"Do you think she knows?"
Erlendur looked at him and shrugged in resignation. Then they fell silent again.
"Is she going to die?" Erlendur asked after some time.
"I don't know," the surgeon said. "We can only hope for the best."
Erlendur hesitated about asking his question. He'd been grappling with it, horrific as it was, without reaching any conclusion. He was not certain that he wanted to insist. In the end he went ahead.
"Can I see it?"
"It? You mean . . . ?"
"Can I see the foetus? Can I have a look at the baby?"
The surgeon looked at Erlendur without the slightest hint of surprise on his face, only understanding. He nodded and told Erlendur to follow. They walked along the corridor and into an empty room. The surgeon pressed a button and the fluorescent lights on the ceiling flickered before shedding a bluish white light around the room. He went over to a cold steel table and lifted up a little blanket to reveal the dead baby.
Erlendur looked down and stroked his finger across its cheek.
It was a girl.
"Will my daughter come out of this coma, can you tell me that?"
"I don't know," the doctor said. "It's impossible to tell. She'll have to want to herself. It depends a lot on her."
"The poor girl," Erlendur said.
"They say that time heals all wounds," the surgeon said when he felt Erlendur was about to lose his grip. "That's just as true of the body as of the mind."
"Time," Erlendur said, putting the blanket back over the baby. "It doesn't heal any wounds."
7
He sat by his daughter's bedside until about six in the evening. Halldóra did not turn up. Sindri Snaer kept his word and did not come to the city. There was no one else. Eva Lind's condition was unchanged. Erlendur had neither eaten nor slept since the previous day, and was exhausted. He was in touch with Elínborg by telephone during the day and decided to meet her and Sigurdur Óli at the office. He stroked his daughter's cheek and kissed her on the forehead when he left.
He didn't talk about the night's events when he sat down with Sigurdur Óli and Elínborg 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," Elínborg 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 Óli 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 Óli 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," Elínborg said. "In Spain."
"Did you check whether there was ever a house by those bushes?" Erlendur asked her.
"What house?" Sigurdur Óli asked.
"No, I haven't got round to it," Elínborg said. She looked at Sigurdur Óli. "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 Óli 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," Elínborg 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," Elínborg said. "That has to be a sign of a struggle."
"Does it?" Sigurdur Óli said.
"Well, doesn't it?"
"Can't being in the ground cause that?" Sigurdur Óli 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?" Elínborg 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?" Elínborg 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 Óli 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?" Elínborg 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 Reykjavík 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 Óli 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 Óli 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 Elínborg. "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. Elínborg and Sigurdur Óli looked each other in the eye and Sigurdur Óli nodded towards the door. Elínborg 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 terribl
e thing to hear. If there's anything Sigurdur Óli 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 Elínborg.
"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," Elínborg 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 Benjamín. Benjamín 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 Óli cruised around the hill looking for a good enough road to drive up. Elínborg 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 Óli and Elínborg 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 Óli 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," Elínborg 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 Óli 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," Elínborg 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."
Elínborg 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 Óli 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 Bergthóra getting along?" Elínborg asked, having given up all hope of changing his opinions about anything whatsoever.
"Fine," Sigurdur Óli said wearily as he pulled up outside yet another chalet. Bergthóra 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 Bergthóra 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," Elínborg said, getting out of the car.
"The records for that period are all in a mess. Reykjavík 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 Elínborg saw all the rubbish inside, she wondered whether he might live there all year round. She asked him.
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