‘The woman Magnús was involved with was a good friend of Leonóra’s.’
‘I see.’
‘They never spoke again after that.’
‘Have you ever connected this with the accident?’
Kristín looked at Erlendur gravely.
‘No. What do you mean?’
‘I…’
‘Why are you investigating the accident now?’
‘I heard about the incident at-’
‘Did any of this come out in connection with María’s death?’
‘No,’ Erlendur said.
‘But María told some friend of hers that maybe Magnús was meant to die?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve always considered what happened at the lake as a ghastly accident. It never occurred to me that it could have been anything else.’
‘But…?’
‘No, no buts. It’s too late to change it now.’
The taxi company was located downtown in a low-rise building that had seen better days. It had once been a community centre, in the days when young men wore their hair in Brylcreemed quiffs and their girlfriends sported perms and they used to go crazy on the dance floor to the new American rock ’n’ roll, before they eventually vanished into oblivion. One half of the building had been converted into the premises of a taxi company where peace and quiet now reigned. Two older men were playing rummy. The yellow lino on the floor was full of holes, the shiny white paint on the walls had long ago succumbed to the grime, and the air freshener had not yet been invented that could overcome the stench of mould rising from the floor and wooden walls. It was like stepping back fifty years in time. Erlendur savoured the sensation. He stood for a moment in the middle of the room, breathing in its history.
The woman operating the radio looked up and, when she saw that the rummy players weren’t about to stir, asked if he needed a cab. Erlendur went over and enquired about a driver with the company who was called Elmar.
‘Elmar on 32?’ the woman said. She had been in her prime at about the same time as the building.
‘Yes, probably,’ Erlendur replied.
‘He’s on his way in. Would you like to wait for him? He won’t be long. He always eats here in the evenings.’
‘Yes, so I gather,’ Erlendur said.
He thanked her and sat down at a table. One of the rummy players glanced up in his direction. Erlendur nodded but received no response. It was as if the pair’s existence was completely defined by the card game.
Erlendur was leafing through an old magazine when a taxi driver appeared at the door.
‘He was asking for you,’ the woman operating the radio called, pointing at Erlendur who stood up and greeted him. The man shook his hand, introducing himself as Elmar. He was the brother of Davíd, the young man who had gone missing. He was in his fifties, plump, with a round face, thinning hair and no arse as a result of a lifetime spent sitting behind the wheel. Erlendur explained his business in a lowered voice. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that the rummy players had pricked up their ears.
‘You’re not still picking over that?’ Elmar asked.
‘We’re wrapping up the case,’ Erlendur said, without elaborating.
‘Do you mind if I get stuck in while we’re talking?’ Elmar asked, sitting down at the table furthest from the rummy players. He had his supper in a plastic container: sausage and onion hash from the supermarket hot-food counter. Erlendur sat down with him.
‘There wasn’t much of an age gap between you brothers,’ Erlendur began.
‘Two years,’ Elmar said. ‘I’m two years older. Have you discovered anything new?’
‘No,’ Erlendur said.
‘Davíd and I weren’t really that close. You could say I wasn’t very interested in my younger brother; I thought of him as just a kid. I tended to hang out more with my friends, people my own age.’
‘Have you come to any conclusion about what might have happened?’
‘Only that he might have topped himself,’ Elmar said. ‘He didn’t mix with the sort of people – wasn’t involved in anything, you know – where someone might have wanted to hurt him. Davíd was a good kid. Shame he had to go like that.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘The last? I asked him to lend me some money for the pictures. I never had any cash in those days. Any more than I do now. Davíd sometimes worked alongside his studies and scraped a bit of money together. I’ve already told the police all this.’
‘And…?’
‘And nothing: he lent it to me. I didn’t know he was going to disappear that evening, you know, so there weren’t any fond farewells, just the usual “Thanks, see you.” ’
‘So you were never close?’
‘No, you couldn’t really say that.’
‘You didn’t confide in each other at all?’
‘No. I mean, he was my brother and all that, but we were very different and… you know…’
Elmar wolfed down his food. He added that he generally only took half an hour for supper.
‘Do you know if your brother had got himself a girlfriend before he went missing?’ Erlendur asked.
‘No,’ Elmar said. ‘I don’t know of any girlfriend.’
‘His friend says he had met a girl but it’s all very vague.’
‘Davíd never had any girlfriend,’ Elmar said, taking out a packet of Camel cigarettes. He offered it to Erlendur who declined. ‘Or at least not that I was aware of,’ he added, glancing over at the rummy table.
‘No, that’s the thing,’ Erlendur said. ‘Your parents clung for a long time to the hope that he’d come back.’
‘Yes, they… they thought about nothing but Davíd. He was all they ever thought about.’
Erlendur detected a note of bitterness in the man’s voice.
‘Are we done, then?’ Elmar asked. ‘I’d quite like to join them for a hand.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ Erlendur said, standing up. ‘I didn’t mean to ruin your supper.’
20
Eva Lind came round that evening. She had seen her mother and heard about the encounter with Erlendur. He said it had been a mistake to try to bring them together. Eva shook her head.
‘You’re not going to meet again?’ she asked.
‘You’ve done everything possible,’ Erlendur said. ‘We simply don’t get on. There’s too much awkwardness between your mother and me that we just can’t overcome.’
‘Awkwardness?’
‘It was a very acrimonious meeting.’
‘She said she stormed out.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you still met up.’
Erlendur was sitting in his chair with a book in his hand. Eva Lind had taken a seat on the sofa facing him. They had often sat there opposite one another. Sometimes they quarrelled bitterly and Eva Lind rushed out, hurling abuse at her father. At other times they managed to talk and show each other affection. Eva Lind would sometimes fall asleep on the sofa while he read her the story of an ordeal in the wilderness or else some Icelandic folklore. She used to visit him in a variety of states, either so high that Erlendur couldn’t make any sense of what she was saying or so low that he was afraid she would do something stupid.
He hesitated to ask if Halldóra had relayed their conversation to her in detail but Eva spared him the trouble.
‘Mum told me you never loved her,’ she began warily.
Erlendur turned the pages of his book.
‘But she was crazy about you.’
Erlendur didn’t say anything.
‘Maybe it goes some way to explaining your weird relationship,’ Eva Lind said.
Still Erlendur did not speak, he merely gazed down at the book he was holding.
‘She said there was no point talking to you,’ Eva Lind continued.
‘I don’t know what we can do for you, Eva. We can’t agree on anything. I’ve already told you that.’
‘Mum said the same.’
‘I know what you’re trying to do but… We’re difficult parents, Eva.’
‘She says that you two should never have met.’
‘It would probably have been better,’ Erlendur said.