Arctic Chill

by Arnaldur Indridason

  He was an older man with whom Erlendur was slightly acquainted.

  'Yesterday evening,' Erlendur said.

  'You were talking to that woman yesterday evening?'

  'Yes.'

  'That's strange.'

  'Oh?'

  'That woman hasn't been phoning anyone recently.'

  'Really?'

  'And certainly not yesterday'

  'I'm telling you, she's called me several times over the past few days.'

  'Of course I'm just an ordinary doctor,' the medical officer said. 'I'm no expert, but it's out of the question. Forget it. She's unrecognisable.'

  Erlendur ground his cigarette under his shoe and stared at the medical officer.

  'What are you saying?'

  'She's been in the sea for at least two weeks,' the medical officer said. 'It's out of the question that she could have been alive a couple of days ago. Totally impossible. Why do you think they haven't let her husband see her?'

  Erlendur gazed at him, speechless.

  'What on earth's happening?' He sighed and started to walk towards the woman's body.

  'You mean it wasn't her?' Elínborg said, following on his heel.

  'What... ?'

  'Who else could it have been?'

  'I don't know.'

  'If it wasn't her who called, who was it?'

  Erlendur looked down at the corpse with utter incomprehension. It had been badly battered during its stay in the sea.

  'Who was it then?' he groaned. 'Who is this woman who's been calling me and talking to me about... about... What was it she said? I can't do it?'

  The man who had first complained about the scratches on his car was voluble on the subject of the indifference shown by the police when he originally reported the vandalism. They could not have been less interested, merely wrote a report for the insurance company, and he had heard nothing since. He phoned to find out what progress they were making in catching the bastards who vandalised his car but could never get to speak to anyone who had a clue what was going on.

  The man ranted on in the same vein for some time and Sigurdur Óli could not be bothered to interrupt him. He was not really listening; his thoughts were preoccupied with Bergthóra and the issue of adoption. After exhaustive tests it had emerged that the problem lay with Bergthóra. She could not have children, although she yearned to with all her heart. The whole process had put a severe strain on their relationship, both before they discovered that Bergthóra could not have children – after bitter experience and countless visits to specialists – and, not least in the aftermath. Sigurdur Óli felt sure that Bergthóra had not yet recovered. He himself had come to the conclusion that 'since that's the way it is', as he put it to Bergthóra, perhaps they should accept the situation and leave it at that. The subject had raised its head again when he came home from work yesterday evening. Bergthóra had started saying that, as Sigurdur Óli was well aware, Icelandic couples mainly adopted from South East Asia, India and China.

  'I don't spend as much time thinking about it as you do,' he said as carefully as he could.

  'So you don't care then?' Bergthóra asked.

  'Of course I care,' Sigurdur Óli said. 'I care about your feelings, about our feelings. I just...'

  'What?'

  'I don't know if you're in any state to make a snap decision about adoption. It's a pretty big step.'

  Bergthóra took a deep breath.

  'We'll never agree on this,' she said.

  'I just feel we need more time to recover and talk it over.'

  'Of course, you can have a child any time you like,' Bergthóra said cynically.

  'What?'

  'If you had the slightest interest, which you never have had.'

  'Bergthóra

  'You've never really been interested, have you?'

  Sigurdur Óli did not reply.

  'You can find someone else,' Bergthóra said, 'and have children with her.'

  'This is exactly what I mean. You're not... you can't discuss it reasonably. Let's just give it time. It won't do any harm.'

  'Don't keep telling me what sort of state I'm in,' Bergthóra said. 'Why do you always have to belittle me?'

  'I'm not'

  'You always think you're somehow better than me.'

  'I'm not prepared to adopt as matters stand,' he said.

  Bergthóra stared at him for a long time without saying a word. Then she gave a wan smile.

  'Is it because they're foreign?' she asked. 'Coloured? Chinese? Indian? Is that the reason?'

  Sigurdur Óli stood up.

  'We can't talk with things as they are,' he said.

  'Is that why? You want your children to be Icelandic, do you?'

  'Bergthóra. Why are you talking like this? Don't you think I've ... ?'

  'What?'

  'Don't you think I've suffered? Don't you think I was upset when it didn't work, when we lost the ba—' He stopped.

  'You never said anything,' Bergthóra said.

  'What was I supposed to say?' Sigurdur Óli said. 'What is it that I'm always supposed to say?'

  He started out of his reverie when the man raised his voice.

  'Yes, er . . . no, sorry?' Sigurdur Óli said, adrift in his own thoughts.

  The owner of the vandalised car glared at him.

  'You aren't even listening to me,' he said in disgust. 'It's always the same story with you cops.'

  'I'm sorry, I was just wondering if you saw who did this to your car.'

  'I didn't see anything,' the man said. 'I just found it scratched like that.'

  'Any idea who could have done it? Someone with a score to settle? Local kids?'

  'I have no idea. Isn't that your job? Isn't it your job to find the bastard?'

  Next Sigurdur Óli had arranged to meet the man's neighbour, a young woman who studied medicine at the university and rented a small flat in the next-door block. She sat down for a chat, and Sigurdur Óli made an effort to concentrate better than he had when he spoke to the man, who had left in something of a huff.

  The woman was about twenty-five and rather fat. Sigurdur Óli had caught a brief glimpse of her kitchen where fast-food packaging predominated.

  She told Sigurdur Óli that her car was nothing special but it was still awful to have it scratched like that.

  'Why the sudden interest now?' she asked. 'Your lot could hardly be bothered to come round when I originally reported the damage.'

  'Several other cars have been vandalised,' Sigurdur Óli said. 'One belonging to someone from the block of flats next door. We need to put a stop to it.'

  'I think I saw them,' the woman said, taking out a packet of cigarettes. The flat stank of smoke.

  'Really?' Sigurdur Óli said, watching her light up. He thought of the fast-food packaging in the kitchen and had to remind himself that this woman was studying medicine.

  'There were two boys loitering outside,' she said, exhaling smoke. 'You see, I was at home when it happened. It was so peculiar. I had to run back inside because I'd forgotten my lunch. I left the car unlocked with the keys in the ignition, something you should never do.'

  She gave Sigurdur Óli a look, as if she was giving him important advice.

  'When I came out, only a few minutes later, there was this terrible scratch on my car.'

  'Was it early in the morning?' Sigurdur Óli asked.

  'Yes, I was on my way to lectures.'

  'How long ago was this?'

  'A week or so.'

  'And you saw who did it?'

  'I'm sure it was them,' the woman said, stubbing out her cigarette. There was a small bowl of toffees on the table. She put one in her mouth and proffered the bowl to Sigurdur Óli who declined.

  'What did you see?'

  'I told the police all this last week but they didn't seem very interested in the scratch at the time.'

  'There have been other incidents,' Sigurdur Óli said. 'Yours is not the only car they've vandalised. We want to catch them.'


  'It was about eight o'clock,' she said. 'Still pitch black, of course, but there's a light by the entrance to the block and as I was on my way upstairs I saw two boys walk past. They can't have been more than about fifteen, both carrying schoolbags. I told the police all this.'

  'Did you notice which way they were going?'

  'Towards the chemist's.'

  'The chemist's?'

  'And the school,' the woman said, chewing her toffee. 'Where the boy was murdered.'

  'Why do you think those boys scratched your car?'

  'Because it wasn't scratched when I ran upstairs and it was when I came back down. They were the only people I saw that morning. I'm sure they were hiding somewhere, laughing at me. What kind of people scratch cars? Tell me that. What kind of bastards are they?'

  'Pathetic losers,' Sigurdur Óli said. 'Would you recognise them again if you saw them?'

  'I'm not a hundred per cent sure it was them.'

  'No, I know that.'

  'One had long, fair hair. They were wearing anoraks. The other had a woolly hat on. They were both sort of gangling.'

  'Could you recognise them from photos?'

  'Maybe. You lot didn't bother to offer me the chance the other day.'

  Erlendur shut the door when he got back to his office on Hverfisgata. He sat down at his desk with his hands in his lap and stared into space with unseeing eyes. He had made a mistake. He had broken one of the golden rules that he had always tried to obey. The first rule that Marion Briem had taught him: nothing is as you think it is. He had been over-confident. Arrogant. He had forgotten the caution designed to protect him from blundering when he did not know the terrain. Arrogance had led him astray. He had overlooked other obvious possibilities; something that should not have happened to him.

  He tried to remember the phone calls, what the woman had said, what it had been possible to glean from her voice, what time of day she had phoned. He had misinterpreted everything she said. It can't go on like this, he suddenly remembered her saying in her first phone call. In the most recent call he had refused to listen to her.

  He knew that the woman wanted his help. She had something to hide and it was torturing her, so she had turned to him. There was only one possible explanation. If she was not the missing woman, it could only be connected to one case. He was handling the investigation into Elías's death. The phone calls must have been linked to that. It couldn't be anything else. This woman had information that might help the investigation into the child's murder and he had told her to get lost.

  Erlendur slammed his clenched fists on the desk as hard as he could, sending papers and forms flying.

  He kept going over and over the question of what the woman might have been trying to tell him but simply could not work it out. He could only hope that she would call him again, although that was hardly likely after the way he had treated her the last time.

  He heard a knock and Elínborg put her head round the door. She saw the papers on the floor and looked at Erlendur.

  'Is everything all right?'

  'Did you want something?'

  'Everyone makes mistakes,' Elínborg said, shutting the door behind her.

  'Any news?'

  'Sigurdur Óli's going over photos of the older pupils at the school with some car owner. A couple of them were loitering outside her block of flats when her car was vandalised.'

  Elínborg began to pick up the papers from the floor.

  'Leave them,' Erlendur said and started to help her.

  'The pathologist is examining the body,' she said. 'The woman appears to have drowned and on first impression there are no signs of anything suspicious. She's been in the sea for at least two to three weeks.'

  'I should have known better,' Erlendur said.

  'So?'

  'I made an error of judgement.'

  'Come on, you weren't to know.'

  'I should have talked to her instead of being hostile. I judged her for what she had done. And it wasn't even her.'

  Elínborg shook her head.

  'That woman phoned me so that I would reassure her and persuade her to help us, because she knows it's the right thing to do. And I reacted by cutting her off. She knows something about Elías's murder. A woman of uncertain age with a slightly husky voice, perhaps from smoking. Now, after the event, I realise how worried and frightened and apprehensive she was. I thought the missing woman and her husband were playing some kind of game. I couldn't understand it. Couldn't work out what they were up to and it got to me. Then it turns out I'd got the wrong end of the stick entirely.'

  'What was she thinking of? Why did she throw herself in the sea?'

  'I think . . .' Erlendur trailed off.

  'What?'

  'I think she'd fallen in love. She sacrificed everything for love: family, children, friends. Everything. Someone told me she had changed, become a different person. As if she'd found a new lease of life, discovered her true self during that time.'

  Erlendur stopped again, lost in thought.

  'And? What happened?'

  'She found out that she'd been deceived. Her husband had started cheating on her. She was humiliated. All her . . . everything she had done, everything she had sacrificed, was for nothing.'

  'I've heard about men like that,' Elínborg said. 'They're addicted to the first flush of passion and when that begins to fade, they go looking for it elsewhere.'

  'But her love was genuine,' Erlendur said. 'And she couldn't bear it when she found out that it wasn't reciprocated.'

  25

  Sigurdur Óli rang the doorbell at the entrance to a four-storey block of flats close to the school. He stood and waited, then rang the bell again. A cold wind blew about his legs in the meagre shelter by the front door and he stamped his feet. It seemed no one was home. The block, which was not unlike the one where Sunee lived with her sons, was in a poor state of repair. It had not been painted for a long time and the wall by the entrance was still stained with soot from a fire in the rubbish store. Dusk was falling. The morning's snow flurries had deteriorated into a blizzard, cars were getting stuck on the roads and the Met Office had issued a severe weather warning for that evening. Sigurdur Óli's thoughts went to Bergthóra. He had not heard from her all day. She had already left for work when he woke up at the crack of dawn and lay alone with his thoughts.

  The entryphone emitted a crackle.

  'Hello?' he heard a voice say.

  Sigurdur Óli introduced himself, explaining that he was from the police.