He didn't talk about the night's events when he sat down with Sigurdur Oli and Elinborg at their meeting that evening. The two of them had heard through the station grapevine about what had happened to his daughter, but didn't dare ask about it.
"They're still scratching their way down to the skeleton," Elinborg said. "It's going terribly slowly. I think they're using toothpicks now. The hand you found is sticking up out of the ground, they're down to the wrist. The medical officer examined it, but the only definite thing he can say is that it's a human with fairly small hands. Not much joy there. The archaeologists haven't found anything in the soil to suggest what happened or who is buried there. They think they'll have dug down to the torso late tomorrow afternoon or evening, but that doesn't mean we'll get any neat answers about who it is. Naturally, we'll have to search elsewhere for those."
"I've been looking up statistics on missing persons in the Reykjavik area," Sigurdur Oli said. "There are more than 40 disappearances from the '30s and '40s which remain unsolved to this day, and it's probably one of those. I've sorted the files by sex and age and I'm just waiting for the pathologist's report on the bones."
"Do you mean someone from the hill disappeared?" Erlendur asked.
"Not according to the addresses on the police reports," Sigurdur Oli said, "though I haven't been through them all. Some place names I don't recognise. When we've excavated the skeleton and got an accurate age, size and sex from the pathologist we can surely narrow the group down quite a bit. I expect it's someone from Reykjavik. Isn't that a reasonable assumption?"
"Where's the pathologist?" Erlendur asked. "The one pathologist we have."
"He's on holiday," Elinborg said. "In Spain."
"Did you check whether there was ever a house by those bushes?" Erlendur asked her.
"What house?" Sigurdur Oli asked.
"No, I haven't got round to it," Elinborg said. She looked at Sigurdur Oli. "Erlendur reckons there were houses on the north side of the hill and the British or American military had a base on the south side. He wants us to talk to everyone who owns a chalet in the area down from Reynisvatn and their grandmothers too and then I'm supposed to go to a seance and have a word with Churchill."
"And that's just for starters," Erlendur said. "What are your theories about the skeleton?"
"Isn't it obviously a murder?" Sigurdur Oli said. "Committed half a century ago or more. Hidden in the ground all that time and no one knows a thing."
"He, or rather, this person," Elinborg corrected herself, "was clearly buried to conceal a crime. I think we can take that as read."
"It's not true that no one knows a thing," Erlendur said. "There's always someone who knows something."
"We know the ribs are broken," Elinborg said. "That has to be a sign of a struggle."
"Does it?" Sigurdur Oli said.
"Well, doesn't it?"
"Can't being in the ground cause that?" Sigurdur Oli said. "The weight of the soil. Even temperature change. The freeze-thaw effect. I talked to that geologist you called in and he said something about that."
"There must have been a struggle because someone's been buried. That's obvious, isn't it?" Elinborg looked at Erlendur and saw that his thoughts were miles away. "Erlendur?" she said. "Don't you agree?"
"If it is a murder," said Erlendur, coming back to earth.
"If it's a murder?" Elinborg asked.
"We know nothing about that," Erlendur said. "Maybe it's an old family burial plot. Maybe they couldn't afford a funeral. Maybe it's the bones of some old bloke who popped off and was buried there with everyone's knowledge. Maybe the body was put there a hundred years ago. Maybe 50. What we still need is a decent lead. Then we can waffle as much as we like."
"Isn't it the law that you have to bury people in hallowed ground?" Sigurdur Oli said.
"I think you can have yourself buried where you please," Erlendur said, "if someone's prepared to have you in their garden."
"What about the hand sticking up out of the ground?" Elinborg said. "Isn't that a sign of a struggle?"
"It seems to be," Erlendur said, "I think something's been kept secret all these years. Someone was hustled away and never supposed to be found. But then Reykjavik caught up with him and now it's up to us to find out what happened."
"If he. . let's just say him, the Millennium Man. ." Sigurdur Oli said, "if he was murdered all those years ago, isn't it a pretty safe bet that the murderer has died of old age by now? And if he's not dead already he'll have one foot in the grave, so it's ridiculous to track him down and punish him. Everyone connected with the case is probably dead already so we won't have witnesses even if we ever find out what happened. So. ."
"What are you driving at?"
"Shouldn't we ask whether we ought to be continuing this investigation in the first place? I mean, is it worth it?"
"You mean just forget it?" Erlendur asked. Sigurdur Oli shrugged indifferently. "A murder's a murder," Erlendur said. "It doesn't matter how many years ago it was committed. If this is a murder, we need to find out what happened, who was killed and why and who the murderer was. I think we ought to approach this like any other investigation. Get information. Talk to people. With luck we'll stumble onto a solution."
Erlendur stood up.
"We're bound to pick up something. Talk to the chalet owners and their grandmothers." He looked at Elinborg. "Find out whether there was a house by those bushes. Take an interest in it."
He bade them an absent-minded farewell and went out into the corridor. Elinborg and Sigurdur Oli looked each other in the eye and Sigurdur Oli nodded towards the door. Elinborg stood up and went after Erlendur.
"Erlendur," she said, stopping him.
"Yes, what?"
"How's Eva Lind doing?" she asked hesitantly.
Erlendur looked at her and said nothing.
"We heard about it here at the station. How she was found. It was a terrible thing to hear. If there's anything Sigurdur Oli or I can do for you, don't hesitate to ask."
"There's nothing to be done," Erlendur said wearily. "She's just lying in the ward and no one can do a thing." He hesitated. "I went through that world of hers when I was looking for her. I knew some of it because I've had to find her in those places before, those streets, those houses, but I never cease to be surprised at the life she leads, the way she treats herself, abuses herself. I've seen the crowd she hangs around with, the people she turns to in desperation, people she even does indescribable things for." He paused. "But that's not the worst thing. Not the hovels or the small-time crooks or the dope dealers. It's right, what her mother said."
Erlendur looked at Elinborg.
"I'm the worst part of all this," he said, "because I was the one who let them down."
When Erlendur got home he sat in an armchair, exhausted. He called the hospital to ask about Eva Lind and was told that her condition was unchanged. They would contact him as soon as any change occurred. He thanked them and rang off. Then sat staring into space, deep in thought. He thought about Eva Lind lying in intensive care, about his ex-wife and the hatred that still coloured her life, about the son he only spoke to when something was wrong.
Through his thoughts he felt the deep silence that reigned in his life. Felt the solitude all around him. The burden of monotonous days piling up in an unbreakable chain that enveloped him, tightened around him and smothered him.
Just as he was about to fall asleep his thoughts turned to his childhood, when the days grew brighter again after the dark winter and life was innocent and free from care and concern. Although it was rare, he could sometimes escape into the peacefulness of the past and then, for a brief time, he felt good.
If he could block out the loss.
He woke with a start when someone had already been ringing him for a good while, first the mobile in his pocket and then the home telephone on the old desk which was one of the few pieces of furniture in the sitting room.
"You were right," Elinborg said when he
finally answered. "Oh, sorry, did I wake you?" she asked. "It's only ten," she added apologetically.
"What was I right about?" Erlendur said, not fully awake.
"There was a building on that spot. By the bushes."
"Bushes?"
"The redcurrant bushes. In Grafarholt. It was built in the 1930s and demolished around 1980. I asked the City Planning Office to contact me as soon as they found out and they've just been on the phone, they worked all evening looking for it."
"What sort of building was it?" Erlendur asked, tired. "A house, a stable, kennel, chalet?"
"A house. A kind of chalet or that sort of thing."
"From what time?"
"Before 1940."
"And who was the owner?"
"His name was Benjamin. Benjamin Knudsen. A merchant."
"Was?"
"He died. Years ago."
8
Many of the chalet owners on the north side of Grafarholt were occupied with their spring chores when Sigurdur Oli cruised around the hill looking for a good enough road to drive up. Elinborg was with him. Some of the people were pruning their hedges, others were weather-coating their chalets or mending fences, or had saddled horses and were setting off for a ride.
It was high noon and the weather was calm and beautiful. After talking to several chalet owners without making any headway, Sigurdur Oli and Elinborg slowly worked their way towards the houses nearest to the hill. In such fine weather they were in no hurry. Enjoyed a jaunt away from the city, strolling in the sunshine and talking to the chalet owners who were surprised to be visited by the police so early in the day. Some had heard on the news about the skeleton being found on the hill. Others had absolutely no idea.
"Will she survive, or. .?" Sigurdur Oli asked when they got into the car for the umpteenth time and drove on to the next chalet. They had been talking about Eva Lind on their way out of town and returned to the topic at regular intervals.
"I don't know," Elinborg said. "I don't think anyone knows. The poor girl," she said, heaving a deep sigh. "And him," she added. "Poor Erlendur."
"She's a junkie," Sigurdur Oli said seriously. "Gets pregnant and gets stoned without a care in the world and ends up killing the baby. I can't feel sorry for people like that. I don't understand them and never will."
"No one's asking you to feel sorry for them," Elinborg said.
"Oh, really? When people talk about that crowd all I ever hear is what a hard time they have. From what I've seen of them. . "He paused. "I can't feel sorry for them," he repeated. "They're losers. Nothing else. Wankers."
Elinborg sighed.
"What's it like being so perfect? Always smartly dressed, clean-shaven and neatly groomed, with that degree from America, unbitten nails, not a care in the world other than being able to afford those flashy clothes? Don't you ever get tired of it? Don't you ever get tired of yourself?"
"Nope," Sigurdur Oli said.
"What's wrong with showing those people a bit of understanding?"
"They're losers and you know it. Just because she's the old man's daughter doesn't make her any better than the rest of them. She's like all the other bums who are on the streets getting stoned and then sleep it off in the shelters and rehab. centres before they get wasted again, because that's the only thing those creeps want. To laze around and get stoned."
"How are you and Bergthora getting along?" Elinborg asked, having given up all hope of changing his opinions about anything whatsoever.
"Fine," Sigurdur Oli said wearily as he pulled up outside yet another chalet. Bergthora simply wouldn't leave him alone. She was insatiable, in the evenings and the mornings and in the middle of the day, in every possible position and place in their flat, in the kitchen and sitting room, even the laundry room, lying down and standing up. And although he had enjoyed it to begin with, he was starting to notice himself growing tired of it, and had begun to suspect her motives. Not that their sex life had ever been dull, far from it. But she had never before had such a strong urge or so much zeal. They had not discussed in any seriousness the matter of having children, although they had been together long enough. He knew that Bergthora was on the pill, but he couldn't help feeling that she wanted to tie him down by having children. There was no need, because he was particularly fond of her and had no desire to live with anyone else. But women are unpredictable, he thought. You never know what they are up to.
"Strange that the National Statistics Office hasn't got the names of any people who lived in that house, if anyone ever did," Elinborg said, getting out of the car.
"The records for that period are all in a mess. Reykjavik was swamped with people during and after the war, registration was a bit hit and miss while they were moving in. And I think they've lost part of the population records. A bit of a mix-up. Said he wouldn't be able to find it immediately, the man I spoke to."
"Maybe no one actually lived there."
"They needn't have been there long. Might have been listed somewhere else and didn't register the new address. Maybe lived on the hill for a couple of years, months even, during the housing crisis, then moved into one of the converted barracks after the war. What do you think of that theory?"
"Fits like a Burberry."
The chalet owner met them at the door, a very old man, spindly and stiff in his movements, with thin white hair, and wearing a light blue shirt with a string vest clearly visible underneath it, grey corduroy trousers and new trainers. When Elinborg saw all the rubbish inside, she wondered whether he might live there all year round. She asked him.
"I suppose you could say that," the man answered, sitting down in an armchair and gesturing to them to sit on some chairs in the middle of the room. "I started building this place 40 years ago and moved everything here in my old Lada about five years ago. Or was it six years? It all becomes a blur. I couldn't be bothered to live in Reykjavik any more. An awful place, that city, so. ."
"Was there a house up here on the hill then, maybe a summer chalet like this but not necessarily used for that purpose?" Sigurdur Oli hurried to ask, not wanting to listen to a lecture. "I mean, 40 years ago, when you started building yours?"
"A summer chalet but not a summer chalet. .?"
"Standing by itself on this side of Grafarholt," Elinborg said. "Built some time before the war." She looked out of the sitting-room window. "You would have seen it from this window."
"I remember a house there, not painted, not properly finished. It disappeared ages ago. It was definitely quite a sizeable chalet, or should have been, quite big, bigger than mine, but a total shambles. Almost falling down. The doors were gone and the windows were broken. I used to walk up there sometimes when I could still be bothered to fish in the lake. Gave that up years ago."
"So no one lived in the house?" Sigurdur Oli asked.
"No, there was no one in the house then. No one could have lived in it. It was on the verge of collapse."
"And it was never occupied, as far as you know?" Elinborg said. "You don't remember anyone from the house?"
"Why do you want to know about that house anyway?"
"We found a human skeleton on the hill," Sigurdur Oli said. "Didn't you see it on the news?"
"A skeleton? No. From the people in that house?"
"We don't know. We still don't know the history of the house and the people who lived there," Elinborg said. "We know who the owner was but he died a long time ago and we still haven't found anyone registered as living in it. Do you remember the wartime barracks on the other side of the hill? On the south side. A depot or something like that?"
"There were barracks all over the countryside," the old man said. "British and American too. I don't recall any on the hill here in particular, that was before my time anyway. Quite a way before my time. You ought to talk to Robert."
"Robert?" Elinborg said.
"If he isn't dead. He was one of the first people to build a chalet on this hill. I know he was in an old people's home. Robert Sigurdsson. You'll find
him, if he's still alive."
Since there was no bell at the entrance, Erlendur banged on the thick oak door with the palm of his hand in the hope of being heard inside. The house was once owned by Benjamin Knudsen, a businessman from Reykjavik, who died in the early 1960s. His brother and sister inherited it, moved in when he died and lived there for the rest of their lives. They were both unmarried, as far as Erlendur knew, but the sister had a daughter. She was a doctor, and now lived on the middle floor and rented out the flats above and below. Erlendur had spoken to her on the telephone. They were to meet at midday.
Eva Lind's condition was unchanged. He had dropped in to see her before going to work and sat by her bedside for a good while, looking at the instruments monitoring her vital signs, the tubes in her mouth and nose and veins. She could not breathe unaided and the pump gave out a suction noise as it rose and fell. The cardiac monitor line was steady. On his way out of intensive care he talked to a doctor who said that no change had been noted in her condition. Erlendur asked whether there was anything he could do and the doctor replied that even though his daughter was in a coma, he should talk to her as often as he could. Let her hear his voice. It often did the family as much good to talk to the patient under such circumstances. Helped them to deal with the shock. Eva Lind was certainly not lost to him and he ought to treat her as such.
The heavy oak door finally opened and a woman aged around 60 held out her hand and introduced herself as Elsa. She was slender with a friendly face, wearing a little make-up, her hair dyed dark, cut short and parted on one side; she was dressed in jeans and a white shirt, no rings or bracelets or necklaces. She showed him in to the sitting room and offered him a seat. She was firm and self-confident.
"And what do you think these bones are?" she asked once he had told her his business.
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