Tainted Blood Part 1

Tainted Blood.

by Arnaldur Indridason.

A NOTE ON ICELANDIC NAMES

Icelanders always address each other using first names, since most people have a patronymic rather than a "proper surname", ending in -son -son for a son and for a son and -dottir -dottir for a daughter. People are listed by first names even in the telephone directory. Strange as it may sound to the English ear, first names are therefore used throughout the police hierarchy and when police and criminals address one another. Erlendur's full name is for a daughter. People are listed by first names even in the telephone directory. Strange as it may sound to the English ear, first names are therefore used throughout the police hierarchy and when police and criminals address one another. Erlendur's full name is Erlendur Sveinsson, Erlendur Sveinsson, and his daughter is and his daughter is Eva Lind Erlendsdottir. Eva Lind Erlendsdottir. Matronymics are rare, although Audur is specifically said to be Matronymics are rare, although Audur is specifically said to be Kolbrunardottir, Kolbrunardottir, "Kolbrun's daughter". Some families do have traditional surnames, however, either derived directly from or else modelled on Danish, as a result of the colonial rule which lasted until early in the twentieth century. "Kolbrun's daughter". Some families do have traditional surnames, however, either derived directly from or else modelled on Danish, as a result of the colonial rule which lasted until early in the twentieth century. Briem Briem is one of these traditional surnames, and as such it does not reveal the gender of the bearer in the case of is one of these traditional surnames, and as such it does not reveal the gender of the bearer in the case of Marion Briem Marion Briem the ambiguous first name compounds this secondary mystery. the ambiguous first name compounds this secondary mystery.

REYKJAViK2001

1

The words were written in pencil on a piece of paper placed on top of the body. Three words, incomprehensible to Erlendur.It was the body of a man of about 70. He was lying on the floor on his right side, against the sofa in a small sitting room, wearing a blue s.h.i.+rt and fawn corduroy trousers. He wore slippers on his feet. His hair was starting to thin, almost completely grey. It was stained with blood from a large wound on his head. On the floor not far from the body was a big gla.s.s ashtray with sharp corners. It too was covered in blood. The coffee table had been overturned.This was a bas.e.m.e.nt flat in a two-storey house in Nordurmri. It stood in a small garden enclosed on three sides by a stone wall. The trees had shed their leaves, which carpeted the garden and covered the ground, and the knotty branches stretched up towards the darkness of the sky. Along a gravel drive which led to the garage, Reykjavik CID were arriving at the scene. The District Medical Officer was expected, he would sign the death certificate. The body had been reported found about 15 minutes earlier. Erlendur, Detective Inspector with the Reykjavik police, was one of the first on the scene. He expected his colleague Sigurdur oli any minute.The October dusk spread over the city and the rain slapped around in the autumn wind. Someone had switched on a lamp which stood on a table in the sitting room and cast a gloomy light on the surroundings. In other respects nothing at the scene had been touched. The forensics team were setting up powerful fluorescent lights on a tripod to illuminate the flat. Erlendur noticed a bookcase and a worn suite of furniture, the overturned coffee table, an old desk in one corner, a carpet on the floor, blood on the carpet. The sitting room opened into the kitchen and another door led from it to the den and on to a small corridor where there were two rooms and a toilet.The police had been notified by the upstairs neighbour. He had come home that afternoon after collecting his two boys from school and it struck him as strange to see the bas.e.m.e.nt door wide open. He could see inside his neighbour's flat and called out to discover whether he was in. There was no answer. He peered inside the flat and called his name again, but there was no response. They'd been living on the upper floor for several years but did not know the old man in the bas.e.m.e.nt well. The elder son, 9 years old, was not as cautious as his father and quick as a flash he was in the neighbour's sitting room. A moment later the child came back and said there was a dead man in the flat, and he really didn't seem too perturbed by it."You watch too many movies," the boy's father said and cautiously made his way into the flat where he saw his neighbour lying dead on the sitting-room floor.Erlendur knew the dead man's name. It was on the doorbell. But to avoid the risk of making an idiot of himself he put on some thin rubber gloves and fished the man's wallet out of a jacket hanging on a peg by the front doorway and found a payment card with a photograph on it. The man's name was Holberg, 69 years old. Dead in his home. Presumed murdered.Erlendur walked around the flat and pondered the simplest questions. That was his job: investigating the obvious. Forensics handled the mysterious. He could see no signs of a break-in, neither on the windows nor the doors. On first impression the man seemed to have let his a.s.sailant into the flat himself. The upstairs neighbours had left footprints all over the front hallway and sitting-room carpet when they came in out of the rain and the attacker must have done the same. Unless he took off his shoes by the front door. It looked to Erlendur as if he had been in too much of a rush to have had the chance to take off his shoes.The forensic team had brought along a vacuum cleaner to collect the tiniest particles and granules from which to produce clues. They searched for fingerprints and mud that did not belong in the house. They looked for something extraneous. Something that had left destruction in its wake.For all Erlendur could see, the man had shown his visitor no particular hospitality. He hadn't made coffee. The percolator in the kitchen had apparently not been used in the past few hours. There were no signs of tea having been drunk, no cups taken out of the cupboards. Gla.s.ses stood untouched where they belonged. The murdered man had been the orderly type. Everything neat and tidy. Perhaps he did not know his a.s.sailant well. Perhaps the visitor had attacked him without any preamble, the moment the door opened. Without taking off his shoes.Can you murder someone in your socks?Erlendur looked all around and told himself that he really must organise his thoughts better.In any case, the visitor had been in a hurry. He hadn't bothered to close the door behind him. The attack itself showed signs of haste, as if it had come out of the blue and without warning. There were no signs of a scuffle in the flat. The man had apparently fallen straight to the floor, struck the coffee table and overturned it. On first impression everything else seemed untouched. Erlendur could see no sign that the flat had been robbed. All the cupboards were firmly closed, the drawers too, a fairly new computer and an old stereo where they belonged, the man's jacket on a peg by the front doorway still contained his wallet, in it one 2,000-crown note and two payment cards, one debit and the other credit.It was as if the attacker had grabbed the first thing at hand and hit the man on the head. The ashtray was made of thick, green gla.s.s and weighed at least a kilo and a half, Erlendur thought. A murder weapon there for the taking. The a.s.sailant would hardly have brought it with him and left it behind on the sitting-room floor, covered in blood.These were the obvious clues: The man had opened the door and invited his visitor in or at least walked with him into the sitting room. Probably he knew his visitor, but not necessarily. He was attacked with an ashtray, one hard blow and the a.s.sailant quickly made his getaway, leaving the front door open. As simple as that.Apart from the message.It was written on a sheet of ruled A4 paper that looked as if it had been torn from a spiral-bound exercise book and was the only clue that a premeditated murder had been committed here; it suggested that the visitor had entered the house with the express purpose of killing. The visitor hadn't been seized suddenly by a mad urge to murder as he stood there on the sitting-room floor. He had entered the flat with the intention of committing a murder. He had written a message. Three words Erlendur could make neither head nor tail of. Had he written the message before going to the house? Another obvious question that needed answering. Erlendur went over to the desk in the corner of the sitting room. It was a sprawl of doc.u.ments, bills, envelopes and papers. On top of them all lay a spiral-bound exercise book, the corner ripped from one page. He looked for a pencil that could have been used to write the message but couldn't see one. Looking around the desk, he found one underneath. He did not touch anything. Looked and thought."Isn't this your typical Icelandic murder?" asked Detective Sigurdur oli who had entered the bas.e.m.e.nt without Erlendur noticing him and was now standing beside the body."What?" said Erlendur, engrossed in his thoughts."Squalid, pointless and committed without any attempt to hide it, change the clues or conceal the evidence.""Yes," said Erlendur. "A pathetic Icelandic murder.""Unless he fell onto the table and hit his head on the ashtray," Sigurdur oli said. Their colleague Elinborg was with him. Erlendur had tried to limit the movements of the police, forensics team and paramedics while he strode around the house, his head bowed beneath his hat."And wrote an incomprehensible message as he fell?" Erlendur said."He could have been holding it in his hands.""Can you make anything of the message?""Maybe it's G.o.d," Sigurdur oli said. "Maybe the murderer, I don't know. The emphasis on the last word is intriguing. Capital letters for HIM HIM.""It doesn't look hurriedly written to me. The last word's in block capitals but the first two are cursive. The visitor wasn't hurried when he was writing this. But he didn't close the door behind him. What does that mean? Attacks the man and runs out, but writes a cryptic note on a piece of paper and takes pains to emphasise the final word.""It must refer to him," Sigurdur oli said. "The body, I mean. It can't refer to anyone else.""I don't know," Erlendur said. "What's the point in leaving that sort of message behind and putting it on top of the body? What's he trying to say by doing that? Is he telling us something? Is the murderer talking to himself? Is he talking to the victim?""A b.l.o.o.d.y nutter," Elinborg said, reaching down to pick up the message. Erlendur stopped her."There may have been more than one of them," Sigurdur oli said. "Attackers, I mean.""Remember your gloves, Elinborg," Erlendur said, as if talking to a child. "Don't ruin the evidence.""The message was written out on the desk over there," he added, pointing at the corner. "The paper was torn out of an exercise book owned by the victim.""There may have been more than one of them," Sigurdur oli repeated. He thought he had hit on an interesting point."Yes, yes," Erlendur said. "Maybe.""A bit cold-hearted," Sigurdur oli said. "First you kill an old man and then you sit down to write a note. Doesn't that take nerves of steel? Isn't it a total b.a.s.t.a.r.d who does that sort of thing?""Or a fearless one," Elinborg said."Or one with a Messiah complex," Erlendur said.He stooped to pick up the message and studied it in silence.One huge Messiah complex, he thought to himself.

2

Erlendur got back to the block of flats where he lived at around 10 p.m. and put a ready meal in the microwave to heat through. He stood and watched the meal revolving behind the gla.s.s. Better than television, he thought. Outside, the autumn winds howled, nothing but rain and darkness.He thought about people who left messages and vanished. In such a situation, what would he possibly write? Who would he leave a message for? His daughter, Eva Lind, entered his mind. She had a drug addiction and would probably want to know if he had any money. She had become increasingly pushy in that respect. His son, Sindri Snaer, had recently completed a third period in rehab. The message to him would be simple: No more Hiros.h.i.+ma.Erlendur smiled to himself as the microwave made three beeps. Not that he had ever thought of vanis.h.i.+ng at all.Erlendur and Sigurdur oli had talked to the neighbour who found the body. His wife was home by then and talked about taking the boys away from the house and to her mother's. The neighbour, whose name was olafur, had said that he and all his family, his wife and two sons, went to school and work every day at 8 a.m. and no-one came home until, at the earliest, 4 p.m. It was his job to fetch the boys from school. They hadn't noticed anything unusual when they had left home that morning. The door to the man's flat had been closed. They'd slept soundly the previous night. Heard nothing. They didn't have much to do with their neighbour. To all intents and purposes he was a stranger, even though they had lived on the floor above him for several years.The pathologist had yet to ascertain a precise time of death, but Erlendur imagined the murder had been committed around noon. In the busiest time of day as it was called. How could anyone even have the time for that these days? he thought to himself. A statement had been issued to the media that a man named Holberg aged about 70 had been found dead in his flat in Nordurmri, probably murdered. Anyone who had noticed suspicious movements over the previous 24 hours in the area where Holberg lived was requested to contact the Reykjavik police.Erlendur was roughly 50, divorced many years earlier, a father of two. He never let anyone sense that he couldn't stand his children's names. His ex-wife, with whom he had hardly spoken for more than two decades, thought they sounded sweet at the time. The divorce was a messy one and Erlendur had more or less lost touch with his children when they were young. They sought him out when they were older and he welcomed them, but regretted how they had turned out. He was particularly grieved by Eva Lind's fate. Sindri Snaer had fared better. But only just.He took his meal out of the microwave and sat at the kitchen table. It was a one-bedroom flat filled with books wherever there was any room to arrange them. Old family photographs hung on the walls showing his relatives in the East Fjords, where he was born. He had no photographs of himself or of his children. A battered old Nordmende television stood against one wall with an even more battered armchair in front of it. Erlendur kept the flat reasonably tidy with a minimum of cleaning.He didn't know exactly what it was that he ate. The ornate packaging promised something about oriental delights but the meal itself, concealed within some kind of pastry roll, tasted like hair oil. Erlendur pushed it away. He wondered whether he still had the rye bread he'd bought several days before. And the lamb pate. Then the doorbell rang. Eva Lind had decided to drop in."How's it hanging?" she asked as she darted in through the door and flopped onto the sofa in the sitting room. The way she talked irritated him."Aiyee," Erlendur said, and closed the door. "Don't talk that nonsense to me.""I thought you wanted me to choose my words carefully," said Eva Lind, who had repeatedly been lectured about language by her father."Say something sensible then."It was difficult to tell which personality she was sporting this evening. Eva Lind was the best actress he'd ever known, although this didn't say much as he never went to the theatre or cinema and mostly watched educational programmes on television. Eva Lind's play was generally a family drama in one to three acts and dealt with the best way to get money out of her father. This didn't happen very often because Eva Lind had her own ways of getting hold of money, which Erlendur preferred to know as little about as possible. But occasionally, when she didn't have "a G.o.dd.a.m.n cent", as she put it, she would turn to him.Sometimes she was his little girl, snuggling up to him and purring like a cat. Sometimes she was on the brink of despair, stomping around the flat completely out of her mind, laying into him with accusations that he was a bad father for leaving her and Sindri Snaer when they were so young. She could also be coa.r.s.e, and malicious and evil. But sometimes he thought she was her true self, almost normal, if indeed there is such a thing, and Erlendur felt he could talk to her like a human being.She wore tattered jeans and a black leather bomber jacket. Her hair was short and jet black, she had two silver rings in her right eyebrow and a silver cross hanging from one ear. She'd had beautiful white teeth once but they were starting to show the signs: when she gave a wide smile it transpired that two upper ones were missing. She was very thin, and her face was drawn, with dark rings under the eyes. Erlendur sometimes felt he could see his own mother's likeness in her. He cursed Eva Lind's fate and blamed his own neglect for the way she had turned out."I talked to Mum today. Or rather, she talked to me and asked if I would talk to you. Great having divorced parents.""Does your mother want something from me?" Erlendur asked in surprise. After 20 years she still hated him. He'd caught just one glimpse of her in all that time and there had been no mistaking the loathing on her face. She'd spoken to him once about Sindri Snaer, but that was a conversation he preferred to forget."She's such a sn.o.bby b.i.t.c.h.""Don't talk about your mother like that.""It's about some filthy rich friends of hers from Gardabaer. Married their daughter off at the weekend and she just did a runner from the wedding. Really embarra.s.sing. That was on Sat.u.r.day and she hasn't been in touch since. Mum was at the wedding and she's knocked out by the scandal of it. I'm supposed to ask if you'll talk to the parents. They don't want to put an announcement in the papers, b.l.o.o.d.y sn.o.bs, but they know you're in the CID and reckon they can do it all really hush-hush. I'm the one who's supposed to ask you to talk to that crowd. Not Mum. You get it? Never!""Do you know these people?""Well, I wasn't invited to the wedding party the little bimbo f.u.c.ked up.""Did you know the girl then?""Hardly.""And where could she have run off to?""How should I know?"Erlendur shrugged."I was thinking about you just a minute ago," he said."Nice," Eva Lind said. "I just happened to be wondering if . . .""I haven't got any money," Erlendur said, sitting down in his armchair to face her. "Are you hungry?"Eva Lind arched her back."Why can't I ever talk to you without you going on about money?" she said and Erlendur felt as though she'd stolen his line."And why can't I ever talk to you, period?""Oh, f.u.c.k you.""What are you speaking like that for? What's wrong? 'f.u.c.k you!' 'How's it hanging?' What kind of language is that?""Jesus," Eva Lind groaned."Who are you this time? Which one am I talking to now? Where's the real you in all this pile of dope?""Don't start that c.r.a.p again. 'Who are you?' " she mimicked him. "Where's the real you? I'm here. I'm sitting in front of you. I'm me!""Eva.""Ten thousand crowns!" she said. "What's that to you? Can't you come up with ten thousand? You're rolling in cash."Erlendur looked at his daughter. There was something about her that he'd noticed the moment she'd arrived. She was short of breath, there were beads of sweat on her forehead and she constantly wriggled in her seat. As if she were ill."Are you ill?" he asked."I'm fine. I just need a bit of money. Please, don't be difficult.""Are you ill?""Please."Erlendur went on looking at his daughter."Are you trying to quit?" he said."Please, ten thousand. That's nothing. Nothing for you. I'll never come back and ask you for money again.""Yes, quite. How long is it since you . . ." Erlendur hesitated, unsure how to phrase it, ". . . used that stuff?""Doesn't matter. I've given up. Given up giving up giving up giving up giving up giving up giving up!" Eva Lind was on her feet. "Let me have ten thousand. Please. Five. Let me have five thousand. Haven't you got that in your pocket? Five! That's peanuts.""Why are you trying to stop now?"Eva Lind looked at her father. "No stupid questions. I'm not giving up. Giving up what? What should I give up? You give up talking such c.r.a.p!""What's going on? What are you so worked up about? Are you ill?""Yeah, I'm sick as a pig. Can you lend me ten thousand? It's a loan, I'll pay you back, eh? Avaricious b.a.s.t.a.r.d.""Avaricious is a good word. Are you ill, Eva?""What do you keep asking that for?" she said and grew still more agitated."Are you running a temperature?""Let me have the money. Two thousand! That's nothing! You don't understand. Stupid old git!"Erlendur was now on his feet too and she went up to him as if she was going to attack.He couldn't fathom this sudden aggressiveness. He looked her up and down."What are you looking at?" she shouted in his face. "Fancy a bit? Eh? Does dirty old Daddy fancy a bit?"Erlendur slapped her face, but not very hard."Did you enjoy that?" she said.He slapped her again, harder this time."Getting a hard-on?" she said, and Erlendur leapt back from her. She'd never talked to him like this. In an instant she'd become a monster. He'd never seen her in this mood before. He felt helpless towards her and his anger gradually gave way to pity."Why are you trying to give up now?" he repeated."I'm not trying to give up now!" she shouted. "What's wrong with you? Can't you understand what I'm saying? Who's talking about giving up?""What's wrong, Eva?""You stop that 'what's wrong, Eva'! Can't you let me have five thousand? Can you answer me?" She appeared to be calming down. Maybe she realised she'd gone too far, she couldn't talk to her father that way."Why now?" Erlendur asked."Will you let me have ten thousand if I tell you?""What's happened?""Five thousand."Erlendur stared at his daughter."Are you pregnant?" he asked.Eva Lind looked at her father with a submissive smile."Bingo," she said."But how?" Erlendur groaned."What do you mean, how? Do you want me to go into details?""None of that clever talk. You use protection, surely? Condoms? The pill?""I don't know what happened. It just happened.""And you want to give up dope?""Not any more. I can't. Now I've told you everything. Everything! You owe me ten thousand.""To get your baby stoned.""It's not a baby, you jerk. It's not anything. It's a grain of sand. I can't give up right away. I'll give up tomorrow. I promise. Just not now. Two thousand. What's that to you?"Erlendur walked back to her. "But you tried. You want to give up. I'll help you.""I can't!" Eva Lind shouted. The sweat poured from her face and she tried to conceal the trembling that ran through her whole body."That's why you came to see me," Erlendur said. "You could have gone somewhere else to get money. You've done that until now. But you came to me because you want . . .""Cut that bulls.h.i.+t. I came because Mum asked me to and because you've got money, no other reason. If you don't let me have it I'll get it anyway. That's no problem. There are plenty of old guys like you who are prepared to pay me."Erlendur refused to let her throw him off balance."Have you been pregnant before?""No," answered Eva Lind, looking the other way."Who's the father?"Eva Lind was dumbstruck and looked up at her father with wide eyes."h.e.l.lO!" she shouted. "Do I look as if I've just come from the bridal suite at Hotel f.u.c.king Saga?"And before Erlendur had the chance to do anything she'd pushed him away and run out of the flat, down the stairs and into the street where she vanished into the cold autumn rain.He closed the door slowly behind her, wondering whether he'd used the right approach. It was as if they could never talk to each other without arguing and shouting, and he was tired of that.With no appet.i.te for his food any more, he sat back down in his armchair, staring pensively into s.p.a.ce and worrying about what Eva Lind might resort to. Eventually he picked up the book he was reading, which lay open on a table beside the chair. It was from one of his favourite series, describing ordeals and fatalities in the wilderness.He continued reading where he'd left off in the story called "Lives Lost on Mosfellsheidi" and he was soon in a relentless blizzard that froze young men to death.

3

The rain poured down on Erlendur and Sigurdur oli as they hurried out of their car, ran up the steps to the apartment block on Stigahlid and rang the bell. They had contemplated waiting until the shower ended, but Erlendur got bored and leapt out of the car. Not wanting to be left behind, Sigurdur oli followed. They were drenched in an instant. Rain dripped off Sigurdur oli's hair and down his back and he glared at Erlendur while they waited for the door to open.At a meeting that morning the policemen who were engaged on the investigation had considered the possibilities. One theory was that Holberg's murder was completely without motive and the attacker had been prowling around the quarter for some time, possibly even for days: a burglar looking for somewhere to break in. He had knocked on Holberg's door to find out if anyone was at home, then panicked when the owner answered it. The message he had left behind was merely intended to lead the police astray. It had no other immediately obvious meaning.On the same day that Holberg was murdered, the residents of a block of flats on Stigahlid had reported that two elderly women, twin sisters, had been attacked by a young man in a green army jacket. Someone had let him in the front entrance and he had knocked on the door to their flat. When they answered he burst in, slammed the door behind him and demanded money. When they refused he punched one of them in the face with his bare fist and pushed the other to the floor, kicking her before he finally fled.A voice answered the intercom and Sigurdur oli said his name. The door buzzed and they went inside. The stairway was badly lit and smelled unhygienic. When they reached the upper floor one of the women was standing in the doorway waiting for them."Have you caught him?" she asked."Unfortunately not," Sigurdur oli said, shaking his head, "but we'd like to talk to you about . . .""Have they caught him?" said a voice inside the flat and an exact replica of the first woman appeared before them in the doorway. They were aged about 70 and both wore black skirts and red sweaters. They were of stout build with grey, bouffant hair atop round faces with an obvious look of expectation."Not yet," Erlendur said."He was a poor wretch," said woman number one, whose name was Fjola. She invited them in."Don't you go taking pity on him," said woman number two, whose name was Birna, and she closed the door behind them. "He was an ugly brute who hit you over the head. That's some wretch for you, eh."The detectives sat down in the sitting room, looking first at the women in turn and then at each other. It was a small flat. Sigurdur oli noticed two adjoining bedrooms. From the sitting room he could see into the small kitchen."We read your statement," said Sigurdur oli, who had flicked through it in the car on the way to the sisters. "Can you give us any more details about the man who attacked you?""Man?" Fjola said. "He was more like a boy.""Old enough to attack us though," Birna said. "He was old enough for that. Pushed me to the floor and kicked me.""We haven't got any money," Fjola said."We don't keep money here," Birna said. "And we told him so.""But he didn't believe us.""And he attacked us.""He was wild.""And swore. The things he called us.""In that horrible green jacket. Like a soldier.""And wearing these sort of boots, heavy, black ones laced up his legs.""But he didn't break anything.""No, just ran away.""Did he take anything?" Erlendur said."It was like he wasn't in his right mind," said Fjola, who was trying as hard as she could to find some saving grace for her attacker. "He didn't break anything and he didn't take anything. Just attacked us when he realised he wouldn't get any money from us. Poor wretch.""Stoned out of his mind more like," Birna spat out. "Poor wretch?" She turned to her sister. "Sometimes you can be a real dimwit. He was stoned out of his mind. You could tell from his eyes. Harsh, glazed eyes. And he was sweating.""Sweating?" Erlendur said."It was running down his face. The sweat.""That was the rain," Fjola said."No. And he was shaking all over.""The rain," Fjola repeated and Birna gave her the evil eye."He hit you over the head, Fjola. That's the last thing you needed.""Does it still hurt where he kicked you?" Fjola asked, and she looked at Erlendur. He could have sworn her eyes were dancing with glee.It was still early morning when Erlendur and Sigurdur oli arrived in Nordurmri. Holberg's neighbours on the ground and first floor were waiting for them. The police had already taken a statement from the family who had found Holberg but Erlendur wanted to talk to them further. A pilot lived on the top floor. He'd arrived home from Boston at midday on the day Holberg was murdered, gone to bed in the afternoon and not stirred until the police knocked on his door.They started with the pilot, who answered the door unshaven and wearing a vest and shorts. He was in his thirties, he lived alone and his flat was like a rubbish heap; clothes strewn everywhere, two suitcases open on a newish leather sofa, plastic bags from the duty-free shop on the floor, wine bottles on the tables and open beer cans wherever there was s.p.a.ce for them. He looked at the two of them then walked back inside the flat without saying a word and slumped into a chair. They stood in front of him. Couldn't find anywhere to sit. Erlendur looked around the room and thought to himself that he wouldn't even board a flight simulator with this man.For some reason the pilot started talking about the divorce he was going through and wondered whether it could become a police matter. The b.i.t.c.h had started playing around. He was away, flying. Came home from Oslo one day to find his wife with his old school-friend. G.o.dawful, he added, and they didn't know which he found more G.o.dawful, his wife being unfaithful to him or his having to stay in Oslo."Concerning the murder that was committed in the bas.e.m.e.nt flat," Erlendur said, interrupting the pilot's slurred monologue."Have you ever been to Oslo?" the pilot asked."No," Erlendur said. "We're not going to talk about Oslo."The pilot looked first at Erlendur and then at Sigurdur oli, and finally he seemed to cotton on."I didn't know the man at all," he said. "I bought this flat four months ago, as far as I understand it had been empty for a long while before that. Met him a few times, just outside. He seemed all right.""All right?" Erlendur said."Okay to talk to, I mean.""What did you talk about?""Flying. Mostly. He was interested in flying.""What do you mean, interested in flying?""The aircraft," the pilot said, opening a can of beer that he fished from one of the plastic bags. "The cities," he said, and gulped down some beer. "The hostesses," he said and belched. "He asked a lot about the hostesses. You know.""No," Erlendur said."You know. On the stopovers. Abroad.""Yes.""What happened, were they hot. Stuff like that. He'd heard things get pretty wild . . . on international flights.""When was the last time you saw him?" Sigurdur oli asked.The pilot thought. He couldn't remember."It was a few days ago," he said eventually."Did you notice whether anyone had visited him recently?" Erlendur asked."No, I'm not home much.""Did you notice any people snooping around in the neighbourhood, acting suspiciously, or just loitering around the houses?""No.""Anyone wearing a green army jacket?""No.""A young man wearing army boots?"No. Was it him? Do you know who did it?""No," Erlendur said, and knocked over a half-full can of beer as he turned to leave the flat.The woman had decided to take her children to her mother's for a few days and was ready to leave. She didn't want the children to be in the house after what had happened. Her husband nodded. It was the best thing for them. The parents were visibly shocked. They'd bought the flat four years before and liked living in Nordurmri. A good place to live. For people with children too. The boys were standing by their mother's side."It was terrible finding him like that," the husband said, in a voice like a whisper. He looked at the boys. "We told them he was asleep," he added. "But . . .""We know he was dead," the elder boy said."Murdered," the younger one said.The couple gave embarra.s.sed smiles."They're taking it well," the mother said and stroked the elder boy on the cheek."I didn't dislike Holberg," the husband said. "We sometimes talked together outside. He'd lived in the house for a long time, we talked about the garden and maintenance, that sort of thing. As you do with your neighbours.""But it wasn't close," the mother said. "Our contact with him, I mean. I think that's as it should be. I don't think it should be too close. Privacy, you know."They hadn't noticed any unusual people in the vicinity of the house and hadn't seen anyone in a green army jacket roaming the neighbourhood. The wife was impatient to take the boys away."Did Holberg have many visitors?" Sigurdur oli asked."I never noticed any," the wife said."He gave the impression of being lonely," her husband said."His flat stank," the elder son said."Stank," his brother chorused."There's rising damp in the bas.e.m.e.nt," the husband said apologetically."Spreads up here sometimes," the wife said. "The damp.""We talked to him about it.""He was going to look into it.""That was two years ago."

4

The couple from Gardabaer looked at Erlendur with anguish in their eyes. Their little daughter had gone missing. They hadn't heard from her for three days. Not since the wedding she'd run out from. Their little girl. Erlendur was imagining a child with curly golden locks until he was told she was a 23-year-old psychology student at the University of Iceland."The wedding?" Erlendur said, looking around the s.p.a.cious lounge; it was like a whole storey of the block of flats where he lived."Her own wedding!" the father said as if he still couldn't understand it. "The girl ran away from her own wedding!"The mother put a crumpled handkerchief to her nose.It was midday. Due to road works on the way from Reykjavik it had taken Erlendur half an hour to reach Gardabaer and he found the large detached house only after a considerable search. It was almost invisible from the street, enclosed by a large garden with all kinds of trees growing in it, up to six metres high. The couple met him in a clear state of shock.Erlendur thought this was a waste of time. Other more important matters were waiting for him, but even though he'd hardly spoken to his ex-wife for two decades he still felt inclined to do her a favour.The mother wore a smart, pale green dress suit, the father a black suit. He said he was growing increasingly worried about his daughter. He knew she would come home eventually and that she was safe and sound he refused to believe otherwise but he wanted to consult the police, although he didn't see any reason to call out the search parties and rescue teams immediately or to send announcements to the radio, newspapers and television."She just disappeared," the mother said. The couple looked a little older than Erlendur, probably about 60. 60. They ran a business importing children's wear and that provided for them amply to enjoy a prosperous lifestyle. The nouveaux riches. Age had treated them kindly. Erlendur noticed two new cars in front of their double garage, polished to a s.h.i.+ne. They ran a business importing children's wear and that provided for them amply to enjoy a prosperous lifestyle. The nouveaux riches. Age had treated them kindly. Erlendur noticed two new cars in front of their double garage, polished to a s.h.i.+ne.She braced herself and started to tell Erlendur the story. "It happened on Sat.u.r.day three days ago, my G.o.d how time flies and it was such a wonderful day. They had just been married by that vicar who's so popular.""Hopeless," her husband said. "Came rus.h.i.+ng in, delivered a few cliches and then he was off again with his briefcase. I can't understand why he's so popular."His wife wouldn't let anything mar the beauty of the wedding."A marvellous day! Suns.h.i.+ne and lovely autumn weather. Definitely a hundred people at the church alone. She has so many friends. Such a popular girl. We held the reception at a hall here in Gardabaer. What's that place called? I always forget.""Gardaholt," the father said."Such a wonderful cosy place," she went on. "We filled it. The hall, I mean. So many presents. And then when . . . then when . . .""They were supposed to dance the first dance," the father continued when his wife burst into tears, "and that idiot of a boy was standing on the dance floor. We called out to Disa Ros, but she didn't show up. We started looking for her, but it was as if the ground had opened up and swallowed her.""Disa Ros?" Erlendur said."It turned out that she'd taken the wedding car.""The wedding car?""The limousine. With the flowers and ribbons, that brought them from the church. She just ran away from the wedding. No warning! No explanation!""From her own wedding!" the mother shouted."And you don't know what made her do that?""She obviously changed her mind," the mother said. "Must have regretted the whole thing.""But why?" Erlendur said."Please, can you find her for us?" the father asked. "She hasn't been in touch and you can see how terribly worried we are. The party was a total flop. The wedding was ruined. We're completely stumped. And our little girl is missing.""The wedding car. Was it found?""Yes. In Gardastraeti.""Why there?""I don't know. She doesn't know anyone there. Her clothes were in the car. Her proper clothes."Erlendur hesitated."Her proper clothes were in the wedding car?" he said eventually, briefly pondering the plane this conversation had dropped to and whether he was in some way responsible."She took off her wedding gown and put on the clothes she'd apparently kept in the car," the wife said."Do you think you can find her?" the father asked. "We've contacted everyone she knows and no-one knows a thing. We just don't know where to turn. I have a photo of her here."He handed Erlendur a school photograph of the young, beautiful blonde who was now in hiding. She smiled at him from the photograph."You have no idea what happened?""Not a clue," the girl's mother replied."None," the father said."And these are the presents?" Erlendur looked at the gigantic dining table, piled high with colourful parcels, pretty bows, cellophane and flowers. He walked towards it as the couple watched. He'd never seen so many presents in his life and he wondered what was inside the parcels. Crockery and more crockery, he imagined.What a life."And what's this here?" he said, pointing to some offcuts from a tree that stood in a large vase at one end of the table. Heart-shaped red cards hung from the branches by ribbons."It's a message tree.""A what?" Erlendur said. He'd only been to one wedding in his life and that was a long time ago. No message trees there."The guests write greetings to the bride and groom on cards and then hang them on the tree. A lot of cards had been hung up before Disa Ros went missing," the mother said, still holding her handkerchief to her nose.Erlendur's mobile phone rang in his overcoat pocket. As he fumbled to get it, the phone got stuck in the opening and, instead of patiently working it loose, which would have been so easy, Erlendur tugged at it vigorously until the pocket gave way. The hand holding the phone flew back and sent the message tree flying to the floor. Erlendur looked at the couple apologetically and answered his phone."Are you coming with us to Nordurmri?" Sigurdur oli said without any preamble. "To take a better look at the flat.""Are you down there already?" Erlendur asked. He had withdrawn to one side."No. I'll wait for you," Sigurdur oli said. "Where the h.e.l.l are you?"Erlendur hung up."I'll see what I can do," he said to the couple. "I don't think there's any danger involved. Your daughter probably just lost her nerve and she's staying with some friends. You shouldn't worry too much. I'm sure she'll ring before long."The couple bent down over the little cards that had fallen to the floor. He noticed that they had overlooked several cards that had slid under a chair and he bent down to pick them up. Erlendur read the greetings and looked at the couple."Had you seen this?" he asked and handed them the card.The father read the message and a look of astonishment crossed his face. He handed the card to his wife. She read it over and again but didn't seem to understand. Erlendur held out his hand for the card and read it again. The message was unsigned."Is this your daughter's handwriting?" he asked."I think so," the mother replied.Erlendur turned the card over in his hands and reread the message:HE'S A MONSTER WHAT HAVE I DONE?

5

"Where have you been?" Sigurdur oli asked Erlendur when he came back to work, but he received no answer."Has Eva Lind tried to contact me?" he asked.Sigurdur oli said he didn't think so. He knew about Erlendur's daughter and her problems, but neither of them ever mentioned it. Personal matters seldom entered into their conversations."Anything new on Holberg?" Erlendur asked and walked straight into his office. Sigurdur oli followed him and closed the door. Murders were rare in Reykjavik and generated enormous publicity on the few occasions they were committed. The CID made it a rule not to inform the media of details of their investigations unless absolutely necessary. That did not apply in this case."We know a little more about him," Sigurdur oli said, opening a file he was holding. "He was born in Saudarkrokur, 69 69 years old. Spent his last years working as a lorry driver for Iceland Transport. Still worked there on and off." years old. Spent his last years working as a lorry driver for Iceland Transport. Still worked there on and off."Sigurdur oli paused."Shouldn't we talk to his workmates?" he said, straightening his tie. Sigurdur oli was wearing a new suit, tall and handsome, a graduate in criminology from an American university. He was everything that Erlendur was not: modern and organised."What do people in the office think?" Erlendur asked, twiddling with a loose b.u.t.ton on his cardigan which eventually dropped into his palm. He was stout and well-built with bushy ginger hair, one of the most experienced detectives on the team. He generally got his way. His superiors and colleagues had long since given up doing battle with him. Things had turned out that way over the years. Erlendur didn't dislike it."Probably some nutcase," Sigurdur oli said. "At the minute we're looking for that green army jacket. Some kid who wanted money but panicked when Holberg refused.""What about Holberg's family? Did he have any?""No family, but we haven't got all the information yet. We're still gathering it together; family, friends, workmates.""From the look of his flat I'd say he was single and had been for a long time.""You would know, of course," Sigurdur oli blurted out, but Erlendur pretended not to hear."Anything from the pathologist? Forensics?""The provisional report's in. Nothing in it we didn't know. Holberg died from a blow to the head. It was a heavy blow, but basically it was the shape of the ashtray, the sharp edges, that were decisive. His skull caved in and he died instantly . . . or almost. He seems to have struck the corner of the coffee table as he fell. He had a nasty wound on his forehead that fitted the corner of the table. The fingerprints on the ashtray were Holberg's but then there are at least two other sets, one of which is also on the pencil.""Are they the murderer's then?""There's every probability that they are the murderer's, yes.""Right, a typical clumsy Icelandic murder.""Typical. And that's the a.s.sumption we're working on."It was still raining. The low-pressure fronts that moved in from deep in the Atlantic at that time of year headed east across Iceland in succession, bringing wind, wet and dark winter gloom. The CID was still at work in the building in Nordurmri. The yellow police tape that had been set up around the building reminded Erlendur of the electricity board; a hole in the road, a filthy tent over it, a flicker of light inside the tent, all neatly gift-wrapped with yellow tape. In the same way, the police had wrapped the murder scene up with neat yellow plastic tape with the name of the authority printed on it. Erlendur and Sigurdur oli met Elinborg and the other detectives who had been combing the building through the autumn night and into the morning and were just finis.h.i.+ng their job.People from neighbouring buildings were questioned but none of them had noticed any suspicious movements at the murder scene between the Monday morning and the time the body was found.Soon there was no-one left in the building but Erlendur and Sigurdur oli. The blood on the carpet had turned black. The ashtray had been removed as evidence. The pencil and pad too. In other respects it was as though nothing had happened. Sigurdur oli went to look in the den and the pa.s.sage to the bedroom, while Erlendur walked around the sitting room. They put on white rubber gloves. Prints were mounted and framed on the walls and looked as if they'd been bought at the front door from travelling salesmen. In the bookcase were thrillers in translation, paperbacks from a book club, some of them read, others apparently untouched. No interesting hard-bound volumes. Erlendur bent down almost to the floor to read the t.i.tles on the bottom shelf and recognised only one: Lolita Lolita by Nabokov; paperback. He took it from the bookshelf. It was an English edition and had clearly been read. by Nabokov; paperback. He took it from the bookshelf. It was an English edition and had clearly been read.He replaced the book and inched his way towards the desk. It was L-shaped and took up one corner of the sitting room. A new, comfortable office chair was by the desk, with a plastic mat underneath it to protect the carpet. The desk looked much older than the chair. There were drawers on both sides underneath the broader desktop and a long one in the middle, nine in all. On the shorter desktop stood a 17-inch computer monitor with a sliding tray for a keyboard fitted beneath it. The tower was kept on the floor. All the drawers were locked.Sigurdur oli went through the wardrobe in the bedroom. It was reasonably organised, with socks in one drawer, underwear in another, trousers, sweaters. Some s.h.i.+rts and three suits were hanging on a rail, the oldest suit from the disco era, Sigurdur oli thought, brown striped. Several pairs of shoes on the wardrobe floor. Bedclothes in the top drawer. The man had made his bed before his visitor arrived. A white blanket covered the duvet and pillow. It was a single bed.On the bedside table were an alarm clock and two books, one a series of interviews with a well-known politician and the other a book of photographs of Scania-Vabis trucks. The bedside table had a cupboard in it too, containing medicine, surgical spirit, sleeping pills, Panadol and a small jar of Vaseline."Can you see any keys anywhere?" asked Erlendur, who was now by the door."No keys. Door keys, you mean?""No, to the desk.""None of those either."Erlendur went into the den and from there into the kitchen. He opened drawers and cupboards but could see only cutlery and gla.s.ses, ladles and plates. No keys. He went over to the hangers by the door, frisked the coats but found nothing except a little black pouch with a ring of keys and some coins in it. Two small keys were hanging from the ring with others to the front door, to the flat and to the rooms. Erlendur tried them on the desk. The same one fitted all nine drawers.He opened the large drawer in the centre of the desk first. It contained mainly bills telephone, electricity, heating and credit-card bills and also a newspaper subscription. The bottom two drawers to the left were empty and in the next one up were tax forms and wage slips. In the top drawer was a photograph alb.u.m. All black-and-white, old photographs of people from various times, sometimes dressed up in what appeared to be the sitting room in Nordurmri, sometimes on picnics: dwarf birch, Gullfoss waterfall and Geysir. He saw two photo-graphs that he thought might be of the murdered man when he was young, but nothing taken recently.He opened the drawers on the right-hand side. The top two were empty. In the third he found a pack of cards, a folding chess set, an old inkwell.He found the photograph underneath the bottom drawer.Erlendur was closing the bottom drawer again when he heard what sounded like a slight rustling from inside it. When he opened and closed it again he heard the same rustling. It rubbed against something on its way in. He sighed and squatted down, looked inside but could see nothing. He pulled it back out but heard nothing, then closed it and the noise came again. He knelt on the floor, pulled the drawer right out, saw something stuck and stretched out to get it.It was a small black-and-white photograph, showing a grave in a cemetery in wintertime. He didn't recognise the cemetery. There was a headstone on the grave and most of the inscription on it was fairly clear. A woman's name was carved there. AUDUR. AUDUR. No second name. Erlendur couldn't see the dates very clearly. He fumbled in his jacket pocket for his gla.s.ses, put them on and held the photograph up to his nose. 1964-1968. He could vaguely make out an epitaph, but the letters were small and he could not read it. Carefully he blew the dust off the photo. No second name. Erlendur couldn't see the dates very clearly. He fumbled in his jacket pocket for his gla.s.ses, put them on and held the photograph up to his nose. 1964-1968. He could vaguely make out an epitaph, but the letters were small and he could not read it. Carefully he blew the dust off the photo.The girl was only four when she died.Erlendur looked up as the autumn rain thrashed against the windows. It was the middle of the day but the sky was a gloomy black.

6

The big lorry rocked in the storm like a prehistoric beast and the rain pounded against it. It had taken the police some time to locate as it wasn't parked where Holberg lived in Nordurmri, but in a car park west of Snorrabraut, by the Domus Medica health centre, several minutes' walk from Holberg's home. In the end they had made a radio announcement asking for information about the lorry's whereabouts. A police patrol had found it at about the same time that Erlendur and Sigurdur oli left Holberg's flat with the photograph. A forensic team was called out to comb the vehicle for clues. It was an MAN model with a red cab. All that a quick search revealed was a collection of hardcore p.o.r.nographic magazines. It was decided to move the lorry to CID headquarters for further investigation.While this was going on, forensics got to work on the photograph. It transpired that it was printed on Ilford photographic paper, which was used a lot in the 1960s but had long since been discontinued. Probably the photograph had been developed by the photographer himself or by an amateur; it had begun to fade as if the job had not been done very carefully. There was nothing written on the back and there were no landmarks by which to determine the cemetery in which it had been taken. It could be anywhere in the country.The photographer had stood about three metres from the headstone. The shot was taken more or less directly in front of it; the photographer must have had to bend his knees unless he was very short. Even from that distance the angle was quite narrow. There was nothing growing near the grave. A powdery snow lay on the ground. No other grave could be seen. Behind the headstone, all that was visible was a white haze.Forensics concentrated on the epitaph which was largely indistinguishable because the photographer had stood so far away. Numerous reproductions were made of the photograph and the epitaph was enlarged until every single letter had been printed out on A5 paper, numbered and arranged in the same sequence as on the headstone. They were coa.r.s.e-grained pictures, hardly more than alternating black-and-white dots that created nuances of light and shade, but once scanned into a computer the shadowing and resolution could be processed. Some letters were clearer than others, which left the forensic team to fill in the gaps. The letters M, F and O were clearly discernible. Others were more difficult. paper, numbered and arranged in the same sequence as on the headstone. They were coa.r.s.e-grained pictures, hardly more than alternating black-and-white dots that created nuances of light and shade, but once scanned into a computer the shadowing and resolution could be processed. Some letters were clearer than others, which left the forensic team to fill in the gaps. The letters M, F and O were clearly discernible. Others were more difficult.Erlendur phoned the home of a department manager from the National Statistics Office who agreed, cursing and swearing, to meet him at the offices on Skuggasund. Erlendur knew all the death certificates issued since 1916 were housed there. No-one was in the building, all the staff having left work some time before. The department manager pulled up in his car outside the Statistics Office half an hour later and shook Erlendur's hand curtly. He entered a PIN in the security system and let them into the building with a card. Erlendur outlined the matter to him, telling him only the bare essentials.They looked at all death certificates issued in 1968 and found two in the name of Audur. One was in her fourth year. She had died in the February. A doctor had signed the death certificate and they soon found his name in the national registry. He lived in Reykjavik. The girl's mother was named on the certificate. They found her without any problems. Her name was Kolbrun. She had last been domiciled in Keflavik in the early 1970s. They then checked again among the death certificates. Kolbrun had died in 1971, three years after her daughter.The girl had died from a malignant tumour on the brain.The mother had committed suicide.

7

The bridegroom welcomed Erlendur into his office. He was a quality and marketing manager for a wholesaling company that imported breakfast cereal from America and Erlendur, who had never tasted American breakfast cereal in his life, pondered as he sat down in the office what a quality and marketing manager at a wholesaling company actually did. He couldn't be bothered to ask. The bridegroom was wearing a well-ironed white s.h.i.+rt and thick braces and he had rolled up his sleeves as if managing quality issues required every ounce of his strength. Average height, a little chubby and with a ring of beard around his thick-lipped mouth. Viggo was his name."I haven't heard from Disa," Viggo said quickly and sat down facing Erlendur."Was it something you said to her that . . .""That's what everyone thinks," Viggo said. "Everyone a.s.sumes it's my fault. That's the worst thing. The worst part of the whole business. I can't stand it.""Did you notice anything unusual about her before she ran away? Anything that might have upset her?""Everyone was just having fun. You know, a wedding, you know what I mean.""No.""Surely you've been to a wedding?""Once. A long time ago.""It was time for the first dance. The speeches were over and Disa's girlfriends had organised some entertainment, the accordionist had arrived and we were supposed to dance. I was sitting at our table and everyone started looking for Disa, but she was gone.""Where did you last see her?""She was sitting with me and said she needed to go to the toilet.""And did you say anything that could have made her sulk?""Not at all! I gave her a kiss and told her to be quick.""How much time pa.s.sed from when she left until you started looking for her?""I don't know. I sat down with my friends and then went outside for a smoke all the smokers had to go outside I talked to some people there and on the way out and back, sat down again and the accordionist came over and talked to me about the dance and music. I talked to some other people, I guess it must have been half an hour, I don't know.""And you never saw her during that time?""No. When we realised she was gone it was a total disaster. Everyone stared at me as though it was my fault.""What do you think has happened to her?""I've looked everywhere. Spoken to all her friends and relatives but no-one knows a thing, or that's what they say anyway.""Do you think someone's lying?""Well, she must be somewhere.""Did you know she left a message?""No. What message? What do you mean?""She hung a card on the message tree thing. 'He's a monster, what have I done?' it said. Do you know what she means by that?""He's a monster," Viggo repeated. "Who was she talking about?""I had thought it might be you.""Me?" said Viggo, becoming agitated. "I haven't done a thing to her, not a thing. Never. It's not me. It can't be me.""The car she took was found on Gardastraeti. Does that tell you anything?""She doesn't know anyone there. Are you going to report her missing?""I think her parents want to give her time to come back.""And if she doesn't?""Then we'll see." Erlendur hesitated. "I would have thought she'd have contacted you. To tell you everything's all right.""Wait a minute, are you suggesting it was my fault and she won't talk to me because I did something to her? Jesus, what a b.l.o.o.d.y horror story. Do you know what it was like coming to work on Monday? All my colleagues were at the party. My boss was at the party! Do you think it's my fault? f.u.c.k it! Everyone thinks it's my fault.""Women," Erlendur said as he stood up. "They're difficult to quality control."Erlendur had just arrived at his office when the phone rang. He recognised the voice immediately although he had not heard it for a long time. It was still clear and strong and firm despite its advanced age. Erlendur had known Marion Briem for almost 30 years and it hadn't always been plain sailing."I've just come from the chalet", the voice said, "and I didn't hear the news until I reached town just now.""Are you talking about Holberg?" Erlendur asked."Have you looked at the reports on him?""I know Sigurdur oli was checking the computer records but I haven't heard from him. What reports?""The question is whether they're actually on file in the computers. Maybe they've been thrown out. Is there any law about when reports become obsolete? Are they destroyed?""What are you driving at?""Turns out Holberg was no model citizen," Marion Briem said."In what way?""The chances are that he was a rapist.""Chances are?""He was charged with rape, but never convicted. It was in 1963. You ought to take a look at your reports.""Who accused him?""A woman by the name of Kolbrun. She lived in . . .""Keflavik?""Yes, how did you know that?""We found a photograph in Holberg's desk. It was as if it had been hidden there. It was a photograph of the gravestone of a girl called Audur, in a cemetery we still haven't identified. I woke up one of the living dead from the National Statistics Office and found Kolbrun's name on the death certificate. She was the little girl's mother. Audur's mother. She's dead too."Marion said nothing."Marion?" Erlendur said."And what does that tell you?" the voice replied. Erlendur thought."Well, if Holberg raped the mother he may well be the father of the girl and that's why the photo was in his desk. The girl was only 4 years old when she died, born in 1964.""Holberg was never convicted," Marion Briem said. "The case was dropped due to insufficient evidence.""Do you think she made it up?""It would be unlikely in those days, but nothing could be proved. Of course it's never easy for women to press charges for that kind of violence. You can't imagine what she would have gone through almost 40 years ago. It's difficult enough for women to come forward these days, but it was much more difficult then. She could hardly have done it for fun. Maybe the photo's some kind of proof of paternity. Why should Holberg have kept it in his desk? The rape took place in I963. You say Kolbrun had her daughter the following year. Four years later the daughter dies. Kolbrun has her buried. Holberg is implicated somehow. Maybe he took the photo himself. Why, I don't know. Maybe that's irrelevant.""He certainly wouldn't have been at the funeral, but he could have gone to the grave later and taken a photograph. Do you mean something like that?""There's another possibility too.""Yes?""Maybe Kolbrun took the photo herself and sent it to Holberg."Erlendur thought for a moment."But why? If he raped her, why send him a photograph of the little girl's grave?""Good question.""Did the death certificate say what Audur died of?" Marion Briem asked "Was it an accident?""She died of a brain tumour. Do you think that could be important?""Did they perform an autopsy?""Definitely. The doctor's name is on the death certificate.""And the mother?""Died suddenly at her home.""Suicide?""Yes.""You've stopped calling in to see me," Marion Briem said after a short silence."Too busy," Erlendur said. "Too d.a.m.ned busy."

8

Next morning it was still raining and on the road to Keflavik the water collected in deep tyre tracks that the cars tried to avoid. The rain was so torrential Erlendur could hardly see out of the car windows, which were veiled in spray and rattled in the unrelenting south-easterly storm. The wipers couldn't clear the water from the windscreen fast enough and Erlendur gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He could vaguely make out the red rear lights of the car in front and tried to follow them as best he could.He was travelling alone. Thought this was best after a difficult telephone conversation with Kolbrun's sister earlier that morning. She was listed as next of kin on the death certificate. The sister was not cooperative. She refused to meet him. The papers had printed a photograph of the dead man, along with his name. Erlendur asked whether she'd seen it and was about to ask whether she remembered him when she hung up. He decided to test what she would do if he appeared on her doorstep. He preferred not to have the police bring her in to him.Erlendur had slept badly that night. He was worried about Eva Lind and feared she would do something stupid. She had a mobile phone, but every time he called a mechanical voice answered saying that the number could not be reached. Erlendur rarely remembered his dreams. It made him uncomfortable when he awoke to s.n.a.t.c.hes of a bad dream pa.s.sing through his mind before finally vanis.h.i.+ng from him completely.The police had precious little information about Kolbrun. She was born in I934 and brought charges of rape against Holberg on November 23, I963. Before Erlendur set off to Keflavik, Sigurdur oli had outlined the rape charge to him, including a description of the incident taken from a police file he'd found in the archives after a tip-off from Marion Briem.Kolbrun was 30 when she gave birth to her daughter, Audur. Nine months after the rape. According to Kolbrun's witnesses, she'd met Hol-berg at the Cross dancehall between Keflavik and Njardvik. It was a Sat.u.r.day night. Kolbrun didn't know him and had never seen him before. She was with two girlfriends and Holberg and two other men had been with them at the dance that evening. "When it finished they all went to a party at the house of one of Kolbrun's girlfriends. Quite late into the night Kolbrun had got ready to go home. Holberg offered to accompany her, for safety's sake. She didn't object. Neither of them was under the influence of alcohol. Kolbrun stated that she'd had two single vodka and c.o.kes at the dance and nothing after she left. Holberg drank nothing that evening. He said, in Kolbrun's hearing, that he was taking penicillin for an ear infection. A doctor's certificate, included with the charge sheet, confirmed this.Holberg asked if he could phone a taxi to take him to Reykjavik. She hesitated for a moment then told him where the phone was. He went into the sitting room to make this call while she took off her coat in the hallway and then went to the kitchen for a gla.s.s of water. She did not hear him finish his telephone conversation, if indeed there was one. She sensed that he was suddenly behind her as she stood at the kitchen sink.She was so startled that she dropped her gla.s.s, spilling water over the kitchen table. She shouted out when his hands grabbed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and backed away from him into a corner."What are you doing?" she asked."Shouldn't we have a