“Sigga and Leifi’s daughter,” he said eventually.
“No!” their mother gasped. “You can’t mean it? Dagga? Little Dagga?”
Erlendur saw his mother sink slowly onto the kitchen bench, staring at the stranger in horror.
“We can’t find Leifi,” the visitor said. “He’s out there somewhere with a shotgun. He may come this way too. If you see him, try to talk him out of it. He’ll only make matters worse by going after this man. Sigga said he was beside himself.”
“Oh, the poor man!” Erlendur heard his mother whisper.
“I can understand him only too well,” their father said.
Erlendur didn’t know what to do as he stood rooted to the spot by the kitchen door. Bergur was on his feet beside him. He did not understand the seriousness of the matter, but he wanted to hold his brother’s hand and slipped his little paw into Erlendur’s. Erlendur looked down at him and again gave him a sign not to make a sound. He heard their father put the question that had begun to prey on his own mind.
Are we in any danger?”
“I don’t think so,” the stranger said. “But all the same it makes sense to take care. You never know when something like this happens. I wanted you to know. I’ve still got one more place to visit, then—”
A chair scraped on the kitchen floor, the visitor was standing up. Erlendur squeezed his brother’s hand and they fled back down the passage to their room and shut the door behind them. They heard their parents say goodbye to the man at the front door and when they looked out of the window they saw a shadowy figure stride swiftly to the car and climb inside. The engine started, the headlights came on and the car drove off and disappeared down the drive.
Erlendur opened the door a crack and peered out. He saw his parents talking quietly by the front door, then his father did something he had never done before: he thoroughly locked both the front door and the back door to the laundry. His mother checked the windows and firmly closed those that were open. When he saw her heading his way, he and Bergur leaped into bed just before the door opened and she appeared in the gap to check on them. She came into the room and made sure that the window was locked. Then she tiptoed out again and shut the door.
Erlendur could not sleep. He heard his parents whispering in the kitchen but did not dare go out to them. His brother, who understood nothing, soon dozed off but Erlendur lay wide awake in the darkness, dwelling on thoughts about the murderer who might be heading towards their house, about the girl’s father, hunting for him with a shotgun, beside himself with rage and hatred and grief. He listened as the night sounds magnified around him. What had previously been the friendly creaking of a loose sheet of corrugated iron out in the sheepsheds now became blood-curdling proof that someone was lurking outside. If he heard the bleating of a ewe he was sure it was the murderer on the prowl. A gust of wind against the house made his stomach lurch.
He pictured Dagga and the filleting knife, visualising the grisly scene until he thought his heart would burst. They knew the girl well. She was from a neighbouring fjord, the daughter of friends, and had babysat for the brothers on several occasions when their parents had to go out.
Erlendur had never before heard of the existence of crime, let alone murder, but in an instant that evening this changed and his world became a different and more pitiless place. There was some destructive force in humans whose existence he had never suspected before, a force he feared and could not comprehend. The following day his parents talked to him and Bergur about what had happened but spared them the details. They stayed inside all day. Erlendur asked why men did such things but his parents had no answers. He kept up an endless stream of questions; he wanted to understand what had happened even though it was incomprehensible, but his parents could not give him the answers he was looking for. He discovered that the man with the gold ring and black shoes was the local magistrate. The radio news reported the murder and the exhaustive hunt that was now under way for the man who had committed the atrocity. As the family sat in the kitchen listening, Erlendur saw the anxiety on his parents” faces, sensed the horror and grief and devastation and knew that from now on nothing would ever be the same again.
The murderer was apprehended two days later in the northern town of Akureyri. He had never been anywhere near them. People were certain that if the girl’s father had found him first he would have shot the killer dead. The father had roamed around with his gun all night and half the next day before he was picked up by the police, a broken man.
It was then that Erlendur learned of the existence of something called murder. Later he had stood face to face with murderers and although he did not show it, he sometimes felt deep down just as he had done that evening when the magistrate came on his unexpected visit and warned them about the man with the filleting knife.
21
Erlendur heard the phone through his sleep. It took him a long time to surface. He had nodded off in his chair and his whole body ached. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was well past nine. He looked out of the window and for a moment did not know if it was night or day. The ringing persisted and he got laboriously to his feet to answer.
“Were you asleep?”
Sigurdur Oli was a famous early bird who generally arrived at work long before anyone else, after an energetic swim in one of the city’s many pools and a hearty breakfast.
“What now?” Erlendur grunted, still half asleep.
“I should put you onto the new granola I had this morning, it sets you up for the day.”
“Sigurdur.”
“Yes?”
“Is there something you want to tell me before I-?”
“It’s the scratch,” Sigurdur Oli said hurriedly.
“What about it?”
“Three other cars were vandalised in the vicinity of the school over the preceding few days,” Sigurdur Oli said. “It emerged this morning at a meeting where your presence was sorely missed.”
“Was it the same sort of damage?”
“Yes. Scratches all along the bodywork.”
“Do we know who did it?”
“No, not yet. Forensics are examining the other cars, if they haven’t been resprayed already. It’s conceivable that the same instrument was used. And another thing: Kjartan has given us permission to examine his Volvo. He claims that Elias never set foot in his car but I thought it would be better to make sure.”
“Is he being cooperative?” Erlendur asked.
“Well, a bit better,” Sigurdur Oli said. “And there’s one more thing.”
“You’ve been very busy. Is it the granular?”
“Granola,” Sigurdur Oli corrected him. “Maybe we should take a closer look at Niran’s relationship with his stepfather.”
“In what way?”
Erlendur was waking up. He should not have been caught napping at home like this and knew he deserved Sigurdur Oli’s teasing.
“Elinborg thinks we should have another chat with Odinn. I’m going to drop round and see him. To ask about Niran.”
“Do you think he’ll be home?”
“Yes. I phoned just now.”
“See you there, then.”
Odinn was looking unkempt, his eyes were bloodshot and his voice hoarse. He had been granted compassionate leave from work and dropped round to see Sunee from time to time with his mother but mostly stayed at home waiting for news. He invited Erlendur and Sigurdur Oli into his living room and put on some coffee.
“Tell us a bit about Niran,” Erlendur said when Odinn sat down with them in the living room.
“What about Niran?”
“What kind of boy is he?”
“A very ordinary boy,” Odinn said. “Should he be somehow … ? What do you mean?”
“Did you have a good relationship?”
“You couldn’t really say that. I had nothing to do with him.”