‘You were bad news,’ Halldóra said in a low voice. ‘That’s what Dad always said. Bad news.’
‘Things could have been different,’ Erlendur said. ‘If you’d shown the slightest understanding for how I felt. But it was too painful and you became bitter and full of hate and you still are. You wouldn’t let me near the children. Don’t you think it’s gone far enough? Don’t you think you could let up on the recriminations?’
‘Go ahead – blame it all on me!’
‘I’m not.’
‘Sure you are.’
‘Can’t we do something for Eva?’
‘I don’t see how. I have no interest in salving your conscience.’
‘Can’t we even try?’
‘It’s too late.’
‘It wasn’t supposed to be like this,’ Erlendur said.
‘What do I know about that? It was your doing.’
Halldóra took her packet of cigarettes and lighter and stood up.
‘The whole thing was your doing,’ she hissed and stormed out.
17
Every now and then over the next few days Erlendur dropped into the Central Bus Station in search of Tryggvi. All he had to go on was the rather vague description given to him by Rúdólf at the Napoleon, which he hoped would be sufficient. The third time he arrived at the long-distance coach station, passengers were being called for the bus to Akureyri. A small group of people began to gather up their belongings in the departure lounge. The lunchtime rush hour was over and the cafeteria, which served hot meals, soft drinks and sandwiches, was quiet. Smoking was permitted at tables over by the windows facing the bus stands behind the terminal. A man was sitting there alone, clutching a yellow plastic bag that he had placed on the table. He was watching the passengers boarding the Akureyri bus. His hair was rough, there was a big scar on his chin from an old accident or knife wound, and his hands were large and dirty, the nails black on his index and middle fingers.
‘Excuse me,’ Erlendur said, approaching him, ‘you’re not Tryggvi, by any chance?’
The man eyed him suspiciously.
‘Who are you?’
‘My name’s Erlendur.’
‘Huh…’ the man grunted, apparently uninterested in strangers who addressed him out of the blue.
‘Can I offer you a coffee or something to eat?’ Erlendur asked.
‘What do you want?’
‘I just wanted a bit of a chat with you. I hope that’s all right.’
The man gave him a calculating look.
‘A bit of a chat?’
‘If that’s all right.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘Can I get you something?’
The man gave Erlendur a long look, uncertain how to react to this interruption.
‘You can buy me a schnapps,’ he said at last.
Erlendur gave him a chilly smile and, after a moment’s hesitation, went over to the counter. He asked for a double brennivín and two coffees. The man waited for him by the window, watching the Akureyri bus pull slowly away. Erlendur asked the bartender if he knew anything about the man who was sitting over by the window in the smoking area.
‘You mean the tramp over there?’ the bartender asked, nodding towards the man.
‘Yes. Does he come here often?’
‘He’s been coming here on and off for years,’ the bartender said.
‘What does he do?’
‘Nothing. He never does anything and is never any trouble. I don’t know why he comes here. I sometimes see him shaving in the gents. He sits where he’s sitting now for hours on end, watching the buses leaving. Do you know him?’
‘Not really,’ Erlendur said. ‘Hardly at all. Does he never go anywhere on the buses?’
‘No, never. I’ve never seen him board a bus,’ the bartender said.
Erlendur took the change and thanked him. Then he returned to the man by the window and sat down facing him.
‘Who did you say you were?’ the man asked.
‘Is your name Tryggvi?’ Erlendur countered.
‘Yes, I’m Tryggvi. And you? Who are you?’
‘My name’s Erlendur,’ he repeated. ‘I’m from the police.’
Tryggvi slowly moved his plastic bag off the table.
‘What do you want with me? I haven’t done anything.’
‘I don’t want anything with you,’ Erlendur said. ‘And I don’t care what you’ve got in that bag. The fact is that I heard a strange story about your time at university and I wanted to know if there was any truth in it.’
‘What story?’
‘Er… how shall I put it?… About your death.’
Tryggvi stared at Erlendur for a long time without saying a word. He had downed the large shot of brennivín in one and now pushed the glass back across the table. He had colourless eyes set deep under bristly brows, a fleshy face that made an odd contrast with his emaciated body, a big nose that had been broken at some point, and thick lips. His face had succumbed to gravity, which made it appear unusually long and drawn.
‘How did you find me here?’
‘By various means,’ Erlendur said. ‘Including a visit to the Napoleon.’
‘What do you mean, “about my death”?’
‘I don’t know if there’s anything in it but I heard about an experiment performed by some medical students or a medical student at the university. You yourself were studying theology or medicine, I’m not sure which. You agreed to take part in the experiment. It consisted of temporarily stopping your heart, then reviving you. Is it true?’
‘Why do you want to know?’ the man asked in his hoarse, rough drinker’s voice. He delved into his breast pocket in search of cigarettes and brought out a half-empty packet.
‘I’m curious.’
Tryggvi looked pointedly at the shot glass and then at Erlendur. Erlendur stood up and went back to the counter where he purchased half a bottle of Icelandic brennivín and brought it over to the table. Having filled the shot glass, he placed the bottle on his side of the table.
‘Where did you hear this story?’ Tryggvi asked. He emptied the glass and slid it back across.
Erlendur refilled it.
‘Is it true?’
‘What about it? What are you planning to do about it?’
‘Nothing,’ Erlendur said.
‘Are you a cop?’ the man asked, sipping from the glass.
‘Yes. Are you the right Tryggvi?’
‘My name’s Tryggvi,’ the man said, looking round. ‘I don’t know what you want from me.’
‘Can you tell me what happened?’
‘Nothing happened. Nothing. Nothing at all. Why are you asking about this now? What’s it got to do with you? What’s it got to do with anyone?’
Erlendur didn’t want to scare him off. He could have told him, filthy down-and-out stinking of the gutter that he was, that it was none of his business. But then he wouldn’t get to hear what he wanted to know. He tried to be conciliatory instead, addressing Tryggvi as an equal, refilling the shot glass and lighting his cigarette for him. He made some general chit-chat about the place where they were sitting, which still sold singed sheep’s head with mashed swede like in the old days when the boys used to cruise around the block with their girlfriends and drop into the bus station for its speciality dish. The schnapps worked its magic too. Tryggvi fairly knocked it back, one shot after another, and his tongue began to loosen. Slowly but surely Erlendur manipulated the conversation back to what had happened when Tryggvi had been at university and some of his fellow students had wanted to conduct an unusual experiment.
‘Would you like something to eat?’ Erlendur asked once they had got chatting.
‘I thought I could be a vicar,’ Tryggvi said, waving his hand to indicate that food would not agree with him. He seized the bottle instead and took a long swig, then wiped his lips on his sleeve. ‘But theology was boring,’ he continued. ‘So I tried medicine. Most of my friends went in for that. I…’
‘What?’
‘I haven’t seen them for years,’ Tryggvi said. ‘I expect they’re all doctors by now. Specialists in this and that. Rich and fat.’