to the street without a front garden, but by the wall stood a single tree, a dead alder, whose naked, contorted branches loomed over the roof like the paw of a great beast.

  ‘Yeah, well, come in, then. I don’t see what you want from me,’ the detectives heard Edvard mumble. ‘We were just friends.’

  ‘This will only take a minute,’ said Elínborg.

  They entered a small living room, sparsely furnished with old, worn furniture. A large, new-looking flatscreen hung on one wall, and on the desk stood a brand-new computer with a huge monitor. Computer games of many kinds were scattered around and arranged on shelves, along with a vast array of films on DVD and video cassettes. Tables and chairs were also piled high with documents, papers and textbooks.

  ‘Marking essays?’ asked Elínborg.

  ‘Is that a serious question?’ asked Edvard, eyeing the stacks of paper on the table. ‘Yes, it’s time I handed them back. They do tend to pile up.’

  ‘Do you collect films?’ asked Elínborg.

  ‘No, I’m not a collector as such, but I have quite a lot, as you can see. I sometimes buy them from rental shops when they close down. They’re sold off dirt cheap.’

  ‘Have you watched them all?’ asked Sigurdur Óli.

  ‘No … yeah … pretty much. Most of them.’

  ‘You said you knew Runólfur very well,’ said Elínborg. ‘Last time we spoke.’

  ‘Yes, quite well. I liked him.’

  ‘And you shared an interest in films, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘We used to go to the cinema sometimes.’

  Elínborg noticed that Edvard was more uncomfortable than at their previous encounter. He seemed uneasy having visitors in his home. He did not look them in the eye, and his hands wandered restlessly over the desk. Finally, he thrust them into his pockets, but before long he was scratching his head or his arm, or fiddling with the DVD cases. Elínborg decided it was time to put him out of his misery. She picked up a film from a chair, one of Hitchcock’s early silents, The Lodger. Elínborg had prepared carefully, and was about to ask her first question, but Sigurdur Óli was impatient – not for the first time. He was especially edgy with individuals who were vulnerable, or had low self-esteem, and was quick to pinpoint their weaknesses.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us you’d bought a date-rape drug?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Using Runólfur’s name. Were you buying it for him?’

  Elínborg glared at Sigurdur Óli. She had made it clear to him that she intended to conduct this interview. He was supposed to be there purely for support.

  ‘Why?’ Sigurdur Óli went on. He was unsure what to make of Elínborg’s enraged expression. He thought he was doing pretty well. ‘Why did you pretend to be Runólfur?’

  ‘I don’t know … what?’ babbled Edvard, shoving his hands into his pockets again.

  ‘We’ve got a witness who sold you Rohypnol about six months ago,’ said Sigurdur Óli.

  ‘The description fits you,’ said Elínborg. ‘He said you used the name Runólfur.’

  ‘What description?’ asked Edvard.

  ‘He described you to a T,’ said Elínborg.

  ‘So?’ said Sigurdur Óli.

  ‘So, what?’ asked Edvard.

  ‘Is it true?’ asked Sigurdur Óli.

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘Your drug dealer!’ barked Sigurdur Óli. ‘Aren’t you listening?’

  ‘Would you mind just letting me talk to him?’ Elínborg said calmly.

  ‘Tell him that if he doesn’t cooperate we’ll take him to the dealer and get the truth out of him that way,’ said Sigurdur Óli menacingly.

  ‘I did it as a favour for Runólfur,’ Edvard admitted, intimidated by Sigurdur Óli’s threat. ‘He asked me to do it.’

  ‘What did he want the drug for?’ asked Elínborg.

  ‘He told me he had difficulty sleeping.’

  ‘So why didn’t he go to a doctor and ask for a prescription?’

  ‘I didn’t really know what this Rohypnol stuff was, not until
after Runólfur was killed. I had no idea.’

  ‘Do you expect us to buy that?’ asked Elínborg.

  ‘We weren’t born yesterday,’ growled Sigurdur Óli.

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know anything about drugs.’

  ‘How did Runólfur find this drug dealer?’ asked Elínborg.

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Apparently you mentioned some relative of yours?’

  Edvard thought for a moment. ‘The supplier wanted to know. He was very nervous. Demanded to know who I was, how I’d heard about him. He was quite a scary bloke. Runólfur sent me to him and that’s why I used his name. I made up the thing about my relative.’

  ‘Why didn’t Runólfur just buy the stuff himself? Why did he get you to go?’ asked Elínborg.

  ‘We were friends. He said …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He said he didn’t trust doctors, or patient records. And he confided that he drank a bit and the Rohypnol was helpful for hangovers. He said he didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he was using it, because it was a problematical drug. He was uncomfortable asking a doctor for it. That’s what he said. I wasn’t really sure what he was on about.’

  ‘But why did he get you to go?’

  Edvard hesitated. ‘He asked me to go as a favour to him,’ he said finally.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was embarrassed to do it himself, and …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I don’t have a lot of friends. Runólfur and I were mates, and I wanted to help him out. He came to me with his problem and I said I’d take care of it. That’s all there was to it. I wanted to do him a favour.’

  ‘How much did you buy?’

  ‘One bottle.’

  ‘Who else have you bought from?’

  ‘Who else? No one else. It was just that one time.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this when we spoke the other day?’

  Edvard shrugged abjectly. ‘I thought I’d get dragged into something that was nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Don’t you think it might have something to do with you, if you’ve bought Rohypnol for someone who might have been a rapist?’

  ‘I didn’t know what he was going to do with it.’

  ‘Where were you when Runólfur was killed?’

  ‘Here. At home.’

  ‘Can anyone corroborate that?’

  ‘No. I’m alone at home most evenings. You’re not seriously alleging that I did it?’

  ‘We’re not alleging anything,’ replied Elínborg. ‘Thank you for your help,’ she added curtly.

  Elínborg and Sigurdur Óli returned to the car. Elínborg was apoplectic. ‘What the hell was that?’ she snapped, and started the car.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You ruined it, you bloody idiot. I’ve never seen anything like it. You played right into his hands. Now we have no idea whether he really was buying for Runólfur! You’ve got no evidence! How could you say that? You handed it to him on a silver platter!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s the perfect get-out for Edvard.’

  ‘Get-out? You don’t really think he was buying it for himself?’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Elínborg. ‘Maybe the pills Runólfur used were Edvard’s. He could be an accessory. Maybe he attacked Runólfur.’

  ‘That wimp?’

  ‘There you go again. Can’t you treat people with a bit of respect?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have needed any help from me to make up a story like that. I bet he came up with it ages ago – that is, if he is lying to us.’

  ‘Why won’t you ever admit you’ve made a mistake?’ asked Elínborg. ‘You screwed up. Royally.’

  ‘Hey, steady on.’

  ‘He picked up on what you said. I think everything he said after that was a lie.’ Elínborg sighed heavily. ‘I’ve never had a case like this before.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Every single person I speak to seems to be a viable suspect.’

  14

  Elínborg’s father was resting in the bedroom. It was Monday, his bridge night, and he would be going out to one of his friends’ homes. He had been playing bridge on Monday evenings with the same group for as long as Elínborg could remember. Year had followed uneventful year in a blur of bids and slams. They had grown old gracefully, those young men who had once patted her on the head and teased her and played cards, and consumed the snacks served by her mother. They had a quiet dignity, a friendliness, and an inexhaustible eagerness to explore the mysteries of bridge. Elínborg had never learned the game, nor had her father shown any interest in teaching her. He was a good player and had taken part in tournaments, occasionally bringing home a minor trophy, which he would put away in a drawer. But age had its consequences and these days, if he was to be alert for an evening at the card table, he needed to take a nap in the afternoon.

  ‘Hello, dear!’ said Elínborg’s mother as she opened the door. Elínborg had her own key and let herself in.

  ‘Just thought I’d look in.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes. How are you?’ asked Elínborg.

  ‘I’m well. I’m thinking of doing a bookbinding course.’ Her mother was sitting in the living room, reading an advert in the paper. ‘My friend Anna is doing it, and she says I should try it too.’

  ‘That’s a good idea, isn’t it? You can take the old man with you.’

  ‘I don’t think so. He can never be bothered to do anything. How’s Teddi?’

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘Fine. Busy.’

  ‘I can see that – you look a bit tired. I’ve been reading about this awful murder in Thingholt. I just hope you’re not involved with that. It’s not the kind of thing normal people can cope with.’

  Elínborg had heard it all before. Her mother was disappointed that she had ‘finished up’ in the police, as she put it. She thought the job was beneath her daughter. Not because it was unimportant – far from it – but she simply could not bear to think of her Elínborg dealing with crooks. She imagined other people – nothing like her daughter – pursuing criminals, arresting them, questioning them and locking them up. Her daughter just wasn’t that kind of woman.

  Elínborg had long ago given up defending her profession. She understood that most of her mother’s objections stemmed from fears of her daughter being surrounded by the dregs of humanity. Elínborg did what she could to protect her mother by playing down her role in apprehending violent criminals and giving her a sanitised impression of the job. Perhaps she had gone too far. Sometimes Elínborg felt her mother was in a state of denial about her line of work. ‘Really, there are days when I can’t help wondering what I’m doing in this job,’ Elínborg said.

  ‘Of course you do,’ her mother answered. ‘Would you like some hot chocolate?’

  ‘No, thanks. I just wanted to check that you were both all right. I’ll be off home now.’

  ‘Now, now, dear, it will only take a minute. No need to rush away – they’re all old enough to look after themselves. Sit down for a minute and relax.’

  Quick as a flash, her mother had placed a saucepan on the stove, with a little water in the bottom and a bar of dark chocolate that was melting in seconds.

  Elínborg sat at the kitchen table. Her mother’s handbag was hanging from the back of a chair. She remembered how she had always liked the fragrance of her mother’s bag when she’d been a little girl. Whenever she was under pressure and needed a brief respite from her day-to-day routine she found it comforting to visit her childhood home and ground herself again in her old surroundings.

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ said Elínborg. ‘Sometimes we achieve something worthwhile. Arrest people, stop violence, help victims.’

  ‘Of course,’ said her mother, ‘But I don’t understand why you should have to do it. It never occurred to me that you would stay in the polic
e for so long.’

  ‘No,’ said Elínborg. ‘I know, but somehow it worked out that way.’

  ‘Not that I ever understood the geology thing either. Or that Bergsveinn.’

  ‘His name’s Bergsteinn, Mum.’

  ‘I don’t know what you ever saw in him. Teddi’s entirely different, of course. Reliable. He’d never let you down. And what about Valthór, how is he?’

  ‘All right, so far as I know. We don’t talk much these days.’

  ‘Is it still because of Birkir?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s just at a difficult age.’

  ‘Yes, of course, he’s growing up. He’ll come back to you. He’s such a fine lad, Valthór. And intelligent.’

  So is Theodóra, thought Elínborg, but did not say anything. Valthór had always been a favourite with his grandmother. The other children sometimes felt left out, and Elínborg had mentioned it to her. ‘Nonsense!’ had been the old lady’s response.

  ‘Do you ever hear from Birkir?’ she enquired.

  ‘Occasionally. Hardly ever.’

  ‘Doesn’t he keep up with Teddi?’

  ‘No more than with me.’

  ‘I know Valthór misses him terribly. He always says he needn’t have left.’

  ‘Birkir wanted to go,’ answered Elínborg. ‘I don’t know why Valthór goes on about it. I think we’re all over it now. We’re on good terms with Birkir, even though he doesn’t contact us often. He’s fine. He and Valthór are in touch, although I don’t get to hear much about it. Valthór never tells me anything. I hear it from Teddi.’

  ‘I know Valthór can be a bit pig-headed, but …’

  ‘It was Birkir’s decision to go and live with his father,’ said Elínborg. ‘It was nothing to do with me. He tracked his father down, although the man had never acknowledged him in any way, never asked about him, in all these years. Not once. And all of a sudden he was the central person in Birkir’s life.’

  ‘Well, he is his father.’

  ‘What about us? What were we, then? Childminders?’

  ‘Youngsters that age always want to break out and go their own way. I remember well how eager you were to leave home.’

  ‘Yes, but this is different. It’s as if we had never been his parents, as if he’d just been a guest in our home. And that’s not how we treated him. He called you Gran. Teddi and I were his mum and dad. And then one day it was all over. I was angry with him, and so was Teddi. It was no problem that he wanted to get to know his father – of course that was natural – but when he cut us off completely it was awful. I told him so, but he wouldn’t listen. I don’t know what went wrong.’