Valdimar looked down at his own filthy hands. Elínborg saw old scars on their backs and on his fingers which she recognised, after her years with Teddi, as being the result of struggling with engine parts. Teddi had not always been carefuclass="underline" sometimes he got carried away, or his tools were faulty.
‘A woman’s touch,’ Valdimar said.
‘And I get a special hand-cleaning cream for him, which works wonders,’ added Elínborg. ‘Didn’t you ever want to move away, like the others?’
She saw that Valdimar was trying not to smile.
‘I can’t think what that’s got to do with anything,’ he said.
‘No, it was just a thought,’ said Elínborg, a little embarrassed. The man had that effect upon her; he seemed frank and at peace with himself.
‘I’ve always lived here, and never wanted to leave,’ he said. ‘I’m not one for change. I’ve been to Reykjavík a few times and I didn’t like what I saw. All that chasing after empty things — conspicuous consumption, bigger houses, more expensive cars. They hardly even speak proper Icelandic any more. They hang around in junk-food joints, getting fatter and fatter. I don’t think it’s the Icelandic way. We’re all drowning in bad foreign habits.’
‘I have a friend who thinks rather like you.’
‘Good for him.’
‘And of course you have family here,’ added Elínborg.
‘I’m not a family man,’ Valdimar said, disappearing under the tractor. ‘I never have been, and I can’t imagine I ever will be now.’
‘You never know,’ Elínborg ventured.
The man looked up from beneath the tractor. ‘Was there anything else?’ he asked.
Elínborg smiled and shook her head, apologised for disturbing him and then set off, back out into the storm.
When she reached the guest house she met the woman who had served her at the restaurant. She was still wearing her apron, with a name badge on it: Lauga. She was on her way out, and it occurred to Elínborg that perhaps she was involved in the guest-house operation too. That’s multitasking for you, she thought.
‘I heard that you talked to Valdi,’ said Lauga, holding the door open for Elínborg. ‘Did you get anything out of it?’
‘Not a lot,’ answered Elínborg, surprised again at the speed with which news spread round here.
‘No, he’s not much of a talker, but he’s a good lad.’
‘He seems to work hard. He was still working when I left.’
‘There’s not much else to do,’ observed Lauga. ‘He likes it, always has. Was it the tractor?’
‘Yes, he was working on a tractor.’
‘I should think he’s been fiddling around with it for ten years now. I’ve never seen such care and attention as he lavishes on that tractor. It’s like his pet. They gave him a nickname — Valdi Ferguson.’
‘Well,’ said Elínborg. ‘I have to get back to town early in the morning, so …’
‘Sorry. I wasn’t meaning to keep you up all night.’
Elínborg smiled and looked out at the forlorn village that was gradually disappearing in the blizzard. ‘I don’t suppose you have much crime here?’
Lauga was closing the door. ‘No, that’s for sure,’ she replied with a smile. ‘Nothing ever happens here.’
But for a niggling question at the back of her mind Elínborg would have dropped off as soon as her head touched the pillow; it might mean anything, or nothing. It was the girl she had bumped into at the video rack: she had spoken in whispers, as if she had not wanted anyone to overhear their conversation.
7
Elínborg landed in Reykjavík around midday. Accompanied by a counsellor from the rape-trauma centre, she went straight to the home of the young woman who had been found at the roadside in Kópavogur.
The counsellor, Sólrún, was about forty. Elínborg had worked with her before. On the way, they discussed the increasing incidence of rape reported to the police. The number of offences varied: one year, twenty-five; another, forty-three. Elínborg was familiar with the statistics: she knew that around seventy per cent of rapes took place in the home, and in about fifty per cent of cases the victim knew the rapist. Rape by strangers was on the increase, although cases were still relatively rare. Such assaults might not necessarily be reported to the police; often, more than one man was involved. And each year the police dealt with six to eight cases in which the use of a date-rape drug was suspected.
‘Did you speak to her?’ asked Elínborg.
‘Yes, she’s expecting us,’ answered Sólrún. ‘She’s still in a bad way. She’s moved back in with her parents and doesn’t really want to see or talk to anyone. She’s cut herself off. She sees a psychologist twice a week, and I put her in touch with a psychiatrist too. It’s going to take her a long time to get over it.’
‘And it can’t help that the justice system treats these victims with such contempt,’ Elínborg said. ‘Eighteen months on average for a rape conviction? It’s a disgrace.’
The young woman’s mother met them at the door and showed them into the living room. Her husband was not at home but was expected before long.
She went to let her daughter know that the visitors had arrived, and a brief argument ensued. So far as Elínborg could make out, the daughter was protesting that she didn’t want this — she didn’t want to speak to the police any more, she wanted to be left alone.
Elínborg and Sólrún stood up when the mother and daughter entered the room. The young woman, Unnur, had met both women before and recognised them, but she made no reply when they said hello.
‘I’m so sorry we’re imposing,’ said Sólrún. ‘This won’t take long. And you can stop whenever you want.’ They sat down, and Elínborg took care not to waste any time with small talk. Although Unnur tried to conceal it, Elínborg could see that she was uncomfortable as she sat by her mother’s side. She was striving to put on a brave face. Elínborg had learned to recognise the long-term consequences of major physical assault, and she knew what mental scars it left. To her mind, rape was the worst form of physical assault, almost equivalent to murder.
From her pocket she took a photograph of Runólfur, copied from his driving licence. ‘Do you recognise this man?’ she asked, passing it to Unnur.
She gave it a brief glance. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’ve seen his picture on the news, but I don’t know him.’ She returned the photo to Elínborg. ‘Do you think that’s him? The man who raped me?’ Unnur asked.
‘We don’t know,’ answered Elínborg. ‘We do know he was carrying a date-rape drug when he went out on the evening he was murdered. That information hasn’t been made public and you mustn’t tell anyone. But I wanted you to hear the truth. Now you see why we were anxious to meet with you.’
‘I don’t know if I could identify him, even if he were standing right here in front of me,’ said Unnur. ‘I don’t remember anything. Nothing. I vaguely remember the man I was last speaking to, at the bar. I don’t know who he was, but it wasn’t that Runólfur.’
‘Would you be willing to come to his flat with us, and look around? In case it jogs your memory?’
‘I … no, I … I haven’t really been out anywhere since it happened,’ said Unnur.
‘She doesn’t want to leave the house,’ said her mother. ‘Maybe you could show her some pictures.’
Elínborg nodded. ‘It would be very helpful if you felt up to coming with us,’ she said. ‘And he had a car — we’d be grateful if you would look at it.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Unnur.
‘The most noticeable feature of his home is that there are big posters of Hollywood action heroes on the living-room walls. Superheroes, like Superman and Batman. Does that …?’
‘It’s all a blank.’