Outrage

by Arnaldur Indridason

  The police had interviewed Konrád’s wife that morning. If his confession was to be relied upon, she was an accessory. She confirmed that he had returned to the car with their daughter, but claimed not to remember Konrád pulling over to dispose of the murder weapon. She, like her husband and daughter, had been in a state of shock so she was not sure whether she had the correct order of events, or even if she remembered everything that had happened. It did not seem necessary at this point to take her into custody.

  The plane hit a patch of turbulence and Elínborg gasped as it plunged and juddered. She grasped the armrests and her papers slithered to the floor. The commotion continued for several minutes. Once everything was back to normal, the captain addressed the passengers, explained about the turbulence, and requested them to stay seated with their seat belts fastened. Elínborg picked up her papers and rearranged them in the correct order in the file. She did not like these tinny propeller planes.

  She returned to her reading. Konrád was questioned about various details and gave clear answers. But he could not answer the question that interested Elínborg most: what about the Rohypnol found in Runólfur’s body? Konrád had not forced him to swallow it, and Nína had almost no memory of events.

  The plane was making its descent towards the runway. A light layer of snow still lay on the ground, contrasting with the muted hues of the landscape. Elínborg knew that two police officers were waiting for her at the little airport as before, to take her to Runólfur’s home village. She thought back to her kitchen at home, and Teddi’s bewildered expression when she had been struggling to understand the connection between what Konrád had said and the oily odour in the hall from Teddi’s jacket.

  ‘What? What about paraffin?’ Teddi had asked.

  ‘Konrád said Runólfur had been burning something,’ said Elínborg. ‘But he hadn’t burned anything. It wasn’t paraffin that Konrád smelt.’

  ‘What does that matter?’ asked Teddi.

  ‘Soon after we traced him, Konrád told me that he’d smelt paraffin in Runólfur’s flat. We didn’t find any paraffin – and Konrád’s description was a bit vague. At least, I think it was. I believe he smelt something like this. Maybe that’s enough – after all, if you leave your jacket in the hall the smell soon gets into everything.’

  ‘And?’ asked Teddi.

  ‘It’s an absolutely vital clue,’ answered Elínborg, and fetched her mobile to ring Sigurdur Óli back.

  ‘The confession’s rubbish,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Konrád thinks he’s doing the right thing, taking the fall for his daughter. But I don’t believe they had anything to do with Runólfur’s death.’

  ‘What are you on about? If it wasn’t them, who was it?’

  ‘I’ve got to look into it a bit further,’ said Elínborg. ‘I’ll have to see Konrád tomorrow. I’m sure he’s lying.’

  ‘Please don’t start stirring things up,’ pleaded Sigurdur Óli. ‘I’ve just congratulated you on solving the case.’

  ‘That was a bit premature. Sorry.’ She switched her phone off, and turned to Teddi. ‘Can I borrow your jacket tomorrow?’

  Early the next morning she had sat down with Konrád in the interview room. He said he had not slept much. He looked exhausted, dishevelled and nervous. He hardly answered Elínborg’s greeting. As usual, he asked after Nína. Elínborg replied that she was much the same.

  ‘I think you’re lying to us,’ said Elínborg. ‘You were telling the truth all along and we didn’t believe you. The same applies to your daughter. We didn’t believe her, either. So you decided to take the blame. You’d rather go to prison than see her locked up. You’re middle-aged but she’s still young, with her life ahead of her. But there are two problems with your confession, which I don’t think you’ve given enough thought to. She’s never going to go along with your version of events. In addition, you’re lying.’

  ‘What would you know about it?’

  ‘I know,’ said Elínborg.

  ‘You’re determined not to believe a word I say.’

  ‘Oh, I do – some of it. Most of it, actually, up to the point when you say you went for Runólfur.’

  ‘Nína didn’t do it.’

  ‘I don’t know if you remember, but you told me you’d smelt something like paraffin when you got to Runólfur’s flat. You thought he’d been burning something. Was there a smell of burning as well?’

  ‘No, there was no smell of burning.’

  ‘So you just smelt the oily smell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know what paraffin smells like?’

  ‘Not particularly. It just seemed sort of oily.’

  ‘Was it a strong odour?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. More like a background scent in the air.’

  Elínborg picked up a plastic bag and took out the jacket that Teddi had been wearing the day before. She placed it on the table.

  ‘I’ve never seen that jacket before,’ said Konrád, unprompted, as if to avoid any more trouble.

  ‘I know,’ said Elínborg. ‘Please don’t come any closer, and don’t sniff it from close up. Can you smell it?’

  ‘No.’

  Elínborg took the jacket, shook it vigorously, then folded it back into the bag. She stood up and put the bag out in the corridor. She sat down facing Konrád. ‘I know this isn’t very scientific, but can you smell anything now?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Konrád. ‘I smell it now.’

  ‘Is that what you thought was paraffin, in Runólfur’s flat?’

  Konrád took two deep breaths. ‘Yes! That’s just the same as in Runólfur’s flat when I arrived,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a little bit fainter.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. That’s it exactly. What jacket is that? Whose is it?’

  ‘It’s my husband’s,’ said Elínborg. ‘He’s a motor mechanic, and co-owner of a garage. His jacket hangs all day in his office at the garage, so it absorbs the smell of lubricants. Every car workshop in the country smells the same. It clings – and it’s hard to get rid of.’

  ‘Lubricants?’

  ‘Yes. Lubricants.’

  ‘So? What about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure what it means, but please don’t go making any more confessions until we’ve spoken again.’

  Elínborg was jolted abruptly back to the present as the plane made a jarring touchdown.

  29

  At the guest house in the village, Elínborg was given the same room. She took her time settling in. Night was falling and she was in no hurry. On the way from the airport she had rung Sigurdur Óli in Reykjavík and others involved in the investigation to try to gather more information on Runólfur’s family: his mother; his father, who had gone smiling to his death; Runólfur’s friends in the village, and their families. Her enquiries had not yielded much – not surprisingly, as it was all so last-minute. If her hunch was correct she would learn more in the next few days.

  Her hostess recognised her at once. She was surprised to see her back in the village and made no attempt to conceal her curiosity: ‘Is there something special that’s brought you back so soon?’ she asked as she showed Elínborg to her room. ‘I don’t suppose this is just a social visit, is it?’

  ‘I seem to remember someone said nothing ever happens here,’ said Elínborg.

  ‘Yes, that’s true. Not much going on,’ replied the woman.

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ said Elínborg. She went to the village’s only restaurant, took a seat, and ordered the fish again. On this occasion she was the only customer. The ubiquitous Lauga took her order without a word and disappeared into the kitchen. Either she did not remember Elínborg or could not be bothered to make conversation. She had been more talkative on Elínborg’s previous visit. Before long she reappeared and placed the plate of fish on the table.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Elínborg. ‘I don’t know if you remember me. I was here a few days ago. The fish was exc
ellent.’

  ‘I always use fresh fish,’ said Lauga. She gave no indication of whether she remembered Elínborg. ‘Thank you.’ She was about to return to the kitchen, but Elínborg stopped her.

  ‘Last time I was here I met a girl who was looking at the videos over there in the window,’ she said, pointing at the niche by the door. ‘Where do you think I might find her?’

  ‘There are still a few girls left in the village,’ said Lauga. ‘But I don’t know who you mean.’

  ‘She was about twenty, I should think, with blonde hair, and a narrow face – quite pretty, slender, wearing a blue down parka. I imagine she comes here now and then. This is the only place in the village to rent videos, isn’t it?’

  Lauga did not answer at once.

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you could—’ continued Elínborg.

  But Lauga interrupted: ‘Do you know her name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t know her,’ said Lauga, shrugging. ‘She may be from the next fjord.’

  ‘I just hoped you might be able to help me. Never mind,’ answered Elínborg, and started on her fish. It was every bit as delicious, fried exactly right, fresh, and perfectly seasoned. Lauga certainly knew how to cook. Elínborg thought that perhaps Lauga’s talents were wasted here, in the back of beyond. Silently, she apologised to the place. She knew she had a tendency to be prejudiced against life outside the city. She ought to be thinking that the villagers were lucky to have such an outstanding cook among them.

  Elínborg ate at her leisure. For dessert she chose freshly baked chocolate cake, with a cup of good coffee.

  Three youngsters in their early teens – two boys and a girl – came in to look at the videos. One of them switched on a large television above the counter and selected a sports channel. He set the volume far too high and Lauga came out and politely asked him to turn it down. He did so at once.

  ‘Tell your mum I can cut her hair tomorrow afternoon,’ she said to the other boy, who nodded. He looked over at Elínborg, who smiled at him but received no response. The girl sat down to watch the game and before long all three were glued to the screen. Elínborg smiled to herself. She debated whether to have a liqueur with her coffee and decided to indulge herself. She suspected that tomorrow was going to be a rough day.

  Eventually Elínborg stood up and settled her bill at the bar. Lauga took her payment without speaking. Elínborg sensed that the youngsters were observing her every move. She thanked Lauga and called out a friendly goodnight to the kids. They made no reply beyond a nod from the girl.

  Deep in thought, Elínborg walked back toward the guest house. As she was considering how to pursue her enquiries the following day she caught a glimpse of a young blonde woman in a blue down parka, hurrying along the pavement on the other side of the main street. Elínborg halted, uncertain whether it was the same girl. Concluding that it was, she called out to her. The girl slowed down and looked in Elínborg’s direction. ‘Hey!’ called Elínborg, and waved.

  They stood on opposite sides of the road.

  ‘Don’t you remember me?’ Elínborg called out.

  The girl stared at her.

  ‘I was just asking after you,’ said Elínborg, and stepped into the road.

  The girl backed away, then strode on. Elínborg started to cross the road towards her but the girl broke into a run. Elínborg ran after her, calling out to her to stop, but she just ran even faster.

  Elínborg, who was wearing flat shoes, did her best to keep up, but she was not as fit as the young woman and soon fell behind. Finally Elínborg slowed to her normal walking speed and watched her quarry disappear between two houses.

  Elínborg turned around and walked back towards the guest house. This was incomprehensible. Why wouldn’t the girl speak to her now? She had wanted to help before. What was she running away from? And Elínborg was convinced that Lauga had known exactly who Elínborg had meant when she’d described her. There must be a reason why Lauga was unwilling to help. What were they concealing? Or was Elínborg being led astray by an over-active imagination? Perhaps the village itself was affecting her, dark and silent and isolated as it was.

  She had her own keys to the front door of the guest house and to her room, so there was no need to disturb anyone there. She rang Teddi, who told her that all was quiet on the home front and asked, as usual, when she would be back. She told him she didn’t know. They said goodnight, and Elínborg settled down with a book about oriental cuisine and its connections with eastern philosophy.

  She was dozing off over her book when she heard a quiet tap at the window. When the knocking was repeated more insistently, she jumped out of bed and went over to the window, cautiously pulled back the curtains, and peered out into the dark. Her room was on the ground floor at the rear of the building. Initially she could see nothing, but then she discerned someone standing out in the darkness. She was looking into the eyes of the girl in the blue parka.

  The girl beckoned, then vanished into the night. Elínborg stepped away from the window, dressed hurriedly, and went out, closing the door quietly behind her so as not to disturb her hosts who were asleep on the upper floor. She could see very little. She walked around to the back of the house where her bedroom window was but saw no sign of the blue parka. She dared not call out. The girl’s behaviour seemed to indicate that she wanted to avoid being seen, at all costs. She was clearly nervous about having anything to do with Elínborg, the detective from the city.

  Elínborg was about to abandon her search and return to her room when she noticed a movement on the road. The street lighting was sparse. She went closer and saw that the girl was waiting for her. Elínborg hurried towards her, only for her to take to her heels. The girl ran a short distance, then stopped again and looked back. Elínborg halted. She was not going to play chase a second time. The girl edged closer and Elínborg approached her, but the girl once again backed away and moved farther off. Finally Elínborg realised that she wanted her to follow, but at a discreet distance. She did as the girl wished, trailing her at a leisurely pace.

  It was cold. A biting northerly wind cut sharply through her clothes, with ever-increasing force. The woman and the girl walked on with the wind in their faces. Elínborg grimaced and clutched her coat more tightly around her. They walked along by the sea, past the cluster of houses above the harbour which formed the centre of the village, and on northwards. Elínborg wondered how far they were going and where the girl was leading her.

  They had moved away from the seashore now. Elínborg strode along the road which ran out of the village, past a large building which she assumed must be the community centre. A single light bulb was burning over the entrance. She heard the roar of a nearby river in the dark and then they crossed a bridge. She kept losing sight of the girl. It was a moonlit night. Elínborg was so cold that she started to shiver: the wind had risen still more and it was now blowing a gale.

  All at once she spotted a ray of light on the road ahead. The girl had stopped at the side of the road and switched on a torch.

  ‘Is this really necessary?’ said Elínborg breathlessly. ‘Can’t you just say what you want to say? It’s the middle of the night, and I’m freezing.’

  Without so much as looking at Elínborg, the girl hurried down off the road towards the sea. Elínborg followed. In the dark she reached a waist-high stone wall and followed it around to a gate, which the girl opened. It squeaked a little.

  ‘Where are we?’ asked Elínborg. ‘Where are you taking me?’

  She soon found out. They followed a narrow path past a large tree. In the glow of the torch Elínborg made out concrete steps leading up to a building – she could not tell what it was. The girl turned to the right and up a shallow slope. In the torchlight Elínborg saw a white cross, and in the next flash of light a slab of cut stone that had subsided into the ground. She could see an inscription.

  ‘Is this a churchyard?’ whispered Elínborg.

  The girl made no answer but wal
ked on until she came to a simple white wooden cross. In the centre was a plaque with an inscription in small letters, and on the grave itself lay a bunch of fresh-looking flowers.

  ‘Whose grave is this?’ asked Elínborg, trying to decipher the inscription in the wavering beam of the torch.

  ‘It was her birthday the other day,’ the girl murmured.

  Elínborg gazed at the grave marker. The torch went out. She heard footsteps fading into the distance, and realised that she had been left alone in the churchyard.

  30

  It took Elínborg a long time to get to sleep, and after a few hours’ rest she got up early. Overnight the wind had dropped, and a light snow was falling. She did not know whether she would see the girl again, nor why she had taken her down to the churchyard. Elínborg had managed to read the inscription on the grave marker: it was a woman’s name. She thought about the woman who lay in the grave, the flowers someone had recently placed there, the story buried in the earth, an enigma.

  She stayed in her room all morning, making phone calls to Reykjavík and preparing herself for the day. It was early afternoon when she strolled down to the restaurant. Although the lunchtime rush was over, some customers still lingered. Lauga had someone helping her in the kitchen. Elínborg ordered bacon and egg and a coffee. She felt that the other diners were looking at her askance, as if she were an intruder, but she pretended not to notice. She took her time, lingered over her lunch, and had a second cup of coffee while she observed her surroundings.

  Lauga took Elínborg’s empty plate, and wiped the table top. ‘When do you think you’ll be going back to the city?’ she asked.