‘And another thing,’ added Elínborg, producing the shawl, wrapped in a plastic evidence bag. ‘We found this at the scene of the crime. I’d like to know if you recognise it. I’m afraid I can’t take it out of the bag, but it’s all right to open it.’
She handed it to the young woman.
‘I don’t wear shawls,’ Unnur said. ‘I’ve only ever owned one, and this isn’t it. Did you find it at his place?’
‘Yes,’ replied Elínborg. ‘That’s another thing that hasn’t been released to the media.’
Unnur was beginning to see where the questions were leading. ‘Was there a woman with him when he … when he was attacked?’
‘It’s possible,’ Elínborg said. ‘We know at least that he was involved in some way with women who came to his home.’
‘Had he drugged her, or was he planning to?’
‘We don’t know.’
Silence reigned.
‘Do you think it was me?’ Unnur asked eventually.
Her mother stared at her. Elínborg shook her head. ‘Absolutely not,’ she replied. ‘You mustn’t think that. I’ve already told you more than you’re supposed to know, and you mustn’t misinterpret it.’
‘You think I attacked him.’
‘No,’ Elínborg said firmly.
‘I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. I’m not that kind of person,’ said Unnur.
‘What sort of questions are these?’ asked her mother. ‘Are you accusing my daughter of attacking that man? She doesn’t even leave the house. She was with us all weekend!’
‘We know. You’re reading far too much into what we’ve said,’ Elínborg said.
She hesitated. Mother and daughter watched her. ‘But we do need a sample of your hair,’ She said at last. ‘Sólrún can take the sample. We want to establish whether you were in his flat the evening you were assaulted. Whether he might have been the one who drugged you and took you home to rape you.’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ Unnur objected.
‘No, of course you haven’t,’ agreed Sólrún. ‘The police just want to rule out the possibility that you were in his flat.’
‘And what if I was there?’
Elínborg felt the horror behind the young woman’s words. She could barely imagine how she must feel, knowing nothing of the night when she was raped. ‘That would give us more information about what happened to you in the hours before you were found in Kópavogur,’ she pointed out. ‘I know this is hard, but we’re all looking for answers here.’
‘I’m not even sure that I want to know,’ Unnur said. ‘I’m trying to pretend to myself that it never happened — that it wasn’t me, but some other girl.’
‘We’ve talked about this,’ said Sólrún. ‘You shouldn’t repress it. It will only take much longer for you to understand that you’re not at fault at all. You didn’t do anything that led to the assault. You have no reason to blame yourself. You were brutalised. There’s no need to hide away. You don’t need to withdraw from society, or feel unclean. You aren’t, and you never can be.’
‘I’m … just scared,’ said Unnur.
‘Of course,’ said Elínborg. ‘That’s entirely understandable. I’ve sat with women like you. I always tell them it’s a question of how they feel about the offender. Just think what status you accord those animals by shutting yourself up here. It’s not right that they can imprison you. You must show them you’re able to fight back against the harm they want to inflict on you.’
Unnur gazed at Elínborg. ‘But it’s so horrible to know … you can never again … something’s been taken away from me, and I can never, never get it back, and my life can never be as it was.’
‘But that’s how it is,’ said Sólrún. ‘For all of us. We can never get things back. That’s why we look to the future.’
‘It happened,’ said Elínborg reassuringly. ‘Don’t dwell on it. If you do, then the bastards win. Don’t let them get away with it.’
Unnur passed the shawl back to her. ‘She smokes. I don’t smoke. And there’s another smell, a perfume — not mine — and then there’s something spicy …’
‘It’s tandoori,’ interjected Elínborg.
‘Do you think she’s the one that attacked him?’
‘That’s a possibility.’
‘Good for her,’ said Unnur through clenched teeth. ‘Good for her, killing him! Good for her, killing that pig!’
Elínborg glanced at Sólrún. She thought the young woman seemed to be on the road to recovery already.
When Elínborg got home, late that evening, the boys were in the middle of a blazing row. Aron, the middle child who somehow always felt left out, had had the audacity to go on Valthór’s computer. His older brother was yelling at him, in such a rage that Elínborg had to shout at him to make him shut up. Theodóra was listening to her iPod as she did her homework at the dining table, and was ignoring her bickering brothers. Teddi lay on the sofa watching TV. He had picked up fried chicken pieces on the way home, and the containers were scattered around the kitchen, along with cold chips and empty sauce tubs.
‘Why don’t you clear up this mess?’ Elínborg called out to Teddi.
‘Leave it,’ he answered. ‘I’ll do it later. I just want to finish watching this programme …’
Elínborg did not have the energy for an argument. She sat down next to Theodóra. A few days earlier they had met Theodóra’s teacher to talk about additional study material for her. The teacher was keen to find her something more challenging. They had discussed the possibility that Theodóra might take the last three years of compulsory schooling in a single year, if she wished, and enter high school early.
‘It said on the news that you’d found a date-rape drug on that man,’ said Theodóra, removing her earphones.
‘How on earth do they get this information?’ sighed Elínborg.
‘Was he a scoundrel?’ asked Theodóra.
‘Maybe,’ answered Elínborg. ‘Please don’t ask me about these things.’
‘They said you were looking for a woman who was with him that night.’
‘It’s possible that someone who was there with him attacked him. Now be quiet,’ retorted Elínborg amicably. ‘What did you have to eat at school?’
‘Rye-bread soup. It was horrible.’
‘You’re too fussy about your food.’
‘I eat your bread soup.’
‘Of course you do. It’s a work of genius.’
Elínborg had told Theodóra that she too had been a fussy eater as a child. She was brought up eating old-fashioned Icelandic food, in old-fashioned Icelandic circumstances. When she described it to her daughter, it was like telling her about life in the Middle Ages. Elínborg’s mother had been a housewife who shopped and then cooked lunch every day. Her father, who had worked in the offices of a fishing company, would come home, eat his meal, then lie down on the sofa to listen to the midday news, which went out at 12.20 p.m. precisely — for the convenience of workers like him. The chimes of the news theme usually rang out just as he swallowed his last bite and put his feet up.
At lunchtime Elínborg’s mother served boiled fish with bread and butter, or made a meat loaf served with mashed or more often boiled potatoes, an invariable accompaniment to every meal.
As for the evening meal, the weekly menus generally followed a strict daily sequence. Elínborg’s mother did all the cooking. On Saturdays they had saltfish, presoaked in a tub in the kitchen — the same tub in which her husband bathed his aching feet. To this day, Elínborg could hardly stomach saltfish. On Sunday there was a roast leg or rack of lamb, with brown gravy made with the meat broth, and caramelised potatoes. To ring the changes they sometimes had lamb chops. The roast was always served with pickled red cabbage and tinned peas. Salted mutton with boiled swedes or horsemeat sausage with a white sauce might crop up on any day, but these were rarities. Mondays always meant fish, unless there were enough leftovers from the Sunday roast, in which case the fish was moved over to Tuesday. It was usually fried in breadcrumbs and served with melted margarine and mayonnaise. Wednesday was air-cured fish, which Elínborg regarded as all but inedible. After it had been boiled for so long that all the windows misted up, an abundance of melted suet was not enough to make the cured fish any more palatable. Wednesday could also be cod roe and liver, which was marginally preferable. Elínborg found the membrane of the roe off-putting, and she never touched the liver. On Thursdays her mother sometimes threw caution to the winds: one memorable Thursday, Elínborg first tasted spaghetti, boiled to within an inch of its life. She found it completely tasteless, but a little more palatable with tomato ketchup. On Friday, fried lamb or pork cutlets in breadcrumbs were accompanied by melted margarine, as with the fried fish.