Arctic Chill de-7 Read online

  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 Reykjavik. 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.

  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 Oli 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 Oli said hurriedly.

  “What about it?”

  “Three other cars were vandalised in the vicinity of the school over the preceding few days,” Sigurdur Oli 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 Elias 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 Oli said. “And there’s one more thing.”

  “You’ve been very busy. Is it the granular?”

  “Granola,” Sigurdur Oli 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 Oli’s teasing.

  “Elinborg thinks we should have another chat with Odinn. 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.”

  Odinn 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 Oli into his living room and put on some coffee.

  “Tell us a bit about Niran,” Erlendur said when Odinn sat down with them in the living room.

  “What about Niran?”

  “What kind of boy is he?”

  “A very ordinary boy,” Odinn 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,” Odinn said.

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

  Odinn 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,” Odinn 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 Oli 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 Elias. 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?”

  Odinn 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,” Odinn 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 Oli 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 Oli.

  “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 Oli 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 Oli 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 Oli.

  “It isn’t necessarily significant,” Sigurdur Oli 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.”