“What?” Sigurdur Oli began to object but shut up at once. After staring first at Erlendur, then at Andres, he walked out without another word. Andres jeered.
“Yeah, get out of here,” he called after him.
“Why won’t you help us?” Erlendur asked when Sigurdur Oli had gone.
“It’s none of your business what I do,” Andres said, turning back to the glare of the television.
“Are you lying to us, Andres?”
The glow from the screen flickered over the little flat, illuminating the squalor and neglect. Erlendur felt uncomfortable. There was nothing here but self-destruction.
“I’m not lying,” Andres said.
“What kind of man is he, this bloke who calls himself Rognvaldur?” Erlendur asked. “Who is he?”
Andres did not answer.
“You told us you had seen him again recently. Do you know where he is?”
“I haven’t a clue,” Andres said. “I’m not going to help you with this. Do you understand?”
“When did you first notice him in the neighbourhood?”
“A year ago.”
“And you’ve been watching him ever since?”
“I’m not going to help you.”
“Do you know where he works? What he does during the day? What he does for a living? Does he work?”
Andres did not answer.
Erlendur reached into his pocket and took out the photograph of the man who had gone by the name of Rognvaldur when he lived with Andres’s mother. He took another brief glance at the face of the man he was looking for, then held the picture over the high back of the TV chair. Andres took it.
“Is that him?” Erlendur asked.
Andres did not answer.
“Do you recognise the man in the photograph?”
“That’s him,” Andres said at last.
“Did he look like that when you knew him?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“What kind of man is he?” Erlendur repeated. “What can you tell me about him?”
Andres did not reply. Erlendur could see nothing but the top of his head over the chair but guessed that he was holding the picture in front of him.
“Is he capable of killing a child?” Erlendur asked.
Some time passed, then the chair began to swivel round from the television again and Andres reappeared. He was no longer grinning. His face wore a drawn, sober expression as he met Erlendur’s eye. He handed back the picture.
“I believe he’s capable,” Andres said. “Maybe he already did. Years ago.”
“What do you mean? Maybe he did what?”
“Fuck off. You’re not getting any more out of me. Get out of here. This is my affair. I’ll sort it out.”
“What did he do?”
“Fuck off and leave me alone,” Andres said.
“Are you saying he’s a murderer?”
Andres turned back to the television and, despite all his attempts, Erlendur could not extract another word from him about the man who lived on Sunee’s landing.
23
One of the younger employees at the recycling depot was feeling quite satisfied with his day. He had found two vinyl records that were well worth keeping. Of course, he was supposed to hand them in to the market at which useful goods from the recycling depot were sold, instead of taking them home with him. But no one kept tabs on what people salvaged from the dump. In fact, anybody could wander round the depot and have a rummage. Sometimes record collectors almost ended up in the crusher. Book collectors too. All sorts. Later he would take the two records to a collectors” shop and get a good price for them. He was not especially interested in records or music but after working for two years at the depot he knew what was valuable. One day he had come across a whole set of golf clubs by the scrap-metal container, which someone had forgotten to put back in the car after throwing away their rubbish. The bag was rather tatty but otherwise the set was in excellent condition and he sold it later for a tidy sum. He got an especially good deal on the “driver’. Two days after he found the set the owner came looking for it but the poor man was easily fobbed off with the lie that unfortunately the clubs had probably ended up in the rubbish.
During his time at the depot he had learned to keep an eye out for useful objects, things he might be able to sell or use himself. He knew some of the collectors complained that not everything ended up on the second-hand market according to the rules but he did not give a toss about those weirdos. He had a nice little sideline in watching what people threw out, and, after all, it was not as if the company was generous with its wages. It was shitty pay for a shitty job.
He never ceased to be surprised by what people threw away. They would chuck out literally anything. He was not much of a reader himself but he saw vans bringing whole libraries that people wanted to clear out, as well as apparently intact furniture, perfectly good clothes, kitchen appliances, even relatively new audio equipment.
It had been quite busy that day, despite the cold and the northerly gale that ripped and tore at his blue overalls. People threw out rubbish all day long, all year round, whatever the weather. Vans brought the personal effects of the recently deceased, someone was getting rid of a bath, others were replacing their kitchen units. And then there was the drink-can gang. Receiving cans and bottles was his least favourite job. They were always trying to lie about the number. Sometimes when he could be bothered to count out the contents of the bags (nice clean job that was), their estimate would turn out to be wildly different from his calculation. And they were not even abashed. Just grinned and acted all surprised.
A car drove up to the gate and halted by the large sign that directed everyone to stop and await instructions. Most obeyed. When he saw that no one else was going to attend to the driver, he slouched over.
“I’ve got an old bed here,” the man said as he lowered the window.
He was in a large jeep and had broken up the bed to fit it in the back. No use to anyone then.
“Does it come with the mattress and everything?” he asked.
“Yes, the lot,” the man said.
“Straight on, mattress on the right, planks on the left, okay?”
The man wound up his window. The employee watched him go, then put his head round the door of the staff hut by the gate. The seven o’clock news was just beginning and he wondered if he should step into the warmth for a minute. He could not hear the television but could see the screen: crowds throwing stones in the Middle East, the American president giving a speech, Icelandic sheep, a knife on a table, an Icelandic cabinet minister cutting a ribbon, the president of Iceland receiving guests …
Another car pulled up at the gate. Window down.
“I’ve got a fridge,” the man said.
“Does it work?” he asked. He always checked on the refrigerators to see if they were in working order as he could use a decent one himself.
“Completely caput, I’m afraid,” the man said with a smile.
He noticed out of the corner of his eye that the knife had reappeared on the TV screen and all of a sudden he had the feeling that he had seen it before.
“Where do I go with the fridge?” the driver asked.
“Over there, to the right,” he said, pointing to where kitchen appliances stood around, forlorn and abandoned in the howling gale.
He hurried into the hut and sat down in front of the little television set. The newsreader was saying that the murder weapon could possibly look like this; it was a wood-carving knife of the type used in school carpentry workshops. He knew what murder they were talking about: the Asian boy by the block of flats. He had seen the news footage.
He took the knife out of its sheath and examined it. It was identical to the knife on TV. He had found it in the scrap-metal container and made a sheath for it. Then he had found a belt which he now wore over his overalls, with the sheath fixed to it and the knife in the sheath. It made an excellent tool for cutting string, opening bags of drink-cans, or simply whittling bits of wood in the hut when business was slow. He stared at the knife in his hand as gradually it dawned on him that he might be holding a murder weapon.