“Who bugs your gang most?” Sigurdur Oli asked.
“He’s called Raggi,” Kari said. “He’s the main one.”
“Was it him who attacked one of you?”
“Yes.”
Sigurdur Oli noted down the name. The parents exchanged glances as if they felt this had gone on long enough.
“You asked if I’m aware of any prejudice at school,” Kari said, suddenly breaking the silence.
“Yes,” Sigurdur Oli said.
“It’s not just… we say stuff too,” Kari said. “It’s not just them. It’s us too. I don’t know how it started. Niran got into a punch-up with Gummi because of something somebody said. It’s all so stupid.”
“What about the teachers?”
Kari nodded hesitantly.
“They’re all right, though there is one who hates immigrants.”
“Who’s that?”
Kari glanced at his father.
“Kjartan.”
“And what does he do?”
“He can’t stand us,” Kari said.
“In what way? Is it something he says or something he does?”
“He says things when no one else can hear.”
“Like what?”
“ ‘You stink of shit.’ ”
“Are you kidding?” Kari’s father gasped. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“They had an argument,” Kari said.
“Who?”
“Kjartan and Niran. I don’t know what it was about but I think they almost had a scrap or something. Niran didn’t want to talk about it.”
“When was this?”
“The day Elias died.”
The insurance company’s public relations officer sat opposite Elinborg, impeccably dressed and sporting a flamboyant tie. There was nothing on his desk but a keyboard and a flat-screen computer, and on the shelves behind him were a few cardboard boxes containing papers, though most were empty. He didn’t seem to have much to do, unless it was his first day at work. Elinborg explained the purpose of her visit; someone from the company had phoned a specific number; she mentioned Sunee’s name. The police needed to know the identity of the caller, but the list did not show which extension the calls had been made from, only the company’s main switchboard number.
“Is this about the boy who died?” the smart PR man asked.
“That’s right,” Elinborg said.
“And you want to know … ?”
“Whether someone from this office has been phoning his home,” Elinborg said.
“I see,” the PR man said. “You want to know which extension the calls were made from.”
As she had already explained this, Elinborg wondered whether he was being abnormally reluctant or was simply so pleased at finally having something to do that he was determined to spin it out.
She nodded.
“Firstly, we need to know if the woman holds an insurance policy with the company.”
“What’s her name?” the PR man asked, placing beautifully manicured hands on the keyboard.
Elinborg told him.
“No one here by that name,” he said.
“Have you had a sales campaign, cold-calling people or the like, during the last month?”
“No, the last campaign was three months ago. There’s been nothing since then.”
“Then I’ll have to ask you to keep your ear to the ground for us and find out if any employee of this office knows the woman. How will you go about that?”
“I’ll ask around,” the PR man said, leaning back in his chair.
“Keep it low-key, though,” Elinborg said. “We only want to talk to the individual concerned. That’s all. He’s not under suspicion. He could be a friend of Sunee’s, possibly her boyfriend. Do you think you could make some discreet enquiries for me?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” the PR man said.
Erlendur rang the doorbell. He heard a squeaking noise from inside the flat as he pressed the bell. Time passed and he rang again. The same squeaking noise. He listened hard. Soon he heard a rustling from inside and finally the door opened. Erlendur had obviously woken the man, although it was midday, but since he appeared to be an old-age pensioner, he could presumably sleep whenever he liked.
Erlendur introduced himself but the man was not yet properly awake, so he was forced to repeat that he was from the police and wanted to know if the man could help him with a minor matter. The man stood at the door and stared at him. Evidently he was not accustomed to receiving a stream of visitors. The bell probably squeaked like that from lack of use.
“Huuhh… eh… ?” the man said hoarsely, peering at him. His jaw was covered in white stubble.
Erlendur repeated his spiel and the man finally grasped the fact that he had a visitor. Opening the door wider, he invited Erlendur in. He was rather dishevelled, his white hair sticking up in all directions, and his flat was a tip, the air a stale fug. They went into the sitting room where the man sat down on the sofa and leaned forwards. Erlendur took a seat facing him. He noticed that the man had enormous eyebrows; when he moved them they looked like two small furry animals squirming above his eyes.
“I haven’t quite grasped what’s going on,” the man said. His name, it transpired, was Helgi. “What do the police want with me?”
The flat was one of several in an old building near a busy road in the eastern part of town. The rumble of traffic was clearly audible. The house was showing its age both outside and inside. It had not been particularly well maintained and large patches of concrete had flaked off the facade; not that any of the residents seemed to care. The stairs were narrow and squalid, the carpet full of holes, and it was dark in the flat, despite the daylight outside, the windows grimy from exhaust fumes.
“You’ve lived in this house a long time,” Erlendur commented, watching the small furry animals above the man’s eyes. “I wanted to ask you if you remember some neighbours of yours from many years ago. A woman with one child, a boy. She may have lived with a man, who would have been the boy’s step-father. It was a long time ago. We’re talking — what? — thirty-five years.”
The man looked at Erlendur without speaking. A long moment passed and Erlendur thought perhaps he had nodded off with his eyes open.
“They lived on the ground floor,” he added.
“What about them?” the man said. So he had not been asleep after all, merely trying to recall the family.
“Nothing,” Erlendur said. “There’s some information we need to pass on to the stepfather, that’s all. The woman died some time ago.”
And the child?”
“It was the child who asked us to trace the man,” Erlendur lied. “Do you remember these people, by any chance? They lived on the ground floor.”
The man continued to stare at Erlendur without saying a word.
A woman with one son?” he asked at last.
And a stepfather.”
“It’s a hell of a long time ago,” the man said, beginning to wake up properly from his nap.
“I know,” Erlendur said.
And what, wasn’t he registered as living there with her?”
“No, there’s no one registered at the flat during the time she lived there apart from her and her son. But we know this man was living with her.”
Erlendur waited.
“We need the name of the stepfather,” he added, when it became apparent that Helgi was not going to volunteer anything else, merely sit there motionless, staring vacantly at the coffee table.
“Doesn’t the child know?” Helgi asked after a pause.
Ah, so he is awake after all, Erlendur thought.
“The child was young,” he said, hoping that this answer would satisfy the man.
“There’s a bunch of riff-raff living downstairs now,” Helgi said, continuing to stare absent-mindedly at the table in front of him. “A pack of yobbos, up all hours making a racket. Doesn’t matter how many times I phone you lot, it’s not the blindest bit of use. One of those hooligans owns the flat, so it’s impossible to turf him out”
“One’s not always lucky with one’s neighbours,” Erlendur said, for the sake of saying something. “Can you help us out at all with this man?”