‘I’m writing an essay. I’m going through slides. I’m reading the news because I’ve got to find something to talk about tomorrow. The Danish teacher said the best way to learn the language was to read Danish websites.’ His parents would swallow any old lies.
One of his feet broke through the frozen surface into the soft snow beneath. It was deep enough to wet his sock up to the ankle. Egill whipped out his foot and shot a quick look over his shoulder, half expecting to see his dad standing in the doorway, ready to give him a bollocking. But of course he wasn’t there; he was abroad. Egill turned back to shake the last section of hedge. If the dog wasn’t there, it could sod off. So what if he was alone in the house? It would serve the stupid animal right if it had to whine at the door all evening. He’d let it in just before he went to bed. That way the dog would be punished for its disobedience and Egill would have its company once all the lights were out.
All of a sudden, Egill had the creeping sensation that he wasn’t alone; that someone was watching him. He spun round but all was quiet. The big sheet of glass in the sliding door was as blank as it had been before.
He turned back to the hedge, suppressing an urge to jerk his head round again. It was like the feeling you got on the football field, the nervous habit of constantly checking the stands. And always being disappointed. When he first started training as a six-year-old, his dad used to turn up to every game, proudly watching his son outplay all the other boys. Scoring endless goals as though it was a handball match. But as he grew up, his teammates had gradually caught up with him and his dad had begun to lose interest. When Egill looked over at the stands, he would often be talking on his phone or chatting to the people next to him. Then he started missing games and eventually he stopped coming along altogether. Egill hadn’t realised at first. He kept hoping his dad would turn up unexpectedly. By the time it finally sank in that he wasn’t going to, it was so long since his dad had last come to watch that he couldn’t even remember how he’d played that day. Badly, probably. By then Egill was hanging entirely on the coat-tails of his former glory. He wasn’t the best in the team any more; he was barely average. His burning enthusiasm had gone and nowadays he mainly turned up for the company. He didn’t want to lose touch with the boys and end up like one of those sad fucking losers who were nothing but a waste of oxygen. Whose sole purpose in life was to provide him and his mates with a punch-bag.
He heard a sharp bark from behind him. Egill whirled round. ‘You piece of shit! Where have you been? Eh?’ The dog crouched down, whimpering in the snow. ‘Get the fuck inside.’
Egill picked his way back across the white lawn. The dog kept up its whimpering as it trailed after him. He assumed it was because the mutt had understood his threat to leave it outside. But even as he was thinking this he was brought up short by the sight of the sliding door. It was open. He was sure he’d closed it behind him. Another unbreakable rule: always close the door to keep in the warmth.
The plastic glass came rattling over the snow and caught against Egill’s feet as he stood staring, transfixed, at the open door. In vain he tried to remember if it had been open or closed last time he looked round.
He must be mistaken. He must have left it open.
Egill stepped up onto the terrace, trying to decide what to do. His phone was lying on the sideboard by the door. The sensible thing would probably be to reach inside for it, then wait and listen. If he heard the slightest sound, he could leg it over to the neighbours’ house. But if he didn’t hear anything, it was probably fine.
He walked over to the open door and stepped inside. Hearing nothing, he breathed easier and reached for the phone, then slid the door shut behind him. Outside the dog whined pathetically. He noticed that he’d received a Snap in his absence and opened it. It was from a user he didn’t immediately recognise: Just13. That didn’t tell him much; he followed too many people to know them all individually and loads of people followed him. Opening the message, he stared at the screen. It was a photo, so dark you couldn’t see what it was. Or could you? He zoomed in on a faint differentiation in colour and peered at the grainy image. The resolution was just good enough for him to work out what it showed: the lighter colour in the foreground was one of the covers on the garden furniture. The black area was the garden and the grey shape in the middle was him. Egill looked up quickly from the phone and peered through the glass, down the dark garden. The dog was still whining outside but that was tough: he wasn’t going to open the door. Instead, he reached out and locked it.
His phone buzzed. Another Snap, from the same sender. Egill bit his lip nervously but couldn’t resist the temptation to open it. He saw himself on the screen, standing in the sitting room. With his back to the camera and the phone in his hand.
He turned, with dreamlike slowness, as the dog began barking hysterically outside.
Chapter 15
The evening shift in the cardiology ward generally grew quieter the later it got. Things were hectic between six and eight when they did the rounds, taking blood pressure and so on, but after that there was time to breathe. The patients dozed and there were fewer acute cases than during the day. You could take the weight off your feet for a bit instead of constantly dashing around. Still, working nights wasn’t popular. Time passed more slowly when it was quiet. And although you got paid more per hour, each hour felt longer.
‘I’m falling asleep here.’ The nursing assistant who was taking the shift with Ásta made a face and got to her feet. ‘Do you want a Coke? I’m going to pop down to the vending machine.’
Ásta declined the offer. She didn’t like fizzy drinks, though she wasn’t going to tell the girl that. It would sound as if she thought she was better than her. Like when she said she didn’t drink coffee or eat meat, sugar, dairy products or gluten, or touch alcohol. By the time she got to the last item on the list, most people had her down as a recovering alcoholic. She didn’t usually bother to correct this impression when she read it in someone’s face. It sounded so lame, like she was in denial. It was different on the rare occasions when someone asked her outright. Then she could put them straight.
She watched the girl disappear in the direction of the lifts, her rubber soles squeaking. Once the doors had swung shut behind her there was no other sound but the low bleeping of monitors. Usually Ásta found it relaxing but this evening it had the same effect on her as the squeaking. Wrapping her arms around herself, she thought about calling Thórey and trying to patch up their quarrel. She was feeling so miserable, and it would be much easier to sort it out over the phone than face to face. Thórey knew her through and through, too well to believe her lies. But she might be able to fool her over the phone.
Having pulled the mobile from her pocket, she lost her nerve. What could she say? Thórey had been so angry when they parted that she was unlikely to have cooled down yet. She rarely lost her temper but when she did, it took her ages to get over it. The last thing Ásta needed right now was another row – more harsh words about lying and betraying people’s trust. Thórey was the cleverest person she knew, a fact that was to Ásta’s disadvantage right now. Thórey had immediately guessed that the police’s interest in them wasn’t simply due to the phone turning up at their house. That detective, Huldar, had rung her at work shortly after he and his colleagues had left Ásta. When Thórey came home, she had wanted to know why most of their questions had been about Ásta rather than the phone. Ásta had given evasive answers. Telling the truth was out of the question. It was too late for that.
No, she wouldn’t call yet. The perfect moment would be after Thórey had put the girls to bed and was sitting alone in front of some crap on TV. Give her time to start missing her. Thórey would be a softer touch then and more likely to believe her explanations. Ásta shoved the phone back in her pocket.
The bleeping was still coming from all sides. There were thirty-four beds on the ward and every one of them was occupied. Ásta was far from being alone. In addition to her, there were seven
registered nurses and five nursing assistants on the evening shift. Yet she felt jittery. The fact that she knew why didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse. She tried to reassure herself that she wasn’t in any danger, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from the doors at the end of the corridor or shake off the fear that sooner or later someone would come through them with one aim in mind: to take her life. Complete rubbish, surely? But the girl at the cinema would probably have dismissed the idea too and look what had happened to her.
Ásta was still standing rooted to the spot when the doors at the end of the corridor swung open. Her heart lurched and she gasped, then breathed out in relief when she saw that it was one of the other nurses, her arms full of disposable kidney dishes. They’d only discovered that they’d run out because a patient kept having to spit. He’d probably started that this morning, which would explain why all the dishes in the cupboard had been used up.
‘This should do for now.’ The woman handed Ásta the stack. ‘Would you mind putting them away? I’m going to check the vital signs of the patient in room seven and take the temperature of the woman in room three. If she’s still running a fever I’ll have to call the doctor on duty.’
Ásta took the trays from her, grateful for a task that excused her from having to tend to the patients. She wasn’t in any fit state to face them this evening.
The doors to the ward opened again and the nursing assistant waltzed in carrying a can of Coke. Two nurses emerged from another room and suddenly the ward didn’t feel so deserted any more. Ásta immediately felt better. If she concentrated on the task at hand she might even manage to stop dwelling on the nightmarish dilemma she was in. She went into the storeroom and arranged the dishes on the shelf with exaggerated care. Then she returned to the nurses’ station and waited for the time to pass.
The other nurse reappeared, sat down and jotted something on the notes belonging to the man in room seven. She exchanged a few words with Ásta as she did so, appearing not to notice when Ásta barely responded: ‘… prepare to move him to Oncology tomorrow morning. Did they mention that during the handover?’
‘What?’ Ásta tried in vain to remember what the last shift had told her.
The other woman looked up from the notes. ‘Did they say anything about moving the man to Oncology? It says in his notes that he’s not eligible for a bypass. He’s in too bad a state, so there’s no point putting him through it. According to this, he hasn’t responded to radiotherapy or chemo. He’s on his way to palliative care, so he shouldn’t be taking up one of our beds. Is he going to Oncology or to one of the nursing homes?’
‘I don’t think they discussed it.’ It was perfectly possible that they’d gone over it in minute detail without Ásta taking in a single word. She had been relying on the ward sister in charge of the shift to know what was happening, but the woman had gone home earlier with an upset stomach. The nurse who had stepped in for her was now sitting in front of Ásta, waiting for answers. ‘No. They didn’t mention it.’
‘Strange.’ The woman raised her eyebrows, then bent over the notes again. ‘Poor man.’
‘Yes,’ Ásta said automatically. She reached for a glass of water and took a sip in the hope that it would revive her.
‘Have you spoken to him much?’
‘No. Hardly at all.’
‘Neither have I. After all these years I still find it hard to talk to the ones who’ve been given a death sentence. Like him, and that man last week. Everything you say sounds so inadequate somehow.’ The woman closed the patient’s file and put it back in its place. ‘I just hope that when my time comes it’ll be sudden. Alive one minute, dead the next.’
‘Yes, maybe that would be best.’ Ásta’s reply was a little hesitant. Not just because this description usually applied to those who died prematurely but because she herself was no longer sure she wanted to go that way. Now that she was afraid for her life, old age with all its ailments, hospital stays and lingering death appeared in a different light. She didn’t know if the patient in question would agree with her, though, and she wasn’t about to ask him. Perhaps he’d have chosen to go several days ago when he’d had a heart attack right in front of her. But she doubted it. And even if he had, she’d still have reacted by giving him CPR. Her job was to heal people, to nurse them; not to make decisions about who should live and who should die.
But somewhere in Reykjavík there was a man prepared to do exactly that. He had already killed one person, a teenage girl, and he hadn’t finished yet. Ásta realised she dreaded finishing her shift. Dreaded walking alone through the empty hospital corridors, crossing the dark car park. She probably wasn’t the only woman feeling jumpy tonight, given the endlessly repeated news reports about the murder, which kept hammering home the point that the police still hadn’t made any arrests. Unlike most people, though, she had a genuine reason to be afraid.
Chapter 16
Another morning progress meeting passed with no mention of the bullying angle. Stella was still the sweet, popular kid who’d never hurt a fly. All that distinguished her from your average Disney princess was the fact that her mother was still alive. A number of other ideas were kicked around, including the possibility that the killer might be a geek, based on the fact that he used a Star Wars mask. When this theory gained little traction, the person who came up with it added defensively that anyone else would have opted for a clown mask since killer clowns were in fashion.
In the absence of any solid leads, the rest of the meeting was spent going over who had already been eliminated from the inquiry, including close family members, boyfriend and friends. They either had watertight alibis or their physical build didn’t match that of the attacker. The list of people who’d bought cinema tickets had also been weeded out considerably, a process that had taken an inordinate amount of time and only resulted in a tiny handful of possible suspects. The individuals in question now needed to be looked at more closely.
Huldar had debated whether to put up his hand and mention Freyja’s point about bullying, but decided it wouldn’t be appropriate. Stella’s behaviour towards a classmate was unlikely to have any bearing on her murder. Afterwards, he regretted his decision to keep quiet. There was no logical explanation for the brutal attack on the girl, so why not at least consider the possibility that it might have been motivated by revenge? It was too late now, though. He could hardly stand up in the middle of the office and start presenting this theory to his colleagues, who were all immersed in the tasks they’d been allotted. All except him and Gudlaugur, that is.
He had sat patiently on the hard plastic chair, waiting to hear their names called out, assuming some deadly boring assignment would be dumped on them last of all. But Erla had finished without so much as mentioning them. He had gone up at the end of the meeting and pointed out her oversight. Instead of slapping her forehead and saying it had slipped her mind, Erla had given him a look of pure malice and said she wanted them on hand to deal with any other matters that came up. The country’s criminals weren’t simply going to down tools so the police could focus on the murder inquiry.
As Huldar stormed back to his desk, it occurred to him to go over Erla’s head and complain to her line manager. But even through the red mist of rage, he realised this was unlikely to achieve anything. For one thing, her comment about other crimes was, on the face of it, true. For another, he hated telling tales.
‘This is a complete joke.’ Gudlaugur was no happier than Huldar. ‘Are we seriously expected to sit here, waiting for someone to break into a car and steal a shopping bag or something?’ He glanced over at the neighbouring desk where their colleagues were poring over CCTV footage from the area around the convenience store. In Huldar’s opinion, their task was as futile as his and Gudlaugur’s thumb-twiddling, since the nearest cameras were several streets away from the site where Stella’s body had been found and few, if any, pointed at the traffic. But no stone unturned and all that.
‘If they really believe there’s
a second victim out there, this is a total disgrace.’ Gudlaugur scratched his head in exasperation, causing his usually sleek blond hair to stand up on end.
‘You think the two of us could solve it if we got the chance?’ Huldar grinned at Gudlaugur, though he wasn’t amused. He was annoyed that Gudlaugur was still claiming not to know where Ásta had recognised him from. Whenever he raised the subject, the young man looked shifty and, much as Huldar longed to shake the truth out of him, he decided to let it lie. For now.
‘No. Not necessarily. But we could at least do our bit.’ Red spots of anger had appeared on Gudlaugur’s cheeks, but now the colour deepened and spread down his neck.
Jóel, who was, in Huldar’s opinion, the most obnoxious member of the team by a long chalk, had emerged from Erla’s office and was heading their way. He was holding a folded piece of paper and wore the beatific expression of a man who has just been ordered to deliver bad news to his worst enemy. He and Huldar had gone through police training college together, started work at the same time and more or less kept pace with each other through their careers. They had failed to hit it off from day one and their relationship had only deteriorated since.
A couple of years ago, when Huldar was promoted to head of the department, Jóel must have felt like wearing a black armband to work. When, shortly afterwards, he was demoted, Jóel’s schadenfreude had known no bounds.
‘Hey, you guys! Lovebirds!’ Jóel spoke deliberately loudly so the rest of the office could hear. ‘I’ve got a job for you from Erla.’ Her choice of messenger wasn’t accidental: she was well aware that they loathed each other. God, Huldar was going to make her pay for this.
He ignored the jibe. Reacting would only play into Jóel’s hands. Gudlaugur’s jaw tensed and he suddenly became very interested in his computer screen.
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