Pensively, he shoved the phone back in his pocket. Why was the woman calling him? She disclosed no information. She did not tell him why she was in hiding. She did not mention her husband or reveal anything about what she was thinking. Maybe she felt it was enough to let him know that she was alive. She might even be trying to prevent him from looking for her. What was she concealing? Why had she left him?
He had got little response when he put the same questions to her husband. The man shook his head as if he had no idea what was going on. It was almost his sole reaction to the disappearance. It was not until after New Year that Erlendur met his ex-wives and asked them what they thought could have happened. One received him at her home in Hafnarfjordur; her husband was abroad on business. The woman was eager to help Erlendur with his inquiries, eager to tell him what a shit her ex-husband was. He listened to the diatribe, then asked her if she thought her ex was capable of harming his new wife. The answer came instantly.
“No question,” she said. “I’m certain of it.”
“Why?”
“Men like him,” she said contemptuously, “they’re capable of anything.”
“Have you any proof of what you say?”
“No,” the woman said, “I just know. He’s the type. I bet he’s started sleeping around again. Men like that never give up. It’s like a disease. It’s like a disease with those bastards.”
The other woman was more informative when she came, at her own request, to see Erlendur down at the station. She did not want him to come to her house. He described the case to her and she listened attentively, especially when he began to hint at the possibility that her ex-husband might be involved in his new wife’s disappearance.
“Have you no idea what happened to her?” she asked, her eyes wandering around the office.
“Do you think he could have done something to her?” Erlendur asked.
“Is that what you think?”
“We don’t think anything,” Erlendur said.
“Yes you do or you wouldn’t be asking.”
“It’s simply a routine inquiry,” Erlendur said. “We try to consider every angle. It has no bearing on what we do or don’t think.”
“You think he killed her,” the woman said, seeming to perk up.
“I don’t think anything,” Erlendur said, more firmly this time.
“He’s capable of anything,” the woman said.
“Why do you say that?”
“He once threatened me,” she said. “Threatened to kill me. I refused to divorce him so he could get married for a third time to that bitch you’re looking for. I said I’d never give him a divorce and he’d never be able to marry again. I was very angry, maybe even hysterical. A friend of mine told me about the affair, she’d heard people gossiping about it at work and told me. Everyone knew but me. Do you know how humiliating it is when everyone knows except the person who’s being cheated on? I went berserk. He hit me. Then he said he’d kill me if I put up any fucking obstacles.”
“He threatened to kill you?”
“He said he’d throttle me nice and slow till I was dead.”
Erlendur started out of his musings. He looked down at the book he had been perusing and his thoughts returned to the name recorded under the minutes. He remembered who it might be. Sigurdur Oli had mentioned the name and how bad-tempered and unpleasant he had been. If it was the same man, Erlendur would have to bring forward the interview he had scheduled with Kjartan, the school’s Icelandic teacher.
His mobile rang. It was Elinborg. She had a printout listing Sunee’s incoming calls over the last month. Some were from her ex-mother-in-law, others from the chocolate factory or friends, and twice she had been called from the school.
“Then the same number crops up eight times.”
“Whose is it?”
“It’s a business number. An insurance company. It’s the only unexpected number on this list, as far as I can see. There aren’t many numbers.”
“Have you asked Sunee about it?”
“She claims not to recognise it. Says she vaguely remembers someone trying to sell insurance.”
“Do you think it’s the boyfriend?”
“We’ll soon find out.”
17
Ever since news of Elias’s murder had passed like wildfire round the country, a steady trickle of people had been coming to the block of flats to lay flowers and cards on the spot where his body was found. Toys, teddy bears and model cars could be glimpsed among the bouquets. A memorial service was to be held for Elias in the garden that evening.
Elinborg and Sigurdur Oli were busy in the area. Twice they drove past and saw people laying flowers on the spot. Most of their day was spent interviewing Niran’s friends individually. Their accounts tallied in all the main details; none of them admitted to knowing Niran’s movements on the afternoon Elias was attacked, nor could they say where Sunee might have taken him. They flatly denied selling drugs at the school, dismissing it as a lie, and although they admitted that they had once come to blows in the school playground, they insisted that it had not been their fault. None of them had seen Elias that day. Two of them had hung around with Niran for a while after school but parted from him at about the time Elias was found. They had been by the chemist’s. The two of them had spent the rest of the day together and seen no more of Niran. None was aware that Elias had any particular problems at school. They claimed they’d had no contact with Niran since Elias was found. As far as they knew, the brothers had a very good relationship.
The most talkative and helpful of the boys was called Kari. He seemed genuinely willing to help the police, whereas the other three were very reluctant, gave curt answers and volunteered nothing unless specifically asked. Kari’s manner was different. Sigurdur Oli saw him last and was prepared for a fairly brief interview but it turned out to be quite the opposite. The boy was accompanied by his parents; his mother was from Thailand and his father from Iceland. They knew Sunee and her brother and talked of the tragic, incomprehensible event.
“Mostly people just go on about having nothing against immigrants,” the man said. He was an engineer and had taken time off work to provide moral support for his son. He sat at the kitchen table, a tallish, rather overweight figure, with his wife who was small and petite with a friendly, smiling face. The police had contacted them and both were clearly very concerned. The woman had also cut short her day at work as departmental manager at a pharmaceuticals company. The man was talking about his experience of Icelanders, as the husband of a foreigner.
Sigurdur Oli nodded. He was alone. Elinborg had been called away to deal with another matter.
“We say we have nothing against Asian immigrants, nothing against people coming over from Asia and settling here. It’s exciting to eat out at Thai restaurants and experience an exotic culture, listen to different music. But when it comes to the crunch people always say that we shouldn’t let in “too many” of those people,” the man said, making a sign for quotation marks with his fingers.
“We’ve discussed it so often,” the woman said, looking at her husband. “I suppose it’s understandable in a way. There are so few Icelanders; they’re proud of their heritage and want to preserve it. Their tiny population makes them vulnerable to change. Then along come the immigrants and spoil everything. Many of the people who move here become isolated, whether they’re from Asia or wherever, they never learn the language properly and remain outsiders. Others do a better job of fitting in; they realise how important it is and really work at it. Learning the language is absolutely key.”
Her husband nodded. Kari sat looking down at the floor, awaiting his turn.
“Wasn’t there something about that on the news the other day?” the man said. “Some problem with the Icelanders living in Denmark. Their children refused to learn Danish. That’s no different, is it?”