Arctic Chill de-7 Read online

  “Something good,” Gudny said. “A good thing.”

  “Did Elias have a Thai name?”

  “Yes: Aran. I’m not sure exactly what that means. I must ask Sunee.”

  “Is there any tradition behind such names?”

  “Thais use nicknames to confuse evil spirits. It’s one of their superstitions. Children are baptised with their real names, but the nicknames are used to lead astray evil spirits that could harm the children. They mustn’t find out the real name.”

  Music came from the sitting room and Erlendur and the interpreter went back in there from the bedroom. Sunee’s brother had put some gentle Thai music on the CD player. Sunee was huddled up on the sofa and now started talking to herself in whispers.

  Erlendur looked at the interpreter.

  “She’s talking about her other son. Niran.”

  “We’re looking for him,” Erlendur said. “We’ll find him. Tell her that. We’ll find him.”

  Sunee shook her head and stared into space.

  “She thinks he’s dead too,” the interpreter said.

  3

  Sigurdur Oli hurried towards the school. Three other policemen had accompanied him and now spread out across the school grounds and vicinity in search of the murder weapon. Teaching was over and the building was gloomy and lifeless in the winter darkness. Lights were on in the occasional window, but the main entrance was locked. Sigurdur Oli knocked on the door. It was a grey, three-storey monstrosity, with annexes housing a small indoor swimming pool and carpentry workshop. Memories of cold winter mornings came into Sigurdur Oli’s mind: children standing in double rows in the yard, quarrelling and teasing, sometimes fights that the teachers broke up. Rain and snow and darkness for most of the autumn and all winter until spring came, the days grew lighter, the weather improved and the sun started shining. Sigurdur Oli looked across the asphalt playground, the basketball court and football pitch, and could almost hear the old shouts of the kids.

  He started kicking at the door and eventually the caretaker appeared, a woman of about fifty who opened up and asked what all the row was about. Sigurdur Oli introduced himself and asked if the form teacher of 5D was still in the school.

  “What’s going on?” the woman asked.

  “Nothing,” Sigurdur Oli said. “The teacher? Do you know if he’s still here?”

  “5D? That’s room 304. It’s on the second floor. I don’t know if Agnes has left yet, I’ll check.”

  Sigurdur Oli had already set off. He knew where the stairs were and took them several steps at a time. The fifth form had been on the second floor in the old days as well, if he remembered correctly. Perhaps the same system was in operation as when he had been a pupil there at the end of the 1970s. In the last century. He felt ten heavy years older when that damn phrase went through his mind. Last century.

  All the classrooms on the floor were locked and he bounded back down the stairs. In the meantime, the caretaker had been to the staff room and was waiting in the corridor to tell him that 5D’s teacher had gone home.

  “Agnes? Is that her name?”

  “Yes,” the woman said.

  “Is the principal in?”

  “Yes. He’s in his office.”

  Sigurdur Oli almost barged the caretaker out of his way when he strode past her towards the staff room. In his day it had led to the principal’s office, he remembered that much. The door was open and he went straight in. He was in a tearing hurry. He noticed that his old principal was still at the school. He was getting ready to go home, knotting a scarf around his neck, when Sigurdur Oli disturbed him.

  “What do you want?” the principal asked, startled by the intrusion.

  Sigurdur Oli hesitated for a moment, uncertain whether the principal recognised him.

  “Can I help you at all?” the principal asked.

  “It’s about 5D,” Sigurdur Oli said.

  “Oh yes?”

  “Something’s happened.”

  “Do you have a child in that class?”

  “No. I’m from the police. A pupil from 5D was found dead outside his home. He’d been stabbed and died of the wound. We need to talk to all the teachers in the school, especially those who can tell us anything about this boy, we need to …”

  “What are you . . . ?” the principal gasped, and Sigurdur Oli saw him turn pale.

  “… talk to his classmates, the school staff, other people who knew him. We think he was murdered. A single stab wound to the stomach.”

  The caretaker had followed Sigurdur Oli into the office. She stood in the doorway, gasping and instinctively covering her mouth, staring at the detective as if unable to believe her ears.

  “He was half-Thai, the boy,” Sigurdur Oli continued. Are there many of them at this school?”

  “Many of them . . . ?” the principal said vacantly, sinking slowly into his chair. He was almost seventy, had been a teacher all his life, but was quite looking forward to retirement. He could not comprehend what had happened and there was no mistaking the look of disbelief on his face.

  “Who is it?” the caretaker said behind Sigurdur Oli. “Who’s dead?”

  Sigurdur Oli turned round.

  “Sorry, maybe we can talk to you later,” he said as he shut the door.

  “I need registers with the names and addresses of the parents,” he said, turning back to the principal. “I need a list of all the boy’s teachers. I need details of any friction within the school, gangs if there are any, race relations, anything that could explain what’s happened. Is there anything that springs to mind?”

  “I … I can’t think of a thing. I don’t believe what you’re saying! Is it true? Can such a thing happen?”

  “Unfortunately. We need to speed this up. The more time that passes from—”

  “Which boy is it?” the principal interrupted him.

  Sigurdur Oli told him Elias’s name. The principal turned to his computer, went to the school intranet and found the class and a photograph of the boy.

  “Before, I used to know every single pupil by name. Now there are just so many. This is him, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s him,” Sigurdur Oli said, peering at the picture. He told the principal about Elias’s brother and they found Niran’s class and photograph. The brothers were not unalike, both with jet-black hair down over their eyes, dark skin and brown eyes. They emailed Niran’s photograph to the police. Sigurdur Oli phoned the station to explain and it was distributed at once, along with the one Erlendur had provided.

  “Have there been any clashes between gangs in the school?” Sigurdur Oli asked when he had finished his telephone call.

  “Do you think it’s connected with the school?” the principal asked, his eyes glued to the computer monitor. Elias’s photograph filled the screen, smiling at them. It was a shy smile and instead of looking straight into the camera he was looking just above it, as if the photographer had told him to look up or something had disturbed him. He had symmetrical features with a high forehead and inquisitive, candid eyes.

  “We’re investigating all the possibilities,” Sigurdur Oli said. “I can’t say any more.”

  “Does it have something to do with racism? What were you saying?”

  “Only that the boy’s mother is from Thailand,” Sigurdur Oli said. “Nothing else. We don’t know what’s happened.”

  Sigurdur Oli was relieved that the principal did not remember him from his days as a pupil at the school. He did not want to get into a conversation about the old days and old teachers, what had happened to his class and all that crap.

  “Nothing’s been reported to me,” the principal said, “or at least nothing serious, and it’s out of the question that it could have resulted in this tragedy. I just can’t believe what has happened!”

  “You’d better believe it,” Sigurdur Oli said.

  The principal printed out a list of Elias’s classmates. It included the addresses, telephone numbers and names of the parents or guardians. H
e handed the list to Sigurdur Oli.

  “They started here this autumn, the brothers. Shouldn’t I email it to the address you gave me too?” he asked. “This is terrible,” he groaned, staring at his desk as if paralysed.

  “Definitely,” Sigurdur Oli said. “I also need the address and phone number of his form teacher. What happened?”

  The principal looked at him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You talked about something that wasn’t anything serious,” Sigurdur Oli said, “and it was out of the question that it could have resulted in this tragedy. What was it?”

  The principal hesitated.

  “What was it?” Sigurdur Oli repeated.

  “One of the teachers here has expressed a strong dislike of immigration.”

  “By women from Thailand?”

  “Those too. People from Asia. The Philippines. Vietnam. Those places. He has very strong views on the matter. But of course they’re just his opinions. He would never do anything like this. Never.”

  “But he crossed your mind. What’s his name?”

  “That would be absurd!”

  “We need to talk to him,” Sigurdur Oli said.

  “He has a good grip on the kids,” the principal said. “He’s like that. He comes across as brash and surly but he gets through to the kids.”

  “Did he teach Elias?”

  “At some point, naturally. He teaches Icelandic but does a lot of substitution and has taught almost all the children in the school.”

  The principal told him the teacher’s name and Sigurdur Oli wrote it down.

  “I cautioned him once. We accept no racial prejudice at this school,” the principal said firmly. “Don’t imagine that. We don’t tolerate it. People discuss racial issues here like everywhere else, especially from the perspective of immigrants. There is absolute equality here, neither the teachers nor the pupils would put up with anything else.”

  Sigurdur Oli could tell the principal was still holding back.

  “What happened?” he said.

  “They almost got into a fight,” the principal said. “Him and another teacher — Finnur. In the staff room. They had to be separated. He made some remarks that annoyed Finnur. It turned into a kind of cockfight.”

  “What remarks?”

  “Finnur wouldn’t say.”

  “Is there anyone else we need to talk to?” Sigurdur Oli asked.

  “I can’t inform on people just because of their views.”

  “You’re not informing on people,” Sigurdur Oli said. “Just because the boy was attacked, it doesn’t have to be connected with people’s opinions. Far from it. This is a police investigation and we need information. We need to talk to people. We need to map what’s going on. It’s nothing to do with what views people have.”

  “Egill, the woodwork teacher, he got into an argument here the other day. It was a discussion about multiculturalism or something like that, I don’t know. He’s rather tetchy. He keeps himself well informed. Perhaps you ought to talk to him.”

  “How many children of foreign origin are there at this school?” Sigurdur Oli asked as he wrote down the woodwork teacher’s name.

  “I suppose there are more than thirty in all. It’s a big school.”

  “And no particular problems have arisen because of it?”

  “Of course we are aware of incidents, but none of them serious.”

  “So what are we talking about then?”

  “Nicknames, scrapping. Nothing that’s been reported to me, but the teachers talk about it. Of course, they keep a close eye on what goes on and intervene. We don’t want any kind of discrimination in this school and the children know that. The children are very aware of it themselves and notify us immediately, and then we intervene.”

  “There are problems in all schools, I imagine,” Sigurdur Oli said. “Troublemakers. Boys and girls who cause nothing but bother.”

  “There are children like that in all schools.”

  The principal stared thoughtfully at Sigurdur Oli.

  “I have the feeling I recognise you,” he said suddenly. “What did you say your name was?”

  Sigurdur Oli heaved a silent groan. Such a small country. So few people.

  “Sigurdur Oli,” he said.

  “Sigurdur Oli,” the principal repeated pensively. “Sigurdur Oli? Did you attend this school?”

  “A long time ago. Before 1980. For a very short while.”

  Sigurdur Oli could see the principal trying to recall him and could tell that it would not be long before the penny dropped. So he took a very hasty leave. The police would go back to the school and talk to the pupils and teachers and other staff. He was at the door when the principal finally began to get warm.

  “Weren’t you in the riot in seventy—”

  Sigurdur Oli did not hear the end of the question. He strode out of the staff room. The caretaker was nowhere to be seen. The building was deserted this late in the day. About to head back out into the cold, he suddenly stopped and looked up at the ceiling. He dithered for a moment, then headed back up the stairs and was on the second floor before he knew it. On the walls were old class photographs, labelled with the names of the forms and the year. He found the photograph he was looking for, stood in front of it and looked at himself, a twelve-year-old pupil at the school. The children were arranged in three rows in the picture and he was standing in the back row staring straight into the camera, serious, wearing a thin shirt with a wide collar and a bizarre pattern on it, and with the latest disco haircut.

  Sigurdur Oli took a long look at the photograph.

  “How pathetic,” he said with a sigh.

  4

  Erlendur’s mobile rang incessantly. Sigurdur Oli gave him a report about his meeting with the principal and said he was on his way to meet the boy’s teacher and another member of staff who had spoken out against immigration. Elinborg called to tell him that a witness who lived on the same staircase as Sunee thought she had seen the elder brother earlier that day. The head of forensics quoted the pathologist as saying that the child had been stabbed once, presumably with a fairly sharp instrument, probably a knife.

  “What kind of knife?” Erlendur asked.

  “The blade would have been quite broad and even thick, but particularly sharp,” the head of forensics said. “The stabbing need not have required much effort. The boy could have been lying on the ground when he was stabbed. His anorak is dirty on the back and torn too. It looks fairly new, so he may have been involved in a fight. He would have tried to defend himself, as is only to be expected, but the only wound is from the knife, which the pathologist said penetrated his liver. He died from loss of blood.”

  “You mean that it didn’t take much force for the knife to go in that deep?”

  “Conceivably.”

  “Even a child or a young person could have done it, for instance? Someone of his own age?”

  “It’s difficult to say. But it looks as if it was inflicted by a very sharp instrument”

  “And the time of death?”

  “Judging from the temperature, he would have died about an hour before he was found. You can discuss that with the pathologist.”

  “He seems to have been coming straight home from school.”

  “It looks that way.”

  Erlendur sat down in his chair and faced the brother and sister from Thailand. Gudny, the interpreter, sat down on the sofa with them. She translated the information Erlendur had received and Sunee listened in silence. She had stopped crying. Her brother chipped in and they talked together in half-whispers for a while.

  “What are they saying?” Erlendur asked.

  “His anorak wasn’t torn when he left home this morning,” the interpreter said. “It wasn’t new, but it was in good condition.”

  “Obviously there was a fight,” Erlendur said. “I can’t say whether the attack on Elias was racially motivated. I understand there are thirty children of foreign origin at his school.
We need to talk to his friends, people who were in contact with him. The same goes for his brother. I know it’s difficult, but it would help us if Sunee could give us a list of names. If she can’t remember the names she can provide some details about his friends, their age and the like, where they live. Time is of the essence. Hopefully she realises that.”

  “Do you have any idea how she feels?” the interpreter asked coldly.

  “I can only imagine,” Erlendur said.

  Elinborg knocked on the door. She was on the first-floor corridor off the stairwell. The door opened and a uniformed policeman greeted her. A new witness had come forward and talked to him, and was now waiting for Elinborg in the sitting room. She was a woman by the name of Fanney, a sixty-five-year-old widow with three grown-up children. She had made coffee for the policeman, who left as soon as Elinborg appeared. The two women sat down with a cup each.

  “How awful,” the woman said with a sigh. “This happening in our flats! I just don’t know what the world’s coming to.”

  The flat was dark apart from a light in the kitchen and a small lamp in the sitting room. It was a mirror image of Sunee’s flat, with a thick carpet on the floor and green wallpaper in the hallway and sitting room.

  “Do you know the boys at all?” Elinborg asked. “The two brothers?”

  She had to get a move on, obtain vital information and keep going. Hurry without missing anything.

  “Yes, a little,” Fanney said. “Elias was a lovely boy. His brother took rather longer to get to know but he’s a fine lad too.”

  “You said you saw him earlier today,” Elinborg said, trying not to sound tired. Her daughter was at home ill with vomiting and a fever, and she had slept little last night. She had intended only to look in at work but that had changed when the report came in about the boy.

  “I sometimes chat with Sunee out in the corridor,” Fanney said, as if she had not heard Elinborg’s remark. “They haven’t lived here long. It’s bound to be difficult for her to be alone like that. Sunee must work her fingers to the bone; wages aren’t so high for factory workers.”

  “Where was Niran the last time you saw him?” Elinborg asked.