Arctic Chill de-7

by Arnaldur Indridason

  The man shrugged.

  “What about Niran?”

  “They often have a tough time, boys like Niran,” the woman said. “It’s not easy for them to adjust to a totally alien and remote culture, learn a difficult language, face open hostility, and so on.”

  “They can get into trouble,” her husband added.

  “Can you tell us anything about that, Kari?”

  Kari cleared his throat awkwardly. Sigurdur Oli thought, not for the first time, that it was often better to talk to kids without their parents present.

  “I don’t know if you understand the seriousness of the matter,” Sigurdur Oli said.

  “I think he understands perfectly well what’s at stake,” the man said.

  “I would be very grateful if you could help us.”

  Kari looked from his parents to Sigurdur Oli.

  “I don’t know how he died,” he said. “I didn’t know Elias at all. He didn’t spend much time with Niran. Niran didn’t want him tagging along. He was much younger as well. But Niran looked after Elias. Made sure no one bullied him. I have no idea how he died. I don’t know who attacked him. None of us know. No one knows what happened. And we haven’t a clue what became of Niran that day.”

  “How did you get to know Niran?”

  Kari sighed. He described his first meeting with the new boy at school. Niran was put in his form and they soon got to know each other as both were the sons of immigrants. Kari had moved to the neighbourhood fairly recently himself and although he had made some good friends who were not from ethnic minorities, he also knew two boys of Filipino origin and one from Vietnam. They in turn were acquainted with Niran’s mates from his old school. Niran quickly became the leader of the gang and fed them various facts about what he called their status as the children of immigrants. They were neither nor. They weren’t Icelandic. Couldn’t be even if they wanted to. To the majority of people they were foreigners, even if they were born in Iceland. Most had experienced prejudice directed at themselves or their families: stares, name-calling, even outright hostility.

  Niran was not an Icelander and had no interest in becoming one, but living up here in the Arctic meant that he could hardly call himself Thai either. He realised that he was neither. He belonged to neither country, belonged nowhere except in some invisible, intangible no man’s land. Previously he had never had to think about where he came from. He was a Thai, born in Thailand. Now he drew strength from the company of other immigrant children with similar backgrounds and made his best friends among them. He became fascinated with his heritage, with the history of Thailand and the story of his ancestors. The feeling had only intensified when he got to know other, older immigrant children at his last school.

  “We gather that he didn’t have a very good relationship with his stepfather,” Sigurdur Oli said.

  “That’s right,” Kari said.

  “Any idea why?”

  Kari shrugged.

  “Niran said he was glad about the divorce because then he wouldn’t have to see him any more.”

  “Do you know anything about a man Sunee knows, possibly a boyfriend?” Sigurdur Oli asked.

  “No.”

  “Did Niran never mention that she was seeing someone?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I don’t know anything about that”

  “Where did you last see Niran?”

  “I’ve been ill, so I haven’t been to school. I haven’t talked to the lads. I last saw Niran a few days ago. We hung out together for a bit after school, then went home.”

  “By the chemist’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you always hanging out by the chemist’s?”

  “You know, we just meet there sometimes. We don’t do anything.”

  “What do you usually get up to during the day?” Sigurdur Oli asked.

  “Just chill out, mess around, rent a video, play football, whatever we feel like, really. Go to the movies.”

  “Do you think Niran did something to his brother?”

  “You can’t expect him to answer a question like that,” Kari’s father interrupted. “That’s outrageous.”

  “No way,” Kari said. “He’d never hurt Elias. I’m certain of it. He always took care of Elias, he was always nice about him.”

  “You got into fights at school and here in the neighbourhood, can you tell me about that?” Sigurdur Oli asked. “And one of your friends was beaten up, you say? Were you afraid of going to school?”

  “It wasn’t anything serious,” Kari said. “It’s just… sometimes there’s a bit of aggro and I don’t want to get involved. I just want to be left alone.”

  “Did you tell that to Niran and the lads?”

  “No.”

  “Who’s head of the other gang?” Sigurdur Oli asked. “If Niran’s your leader?”

  Kari did not reply.

  “Don’t you want to tell us?”

  He shook his head.

  “There are no leaders,” he said. “Niran wasn’t our leader. We’re just a bunch of mates.”

  “Who bugs your gang most?” Sigurdur Oli asked.

  “He’s called Raggi,” Kari said. “He’s the main one.”

  “Was it him who attacked one of you?”

  “Yes.”

  Sigurdur Oli noted down the name. The parents exchanged glances as if they felt this had gone on long enough.

  “You asked if I’m aware of any prejudice at school,” Kari said, suddenly breaking the silence.

  “Yes,” Sigurdur Oli said.

  “It’s not just… we say stuff too,” Kari said. “It’s not just them. It’s us too. I don’t know how it started. Niran got into a punch-up with Gummi because of something somebody said. It’s all so stupid.”

  “What about the teachers?”

  Kari nodded hesitantly.

  “They’re all right, though there is one who hates immigrants.”

  “Who’s that?”

  Kari glanced at his father.

  “Kjartan.”

  “And what does he do?”

  “He can’t stand us,” Kari said.

  “In what way? Is it something he says or something he does?”

  “He says things when no one else can hear.”

  “Like what?”

  “ ‘You stink of shit.’ ”

  “Are you kidding?” Kari’s father gasped. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “They had an argument,” Kari said.

  “Who?”

  “Kjartan and Niran. I don’t know what it was about but I think they almost had a scrap or something. Niran didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “When was this?”

  “The day Elias died.”

  The insurance company’s public relations officer sat opposite Elinborg, impeccably dressed and sporting a flamboyant tie. There was nothing on his desk but a keyboard and a flat-screen computer, and on the shelves behind him were a few cardboard boxes containing papers, though most were empty. He didn’t seem to have much to do, unless it was his first day at work. Elinborg explained the purpose of her visit; someone from the company had phoned a specific number; she mentioned Sunee’s name. The police needed to know the identity of the caller, but the list did not show which extension the calls had been made from, only the company’s main switchboard number.

  “Is this about the boy who died?” the smart PR man asked.

  “That’s right,” Elinborg said.

  “And you want to know … ?”

  “Whether someone from this office has been phoning his home,” Elinborg said.

  “I see,” the PR man said. “You want to know which extension the calls were made from.”

  As she had already explained this, Elinborg wondered whether he was being abnormally reluctant or was simply so pleased at finally having something to do that he was determined to spin it out.

  She nodded.

  “Firstly, we need to know if the woman holds an insurance policy with the company.”<
br />
  “What’s her name?” the PR man asked, placing beautifully manicured hands on the keyboard.

  Elinborg told him.

  “No one here by that name,” he said.

  “Have you had a sales campaign, cold-calling people or the like, during the last month?”

  “No, the last campaign was three months ago. There’s been nothing since then.”

  “Then I’ll have to ask you to keep your ear to the ground for us and find out if any employee of this office knows the woman. How will you go about that?”

  “I’ll ask around,” the PR man said, leaning back in his chair.

  “Keep it low-key, though,” Elinborg said. “We only want to talk to the individual concerned. That’s all. He’s not under suspicion. He could be a friend of Sunee’s, possibly her boyfriend. Do you think you could make some discreet enquiries for me?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” the PR man said.

  Erlendur rang the doorbell. He heard a squeaking noise from inside the flat as he pressed the bell. Time passed and he rang again. The same squeaking noise. He listened hard. Soon he heard a rustling from inside and finally the door opened. Erlendur had obviously woken the man, although it was midday, but since he appeared to be an old-age pensioner, he could presumably sleep whenever he liked.

  Erlendur introduced himself but the man was not yet properly awake, so he was forced to repeat that he was from the police and wanted to know if the man could help him with a minor matter. The man stood at the door and stared at him. Evidently he was not accustomed to receiving a stream of visitors. The bell probably squeaked like that from lack of use.

  “Huuhh… eh… ?” the man said hoarsely, peering at him. His jaw was covered in white stubble.

  Erlendur repeated his spiel and the man finally grasped the fact that he had a visitor. Opening the door wider, he invited Erlendur in. He was rather dishevelled, his white hair sticking up in all directions, and his flat was a tip, the air a stale fug. They went into the sitting room where the man sat down on the sofa and leaned forwards. Erlendur took a seat facing him. He noticed that the man had enormous eyebrows; when he moved them they looked like two small furry animals squirming above his eyes.

  “I haven’t quite grasped what’s going on,” the man said. His name, it transpired, was Helgi. “What do the police want with me?”

  The flat was one of several in an old building near a busy road in the eastern part of town. The rumble of traffic was clearly audible. The house was showing its age both outside and inside. It had not been particularly well maintained and large patches of concrete had flaked off the facade; not that any of the residents seemed to care. The stairs were narrow and squalid, the carpet full of holes, and it was dark in the flat, despite the daylight outside, the windows grimy from exhaust fumes.

  “You’ve lived in this house a long time,” Erlendur commented, watching the small furry animals above the man’s eyes. “I wanted to ask you if you remember some neighbours of yours from many years ago. A woman with one child, a boy. She may have lived with a man, who would have been the boy’s step-father. It was a long time ago. We’re talking — what? — thirty-five years.”

  The man looked at Erlendur without speaking. A long moment passed and Erlendur thought perhaps he had nodded off with his eyes open.

  “They lived on the ground floor,” he added.

  “What about them?” the man said. So he had not been asleep after all, merely trying to recall the family.

  “Nothing,” Erlendur said. “There’s some information we need to pass on to the stepfather, that’s all. The woman died some time ago.”

  And the child?”

  “It was the child who asked us to trace the man,” Erlendur lied. “Do you remember these people, by any chance? They lived on the ground floor.”

  The man continued to stare at Erlendur without saying a word.

  A woman with one son?” he asked at last.

  And a stepfather.”

  “It’s a hell of a long time ago,” the man said, beginning to wake up properly from his nap.

  “I know,” Erlendur said.

  And what, wasn’t he registered as living there with her?”

  “No, there’s no one registered at the flat during the time she lived there apart from her and her son. But we know this man was living with her.”

  Erlendur waited.

  “We need the name of the stepfather,” he added, when it became apparent that Helgi was not going to volunteer anything else, merely sit there motionless, staring vacantly at the coffee table.

  “Doesn’t the child know?” Helgi asked after a pause.

  Ah, so he is awake after all, Erlendur thought.

  “The child was young,” he said, hoping that this answer would satisfy the man.

  “There’s a bunch of riff-raff living downstairs now,” Helgi said, continuing to stare absent-mindedly at the table in front of him. “A pack of yobbos, up all hours making a racket. Doesn’t matter how many times I phone you lot, it’s not the blindest bit of use. One of those hooligans owns the flat, so it’s impossible to turf him out”

  “One’s not always lucky with one’s neighbours,” Erlendur said, for the sake of saying something. “Can you help us out at all with this man?”

  “What was the woman called?”

  “Sigurveig. The child’s name was Andres. I’m trying to cut corners; it would be tricky and time-consuming to trace the man through the system.”

  “I remember her,” the man said, looking up. “Sigurveig, that’s right. But hang on a minute, that boy wasn’t too young to remember the man who lived with them.”

  Helgi gave Erlendur a long speculative look.

  “Maybe you’re not telling me the whole truth?” he said.

  “No,” Erlendur said. “I’m not.”

  A faint smile touched Helgi’s lips.

  “He’s a ruddy menace, that chap downstairs,” he said.

  “You never know, it might just be possible to do something about that,” Erlendur said.

  “That man you’re asking about lived with the woman for several years,” Helgi said. “I hardly got to know him at all, he seemed to be away a lot. Was he at sea?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest,” Erlendur said. “He could well have been. Can you remember his name?”

  “Not for the life of me, I’m afraid,” Helgi said. “I’d forgotten Sigurveig’s name too, and it only came to me just now that the boy was called Andres. It all goes in one ear and out the other, and seldom stops for long in between.”

  “And of course a lot of people have come and gone since then,” Erlendur added.

  “You can’t imagine,” Helgi said, now more or less recovered from the shrill interruption of his afternoon rest and pleased that someone had come round to talk to him and, what’s more, seemed to take a greater interest in what he had to say than anyone else had for years. “But I’m afraid I can’t remember much about those people,” he added. “Hardly a thing, to be honest”

  “It’s a general rule in my profession that everything helps, however trivial,” Erlendur said. He had once heard a cop say this on TV and thought it might come in handy.

  “Is he supposed to have done something wrong? This man?”

  “No,” Erlendur said. Andres approached us. We shouldn’t really be wasting our time on this but…”

  Erlendur shrugged. He saw that Helgi was smiling. By now they were almost bosom buddies.

  “If I remember correctly, that fellow came from somewhere in the countryside,” Helgi said. “He came along with her to a house meeting once, in the days when they still had house meetings. Now you just get a bill, if anyone can be bothered to do anything, which is once in a blue moon. It was one of the few occasions that I met him.”

  “Can you describe him to me?”

  “Not really. Quite tall. Strongly built. Made a good impression. Quite pleasant, if I remember correctly. He moved out, as far as I can recall. They split up, didn�
�t they? I don’t know why. You should talk to Emma. She used to live opposite them.”

  “Emma?”

  “Wonderful person, Emma. Moved out about twenty years ago but still keeps in touch, sends Christmas cards and so on. She lives in Kopavogur now. She’s sure to remember more than me. Talk to her. I just can’t remember those people well enough.”

  “Do you remember anything in particular about the boy?”

  “The boy? No … except…” Helgi paused.

  “Yes?” Erlendur said.

  “I seem to recall that he was always rather hangdog, poor little wretch. A sad little chap, a bit scruffy, as if no one took proper care of him. The few times I tried to talk to him I got the feeling he wanted to avoid me.”

  Andres was standing out in the cold, a short distance from a corrugated-iron-clad house on Grettisgata, his eyes fixed on a basement window. He could not see inside and did not dare to risk going any closer. About six months ago he had trailed the man he had mentioned to the police to this house and seen him disappear into the basement flat. He had followed him, keeping a little way behind, from the block of flats and onto a bus. The man did not notice him. They had got out at the Hlemmur bus station and Andres had followed him to this house.

  Now he was standing at a safe distance, trying to protect himself from the bitter north wind. He had walked the short way from Hlemmur several times since then and ascertained that the man had a second home on Grettisgata.

  Andres dug his hands into his pockets.

  He sniffed, his eyes wet from the cold, and stamped his feet before walking away.

  18

  Kjartan was not at home but the detectives said that they would wait. The woman regarded them in astonishment.

  “Out here?” she asked, her features stretching in surprise.

  Erlendur shrugged.

  “Why do you keep wanting to talk to Kjartan?” she asked.

  “It’s in connection with the incident at the school,” Elinborg said. “Routine procedure. We’re interviewing teachers and pupils.”

  “I thought you’d already talked to him.”

  “We need to talk to him again,” Elinborg said.

  The woman looked from one of them to the other and they sensed that she would have preferred to shut the door in their faces and never see them again.