‘Yes, she wanted to try living abroad.’
The door opened once more. Áslaug served four customers before Elínborg could ask her about Edvard. She was grateful to Áslaug for not talking about Lilja when other people were in the shop. ‘Did she have any favourite teacher?’ she asked. ‘At the college?’
‘No, not that I know of,’ said Áslaug. ‘They were all really nice.’
‘Do you remember a teacher called Edvard? He taught science subjects, I think.’
‘Yes, I do. He left ages ago. He never taught me. He taught Lilja, though, I’m sure of that.’
‘Did she ever talk about him?’
‘No, not that I can remember.’
‘Yet you recall him clearly?’
‘Yes. He once gave me a lift into town.’
‘Town? Do you mean the town centre here?’
Áslaug smiled for the first time during their conversation. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Edvard lived in Reykjavík, and he once offered me a lift there. To Reykjavík.’
‘Recently?’
‘No, no. It was years ago, when he was teaching here. It must have been before Lilja vanished, because I remember telling her. He was very nice. Why do you ask?’
‘Then what? Did he drop you off when you got to Reykjavík?’
‘Yes, I was waiting for the bus when he stopped and offered me a lift. I was going shopping in Reykjavík and he drove me to the Kringlan mall.’
‘Did he often give people lifts?’
‘I don’t know,’ Áslaug replied. ‘But he was very friendly. Invited me to come round, if I wanted.’
‘Come round to his home?’
‘Yes. What is it? Why are you asking about him?’
‘And did you go round?’
‘No.’
‘Did he ever give Lilja a lift?’
‘I don’t know.’
The door opened to admit another customer, followed by yet another, and before long the bakery was crowded. Elínborg picked up her loaves, called goodbye to Áslaug and left the bakery with the noise of the shop bell ringing in her ears.
Elínborg drove back to Reykjavík, arriving at the Asian food shop just before it closed. Jóhanna was not there and the shop was being minded by a girl who said she sometimes covered for her. Elínborg did not recall seeing her there before. She explained that she knew Jóhanna well, and had hoped to speak to her. The young woman, Jóhanna’s twenty-five-year-old niece, was friendly and helpful. She had been helping Jóhanna out with the shop more and more over the past year, she said, as her aunt’s health had been declining. The cause was not clear – probably exhaustion, she observed frankly, adding that her aunt worked too hard and did not take proper care of herself. Elínborg had the impression that it had been a slow day in the shop, and the girl was pleased to have someone to talk to.
‘If you’re often here, maybe you can help me,’ said Elínborg. ‘I’ve discussed it with Jóhanna. She knows I’m with the police, and I’ve told her I’m trying to trace a young woman, with dark hair, who may be a customer of yours. She probably buys tandoori spices, could have bought a tandoori pot.’
The girl was deep in thought.
‘She might have been wearing a shawl,’ said Elínborg. ‘I can show it to you but I haven’t got it with me now.’
‘A shawl?’ the girl asked. ‘Wasn’t Jóhanna able to help you?’
‘She was going to look into it for me.’
‘I’ve only sold one tandoori pot this autumn,’ said the girl. ‘And it wasn’t to a young woman with a shawl. It was to a man.’
‘So you don’t remember any regular customer – a dark-haired woman? Who’s interested in Indian cookery, or any kind of Asian food, spices? Maybe she’s been to the Far East?’
The girl shook her head. ‘I wish I could be more help,’ she said.
‘Of course. This man who bought the tandoori pot, was he alone? Do you remember?’
‘He was. There was no girl with him. I remember him particularly because I helped him take the pot out to his car.’
‘Yes?’
‘He didn’t want to be a nuisance, but I assured him it was no problem.’
‘He needed assistance, did he?’
‘He walked with a limp,’ the girl explained. ‘There was something wrong with his leg. He was very nice, and awfully grateful.’
19
The family had done well for themselves. The husband, Elínborg had learned, was a qualified economist and a head of department at the Ministry of Agriculture. The wife worked in a bank. They lived in a townhouse in a prosperous district of the city, furnished with leather sofas, an oak dining table, and new-looking kitchen fittings. The floors were parquet, and on the walls hung two fine oil paintings and a number of drawings. Photographs of the family at different ages: three children, from infancy to college graduation. Glancing casually around, Elínborg took all this in as she was shown into the living room.
She had decided to make this visit alone. She did not want to make the man uncomfortable. Jóhanna’s assistant at the shop had dug out the credit-card slip for the tandoori pot that he had bought in the late summer. He had written his name clearly and firmly on the receipt: this was no illegible scribble, like so many credit-card signatures. This man’s signature was neat, controlled, confidence-inspiring.
In trying to trace him, Elínborg had first spoken to two men of the same name, both of them mystified to be contacted by the police. At her third attempt she had struck lucky. The man asked whether she wanted him to come to the station, but she allowed him to meet her on his own territory and she had the impression that he was relieved. She had told him she was a police officer, looking for witnesses in the Thingholt murder case. ‘A man was seen near the scene of the crime, with some kind of support on his leg – as if he had a broken leg, or an injury or disability,’ she had said.
‘Oh?’
‘He had a brace on one leg. We’ve been trying to identify him, and we’re wondering if you’re the right man.’
He was silent. Then he said he was aware of the case, and he recalled that he had been in Thingholt at about that time. ‘What … how can I help you?’ He was uncertain how to address a police officer. This was evidently a new experience for him.
‘We’re trying to find witnesses, but there are very few,’ explained Elínborg. ‘I’d just like to speak to you, to find out if you noticed anything unusual when you were in Thingholt.’
‘By all means come round,’ the man answered courteously. ‘But I don’t know that I can contribute anything.’
‘No, no, of course. That remains to be seen,’ said Elínborg.
And now she was sitting with him in his living room. His wife was not yet back from work. The children had all left home now, he told Elínborg, unprompted.
‘This is just a routine enquiry,’ announced Elínborg. ‘I hope I’m not intruding.’
‘You said there weren’t many witnesses,’ he answered. Konrád was sixtyish, not tall but sturdily built, with a head of thick greying hair, cropped short, and a broad face with laughter lines around the mouth. He had powerful shoulders and big hands. He walked slowly, because he had a brace on one leg. Elínborg recalled Petrína’s fantastical description: to the old lady, buzzing with radiomagnetism at her window, the metal rod on the brace might well resemble an aerial. Konrád was wearing a comfortable pair of tracksuit bottoms zipped open over the calves. They flapped as he walked, revealing the brace.
‘Have you been trying to reach me at work?’ asked Konrád.
‘No, I only rang here,’ answered Elínborg.
‘Good. I’ve had a touch of flu recently. So you’ve been looking for me?’
‘Yes, actually, we have. As I said, a man with a leg brace was seen near a house in Thingholt where a man was murdered. We thought that might indicate a physical disability, so we contacted an orthopaedist, who mentioned polio as a possibility. We looked back at the records of the Isolation Clinic and compiled a list which
includes your name.’ Elínborg decided not to mention at this stage the line of enquiry about tandoori cuisine.
‘Yes, I was at the Isolation Clinic, that’s right. I caught polio in the last epidemic here in Iceland, in 1955, and this is what I got out of it,’ said Konrád. He patted the brace. ‘I never regained full strength in my leg. But you must know all this, of course.’
‘You were unlucky. The immunisation programme started the following year.’
‘Yes, that’s true.’
‘So you were in the Isolation Clinic for a while?’ asked Elínborg. She sensed that he was slightly uneasy. ‘Can’t have been much fun for a young lad.’
‘No,’ replied Konrád politely. ‘It was a difficult experience. Really quite difficult. But that’s not why you’re here.’
‘I’m sure you must have heard about what happened in Thingholt,’ said Elínborg. ‘We’re trying to gather as much information as we can, from all possible sources. You were there, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, I was, but I didn’t go anywhere near that house, the one on the news. I’d parked my car nearby earlier that evening and I was reluctant to leave it there overnight. It was a Saturday and my wife and I had gone out for the evening. Then I went to fetch the car. I might have had one too many – we’d been to a number of bars. I know you’re not supposed to drink and drive, but I really didn’t want to leave my car where it was.’
‘It’s a bit of a walk from Thingholt into the centre of town, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose I wanted to be sure that the car wouldn’t be vandalised. It can be a bit dodgy downtown from that point of view – nothing seems to be safe unless it’s nailed down.’
‘Oh, yes, there are plenty of vandals about,’ said Elínborg. ‘So you went out for a few drinks, did you?’
‘I suppose you could put it like that.’
‘And then you went to get the car?’
‘Yes.’
‘Couldn’t your wife have gone? You’re the one with the bad leg, after all.’
‘She’d had more to drink than me,’ replied Konrád, with a smile. ‘I preferred to go myself. Please don’t get the idea that this is something we make a habit of. And it wasn’t far. We stayed near the centre, on Bankastræti and Laugavegur.’
‘And you walked back alone to collect the car?’
‘Yes. Did someone see me hobbling along, then?’ Konrád smiled as if he had said something amusing. Elínborg noticed that he smiled a lot. She wondered if his smile was a mask, intended to deceive. Should she tell him about the Asian food shop and the tandoori pot, the shawl smelling of Indian cuisine that had been found at the scene of the murder? She decided to leave that line of questioning for now. Elínborg did not enjoy interrogating witnesses. She disliked misleading people, catching them out in their lies. She was quite certain that most of what Konrád had told her was a carefully constructed fabrication, and that she would have to trick him into admitting whatever it was that he was striving to conceal. If she asked random and irrelevant questions she might be able to trip him up and induce him to reveal something important that would give her a handle on the case. She saw her interrogation technique as being like one of those party games in which questions had to be answered without using the words yes or no, black or white, and so on. If her instinct was correct, both she and Konrád knew there were certain things he must not say, and as the game progressed she would make it more and more difficult for him to maintain his focus.
‘It’s a small world,’ said Elínborg, evading his question. ‘Didn’t you think to get in touch with us, given that you were in the neighbourhood when the crime took place?’
‘I didn’t really think about it,’ answered Konrád. ‘I suppose I would have done if I’d believed I could help you in any way. But I’m afraid I haven’t anything to contribute.’
‘So you just strolled calmly along towards your car, did you?’
‘Yes, I think so. I don’t know what your witness saw. I’d be interested to know. I was trying to be as quick as possible, because of my wife. She rang me when I was on the way.’
‘So she’s the person you were speaking to on the phone?’
‘Yes, I was on the phone to her. Is there something particular you want to know? Some specific questions you want to ask me? I didn’t realise this was all going to be about me.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Elínborg. ‘We have to check the reliability of all witnesses. It’s just procedure.’
‘I see,’ said Konrád.
‘And please bear in mind that anything could be important, even if it seems to you to be quite insignificant. What time was it that you were there?’
‘I didn’t notice exactly. It was about two when we got home.’
‘Did you notice anyone else around, someone we might be able to trace?’
‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t see a soul. The street lighting around there isn’t all that good, and I wasn’t parked very near the place where I understand these terrible events occurred. I was quite some distance away, in fact.’
‘We may be looking for a young woman in connection with the murder.’
‘So I’ve read in the papers.’
‘So you didn’t see any young woman around that night?’
‘No.’
‘Or a young woman with a man?’
‘No.’
‘She could have been alone. We don’t have a precise time of death, and it’s entirely possible that the crime was committed around two.’
‘All I saw was a deserted street as I was hurrying along it. I’m afraid I didn’t notice anything in particular. No doubt I’d have been more observant if I’d known I would be a witness in this case.’
‘Where exactly did you park?’
‘It wasn’t on the street you’re interested in. I took a short cut. The car was in the next street down the hill. That’s why I can’t help you. I was never on the road where the murder happened.’
‘Did you hear any noises? Anything unusual?’
‘No, I don’t remember anything like that.’
‘Are these your children?’ asked Elínborg, changing tack abruptly. On a small table three photographs of young people at their high-school graduations were arranged: two young men and a young woman, all smiling into the camera.
‘Yes – those are my boys and my daughter,’ replied Konrád. He seemed relieved at the change of subject. ‘She’s the youngest, always competing with her brothers. The elder boy went into medicine, the younger into economics, like me, and my daughter’s doing engineering.’
‘A doctor, an economist, and an engineer?’
‘Yes, they’re good kids.’
‘I’ve got four children,’ said Elínborg. ‘One of my boys is at the Commercial College.’
‘My daughter’s at the University of Iceland. Our doctor son is about to finish his training in San Francisco and he’ll be coming home next year. He’s specialising in cardiology.’
‘San Francisco?’ asked Elínborg.
‘He’s been there three years. He’s very happy there. We …’ Konrád fell silent.
‘Yes?’ asked Elínborg.
‘No, nothing.’
Elínborg smiled. ‘Everyone says San Francisco’s a wonderful city. I’ve never been,’ she said.
‘It is,’ said Konrád. ‘Yes, indeed.’
‘What about your daughter?’
‘What about her?’
‘Did she go with you?’
‘Yes, she did, actually,’ answered Konrád. ‘The second time we visited. She came with us and fell in love with the place, just as we did.’
Outside Konrád’s home, Elínborg’s phone rang. It was Sigurdur Óli.
‘You were right,’ he said.
‘So Runólfur did call on her?’ asked Elínborg.
‘According to the records, he went to her home about two months ago, on two consecutive days.’
20
Elínborg was in no hurry. She did not contact Konrád to
arrange a second interview until the following day. He answered the phone himself and said she was welcome to call on him around midday – he was not planning to go anywhere. He asked why she found it necessary to speak to him again, but she simply said she had a few more questions. He sounded quite calm. Elínborg had the impression that he knew what to expect.
She did not tell Konrád that she had made arrangements to ensure that neither he nor any member of his immediate family could leave the country. She doubted whether it was strictly necessary but she did not want to take any risks with the case she was building. Elínborg also ensured that Edvard would be apprehended if he tried to flee.
During the night she lay awake for a long time, thinking about a conversation with Valthór. When Elínborg had come home she had entered his room and sat down. Teddi had been asleep, as were Theodóra and Aron, but Valthór, as usual, had been at his computer. The television had also been on. When Elínborg had said she needed to talk to him he said nothing.
‘Are you OK, dear?’ she asked.
‘Yeah,’ he replied brusquely.
Elínborg was worn out after a long day. She knew Valthór was a good boy at heart. Over the years they had been close, but as a teenager he had entered a rebellious phase of ferocious independence and his hostility seemed to be directed mainly at her.
After several attempts to get a response, Elínborg switched off the TV. Valthór stopped what he was doing.
‘I want to talk to you for a minute. How can you be on the Internet and watch telly at the same time?’
‘Easy,’ answered Valthór. ‘How’s the hunt going?’
‘All right. Look, I don’t want you blogging about me. I don’t want you writing about our private business. This family’s private business.’
‘So don’t read it,’ he snorted.
‘Whether I read it or not, it’s on the net. Theodóra’s uncomfortable with it, too. You go too far on your blog, Valthór. You write about things that are nobody’s affair but ours. And who are these girls you’re always writing about? Do you think it’s any fun for them to read that stuff about themselves?’
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