‘Yeah, but I can’t find her.’
‘You can see I’m in a meeting here,’ he said. ‘Go and find Silla, dear.’
‘The kid’s sick as a dog,’ whined the girl. ‘This is just too much,’ she grumbled as she left.
‘I take it you’re talking about Runólfur?’ said the manager, who was wearing a blue tracksuit emblazoned with the logo of a fashionable and expensive sportswear label.
‘Did you know him?’
‘Only as a client. He worked out here all the time, pretty much from when we opened four years ago. He was one of our first members. Then he stopped coming here. He was a good guy. Kept himself fit.’
‘Do you know why he left?’
‘No idea. I never saw him again. Then I saw the report on the news — I could hardly believe it. Why are you asking us about him? Have we got something to do with his death?
‘No, not so far as I know. It’s a routine enquiry. We know this was his gym.’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘Did anyone else stop coming here around the same time as him? Anyone who used to train here?’
The manager gave the matter some thought.
‘I don’t really remember …’
‘A woman, maybe?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Do you remember whether he was well liked, as a client?’
‘Oh, yes, he was. Very well liked. Actually …’
‘Yes?’
‘You asked about women.’
‘Yes.’
‘There was one girl who worked for me, now you mention it,’ said the manager. ‘I’m not sure whether they both left at exactly the same time but it was certainly about then. Frída was her name. I don’t remember the surname. Nice girl. A personal trainer. I can dig out the full name for you, if you like. They used to hang out together.’
‘Were they a couple?’
‘No, I don’t think it went that far. But they got along well, and I think they may have gone out for drinks together, that kind of thing.’
The young woman stepped hesitantly into the flat that Runólfur had rented in Thingholt, and looked apprehensively around her. Elínborg was immediately behind her. Both Unnur’s parents were there, as was the psychiatrist who had been treating her. Elínborg had been forced to take a firm line with Unnur to persuade her to agree to look at the flat. Her mother had finally sided with Elínborg and had urged her daughter to do what she could to help the police.
Nothing had been altered since Runólfur’s body had been removed. The crime scene had been left untouched, and Unnur hesitated when she saw the blackened dried blood on the floor.
‘I don’t want to go in,’ she begged.
‘I know, Unnur,’ replied Elínborg reassuringly. ‘It will only take a minute, and then you can go home.’
Unnur stepped cautiously through the hall and into the living room, where she averted her gaze from the bloodstains. She looked at the superhero posters, the sofa, the coffee table and TV. She glanced up at the ceiling. It was late evening. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been here,’ she murmured to herself. She inched her way from the living room into the kitchen, with Elínborg at her heels. They had already examined Runólfur’s car, which had been impounded by the police. It rang no bells for Unnur.
It was also possible that she did not want to remember.
They reached the bedroom doorway, and Unnur looked down at the double bed — the quilt lay on the floor and at the head were two pillows. As in the living room, the floor was parquet. The bed was flanked by small bedside tables. Elínborg presumed that this was for symmetry, as Runólfur would not need two just for himself. On each was a small reading lamp, testament to the owner’s good taste, like everything else in the flat; Elínborg had noticed on her first visit that Runólfur’s home had a certain style and charm. On either side of the bed was a small rug. Clothes hung in the wardrobe, while his shirts were neatly folded and his underwear and socks arranged in drawers in an orderly fashion. Runólfur’s home revealed that he had his life completely under control and took pleasure in nice things.
‘I’ve never been here,’ said Unnur. Elínborg sensed her relief. Unnur stood motionless in the bedroom doorway, as if she did not dare enter.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked.
‘Nothing’s familiar,’ said Unnur. ‘I don’t remember this place at all.’
‘We’ve got plenty of time.’
‘No, I don’t remember ever being here. Not here, nor anywhere else in this flat. Can we go now? I can’t help you. I’m sorry. I feel uncomfortable in this place. Can we leave?’
Unnur’s mother gave Elínborg a pleading look.
‘Of course,’ said Elínborg. ‘Thank you for being willing to do this.’
‘Was she in here?’ Unnur took one step into the bedroom.
‘We think he was with a woman the night he was killed,’ said Elínborg. ‘He had sex shortly before the attack.’
‘Poor girl,’ said Unnur. ‘I suppose he brought her here against her will?’
‘That’s a possibility.’
‘But if he drugged her, how could she have killed him?’
‘We don’t know. We haven’t worked out what happened yet.’
‘Can I go home now?’
‘Of course. Whenever you want. Thank you for doing this, I know it wasn’t easy.’
Elínborg escorted Unnur and her parents out and saw them off from outside the house, watching the family disappear down the road. They were a sad little company, all three of them victims of unspeakable violence and depravity. Their lives had been devastated, and there was nothing they could do about it except weep in silence.
Elínborg wrapped her coat tightly around her as she returned to the car, wondering if she had another restless, wakeful night in store.
12
Frída bore a strong resemblance to Lóa. She was about the same age, a little stockier, dark-haired, with beautiful brown eyes behind dainty glasses. She was not especially surprised to be visited by the police. She said that she had already been thinking of contacting them, having read about the drug found at the murder scene. She was frank and energetic, and ready to tell Elínborg everything she knew.
‘It’s awful, reading about it in the papers,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know what to do. It was such a shock. Just think, I once went home with that man. He could have drugged me.’
‘Did you go to his place?’ asked Elínborg.
‘No, he came here. It was only the once, but that was more than enough.’
‘What happened?’
‘It’s just so embarrassing,’ said Frída. ‘I hardly know how to explain it. I got to know him quite well, but we weren’t dating or anything. And it’s not something I generally do. Not at all. I … but there was something about him.’
‘Do what?’ asked Elínborg.
‘Sleep with them,’ said Frída, with an awkward smile. ‘Not unless I’m really sure.’
‘Sure that what?’
‘That they’re all right.’
Elínborg nodded as if to say that she understood, but she was uncertain. She looked around at the flat. Frída said she lived alone, with two cats, which were twining themselves around Elínborg’s legs. They were determined to show her who was boss. One took a massive leap into her lap. The flat was on the second floor of a block in one of Reykjavík’s older districts. From the windows the Bláfjöll mountains could be glimpsed between two more blocks of flats.
‘No, I mean, I’ve used the personal ads, and I go clubbing, and all that,’ explained Frída with some embarrassment. ‘You do what you can, but the market … those guys are nothing to write home about.’
‘The market?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it because of Runólfur that you left your job at the gym?’ asked Elínborg.
‘I suppose so. It was one of the reasons. I didn’t want to risk running into him. Then I heard he’d left and gone to another gym, and I never saw him again, until it was on the news.’