“What about the mother?”
“I never saw her,” Egill said. “They used to call him something, the old man. Some plumbing term. My brother’s a plumber and recognised him immediately. What was it again that they used to call him?”
Erlendur glanced sideways at the red lump. It was turning paler again.
“Why can’t I remember that?” Egill said.
“I don’t need to know,” Erlendur said.
“Yes. Now I remember. They called him Permaflush.”
Finnur, the third-form teacher, was sitting in the staff room. His class was having a music lesson and he was marking papers when Elinborg disturbed him. The school secretary had told her where to find him.
“I understand you’ve been involved in a dispute with another teacher here by the name of Kjartan,” Elinborg said after introducing herself.
“There’s certainly no love lost between Kjartan and me,” Finnur said. He was in his early thirties, thin, with a mop of dark hair and wearing a fleece jacket and jeans.
“What happened?”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Yes. My colleague did.”
“And?”
“And nothing. What happened?”
“Kjartan’s an idiot,” Finnur said. “He shouldn’t be allowed to teach. But that’s just my opinion.”
“Did he make some kind of remark?”
“He always does. But he makes sure he doesn’t go too far, because then he’d risk losing his job at this school. He’s not such a coward one-to-one.”
“What did he say?”
“It was about immigrants, the children of immigrants. I don’t think it has anything to do with this tragic incident.” Finnur hesitated. “I knew he was trying to wind me up. I think it’s fine for people from other countries to move here and I don’t care in the slightest why they come, as long as they’re not outright criminals. It doesn’t matter whether they’re from Europe or Asia. We need them and they enrich our culture. Kjartan wants to close the country to immigrants. We argued about that as usual, but he was exceptionally tetchy.”
“When was this?”
“Yesterday morning. But we’re always arguing. We can hardly see each other these days without flaring up.”
“Have you often clashed?”
Finnur nodded.
“As a rule, teachers are very egalitarian and don’t want or understand anything else. They look after the children, make sure there’s no discrimination of any kind. We take a pride in it, it’s sacrosanct really.”
“But Kjartan’s an exception?”
“He’s totally unbearable. I ought to lodge a complaint against him with the Education Board. We have no business employing teachers like him.”
“Is-?” Elinborg began.
“It’s probably because of my brother,” Finnur interrupted. “His wife’s from Thailand. That’s why Kjartan is always having a go at me. My brother met a woman in Thailand eight years ago. They have two daughters. They’re the best people I’ve ever met. So maybe I have a vested interest. I can’t stand the way he talks and he knows that.”
10
Erlendur’s mobile rang as he got out of Egill’s car. It was Gudny, the interpreter, who was back at Sunee’s flat. Erlendur had asked her to be at Sunee’s beck and call, day and night, and to contact him if anything happened. Niran had woken up after a rough night, she reported. His condition was unchanged. He refused to talk to anyone. Sunee insisted that he be left alone. She did not want any experts around him. She did not want any such visitors, or police officers, roaming in and out of the flat. Erlendur said he would drop in on them shortly, and they rang off.
Elinborg and Sigurdur Oli were still gathering information from Elias’s classmates when Erlendur returned to the school. He watched them for a while. The children appeared to be making all manner of complaints about each other, but these rarely involved Elias directly. Someone had teased two girls, someone else had been kept out of a game of football, someone else had thrown a snowball so viciously at a boy’s leg that it made him cry, but not Elias. Sigurdur Oli looked over to Erlendur and made a gesture to say that it would all take its time. The children were appalled at Elias’s death and some of them were crying.
Erlendur phoned the head of the narcotics squad and asked him to investigate any drug offences that had occurred in the neighbourhood and might conceivably be linked to the school playground.
The principal looked rough and haggard, as if he had not slept well that night. Waiting in front of his office were people from the church and parents” association, as well as representatives from the police who were going to address the children in the assembly hall at lunchtime. They all crowded round the principal, who seemed to have no control over the situation whatsoever. The matter seemed too much for him to handle. His secretary appeared and informed him of some urgent telephone calls that he had to take, but the principal waved her away. Erlendur looked at the group and backed away. He followed the secretary and found out where he could locate Niran’s form teacher.
The secretary looked at Erlendur dithering in front of her.
“Was there anything else?” she asked.
“Would you call this a multicultural school?” Erlendur asked finally.
“You could say that,” the secretary said. “Just over ten per cent of the pupils are not of Icelandic origin.”
“And are people happy with that arrangement, as a rule?”
“It works very well.”
“No particular problems on that account?”
“None worth mentioning, I don’t think,” she added as if in apology.
Niran’s form teacher, a woman of about thirty, was clearly shocked at the news about Elias like everyone else. A media debate had already begun about the situation of immigrants and the responsibility of society, and endless experts were called in to testify to all the gains that had been made and what must be done to prevent such an episode repeating itself. They were trying to pin the blame somewhere: had the system failed the immigrants, was this merely the thin end of the wedge? There was talk of underlying racial tensions that had flared up, and the need to respond through public debate and education — make better use of the school system to publicise, to inform and to eradicate prejudice.
Teaching was under way in Niran’s class when Erlendur knocked on the door. He apologised for the disturbance. The teacher gave him a weak smile and, catching on immediately, asked him to wait just a moment. Shortly afterwards she followed him out into the corridor. She introduced herself as Edda Bra and her petite hand vanished in Erlendur’s palm when they exchanged greetings. She had cropped hair, wore a thick pullover and jeans, and had a serious expression on her face.
“I hardly know what to say about Niran,” she said without preamble, as if she had been expecting the police sooner or later. Or perhaps she was simply in a hurry. Her form was waiting for her.
“Niran can be difficult and I sometimes need to pay him special attention,” she continued. “He can hardly write Icelandic and doesn’t speak the language that well, so he’s difficult to communicate with. He does little or no homework and seems to have absolutely no interest in studying. I never taught his brother but I understand he was very sweet. Niran’s different. He can get the other boys” backs up. Gets into fights. The last one was the day before yesterday. I know it’s difficult for children to change schools and he’s had a rough time right from the beginning.”
“He came to this country at the age of nine and never managed to fit in properly,” Erlendur said.
“He’s not alone in that,” the teacher said. “It can be difficult for the older kids who come here and can’t relate to anything.”