‘Always three times a week, after work.’
‘He seems to have been in good shape,’ Elínborg said. A muscular man of about thirty, the instructor radiated joie de vivre and exuberance. He was tanned a deep sun-lamp bronze, and his teeth shone bright as strobe lights.
‘Runólfur was outstandingly fit,’ he answered, looking Elínborg up and down. She felt he was appraising her fitness and she suspected that she knew what his verdict would be: a life sentence on the treadmill.
‘Do you know why he changed gyms?’ she asked. ‘When he started here, two years ago?
‘No, I don’t. I should think he just moved nearby. That’s often the case.’
‘Do you know where he used to work out before that?’
‘I think he was at The Firm.’
‘The Firm?’
‘Someone mentioned it to me, someone who knew he used to go there. In this field people know each other a bit, at least by sight.’
‘Did he make friends here, do you know?’
‘Not really. He was generally on his own. He sometimes had a mate with him — I don’t know the guy’s name. A bit overweight, not at all fit. He didn’t work out. Just sat in the café.’
‘Did Runólfur ever talk to you about women when he was here?’
‘Women? No.’
‘So you don’t know of any women he spoke to, or met here at the gym, or knew from anywhere else?’
The trainer took a moment to search his memory. ‘No, I don’t think so. He didn’t talk much.’
‘OK,’ said Elínborg. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. I wish I could be more help, but I hardly knew him. What a terrible thing this is. Terrible.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Elínborg. She said goodbye to the bronzed man who smiled cheerfully, instantly forgetting Runólfur’s violent end.
Elínborg had reached the car park when a new idea occurred to her and she went back inside. She found the personal trainer leaning over a chunky woman of about sixty who lay prostrate in a gaudy tracksuit. Apparently stuck in one of the weight machines, she was explaining that she had strained a muscle.
‘Excuse me,’ said Elínborg.
The trainer looked up. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead.
‘Yes?’
‘Did any women stop coming here after he joined?’
‘Stop?’
‘Did any woman suddenly cancel her membership? Without explanation? Someone who’d been a regular, and who left after Runólfur joined?’
‘Please …?’ said the big woman, holding out her hand to the trainer with a pleading look.
‘People are always cancelling memberships,’ he said. ‘I don’t see …’
‘I’m asking if you remember anything unusual. A woman who had always worked out here regularly, then suddenly stopped attending, perhaps.’
‘I didn’t notice anything,’ answered the trainer. ‘And I notice everything like that. I’m the owner, you know. Well, joint owner.’
‘I suppose it’s difficult to keep on top of exactly who signs up and who leaves. There are a lot of people, of course.’
‘Ours is a very popular gym,’ said the trainer.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And no one stopped coming because of him,’ the trainer said. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Look, would you mind …’ The woman in the weight machine seemed to be quite helpless.
‘OK,’ said Elínborg. ‘Thanks. Do you want me to give you a hand …?’
The woman looked from one to the other.
‘No, no. No problem,’ answered the trainer. ‘I’ve got it.’
As Elínborg left she heard the woman shriek, then snap angrily at the man of bronze.
The police had interviewed several acquaintances of Runólfur, including neighbours and work colleagues. All of them described him in glowing terms and none had anything critical to say. His death and the circumstances in which it had taken place were quite incomprehensible to them. One of Runólfur’s colleagues knew he had a friend named Edvard; he did not work with them but Runólfur had occasionally mentioned him. Elínborg remembered that the name Edvard had appeared repeatedly in Runólfur’s phone records. Edvard did not deny knowing the deceased when they tracked him down but he did not see how he could help the police with their enquiries. Nonetheless, Elínborg asked him to come down to the station.
Edvard had learned about the date-rape drug from the media. He found this detail perhaps even more astonishing than the violent death of his friend: he said it must be some misunderstanding about Runólfur having used a date-rape drug — he wasn’t that kind of person. The twist that Rohypnol had also been found in Runólfur’s body had not yet been released to the media.
‘What kind of person would that be?’ asked Elínborg as she offered Edvard a seat in her office.
‘I don’t know. But not him, that’s for sure.’
Edvard gazed at her, wide-eyed, explaining that he had known Runólfur well. The two had become good friends soon after Runólfur had moved to Reykjavík. They had not been acquainted before. Edvard was a teacher, but had got to know Runólfur when they had worked together in construction during their summer vacations from college. They often went to the cinema, and both enjoyed English football. Both were single, and they had hit it off.
‘And did you go out on the town together?’ Elínborg asked.
‘Now and then,’ the man replied. He was in his early thirties, rather overweight, with a wispy beard, a jowly face, and thinning mousy hair.
‘Did Runólfur have a way with women?’
‘He was always very nice to them. I don’t quite know what you’re trying to get me to say, but I never saw him do anyone any harm. Neither a woman, nor anyone else.’
‘And there wasn’t anything in Runólfur’s behaviour that might explain the Rohypnol we found in his pocket?’
‘He was just a perfectly ordinary bloke,’ said Edvard. ‘Someone must have planted it on him.’
‘Was he seeing a woman at the time he died?’
‘Not so far as I know. Why? Has anyone been in touch with you?’
‘Did you know about any women in his life?’ asked Elínborg without answering his question. ‘Someone he was seeing, or lived with?’
‘I don’t know of anyone he had a steady or long-term relationship with. He’d never lived with anyone.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘I spoke to him before the weekend. We were thinking of meeting up. I asked if he had anything special planned but he said he was going to stay in.’
‘And you phoned him on the Saturday?’
The police had examined Runólfur’s phone records for several weeks before his death, both landline and mobile phones, and Elínborg had received the list earlier that day. Runólfur did not receive many phone calls. Most of them concerned his work, but there was a handful of numbers that the police intended to investigate further. Edvard’s name cropped up more often than any other.
‘I was going to suggest we watched the English football at the Sports Bar. We sometimes go — sometimes went there on Saturdays. He said there was something he had to do. He didn’t say what.’
‘Did he sound cheerful?’
‘Just the same as usual,’ Edvard replied.
‘Did you ever go to the gym together?’
‘I went with him now and then. I just had a coffee — I don’t work out.’
‘Did he ever mention his parents?’ Elínborg went on.
‘No. Never.’
‘Anything about his childhood, the village where he grew up?’
‘No.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Football … and all that. Films. The usual stuff. Nothing important.’
‘Women?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Did you know what he thought of women, in a general way?’
‘Nothing unusual or abnormal. He didn’t hate women — his attitude was quite ordinary. If he saw an attractive girl or something like that, he’d mention it. As we do. All of us.’
‘He was interested in films?’