‘I’m really surprised he got involved with a married woman.’
‘She didn’t tell him at first. She was scared of her husband. But it’s possible she was trying to make Earl jealous too. She’s a bit vague on that point. Earl had been in trouble with the police back home in America before he joined the army. He was accused of assault on two occasions but never charged. He carried out a brutal attack on Joan when he heard she’d been cheating on him, then forced her to call your brother and ask him round. She’d never have done it if Earl hadn’t used violence against her.’
‘And they were lying in wait for him?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t stop thinking about him in the hands of those men. Alone and helpless, one against three.’
‘I know.’
‘He didn’t deserve what they did to him. Not him of all people.’
‘No, of course not,’ said Erlendur. ‘No one would deserve that.’
‘I thought it was my fault,’ said Nanna. ‘What happened to him. That he’d got into trouble because of me. Because he put himself in danger buying drugs for me.’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘And this Joan, who is she, what kind of person is she?’ Nanna asked after a lengthy pause.
‘To be honest I don’t know,’ said Marion. ‘I can put you in touch with her, if you like. Kristvin told her about you. She knew about your illness. Asked after you.’
‘Maybe,’ said Nanna. ‘We’ll see.’
The sound of the children’s voices carried in to them. Nanna went to the window where Erlendur was standing watching them. His thoughts were with another little girl in a different playground, in red waterproof trousers and a woolly hat, playing alone in the sand.
‘I miss him,’ said Nanna. ‘I keep expecting him to ring... It... losing him hurts so much.’
‘How are you otherwise?’ asked Marion. ‘How’s your treatment going?’
‘They think I’ll live,’ she said, ‘but what do they know?’
53
One evening several weeks later Erlendur took a last stroll down the street where Dagbjört had lived and died, then kept on walking until he reached the site where Camp Knox had once stood as a memorial to military occupation and Icelandic poverty. For many years he had been haunted by Dagbjört’s story, by her inexplicable disappearance, the mystery shrouding her fate. He had immersed himself in the details of her life, followed in her footsteps time and again, stood brooding in front of her house and now, at last, discovered what had befallen her so heart-rendingly close to home.
It was a cold day and a biting northerly whipped up the loose snow and blew it along the street. He dug his hands deeper into his pockets and headed into the wind, conscious that the Dagbjört affair had only intensified his fascination with those who never came back. Solving the case had given him no more than a temporary respite. Lately the old pop song ‘Dagný’ had been running through his mind, conjuring up an image of the schoolgirls who once came together to sing about joy and delight, that poignant melody that would always remind him of Dagbjört. It was a relief to have found answers to the questions about her fate that had preyed on him so long, but he knew that for him there would be no closure. Her song would continue to haunt him for the rest of his days.