“No one’s saying it was you,” Erlendur said.
“It wasn’t me.”
“Do you know of any … ?” Erlendur paused. He was going to ask if there had been any altercations between Elias and anyone in particular at the school, but was uncertain whether she would understand the word “altercation’. So he began again: “Do you know if Elias had any particular enemies at the school?”
“No,” the girl said. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about this Elias kid. I’m not dealing there. That’s just bullshit!”
“Did you try to sell him dope?” Elinborg asked.
“What sort of cunt are you?” the girl snarled. “I don’t talk to cunts like you.”
Elinborg smiled.
“Did you sell him dope?” she asked again. “We’ve heard that you force the younger kids to give you money. You even force them to buy dope from you. Maybe your sister’s taught you how to go about it, because she’s experienced and knows how to make the kids scared of her. Maybe you’re scared of big sister too. We don’t give a damn about that. We couldn’t care less about a girl like you—”
“Hey, listen …” the child welfare officer objected.
“You heard what she called me,” Elinborg said, slowly turning her head to the welfare officer, a woman of about thirty. “You kept your mouth shut then and you should keep it shut now as well. We want to know if Elias was scared of you,” she continued, looking back at Heddy. “If you chased him to frighten him and stabbed him with a knife. We know that you like preying on smaller kids, because that’s the only thing you’re any good at in this miserable existence of yours. Did you attack Elias too?”
Heddy stared at Elinborg.
“No,” she said after a long silence. “I never went near him.”
“Do you know his brother?” Erlendur asked.
“I know Niran,” she said.
“How do you know Niran? Are you friends?”
“No way,” she said, “we’re not friends. I hate gooks. Never go near them. Not that Elias either. I never went near him and I don’t know who attacked him.”
“Why did you say that you know Niran?”
The girl smiled, revealing adult teeth that were completely out of proportion with her small mouth and childlike face.
“They’re the ones who sell,” she said. “They sell the fucking dope. The fucking gooks!”
Marion Briem was asleep when Erlendur visited the hospital towards evening. Peace reigned in the terminal ward. A radio was switched on somewhere, broadcasting the weather report. The temperature had dropped to ten degrees below, exacerbated by the dry northerly wind. Few people went out in such cold. They stayed at home, switched on all the lights and turned up the central heating. The television showed sunny films from Spain and Italy featuring blue skies, Mediterranean warmth and vibrant colours.
Marion’s eyes opened when Erlendur had been standing at the foot of the bed for several minutes. One hand lay on the duvet and lifted up excruciatingly slowly. After a moment’s hesitation Erlendur moved closer, took hold of the hand and sat down by the bedside.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
Marion’s eyes closed and that big head shook as if it did not matter any more. The moment of departure was approaching. There was not much time left. Erlendur noticed a small handheld mirror on the table by Marion’s bedside and wondered what it was doing there. He had never known Marion to care for appearances.
“The case?” Marion said. “What’s happening in the case?”
Erlendur knew precisely what was expected of him. Even at death’s door, Marion was absorbed in the latest investigation. From the weary eyes that rested on him, Erlendur read the question that he had been asking himself, sleeping and waking: who could do such a thing? How could something like this happen?
Erlendur began to report the progress of the investigation. Marion listened with eyes closed again. Erlendur did not know whether his old boss was asleep. He had slight pangs of conscience about not necessarily visiting Marion for purely compassionate reasons. He longed to ask the dying patient about something he knew he would never find in the police records. Erlendur took his time. It helped him, too, to go through the case slowly. Once during the account, Marion’s eyes opened and Erlendur thought he should stop, only to be given a sign to continue.
“There’s one point I need to ask you about,” Erlendur said when he had finally completed his story about the visit to Andres. Marion seemed to be sleeping, with eyes closed and breathing barely perceptible. The hand that Erlendur held was limp. But it was as if Marion realised that Erlendur was not merely making a courtesy call. Those tired eyes opened a fraction and the grip on Erlendur’s hand tightened, as a signal to goon.
“It’s about Andres,” Erlendur said.
Marion squeezed his hand.
“He told us about a man he knew and implied that he was a paedophile, but would not reveal his identity. He did something to Andres when he was a child. All we know is that this man lives in the neighbourhood where the murder was committed. We have no name and no description. I don’t think he’s on our register. Andres told us he was too clever for that. I was wondering if you could help us. The investigation is all over the place at the moment and we have to examine anything we find suspicious. I don’t have to tell you that. You know it. We’re in a hurry as usual. But more than ever this time. I thought you might be able to help us with a shortcut.”
A long silence followed Erlendur’s words. He thought that Marion had dozed off. The hand he was holding had gone slack and peace had descended over his former boss’s face.
“Andres … ?” Marion said at last. It was more like a groan or a sigh.
“I checked,” Erlendur said. “He was born and bred in the capital. If anything happened it was most likely here in Reykjavik. We don’t know. Andres is silent as the grave.”
Marion said nothing. Erlendur thought the situation was hopeless. He had not really expected anything, but felt it was worth a try. He knew Marion Briem’s capacities, that memory and the talent for making the most unlikely connections in an instant. Perhaps he was taking advantage of his ex-boss. Perhaps this was going too far. He decided to forget it. Marion should be allowed to die in peace.
“He had . . .” Marion strained to say, and the grip on Erlendur’s hand tightened.
“What? What did he have?”
Erlendur thought he could discern a hint of a smile playing across Marion’s face. At first he thought he was imagining this, but became convinced that Marion was actually smiling.
“… stepfather,” Marion gasped.
Silence again.
“Erlendur,” Marion said after a long while. The patient’s eyes remained closed but a grimace slowly appeared.
“Yes,” Erlendur said.
“There’s … no … time …” Marion whispered.
“I know,” Erlendur said. “I …”
He was lost for words. He did not know how to say goodbye, could not find a way to express a last farewell. What was there to say? Marion was still holding his hand. Erlendur struggled for words, for something he thought Marion would want to hear. When he found nothing he sat in silence holding that old hand with its yellow nicotine stains and long nails.
“Read to … me,” Marion said.
Marion’s final ounce of strength went into those words. Erlendur leaned forward to hear better.
“Read …”
Marion groped helplessly for the mirror on the bedside table.
Erlendur picked up the mirror and put it into Marion’s hands to prop up and confront the face of death.
Erlendur took out a book he had brought with him. It was dog-eared and tattered. He opened it at a page he had often consulted and began to read.
For centuries a mountain path lay from Eskifjordur to Fljotsdalsherad across Eskifjordur moor. It was an old horse-track skirting north of the Eskifordur River, inland along the ridge Langihryggur, up the river Innri-Steinsa through Vinardalur valley and over Vinarbrekkur slopes to Midheidarendi, and from there up to the Urdarflot plateau and along the cliffs of Urdarklettur to the boundary of the Eskifjordur district. Thverardalur valley bisects the mountains Andri and Hardskafi to the north, and Holafjall and Selheidi even further north.