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  'I don't know. I didn't attack any boy. I don't know about any attack. I don't know anything. I haven't done anything wrong. Why can't you leave me alone?'

  'Do you know the boy?' Erlendur asked.

  Andrés shook his head. Sigurdur Óli pointed a finger at the tape recorder.

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

  'He has a brother, five years older,' Erlendur said. 'They moved into the neighbourhood last spring. You've lived there for more than five years. You must notice the locals. You must keep up with what's going on. Don't turn this into a pantomime.'

  'A pantomime? I haven't done anything.'

  'Do you know this boy?' Erlendur asked, taking a photograph of Elías from his coat pocket and handing it to Andrés.

  He pored over the child's face.

  'I don't know him,' he said.

  'You've never bumped into him?' Erlendur asked.

  Before Erlendur entered the interview room he had been told that a detailed search of the man's flat had not provided any indication of whether Elías or Niran had ever been there. However, Andrés had behaved very strangely when the police finally managed to break into his flat. He had not answered when they knocked on the door. When the police broke it down they were greeted by wretched squalor and an appalling stench. The door was double-locked and Andrés was found hiding under his bed. He screamed for help as he was dragged out. He thrashed around, apparently unaware that he was in the hands of the police but under the impression he was wrestling with an imaginary adversary to whom he repeatedly pleaded for mercy.

  'I might have seen him in the neighbourhood some time but I don't know him,' Andrés said. 'I haven't done anything to him.'

  His eyes darted back and forth, as if he had to make a decision but was hesitant. Perhaps he thought that he needed to bargain to get off. Sigurdur Óli was poised to speak, but Erlendur tugged at him and gestured to him to keep quiet. Andrés seemed to approve of that.

  'Would you leave me alone then?' he eventually said.

  'If what?' Erlendur said.

  'Would you let me go home then?'

  'Your flat was crammed with child pornography,' Sigurdur Óli said, not concealing the disgust in his voice. Erlendur had urged him to try not to show disrespect to criminals, as Sigurdur Óli had a tendency of doing. Nothing annoyed him more than middle-aged repeat offenders who were always in the same mess.

  'If what?' Erlendur repeated.

  'If I tell you.'

  'I told you not to turn this into a bloody pantomime,' Erlendur said. 'Say what you want to tell us. Stop beating about the bush.'

  'I guess it's a year since he moved into the area,' Andrés said.

  'Elías moved in the spring, like I said.'

  'I'm not talking about that boy,' Andrés said and looked at each of them in turn.

  'Who then?'

  'He's showing his age, the old git. That was the first thing I noticed.'

  'What are you talking about?' Sigurdur Óli snapped.

  A man I reckon has more porn in his possession than I do,' Andrés said.

  Sigurdur Óli and Erlendur exchanged glances.

  'I've never killed anyone,' Andrés said. 'You know that. You have to believe me, Erlendur. I've never killed anyone.'

  'Don't try and turn me into your confidant,' Erlendur said.

  'I've never killed anyone,' Andrés repeated.

  Erlendur watched him in silence.

  'I've never killed anyone,' Andrés said yet again.

  'You kill everything you touch,' Erlendur said.

  'What man are you talking about?' Sigurdur Óli asked. 'What man moved to the area?'

  Instead of answering him, Andrés focused his glare on Erlendur.

  'What man is this, Andrés?' Erlendur asked.

  Andrés leaned forward over the table and inclined his head slightly, like an elderly aunt giving a kindly greeting to a little child.

  'He's the nightmare I can never shake off.'

  12

  Elínborg was waiting to meet Elías's teacher at the school the boy and his brother had attended before they moved from Snorrabraut. Having been told that a meeting was just finishing, she sat outside the closed classroom and thought about her youngest child, a daughter, who was still at home with gastric flu. Her husband, a car mechanic, would spend the first part of the day with her, then Elínborg would take over.

  The classroom door opened and a middle-aged woman greeted her. During the meeting, she had been passed a note that the police wanted to talk to her. Elínborg shook the woman's hand, introduced herself and said she needed to talk to her in connection with Elías's murder, which she had doubtless heard about. The woman gave a sad nod.

  'We were talking about that at the meeting,' she said in a low voice. 'Words can't describe that, that sort of... outrage. Who would do something like that? Who on earth would be capable of attacking a child?'

  'We intend to find out,' Elínborg said, looking all around in search of a place where they could talk together without being disturbed.

  The woman, whose name was Emilía, was petite with long, dark hair in a ponytail, just beginning to turn grey. She said that they could sit inside the classroom: the children were at a music lesson and it was empty. Elínborg followed her. Pupils' drawings were pinned up on all the walls and displayed different stages of maturity, from matchstick men to proper portraits. Elínborg noticed a few traditional pictures: Icelandic farmhouses, at the foot of a mountain with a bright blue sky, wisps of cloud and a brilliant sun. She remembered that classic theme from her own schooldays and was silently surprised at its longevity.

  'This one's by Elías,' Emilía said, taking out a picture from a drawer in the teacher's desk. 'They never came to fetch his artwork when he left this school and I didn't want to throw this one away. It shows how genuinely talented he was at drawing, at such a young age.'

  Elínborg took the picture. The teacher was right, it showed that Elías had an exceptional command of drawing. He had drawn a female face with unnaturally large brown eyes, dark hair and a broad smile, bathed in bright colours.

  'It's supposed to be his mother,' Emilía smiled. 'Those poor people, having to go through all this.'

  'Did you teach him from the time he started school?' Elínborg asked.

  'Yes, from the age of six, I guess, only four years back. He was such a nice, sweet boy. A bit of a dreamer. Sometimes he had trouble concentrating on his schoolwork and it took some effort on my part to get him to apply himself. He could stare into space for hours on end and be off in a world of his own.'

  Emilía stopped talking and turned pensive.

  'It must be difficult for Sunee,' she said.

  'Yes, of course, really difficult,' Elínborg said.

  'She always showed the boys such love,' the teacher said, pointing at the drawing. 'I taught them both, Elías's brother Niran too. He didn't speak Icelandic well at all. I'm told they mainly spoke Thai at home and I discussed the fact with Sunee, how it could cause them problems. Her Icelandic was so-so and she preferred to have an interpreter with her at parents' meetings.'

  'What about the father? Did you get to know him?' Elínborg asked.

  'No, not at all. He never attended any events here, not the Christmas party or anything of that sort. Never came to parents' meetings, for example. She always came by herself

  'Moving to a new part of town and a new school might have been tough for Elías,' Elínborg said. 'It's not certain that he adapted to the new school. He hadn't made any friends and he spent a lot of time alone.'

  'I can believe that,' Emilía said. 'I remember what he was like when he started at this school. I thought he would never let go of his mother. It took me and the class welfare officer ages to get him to relax and realise that everything would be fine even if Sunee went.'

  'What about Niran?'

  'The brothers are so different,' Emilía said. 'Niran is tough. He'd survive anywhere. There's not a hint of the whiner about him.'
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  'Did they get on well together, the brothers?'

  'As far as I could see, Niran took very good care of his brother and I know Elías worshipped him. He made a lot of drawings of Niran. The difference between them was that Elías wanted to fit in, to be part of the class. Niran was more of a rebel, against the class, the teachers, the school authorities, the older pupils. There was a group of immigrant kids here, five or six boys that Niran went around with a lot. They kept themselves to themselves and did little schoolwork, because they had absolutely no interest in Icelandic history or anything like that. Once they fought with some Icelanders. This was outside school hours. It was in the evening and the gangs fought with sticks and broke windows. You hear about that sort of thing sometimes. You must be familiar with it'

  'Yes, we are,' Elínborg said. 'Generally it's to do with girls.'

  'The two ringleaders moved away from this part of town in the last school year and it died down. It only takes a tiny minority. Then Elías and Niran changed schools. I haven't seen either of them since. And then you hear this on the news and can't understand what's going on.'

  Emilía spoke quickly, almost gabbling. Elínborg refused to be drawn and dodged all her questions about how the boys had been doing since they left the area and about Sunee's personal circumstances. Emilía was an inquisitive woman and not afraid to show it. Elínborg liked her but did not want to reveal any details of the case. She merely said that it was at a very early stage. Emilía's curiosity was understandable. Elías's murder dominated the media. The police had probably talked to almost a hundred people in the neighbourhood, the surrounding blocks of flats, the school and nearby shops. Photographs of Elías were being circulated and attempts made to trace his precise movements on the fateful day. Witnesses who might have seen him on his way back from school were asked to come forward. Nothing concrete had come out of it yet. The only solid evidence the police had was that Elías had left school alone and was going home when he was stopped on the way.

  Elínborg smiled and looked at the clock. She thanked Emilía for her comprehensive answers and the teacher accompanied her down the corridor to one of the exits. They shook hands.

  'So you're no closer?' Emilía said.

  'No,' Elínborg said. 'No closer.'

  'Well,' Emilía said, 'as it happens I... Is Sunee still with that man of hers?'

  'No ... ?'

  'That was one of Elías's drawings,' Emilía hurried to say. 'It showed his mother, who he often drew, with a man beside her. This was in the spring, after they'd moved away but while the boys were still at this school. I remember asking Elías who it was. It just sort of slipped out'

  Didn't it just? Elínborg thought to herself. It was as if Emilía was aware herself of how inquisitive she was.

  'And he said the man was his mother's friend.'

  'Really?' Elínborg said. 'Did you ask the boy his name?'

  'Actually, I did.' Emilía smiled. 'Elías said he didn't know. Or he didn't tell me anyway.'

  And the man on the drawing, what... ?'

  'He could well have been Icelandic'

  'Icelandic?'

  'Yes. I didn't want to be nosy but I had the feeling that Elías liked him a lot.'

  Andrés leaned back in his chair in the interview room. A click was heard as the tape came to an end and stopped recording. Sigurdur Óli reached out, turned the tape over and started the recording again. Erlendur stared at Andrés all the time.

  'What's that about the nightmare you can never shake off?' he asked. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

  'I doubt you'd want to hear it,' Andrés said. 'I doubt anyone would want to hear about such evil.'

  'Who is this man?' Sigurdur Óli asked.

  'Do you mean he did something to you?'

  Andrés said nothing.

  'Are you saying he's a paedophile?' Erlendur asked.

  Andrés sat in silence, looking at Erlendur.

  'I haven't seen him for years,' he said eventually. 'Years on end. Not until suddenly ... I guess it was a year ago.' Andrés stopped talking.

  'And?'

  'It was like meeting your executioner,' Andrés said. 'He didn't see me. He doesn't know that I know about him. I know where he lives.'

  'Where's that? Where does he live? Who is this man?' Sigurdur Óli showered Andrés with questions but he sat completely unmoved, looking at Sigurdur Óli as if he were absolutely irrelevant to him.

  'I might well pay him a visit one day,' Andrés said. 'To say hello. I reckon I could handle him now. I reckon I could get the better of him.'

  'But first you needed some Dutch courage,' Erlendur said.

  Andrés did not answer.

  'You had to run off and hide first?'

  'I always hid. You should know how good I was at concealing myself. I found new hiding places all the time and tried to make myself as small as I could.'

  'Do you think he hurt the boy?' Erlendur asked.

  'Maybe he gave up ages ago. I don't know. Like I say, I haven't seen him all these years and suddenly he's my neighbour. Suddenly, after all these years, he walks past on the other side of the street from where I live. You can't imagine what I really saw when he walked past. I mean up here,' Andrés said, tapping his index finger against his temple.

  'Do you think he's on our paedophile register?' Erlendur asked.

  'I doubt it.'

  'Are you going to tell us how to find him?' Sigurdur Óli asked.

  Andrés did not reply.

  'Who is he?' Sigurdur Óli asked, trying a new approach. 'We can help you to get him. If you want to charge him. We can lock him up with your help. Is that what you want? Will you tell us who he is so we can throw him in the nick?'

  Andrés started to laugh in his face.

  'This guy's the dog's bollocks,' he said with a look at Erlendur.

  Then suddenly he stopped laughing. He leaned forward in Sigurdur Óli's direction.

  'Who's going to believe a scumbag like me?'

  Erlendur's mobile phone started to ring. 'The Ode to Joy' filled the interview room and Erlendur tried to dig out his phone as fast as he could. He hated that ringtone. He pressed the answer button. Sigurdur Óli watched him. Andrés had clammed up. Erlendur listened and his face darkened. He rang off without saying goodbye and cursed as he leaped to his feet.

  'Can this bloody mess get any worse?' he hissed through clenched teeth and rushed out of the room.

  The police officer had second thoughts on his way back to the block of flats. The interpreter had popped out in her car but on the way she had asked him to fetch some bread and milk for the Thai woman and her son, who were alone in the flat. He had been in the force for two years and didn't find this job worse than any other. He had been caught up in the downtown mêlées when the weekend celebrations reached their peak. He had been called out to terrible road accidents. None of them affected him much. They described him as promising. He aimed for promotion within the police. Now he had been given the job of standing guard at the home of the Thai woman and her son. All morning, a series of experts from various agencies had trooped up the stairs to her flat, and he had stood there, asking their names, occupations and business. He let them all in. They all came straight back down. The Thai woman wanted to be left alone with her child. He could understand that. What a tragedy she had suffered.