For some time Elínborg had felt that something was wrong: she was uneasy about Bergsteinn’s long absences from home, his lack of interest in her and what she was doing, his attitude to the future and to having children, which had in fact changed abruptly. One day he shamefacedly admitted that he had met another woman at a conference in Norway: an Icelandic geothermologist, he specified. He had been seeing her ever since, for nearly six months, and he envisaged a future with her.
Elínborg was overcome with rage. She had no interest in hearing Bergsteinn’s excuses and explanations, and least of all in fighting another woman for him. She told him to get out. She did not know what had made him turn away from her and look elsewhere, but suspected that it was something in his own character and nothing to do with her personally. At that point she did not care what he thought. She had been honest in the relationship, had respected him, loved him, and had believed it was mutual; the most painful part of the break-up was to know that she had been wrong. And to be rejected was a bitter experience, though she did not share that with anyone. In Elínborg’s view, the failure of their marriage was entirely his fault; if he wanted a divorce, so be it. She was not going to try to win him back. Their divorce went through without any serious obstruction. Bergsteinn had destroyed their marriage, and he was gone. That was all there was to it.
Over insipid liver in brown onion gravy, Elínborg’s mother confided that she had never really liked Bergsteinn, who she thought was a feeble idiot.
‘Oh, come off it!’ retorted Elínborg as she nibbled at the liver.
‘He was always such a twerp,’ said her mother.
Elínborg was well aware that her mother was trying to cheer her up, because she knew her daughter and realised that Elínborg was more deeply wounded than she would admit.
She grew more depressed and lonely than she had ever been, and was reluctant to talk about either Bergsteinn or the divorce. She resolved to grin and bear it, while underneath she was a seething mass of rage and helplessness and grief.
Her mother had a much higher opinion of Teddi, and was always commenting on what a solid, dependable man he was. ‘He’s so reliable, your Theodór,’ she said.
Which he was. Elínborg had met Teddi at the annual police dinner, which he attended with a friend who had since left the force. Teddi was great fun, but Elínborg was not yet ready for a new relationship. Teddi, who like her was twenty-eight, was keener, and set out to win her over. He took her home from the police dance, rang two days later, then invited her to the cinema and dinner. She told him all about her failed marriage. For his part, he had never lived with anyone. She heard from Teddi’s policeman friend that he had a sister who was enduring a long battle with cancer. The next time she saw him, she asked him cautiously about his sister, and he told her that she was the single mother of a son, that he and his nephew were close. His sister had been fighting the disease for years but the prognosis was not good. He had wanted to tell Elínborg about her, he said, but he had been hesitant as he did not know whether anything would come of their relationship.
Teddi’s sister, it transpired, was very much in favour of her brother’s new girlfriend, and was eager to meet Elínborg. He took her to visit one day, and the two women had a long talk while the uncle and nephew went on an expedition in search of ice cream. Teddi was caring and affectionate towards his sister; Elínborg was constantly discovering new aspects of his character.
Six months later she moved in with Teddi, who had a studio flat in the Háaleiti district and owned a garage in partnership with a friend. When Teddi’s sister died of cancer the following year, the couple gained a foster-son. She had hardly known the boy’s father, they had never lived together, and he had had nothing to do with his son. The boy, Birkir, was six years old; his mother had asked Teddi and Elínborg to take care of her little boy. They bought a larger flat and adopted Birkir, who missed his mother deeply. Elínborg embraced her new son unreservedly, doing all she could to ease his pain. She took time off work and made sure he settled in well at his new school. From the start, Elínborg’s parents accepted the boy as their own grandchild.
Elínborg did not marry again; she and Teddi remained partners. Valthór was born, followed by Aron and finally Theodóra, all of whom worshipped Birkir, especially Valthór, who made him his role model from the first time he drew breath. When Birkir left home, Valthór blamed his mother for what happened, which made their relationship even more difficult.
Elínborg looked at the alarm clock. 03.08.
In four short hours she would have to get up, and she knew that her lack of sleep would make tomorrow a disaster.
Beside her Teddi slept peacefully. She envied him the calm disposition that had always been characteristic of him. She considered getting up and going into the kitchen to look at some recipes but found the effort too much, and started yet again to count down from 10,000.
9,999. 9,998. 9,997. 9,996 …
The Firm resembled the first gym that Elínborg had visited, but was considerably larger and in a better location. She arrived there, barely able to keep her eyes open after her sleepless night, on the Saturday morning one week after Runólfur’s murder. People were pouring in: running, weightlifting, working up a sweat. Some brought their children, as The Firm offered a crèche, which was crammed. Elínborg was a little taken aback by the sight — it seemed to be no more than a dumping ground in which a crowd of kids were watching cartoons on a gigantic flatscreen.
She sometimes worried about relationships between parents and their children: young children would spend all week in day care from early morning until five or so, and at the weekend some faced yet more hours in the crèche, while their parents were perspiring on the treadmill. On a working day the children would probably go to bed at around nine p.m., having spent a total of two hours with their parents, most of which consisted of feeding them and getting them to bed. When their children were small Elínborg and Teddi had reduced their working hours in order to take better care of their family. They hadn’t seen it as a sacrifice, but both a necessity and a pleasure.
Elínborg was shown in to meet the manager, who was busy taking delivery of two new flatscreens to be installed in the main gym. There was clearly a problem with the consignment since he was refusing delivery of one of the screens, and was on the phone venting his displeasure. Once he had hung up, he turned to Elínborg with a snarl and asked her what was the matter.
‘Matter?’ she asked. ‘There’s nothing the matter.’
‘Oh,’ replied the manager. ‘Then what do you want?’
‘I want to ask you about a man who used to come here but stopped about two years ago. I’m from the police. You’ve probably heard about him on the news.’
‘About who?’
‘He lived in Thingholt.’
‘The guy who was killed?’ asked the manager.
Elínborg nodded. ‘Do you remember him?’
‘I remember him well. We didn’t have so many clients back then and I used to know almost all of them. Now it’s completely crazy. What about him? What’s he got to do with us?’
A teenage girl appeared in the office doorway. ‘One of the kids has thrown up everywhere,’ she told the manager.
‘So?’
‘We can’t find the parents.’
The manager gave Elínborg an apologetic smile. ‘Talk to Silla,’ he said to the girl. ‘She’ll sort it out.’