Binna and Berti were both at home the second time Elínborg called round. The first time she had knocked at the door there had been no answer, and she had seen no sign of life when she peeked in at the window. On the second occasion the door was flung open and Brynhildur Geirhardsdóttir herself stood in the doorway, displeased at the interruption. She was wearing an old woollen sweater and faded jeans, and in one hand she held a wooden spoon.
‘Hello, Binna,’ said Elínborg. She was not sure whether Binna was in any state to recognise her. ‘I’m looking for Berti.’
‘Berti?’ snapped Binna. ‘What do you want with him?
‘I just need a word with him. Is he in?’
‘He’s asleep in there,’ said Binna, gesturing towards the darkened interior. ‘Has he done something wrong?’
Elínborg saw that Binna knew who she was. Like Solla, Binna was one of the many people that Elínborg had run into in the course of her work when Binna had fallen foul of the police. Being so big and strong she sometimes got into fights. She had a difficult personality and drink had a bad effect upon her, making her even more moody and aggressive. Binna had assaulted police officers more than once when the worse for wear, and had been taken in handcuffs down to the station to sleep it off. She had been involved with various men over the years, and by one of them she had had a son, long ago. Elínborg was wary of Binna Geirs, although the two of them had never clashed. She had intended to take Sigurdur Óli along for moral support but had not been able to reach him.
‘No, not so far as I know,’ said Elínborg. ‘Can I come in and talk to him?’
Binna glowered down at Elínborg as if to weigh her up, before opening the door wider and letting her in. A familiar odour filled Elínborg’s nostrils: Binna was boiling air-cured haddock. It was early evening and daylight was fading. No lights were on in the house and only the faint glow from outside illuminated the interior. It was cold, too, as if the heating was off. Berti lay on a sofa, asleep. Binna tapped him with the wooden spoon and told him to wake up. Berti did not respond so she grabbed his legs and shoved them off the sofa, bringing him tumbling to the floor. He awoke with a start, jumped to his feet, then sat back down on the sofa.
‘What’s up?’ he asked blearily.
‘You’ve got a visitor, and the grub’s nearly ready,’ said Binna, and retreated into the kitchen.
Elínborg’s eyes gradually grew accustomed to the dark. She saw patches of damp on the old wallpaper, ancient worn-out furniture, filthy rugs on bare boards.
‘What the hell do you want?’
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions,’ Elínborg replied.
‘Questions? Who are you?’ asked Berti, peering at her in the dim light.
‘My name is Elínborg. I’m from the police.’
‘A copper?’
‘I won’t keep you long. We’re trying to find out how a man who was murdered recently got his hands on a drug, Rohypnol. You may have seen something about it on the news.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’ retorted Berti in a hoarse, sleepy voice. He was struggling to understand what was happening.
‘We know you sometimes sell prescription medications,’ said Elínborg.
‘Me? I don’t sell them. I don’t sell anything.’
‘Come off it. You’re on our list. You’ve done time for dealing drugs.’
Elínborg took a photo of Runólfur out of her pocket and passed it to Berti. ‘Did you know Runólfur?’
Berti took the picture from her. He reached over to a table lamp and switched it on, then put on a pair of reading glasses. He took his time examining the photo of the dead man.
‘Isn’t this the photo that was in the papers?’ he asked.
‘It’s the same picture,’ answered Elínborg.
‘I’d never seen this man before he was on the news,’ said Berti. He placed the photograph on the table between them. ‘Why was he killed?’
‘We’re trying to find out. He was carrying Rohypnol, which hadn’t been prescribed by a doctor. We think he bought it from someone like you. He might have used it to spike the drinks of women he met.’
Berti gave Elínborg a long look. She knew he was weighing up the pros and cons of agreeing to help her or of keeping his mouth firmly shut. A rattling of dishes was heard from the kitchen where Binna was hard at work. Berti had been inside for various offences — breaking and entering, forgery, drug dealing — but he was no career criminal. ‘I don’t sell to blokes like that,’ he observed at last.
‘Blokes like that?’
‘Who use it for that.’
‘What would you know about how they use it?’
‘I just know. I don’t sell to pervs. I don’t sell to blokes like that. And I’ve never met that guy. I’m not lying. I’ve never sold anything to him. I know who I sell to, and who I don’t.’
Binna appeared in the doorway and glowered at Berti, still clutching the wooden spoon. The odour of cured fish wafted with her out of the kitchen.
‘Where else could he have got hold of it?’ asked Elínborg.
‘I don’t know,’ answered Berti.
‘Who sells roofies?’
‘There’s no point asking me. I don’t know anything about it. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.’ A faint, gleeful smile flickered across Berti’s features.
‘Is this about that perv that got sliced up?’ Binna asked Elínborg sharply.
‘Yes.’
‘The one with the date-rape drug?’
Elínborg nodded. ‘We’re trying to find out where he got it from.’
‘Did you sell it to him?’ Binna asked Berti, with a fierce glare.
He did not meet her gaze. ‘No, I never sold him anything,’ he replied. ‘I just told her, I never saw that bloke.’
‘There you are, then,’ said Binna.
‘Maybe he can tell me about someone else who might have got the roofies for him,’ said Elínborg.
Binna watched her for a long time, deep in thought. ‘He was a rapist, wasn’t he, that perv?’ she asked.
‘He might have been,’ said Elínborg. ‘There are indications.’
‘Come and eat your grub, Berti,’ said Binna. ‘Tell her what you know, then come and eat.’
Berti stood up. ‘I can’t tell her what I don’t know,’ he complained.
Binna had turned to go back into the kitchen, but she stopped in the doorway, spun on her heel and pointed the wooden spoon threateningly at Berti. ‘Tell her!’ she ordered him.
Berti grimaced at Elínborg.
Binna went into the kitchen, and shouted over her shoulder: ‘Then come and have your fish!’
11
Elínborg looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table: 00.17.
She started to count backwards from 10,000 in her mind again: 9,999. 9,998. 9,997. 9,996 …
She strove to empty her mind until nothing was left but a meaningless series of numbers. It was her way of calming her thoughts and getting off to sleep.
Sometimes, when she could not sleep at night, her mind wandered back to a period of her life which as a rule she did her best to forget. It was to do with her first husband. Level-headed Elínborg, who never rushed into anything but gave careful consideration to every decision, large and small, had entered into a marriage which had turned out to be built on sand.
While studying geology she had met a fellow student named Bergsteinn from the West Fjords region. He took himself rather seriously. He was reserved but likeable, and they had got to know each other during a field trip. Then they had started seeing each other regularly. They rented a flat, lived on student loans — which were quite generous in those days — and two years later went to the registry office and were married. They held a big party for their families and friends. On that day Elínborg was sure that they would live together happily ever after. But it was not to be.
Elínborg had given up geology and joined the police force by the time their marriage started to collapse. Bergsteinn had completed his postgraduate studies, then worked for the State Drilling Authority, which searched out geothermal resources all over the country. In due time he became a manager. He was kept busy attending conferences, both in Iceland and abroad.