Outrage de-7

by Arnaldur Indridason

  ‘But that’s nonsense. He has no right to talk like that.’

  ‘He can say what he wants.’

  ‘Look, Valthór, you know perfectly well that Birkir was always one of the family. I know it was hard on him, losing his mum. It wasn’t easy for him to come here to live with his uncle — and with me, who he didn’t know at all. And then you kids came along. I always understood the position he was in and I always, always did my best to make him happy. We never treated him any differently from you three. He was one of our children. You can’t imagine how much it hurts to know that he says that about us.’

  ‘I wish he hadn’t left,’ said Valthór.

  ‘So do I,’ said Elínborg.

  Elínborg lay in bed, wide awake. She glanced at her alarm clock: 02.47.

  She started counting down: 9,999. 9,998 …

  She really must sleep.

  Konrád led her into the living room, as he had done the day before. He limped ahead of her, apparently quite calm and unruffled. Elínborg was alone; she was not expecting any trouble. She had been delayed slightly at the station when the DNA results for the hairs found on the shawl and in Runólfur’s bed came in.

  ‘I thought I’d told you everything I know yesterday,’ said Konrád once they were seated.

  ‘We’re always receiving new information,’ answered Elínborg. ‘Perhaps I could start by telling you about a man …’

  ‘Would you like coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Quite sure?’

  ‘Yes. I just want to tell you about the man who was killed in Thingholt,’ she said. Konrád nodded. He placed his bad leg up on a footstool and listened. She told him the known facts. Runólfur had been born in a little coastal village just over thirty years ago. His mother still lived there, while his father had died in an accident several years before. The community was dying: the young generation were all moving away, and Runólfur himself had left as soon as he had the chance. He did not have a close relationship with his mother, who had a reputation as a harsh woman and a strict disciplinarian and, on the rare occasions that he returned, he barely visited her. He settled in Reykjavík where he trained at technical college, and once he was qualified he started work as a telecoms engineer. He did not marry or have children and his only known relationships with women were one-night stands. He lived in rented flats and apparently moved quite frequently. Through his work he came into contact with a lot of people, in their homes and workplaces, and was invariably regarded as hard-working and reliable. He seemed to have had an interest in comic-book and film superheroes. Nothing was known of any other interests.

  Konrád listened in silence. She wondered whether he grasped what she was doing by presenting these facts to him. He might have asked What’s all this got to do with me? but he said nothing. He merely sat there, frowning, as Elínborg continued with her account of Runólfur.

  ‘We believe — and we have evidence of this — that Runólfur, having met women through his work, sometimes ran into them later at bars around town. It’s possible that the women were of a similar type: young, single, and dark-haired. Perhaps he encountered them by chance, but we do know of one case where he had found out from the woman in question which bar she generally went to.

  ‘Runólfur had acquired a date-rape drug, Rohypnol, and he was carrying it when he was murdered — when his throat was slashed with a razor-sharp blade. The pills were found in his pocket. We have a theory about how he got hold of them. It appears very likely that Runólfur had been with a young dark-haired woman when he was killed. She left a shawl at his home.’

  The police had been waiting for the results of the DNA tests, which showed that the hairs from the shawl matched the hairs from Runólfur’s bed.

  ‘I’ve got the shawl here,’ Elínborg continued. She opened her bag, removed the shawl, and spread it out. ‘It’s beautiful. When it was found it had a very strong smell, which is almost gone now. A smell of Indian cuisine — tandoori.’

  Konrád did not say a word.

  ‘We’re pretty sure that there was a woman with Runólfur when he was killed. We think he met her in the same way as he did other women, by setting up a supposedly chance encounter at a bar. We believe he initially went to her home to install telephone or TV equipment, a fibre-optic connection or broadband, whatever telecoms engineers do. He may have returned shortly afterwards on the pretext that he had left some small thing behind, like a screwdriver or a torch. He had a pleasant manner and would have made conversation easily. They were of a similar age. They would have chatted about this and that, and he would have steered the conversation towards certain subjects in order to elicit information from her. She told him which were her usual bars and he also learned that she was unattached, lived alone and was a university student. That background knowledge made it easier to approach her later in public. By that time she must almost have felt she knew him.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re telling me all this,’ said Konrád. ‘I can’t see that it has any relevance to me.’

  ‘No,’ replied Elínborg. ‘I understand, but I still want to ask your opinion. We have various small clues that I want to ask you about. Runólfur persuaded the woman to go home with him. He had the drug in his pocket, and it’s very likely that he slipped something in her glass while they were still at the bar. Or he may not have drugged her until they got to his flat.’ Elínborg glanced at the graduation photo of Konrád’s daughter, which she had examined the day before. ‘We don’t know what happened there,’ she said. ‘What we do know is that Runólfur was killed, and the young woman who was with him left the scene.’

  ‘I see,’ said Konrád.

  ‘Do you know anything about it?’

  ‘As I told you, I didn’t notice anything when I passed through. I’m sorry.’

  ‘How old is your daughter?’

  ‘She’s twenty-eight.’

  ‘Does she live alone?’

  ‘She rents a place near the university campus. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Is she interested in Indian cookery?’

  ‘She’s interested in all sorts of things,’ answered Konrád.

  ‘Do you recognise this shawl?’ asked Elínborg. ‘You can pick it up if you like.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ said Konrád. ‘I don’t recognise it. I’ve never seen it before.’

  ‘It smelt strongly of tandoori spices. I recognised the smell, because I’m keen on Asian cuisine myself. I have a special tandoori pot, which I use a lot. It’s essential for cooking those dishes. Does your daughter have a tandoori pot?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say.’

  ‘We know you bought one last autumn — I can show you a copy of the receipt if you like. Was it for your own use?’

  ‘Have you been investigating me?’ asked Konrád.

  ‘I need to know what happened in Runólfur’s flat when he was killed,’ said Elínborg. ‘If you can tell me, then you’re the person I’ve been looking for.’

  Now Konrád stared at his daughter’s photograph.

  ‘This hasn’t been made public, but when Runólfur’s throat was slit he was wearing a T-shirt,’ said Elínborg. ‘It looks like a woman’s garment and I believe it was your daughter’s. You said she went to San Francisco with you, on your second visit. I believe she bought the T-shirt there. It has the words San Francisco on the front.’

  Konrád’s gaze remained fixed on the photograph.

  ‘You were observed near the scene,’ said Elínborg. ‘You were hurrying, and talking on your mobile. I think you went to her aid. Somehow she managed to make a phone call and tell you where she was. When you got there and saw what had happened, when you realised what had been done to your daughter, you lost it, grabbed a knife …’

  Konrád shook his head.

  ‘… that you had brought with you, and you went for Runólfur.’

  Konrád looked steadily at Elínborg.

  ‘Did Runólfur visit your daughter’s home twice, about two m
onths ago?’ she asked.

  He made no reply.

  ‘We have a record of Runólfur’s call-outs. It lists all the homes and businesses he went to and it shows that he called twice within a few days at the home of Nína Konrádsdóttir. I think I’m right in saying she’s your daughter?’

  ‘I don’t keep tabs on exactly who calls on my daughter.’

  Elínborg sensed that the man’s confidence was dwindling. ‘Did she ever mention his name?’

  Konrád dragged his gaze from the graduation photo and turned to Elínborg.

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘I think you killed Runólfur,’ she said quietly.

  Konrád sat staring at Elínborg, as if he were trying to work out what he should say, what he could say, to make the detective accept it and go away, so the problem would be over with once and for all and nobody would ask any more awkward questions. But he could find no words. He could not speak. Seconds ticked past and before long his features expressed defeat, followed by helplessness, as he spoke haltingly:

  ‘I … I can’t do this any more.’

  ‘I know it must be hard-’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ he interrupted. ‘You can’t possibly understand how awful it is. What a nightmare it’s been for all of us. Don’t even try to understand it.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to …’

  ‘You don’t know what it was like. You don’t know what happened. You can’t imagine.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘He raped her. That’s what happened. He violated her! He raped my daughter!’ Konrád took a deep, shuddering breath. He avoided meeting Elínborg’s gaze. He reached for the photo, held it in his hands and studied his daughter’s face, her dark hair, her pretty brown eyes, and her happy face on that sunny day.

  Then he groaned. ‘I wish it had been me that killed him.’

  21

  Konrád would never forget the phone call from his daughter that night. He saw her name on the screen: Nína, followed by three little hearts. His mobile had been on the bedside table and he’d answered at the first ring.

  When he’d seen what time it was he had been taken aback.

  And when he heard the pain in her voice, his blood had run cold.

  ‘Oh, God,’ he moaned. He was still clutching his daughter’s photo. ‘I … I’ve never heard anything like it in my life.’

  Konrád and his wife had had no particular anxiety about their daughter. Not any more, at least. When she was younger, and they knew she was out on the town with her friends, they were always a little uneasy. And the same was true when she first left home and rented her own flat. News reports of brutal attacks in the city centre, growing violence in connection with drug use, and rapes were not calculated to reassure them, and they urged her always to carry her mobile. If anything happened, she was to ring home. They had been just as uneasy about their sons when they had first started going out at night.

  Nothing serious had befallen any of them before. A wallet had been stolen on a foreign holiday, and a couple of years ago their younger son had caused a minor road accident. The family had lived a fairly uneventful life, and that was what they wanted. They had maintained their standards and treated others with consideration and respect. The couple were close and united in all they did, had a wide circle of friends, and enjoyed travelling both in Iceland and abroad.

  They had made a good life for themselves, were happy with what they had achieved and were proud of their children. Both sons were now settled: the elder one, who lived in San Francisco, was married to an American woman who was also a doctor doing postgraduate training. They had a child, a little girl named after her Icelandic grandmother. For the past two years the younger son had been living with a woman who worked in the corporate division of one of the major banks. Nína was in no hurry to settle down. She had lived with a young computer scientist for a year but since then she had been single.

  ‘She’s always been reserved and self-sufficient,’ Konrád said to Elínborg as he replaced the photo on the table. ‘She’s never been any trouble. Although she has a lot of friends, I think she’s happiest on her own. That’s just the way she is. And she would never hurt a fly.’

  ‘They don’t care about that,’ said Elínborg.

  ‘No,’ said Konrád, ‘that’s for sure.’

  ‘What did she say when she called?’

  ‘It was impossible to understand her. A stifled howl of anguish — terror and weeping and fear, all at the same time. She couldn’t say a word. I knew it was Nína’s phone because I saw the caller ID, but I thought at first it was some stranger who had stolen it. I didn’t even recognise her voice. Then I heard her say Daddy, and that’s when I knew something terrible had happened. That she must have experienced some unspeakable horror.’

  ‘Daddy.’ The voice was racked with sobbing.

  ‘Now, now,’ Konrád spoke into the phone. ‘Try to calm down, sweetheart.’

  ‘Daddy,’ his daughter wept. ‘Can you come? Please … please … please come.’

  Her voice cracked. Konrád heard his daughter keening at the other end of the line. He was out of bed now. He walked down the hall and into the living room. His wife followed anxiously.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s Nína,’ he replied. ‘Are you there, darling?’ he asked. ‘Nína? Tell me where you are. Can you do that for me? Tell me where you are, and I’ll come and get you.’ He could hear nothing but crying. ‘Nína! Tell me where you are.’

  ‘I’m at … at his … his place.’

  ‘Whose place?’

  ‘Dad, you’ve got to come. You mustn’t call the police.’

  ‘Where are you? Are you hurt? Are you injured?’

  ‘I don’t know what I’ve done. It’s awful. It’s … so awful. Daddy!’

  ‘Nína, what’s wrong? What’s happened? Have you been in a car crash?’

  His daughter was whimpering again. Konrád could hear nothing but her stifled wailing.

  ‘Speak to me, sweetheart. Can you tell me where you are? Can you do that? Just say where you are and I’ll come and fetch you. I’ll come right away.’

  ‘There’s blood everywhere, and he’s lying … lying on the floor. I’m scared, I’m scared to go …’

  ‘What house is it, darling?’

  ‘We walked. We walked here. Dad, you can’t come here. I don’t know what to do. You have to come alone. Just you! You’ve got to help me.’

  ‘I’ll come and get you. Do you know the name of the street?’

  Konrád dressed hurriedly in tracksuit bottoms and shrugged on a jacket over his pyjama top.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ said his wife.

  He shook his head. ‘She wants me to come alone. You stay here. Are you there, sweetheart?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t … don’t know the name of the street.’

  ‘What’s the name of the man who lives there? Maybe I can find him in the phone book.’

  ‘His name’s Runólfur.’

  ‘Do you know his surname?’

  Silence.

  ‘Nína?’

  ‘I think …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Dad? Are you there?’

  ‘Yes, my dear.’

  ‘I think … I think he’s dead.’

  ‘All right. Don’t worry. It’s all right. I’ll come and get you, and everything will be all right. But you’ve got to tell me where you are. Which way did you go?’

  ‘There’s blood everywhere!’

  ‘Try to be calm, now.’

  ‘I can’t remember anything. Not a thing.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I went into town for the evening.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I met this man.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Konrád heard that his daughter was becoming less hysterical.

  ‘We passed the High School. And then the American Embassy, round that way,’ she said. ‘You must come alone.
And make sure no one sees you.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I’m so scared, Dad. I don’t know what happened. I only know I must … must have attacked him.’

  ‘Where did you go next, darling?’

  ‘I don’t remember anything — but it’s not that I was drunk. I didn’t drink anything. And yet I can’t remember. I don’t know what’s wrong with me …’

  ‘Can you see any bills lying around, something with his name on, which might show the address?’

  ‘I don’t … don’t know what’s going on here.’

  ‘Have a look around, dear.’

  Konrád opened the garage door, got into the car and started the engine. He reversed out into the street and drove off. His wife had refused to be left at home and she sat in the passenger seat, devoured by anxiety as she listened to the conversation.

  ‘Here’s a bill. It’s addressed to Runólfur. And there’s an address.’ Nína read it out.

  ‘That’s my brave girl,’ Konrád said. ‘I’m on my way. I’ll be with you in five minutes, at most.’

  ‘You must come alone.’

  ‘Your mother’s with me.’

  ‘No! God, no! She mustn’t come. You and Mum mustn’t be seen here. I don’t want anyone to see. I just want to go home. Please, please don’t bring Mum …’ Nína was sobbing uncontrollably. ‘I can’t do this,’ she moaned.

  ‘All right,’ her father said. ‘I’ll come by myself. I won’t park at the house. Is that all right? Don’t worry. Mum’ll wait in the car.’

  ‘Be quick, Daddy. Be quick.’

  Konrád turned off the Ring Road, up Njardargata, then made a left turn. He parked a short distance away and, leaving his wife in the car, set off towards the house where Nína was waiting for him. He hurried towards her with his phone to his ear, doing his best to calm her as he walked. The streets were empty and so far as he could tell nobody had noticed his presence. On arrival he started up the steps to the front door. But he saw that the name on the doorbell was not Runólfur’s, so he turned back and followed the path around to the back garden. There, above the postbox, was the name he was looking for.

  ‘I’m here, my dear,’ Konrád said into the phone. The door stood slightly ajar. He pushed it open and stepped inside. He saw a man lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Nína was wrapped in a bedspread, huddled against the wall, clutching her knees to her chest. She was rocking back and forth, her phone clasped to her ear. Konrád switched his mobile off, went to her, and gently helped her to her feet. She collapsed, shaking, into his embrace.