‘I don’t want to go in,’ she begged.
‘I know, Unnur,’ replied Elínborg reassuringly. ‘It will only take a minute, and then you can go home.’
Unnur stepped cautiously through the hall and into the living room, where she averted her gaze from the bloodstains. She looked at the superhero posters, the sofa, the coffee table and TV. She glanced up at the ceiling. It was late evening. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been here,’ she murmured to herself. She inched her way from the living room into the kitchen, with Elínborg at her heels. They had already examined Runólfur’s car, which had been impounded by the police. It rang no bells for Unnur.
It was also possible that she did not want to remember.
They reached the bedroom doorway, and Unnur looked down at the double bed – the quilt lay on the floor and at the head were two pillows. As in the living room, the floor was parquet. The bed was flanked by small bedside tables. Elínborg presumed that this was for symmetry, as Runólfur would not need two just for himself. On each was a small reading lamp, testament to the owner’s good taste, like everything else in the flat; Elínborg had noticed on her first visit that Runólfur’s home had a certain style and charm. On either side of the bed was a small rug. Clothes hung in the wardrobe, while his shirts were neatly folded and his underwear and socks arranged in drawers in an orderly fashion. Runólfur’s home revealed that he had his life completely under control and took pleasure in nice things.
‘I’ve never been here,’ said Unnur. Elínborg sensed her relief. Unnur stood motionless in the bedroom doorway, as if she did not dare enter.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked.
‘Nothing’s familiar,’ said Unnur. ‘I don’t remember this place at all.’
‘We’ve got plenty of time.’
‘No, I don’t remember ever being here. Not here, nor anywhere else in this flat. Can we go now? I can’t help you. I’m sorry. I feel uncomfortable in this place. Can we leave?’
Unnur’s mother gave Elínborg a pleading look.
‘Of course,’ said Elínborg. ‘Thank you for being willing to do this.’
‘Was she in here?’ Unnur took one step into the bedroom.
‘We think he was with a woman the night he was killed,’ said Elínborg. ‘He had sex shortly before the attack.’
‘Poor girl,’ said Unnur. ‘I suppose he brought her here against her will?’
‘That’s a possibility.’
‘But if he drugged her, how could she have killed him?’
‘We don’t know. We haven’t worked out what happened yet.’
‘Can I go home now?’
‘Of course. Whenever you want. Thank you for doing this, I know it wasn’t easy.’
Elínborg escorted Unnur and her parents out and saw them off from outside the house, watching the family disappear down the road. They were a sad little company, all three of them victims of unspeakable violence and depravity. Their lives had been devastated, and there was nothing they could do about it except weep in silence.
Elínborg wrapped her coat tightly around her as she returned to the car, wondering if she had another restless, wakeful night in store.
12
Frída bore a strong resemblance to Lóa. She was about the same age, a little stockier, dark-haired, with beautiful brown eyes behind dainty glasses. She was not especially surprised to be visited by the police. She said that she had already been thinking of contacting them, having read about the drug found at the murder scene. She was frank and energetic, and ready to tell Elínborg everything she knew.
‘It’s awful, reading about it in the papers,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know what to do. It was such a shock. Just think, I once went home with that man. He could have drugged me.’
‘Did you go to his place?’ asked Elínborg.
‘No, he came here. It was only the once, but that was more than enough.’
‘What happened?’
‘It’s just so embarrassing,’ said Frída. ‘I hardly know how to explain it. I got to know him quite well, but we weren’t dating or anything. And it’s not something I generally do. Not at all. I … but there was something about him.’
‘Do what?’ asked Elínborg.
‘Sleep with them,’ said Frída, with an awkward smile. ‘Not unless I’m really sure.’
‘Sure that what?’
‘That they’re all right.’
Elínborg nodded as if to say that she understood, but she was uncertain. She looked around at the flat. Frída said she lived alone, with two cats, which were twining themselves around Elínborg’s legs. They were determined to show her who was boss. One took a massive leap into her lap. The flat was on the second floor of a block in one of Reykjavík’s older districts. From the windows the Bláfjöll mountains could be glimpsed between two more blocks of flats.
‘No, I mean, I’ve used the personal ads, and I go clubbing, and all that,’ explained Frída with some embarrassment. ‘You do what you can, but the market … those guys are nothing to write home about.’
‘The market?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it because of Runólfur that you left your job at the gym?’ asked Elínborg.
‘I suppose so. It was one of the reasons. I didn’t want to risk running into him. Then I heard he’d left and gone to another gym, and I never saw him again, until it was on the news.’
‘So he wasn’t all right, as you put it?’ asked Elínborg, shoving at the cat, which jumped down to the floor with a squeal and vanished into the kitchen. The other cat then followed its example and jumped into Elínborg’s lap. She did not particularly like cats. They sensed it, though, and would not leave her alone, as if they were trying to win her over. That would not happen any time soon.
‘I should never have invited him here,’ said Frída. ‘He wanted to take me back to his place but I wouldn’t go. It annoyed him, although he tried to conceal it.’
‘Was he used to getting his own way, do you think? Was that what it was?’
‘I don’t know. Do you know anything about him?’
‘Not a lot,’ replied Elínborg. ‘Did he talk about himself at all?’
‘Very little.’
‘We know he was from a small village.’
‘He never mentioned it. I assumed he was from Reykjavík.’
‘Did he talk about any friends, or family?’
‘No. I didn’t really know him that well. We used to chat about the gym, and films, that sort of thing. He never said anything to me about his personal life. I know he had a friend called Edvard, but I never met him.’
‘What do you make of Runólfur, based on your short acquaintance?’
‘He was a narcissist,’ said Frída, pushing her glasses up. ‘I’m sure he was. He worshipped himself. Like down at The Firm – he was in good shape, and not shy about showing off. He would strut around the place, trying to get the women to notice him, always putting on a show.’
‘So he …’
‘And there was definitely something weird about him,’ Frída went on.
‘Weird?’
‘You know … with women.’
‘We don’t know whether he used the date-rape drug, although it was found at his home,’ said Elínborg. She did not mention that Runólfur had also swallowed Rohypnol himself.
‘No, that’s not what I mean,’ said Frída. ‘I read about the drug you found – I wasn’t surprised.’
‘Really?’
‘He was really strange, the one time we … you know …’
‘I don’t quite follow.’
‘No. It’s not easy to talk about it,’ sighed Frída.
‘But you knew him quite well, then?’ asked Elínborg, trying to work out where the conversation was leading.
‘No, not really,’ said Frída. ‘Not well at all. These guys who come into the gym, they think they’re God’s gift, but Runólfur was always very polite to me. We would sometimes talk, and he asked me once if I’d like to go out to
dinner. I said yes. He was very friendly, that wasn’t the problem. He could chat, and be funny and all that, but I still got the feeling that he was unhappy.’
‘Did he ever talk about it? Express how he felt?’
‘No, not at all. Not to me. When it came to the point, you see, he came over all shy and awkward. And after that he was just creepy.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, he wanted me to …’
‘What?’
‘Um, I don’t know.’
‘What did he want?’
‘He wanted me to play dead.’
‘Dead?’ echoed Elínborg.
Frída looked at her. ‘Dead,’ she repeated. ‘I wasn’t to move, if you see what I mean. I was supposed to lie still and hardly breathe. Then he started slapping me and shouting at me. I didn’t understand why. The words he used! It was as if he was in a world of his own.’ Frída shuddered at the memory. ‘What a pervert!’ she added.
‘So it wasn’t rape, as such?’
‘No. And he didn’t injure me, really. He didn’t hit me hard.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I just froze up. That seemed to be what turned him on, and then it was all over. He was pathetic afterwards. He left without a word, and I lay there paralysed, completely at a loss. I didn’t tell anyone, it was just too … I was embarrassed. It wasn’t rape, but I felt as if I had been raped. Looking back, I think that was what he wanted. I think that was the whole point.’
‘And you never saw him again?’
‘No. I avoided him, and he never got in touch. Just as well. It was as if he’d made his use of me. I would never have agreed to see him again. Never.’
‘And then you left the gym?’
‘I did. I feel soiled just talking about it, especially after I read about him, what happened.’
‘Did you know – or do you know now – about any other women in his life? Did he ever mention any female friends?’
‘No, no one,’ said Frída. ‘I know nothing about him, and I don’t want to.’
Elínborg knocked at the door. Berti had finally been persuaded to give her the name of a drug dealer, Valur, who lived in a block of flats in the suburbs with his partner and two children. The investigation had made little progress. Elínborg had uncovered nothing more about the shawl, and no clothes shop in the Reykjavík area had sold T-shirts with a San Francisco design.
A man in his thirties opened the door. With a baby girl slung on his arm, he looked with hostility at Elínborg and Sigurdur Óli in turn. Elínborg had felt that it would be safer not to make this call alone. She did not know much about Valur, who had crossed paths with the Drug Squad from time to time, both as a user and as a dealer, though always strictly small-time. He had once been caught smuggling a small quantity of marijuana into the country, for which he had received a short suspended sentence. Berti might have lied to her: maybe he wanted to get Valur into trouble, had a grudge against him; or perhaps he had just thought of a name in order to placate his beloved Binna.
‘What do you want?’ the man demanded.
‘Are you Valur?’ asked Elínborg.
‘What’s that got to do with you?’
‘We need to talk to him,’ snapped Sigurdur Óli. ‘What do you think?’
‘What’s your problem?’ the man retorted.
‘Just calm down, will you, mate,’ said Sigurdur Óli.
‘Are you Valur?’ Elínborg asked again. Perhaps it had been a mistake to bring Sigurdur Óli.
‘I’m Valur,’ the man replied. ‘Who are you?’ He transferred the baby over to his other arm, and looked again from Elínborg to Sigurdur Óli.
‘We need information about a man named Runólfur,’ explained Elínborg, and introduced herself and her colleague. ‘Can we come in and talk to you?’
‘You’re not coming in here,’ answered Valur.
‘All right,’ said Elínborg. ‘Did you know this Runólfur?’
‘I don’t know any Runólfur.’
The baby had a toy in her hand, which she was sucking with intense concentration. She was so endearing, safe in her daddy’s arms, that Elínborg had to resist the urge to ask if she could hold her for a minute.
‘He was in his own home when his throat was cut,’ explained Sigurdur Óli.
Valur looked at him with disdain. ‘Doesn’t mean I know him.’
‘Can you tell us where you were when he was killed?’ asked Sigurdur Óli.
‘We think you—’ Elínborg got no further.
‘Do I have to talk to you?’ asked Valur.
‘We’re only looking for information,’ said Elínborg. ‘That’s all.’
‘Yeah, well, you can fuck off,’ he sneered.
‘You can either answer our questions here, or you can come to the station and answer them there,’ she said. ‘It’s up to you.’
Valur was still looking from one detective to the other. ‘I’ve got nothing to say,’ he said. As he was about to shut the door in their faces Sigurdur Óli flung himself forward and leaned against it.
‘Then you’re coming with us,’ he said.
Valur stared at them through the gap. He saw that they meant what they said. Even if he refused to let them in this time, they would not leave him alone.
‘Wanker,’ he said, releasing the door.
‘Scumbag,’ said Sigurdur Óli and shoved his way in.
‘Charming,’ said Elínborg, following him in. The place was a mess of dirty laundry, old newspapers and leftover food. There was a nasty sour smell in the air. Valur was home alone except for the younger of his children. He put her down on the floor where she sat still, chewing on her toy and dribbling.
‘What do you want?’ Valur asked Elínborg. ‘Are you accusing me of topping him?’
‘Well, did you?’ she asked.
‘No,’ replied Valur. ‘I didn’t know the man.’
‘We think you knew him well,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Shouldn’t you tidy up in here?’ he added, looking around.
‘Says who?’
‘Just look at this place. It’s a pigsty,’ said Sigurdur Óli.
‘Are you retarded, or what?’ exclaimed Valur. ‘Who says I knew him well?’
‘Information received,’ said Elínborg.
‘Someone’s spinning you a line.’
‘It’s a reliable source,’ she replied, trying not to think about Shorty.
‘Says who? Who is it?’
‘None of your business,’ snapped Sigurdur Óli. ‘We’ve been told you knew Runólfur and sold him stuff, supplied him with this and that.’
‘Maybe he owed you money,’ said Elínborg. ‘Maybe you went round to collect, and things got out of hand.’
Valur stared at her, open-mouthed. ‘Hey, hang on, what the hell is this? Who says that? I didn’t know the bloke, didn’t know him at all. Someone’s telling lies about me. And you’re saying I’m supposed to have killed him? Absolutely not! I had nothing to do with it. Don’t even go there.’
The child looked up at her father and stopped chewing.
‘We can take you down to the station,’ said Elínborg. ‘We can lock you up. We can treat you as a suspect and read you your rights. OK, we haven’t got much evidence yet, but we have to start somewhere. We can hold you in custody for a few days. You’ll need a lawyer, which will cost you. The papers and the telly will report that we’ve made an arrest, and they’ll dig up pictures of you. Information tends to leak out – you know how it is. The tabloids will publish a front-page interview with your girlfriend in the weekend edition: there’ll be a photo of her with your little girl here. I can see the headline: My Valur Is No Killer!’
‘Why do you think I know something?’
‘Please,’ said Elínborg, and bent down to pick up the baby from the floor. ‘You get doctors to prescribe all sorts of drugs for you, which you sell on at a much higher price. Prescription medications. Like roofies. You probably sell them mostly to coke users, who are out of stuff and scared
of coming down. We’ve heard you supply the coke, too. So it’s a comprehensive service you provide. Maybe you use coke yourself? You look as if you probably do. Must be expensive. How do you find the cash?’
‘What are you doing with the kid?’
‘Then there’s the odd one who uses roofies to—’
‘Give her here,’ said Valur, snatching the baby.
‘Sorry. Then there’s the odd one who uses roofies to spike women’s drinks and have sex with them when they’re helpless. That’s what we call a rapist. The question is: do you sell roofies to rapists?’
‘No,’ said Valur.
‘Quite sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘How can you be? You haven’t a clue what they do with it after you sell it to them.’
‘I just do. And I didn’t know that Runólfur bloke.’
‘Do you use roofies on women yourself?’
‘No, what …?’
‘Is that your flatscreen telly?’ Sigurdur Óli asked, pointing at a brand-new 42-inch plasma screen.
‘Yeah,’ said Valur, ‘it’s mine.’
‘Got the receipt, have you?’
‘Receipt?’
‘You must have a receipt for an expensive bit of kit like that.’
‘All right,’ said Valur. ‘I used to sell – you know about it, you’ve got it on file. But I’m not selling any more, and I never sold much prescription medicine anyway. The last time I sold any roofies was about six months ago. Some idiot I’ve never seen before, or since.’
‘Not Runólfur?’ asked Elínborg. She noticed that Valur was willing to talk about anything other than the plasma TV.
‘He was really nervous. He said his name was Runólfur. He was about to shake hands with me, as if we were at some important meeting or something. He said a relative had told him about me. He gave me a name, but I’d never heard of him. It was like he’d never done it before.’
‘Did he come back often?’
‘No, just that once. I didn’t know him. I usually know who they are. The punters. You build up a group of regulars. He was kind of a weirdo.’
‘And why did he want the roofies?’
Outrage Page 10