Erla informed Arnar that he was under arrest on suspicion of having murdered Stella and abducted Egill. The interview got no further because Arnar immediately demanded a lawyer. Clearly the barrage of repetitive questions hadn’t completely robbed him of his wits. Erla closed her eyes, apparently counting to ten before opening them again. There was a screech as she shoved her chair back from the table and stood up.
Her look of fury vanished, however, when the phone rang in her pocket as she was walking out of the door. The conversation was brief and Huldar and Gudlaugur lingered for fear of getting into her bad books again if they abandoned her. The moment she’d finished, she told them, her face grim, that they’d traced the owner of the hair found in Stella’s hand. Unfortunately, the information had done nothing to improve the situation. If anything, it had made matters worse.
Chapter 30
Photocopy of a handwritten letter, entry no. 3 – posted on blog.is by a blogger going by the name of Laufa.
Making a friend at last wasn’t the only way my life improved after I started secondary school. Before that, Mum and Dad had let me have the old TV for my bedroom after they bought a new one. I got a DVD player too and no longer had to spend my weekends feeling depressed about my life. Instead I soon became obsessed with a certain kind of film. What they all had in common was that they happened in space and the characters never set foot on this horrible planet. Star Wars was my absolute favourite, because although the men, women and robots were constantly at war with each other, no one ever had to face their enemies alone. Everyone had allies, and they were fighting proper battles, not spitefulness and name-calling. If you haven’t experienced that sort of thing, you might not realise that physical pain is nothing compared to mental suffering. You can even use pain to forget the agony in your heart for a little while. A single razor-thin cut can grant you several minutes of peace from the pain in your head. The scar’s a small price to pay.
One thing that was worse about being a teenager, though, were the summers. Before, I used to have them to myself but now Mum and Dad wanted me to get a summer job with the city council. The result was that I ended up working alongside the same kids who used to pick on me at my old school. Nothing had changed. It was me against the crowd again – everything I said, everything I did, everything I wore sucked. I was stupid, ugly and dumb. By this stage I’d started to believe they must be right and I gave up trying to hold my head high. My place was to give in and turn the other cheek.
It wasn’t until the last year of secondary school that my friend came along and everything changed. Suddenly I wasn’t alone any more. She didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with me, and though she did comment on my clothes and hair, she meant it kindly. I’d had enough experience by then to tell when people were being mean. She didn’t seem to notice that I didn’t say much and let her do all the talking. I just listened and gazed at her, enjoying spending time with someone who thought I mattered, even if it was only as an audience. And an admirer. On the rare occasions when I said something myself, she was nice and understanding, though you could tell from her face that she found some of the things I said a bit weird. It’s hardly surprising since I had no experience of talking like an equal to someone my age.
Looking back, I don’t regret the months we had together. They were worth it, though the pain came back afterwards, worse than before. Because now I had something normal to compare it to. But in my case nothing good lasts forever. I should have realised that. Stupid, ugly, useless me.
If I’d been cleverer, I’d have guessed what was happening when my friend came to talk to me during break. She only did it because no one else would talk to her. But even if I had realised, I wouldn’t have cared. Finally someone wanted to have something to do with me. I couldn’t have cared less what the reason was. The gang that hated me were amazed at first; they didn’t say anything, just whispered to each other, like they didn’t know what had hit them. It was like they realised they’d lost their power over me. Their insults bounced off me, they no longer hurt, and the other mean stuff they did to me didn’t bother me as much any more.
To my mind they were like a swarm of flies – annoying but not bad enough to drive you indoors. They didn’t take kindly to this change but I was on cloud nine and too happy to notice the approaching storm.
Adam wasn’t allowed to stay long in Paradise, so why did a pathetic loser like me think I had any right to?
Chapter 31
‘Come on. She must have been on Facebook. Something has to come up if you google her.’ Erla was standing behind Huldar. Feeling her hands tightening on the back of his chair, he hoped she wouldn’t snap it.
‘Nothing’s coming up. You can see for yourself. One entry in the Athletics Association track records from nearly thirty years ago, when she was eight. If it’s her.’ Huldar leant away from the screen so Erla could check the results for herself. ‘I’ve spelt the name right, as you can see. There’s just no info about this woman online.’ The back of his chair protested under Erla’s wrenching grip. ‘She seems to be the only person who’s ever had that name. Not surprising, really: Laufhildur Brá Mardardóttir – bit of a mouthful.’ He twisted round, waiting for Erla’s reaction.
‘How’s that possible? Everybody has something about them on the internet. Could she have deleted her online presence?’
‘Don’t ask me.’ Huldar was as baffled as Erla. He couldn’t remember ever having encountered this situation before.
‘Try entering her name in the system again. If she or somebody close to her has taken the trouble to wipe her history from the internet, she must have something to hide.’
Huldar did as he was told, though he knew it wouldn’t achieve anything. He wasn’t suited to the role of secretary and cursed himself for having jumped in ahead of Gudlaugur at the computer when Erla asked them to check out Laufhildur, the owner of the hairs that had been found in Stella’s fist. ‘Nothing. Same as before.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Erla growled.
‘Could she be victim number one?’ wondered Gudlaugur, who was standing next to her. He broke off quickly when he realised he’d been thinking aloud.
‘Use your bloody brain – she’d have been reported missing.’ After a pause, Erla qualified this. ‘Unless she lives alone and doesn’t have any contact with family or friends. Or have to report to an employer – if she has one.’
‘If she does, we can find out where she works from the tax office,’ Huldar pointed out. ‘They’ll know if she’s on benefits, too, or if she’s a student.’ Erla didn’t appear keen on this suggestion. She’d hoped to gather information on the woman as discreetly as possible, which would have been easy in most cases. Few people could live for thirty-five years without leaving a digital footprint.
‘Open the National Register window again.’ The entry containing the woman’s date of birth popped up on screen. Her legal residence was down as a block of flats in the Breidholt district. According to the telephone directory, she’d never had any sort of phone registered to her name, which also struck them as peculiar. Frustratingly, it meant they couldn’t check under her landline to see if she was living with anyone. She wasn’t recorded in the National Register as married or cohabiting, though that didn’t necessarily mean she’d always lived alone. But there was no record of her having any children.
Huldar waited as Erla and Gudlaugur contemplated this minimal information again. ‘Why don’t we try her parents? Or her father, rather. Her mother died seventeen years ago.’
‘Sixteen years ago,’ Gudlaugur corrected. Gritting his teeth, Huldar pretended not to hear.
‘OK, try the father.’ Erla let go of the chair-back and began gnawing her thumbnail instead. ‘Check the police database first.’ When they drew a blank there, Erla ordered Huldar to google him. Little of interest came up: the man wasn’t on social media, so all that appeared were results linked to his job and the information that he’d been on the board of a shooting club about twenty ye
ars ago. He worked for a large software company where his position as a general programmer seemed rather humble for a man of sixty, unless his age counted against him in the IT world.
‘A computer programmer.’ The way Erla said it, he might have been commandant of a prison camp. ‘So he shouldn’t have any problems with Snapchat.’
‘No, probably not.’ Huldar decided not to risk annoying her any further by pointing out that a five-year-old could master Snapchat; she was already near the end of her tether. ‘What do we do now? Ring the guy and ask about his daughter?’
Erla shook her head irritably. ‘No way. What if he wants to know why we’re calling?’
She was right and the three of them were silent, momentarily stumped. The method by which they’d identified the DNA was unorthodox, to say the least. The pathologist had, on his own initiative and without authorisation, run the DNA profile through the National Hospital’s database of paternity tests. It appeared that Mördur had had doubts about his daughter’s paternity after she was born. According to the pathologist, it was almost impossible that the hair could belong to anyone but Laufhildur, given that she didn’t have an identical twin.
‘We can’t approach the guy without inventing a plausible excuse,’ Erla continued. ‘He’s bound to ask what’s going on if he suspects it’s not above board.’
‘What if we refuse to answer?’ Gudlaugur was rewarded with a poisonous look. He was too inexperienced to realise that although this tactic might work with the woman’s father, Erla would almost certainly be required by her superiors to provide an explanation for her interest further down the line, and she couldn’t refuse to answer them. But revealing their source was out of the question as it would have serious repercussions for the pathologist. He’d taken a big risk for them, on the grounds that it might just save Egill’s life, and possibly those of other victims as well. Having performed the post-mortem on Stella, he knew better than anyone how desperately important it was that the perpetrator was caught. And perhaps there was an element of guilt as well, that nothing useful had emerged from her autopsy. The correct response would have been for Erla to treat his information as if she’d never received it and simply go on vainly hoping that her bosses would change their minds about applying for permission to run the DNA profile through deCODE’s database, a request that was no more likely to be granted than before.
‘Just let me think a minute.’ Erla suddenly became aware that other members of the investigation team had started to eye them with interest. She and Huldar only had to stand next to each other to get heads turning, so muttering conspiratorially like this was bound to raise eyebrows. ‘You two take over from here. I’ve got to deal with the paperwork relating to Arnar Björnsson’s arrest. Go round to Mördur’s workplace and see what you can find out without arousing suspicion. You’ll just have to concoct a cover story for yourselves.’ She locked gazes with Huldar. ‘Can I trust you not to screw this up? I don’t want anyone else involved at this stage. It’s vital the guy doesn’t find out that his daughter’s a potential victim – if that’s what this is about. Though it’s possible her hair just happened to be on the floor of the cinema.’
Huldar closed the windows on the computer screen, one after the other. ‘Relax. We’ll think of something.’ He just hoped one of them would have a brainwave in the car.
The receptionist didn’t look up from her phone until Huldar coughed and asked: ‘Is Mördur Jónasson in, by any chance?’
‘What?’ The woman blinked from peering at her tiny screen. ‘Who did you want?’
‘Mördur Jónasson.’
She tapped the name into her computer. ‘He’s not in, I’m afraid. He’s off sick.’ She looked up again, more alertly this time. ‘Can someone else help you? Einar, for instance?’
‘Einar?’ Huldar hesitated, wondering whether to grab this opportunity or leave. The story they’d concocted on the way there wouldn’t stand up to much scrutiny. ‘Er … no. It doesn’t matter. But could you just tell me if we’ve got the right mobile number for Mördur?’ He read out the one they had. When they’d tried it, all they’d got was a recorded message announcing that the phone was either switched off or out of reach.
‘Yes, that’s the right number,’ the receptionist said. ‘I can send him a message if you like.’
‘No, thanks. We’ll try him again later.’
She looked down at her screen again. ‘Actually, he’s been off sick for a while. I’d recommend you talk to Einar instead.’
Huldar, changing his mind about leaving, leant over the high reception desk and asked in confidential tones: ‘Do you happen to know what’s wrong with him? Is it serious?’
The woman shook her head. ‘I’m fairly new here so I don’t know him. But I can see from the computer that he’s been off sick for weeks. The person down as the contact in his absence is Einar.’
‘Then maybe it would be a good idea if we had a word with him. If he’s free.’
‘Well, he’s green, so he should be.’ Huldar didn’t ask what this meant, just waited for her to call Einar.
When the man finally appeared, they stood up and shook the hand he extended to them. Huldar asked if they could have a private chat. He didn’t want the receptionist to hear what they had to say, though she was mesmerised by her phone again and seemed to have forgotten all about them.
Einar showed them into a tiny meeting room which contained no chairs, only a small round table at standing height. The walls were decorated with framed posters featuring inane motivational statements about teamwork that were supposed to be clever. Whoever had come up with them had obviously never worked for the police.
‘I have to admit I’m a little surprised,’ Einar said. ‘I thought we’d informed all our clients that Lárus has taken over Mördur’s projects. I’m terribly sorry if you got left out.’
‘We’re not clients.’ Huldar tried but failed to find a comfortable position, resting his elbow on the ridiculous meeting table. It forced them to stand embarrassingly close together, making him feel stupid. They’d have been better off talking to Einar in reception. ‘We’re from the police.’
‘The police?’ The man’s head jerked back a little. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘There’s no reason why you should. We need to get hold of Mördur as a potential witness in a case we’re investigating. His car was parked near the scene of the incident in question and we were hoping he might have seen something that could help us. He’s just one of a number of people we’re eager to talk to.’
‘I see.’ The man seemed relieved. Huldar and Gudlaugur were too: it looked as if they were going to get away with their cover story.
‘We thought we’d try his workplace when we couldn’t get hold of him on the phone, but the receptionist told us he’s ill and has been on leave for some time. I just wanted to know if it was serious because in that case we might as well cross him off our list. It’s not that urgent and there are other potential witnesses we can talk to instead.’
Einar looked grave. ‘I’m afraid he’s very ill. I don’t have any information about his present condition, but he went on sick leave nearly two months ago. He’d been working part time for just under a year when he was diagnosed with cancer and underwent a difficult operation, followed by radiotherapy and chemo. If you like I can ask the head of HR if she knows anything.’
Huldar thanked him and Einar turned away while he made the call, creating an illusion of privacy, though of course they could hear every word. After a brief conversation he rang off and turned back. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid. She thinks he’s either about to have another operation or he’s just had one. Either way, he’s in hospital.’
Once they were back in the car, Huldar’s first action was to ring the National Hospital and ask about a patient called Mördur Jónasson. He thought he’d misheard when the operator told him which ward Mördur was in. ‘Sorry? Isn’t that Cardiology?’ The woman said it was. When Huldar asked why he wasn’t in Oncolo
gy, she said it wasn’t her job to decide where patients were allocated beds, and, with a terse goodbye, she cut him off.
Huldar met Gudlaugur’s eye. ‘He’s in Ásta’s ward.’ He slammed the car into reverse, screeched out of the parking space and drove off at a speed unbefitting a policeman.
Chapter 32
The same nurse was on duty as on his visit the previous evening, and her face clouded over when she saw Huldar. The ward was busier this time, with staff dashing in and out of the rooms. It was no surprise that a police investigation didn’t count as a priority in this setting. People fell ill, were injured and died every day, and they needed caring for, regardless of whether a crime had been committed.
‘Ásta’s not on duty this evening.’ The woman had stepped out from behind the reception desk after Huldar rapped on it. She stationed herself in the middle of the corridor with arms folded, deliberately blocking their path. She was wearing a lilac tunic with the blue hospital laundry mark and white trousers to match. Her breast pocket appeared to be on the point of tearing off, weighed down as it was by a heavy watch and numerous pens and other instruments that Huldar couldn’t identify. Nor could he identify what had caused the dubious splashes on the woman’s face. Probably just as well. ‘You’ll have to come back tomorrow morning if you want to talk to her. Or go round to her house instead of interrupting us in the middle of our duties.’
‘It’s not actually her we’ve come to see.’ Huldar couldn’t decide whether it was good or bad that Ásta wasn’t on duty. He supposed it depended on the nature of the information they managed to extract from Mördur. If it proved useful, they’d call Ásta in for questioning that evening, before she knew what had hit her. But if they got nothing out of him, it would be better to have her present, if only to witness her reaction to their visit. With part of his brain, Huldar registered Gudlaugur’s obvious relief at the news that Ásta wasn’t there. ‘We need a word with one of your patients.’
The Absolution Page 23