‘If your daughter’s telling the truth, I can’t see how she would have been able to do it. And there aren’t a lot of other candidates. I think you took revenge for his rape of your daughter. To me it looks like a classic payback killing. Nína managed to phone you and ask for help. You hurried over to Thingholt, and she opened the door for you. Perhaps Runólfur was asleep by then. When you saw what had happened, what he had done to her, you went wild. You gave him a taste of his own medicine, and then you slashed his throat — in front of your daughter.’
‘That’s ridiculous. It wasn’t me!’ Konrád exclaimed.
‘So who was it?’
‘It wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Nína,’ he said. ‘I know she could never hurt anyone. She’s simply not like that — even if he’d drugged her and she wasn’t herself.’
‘You shouldn’t underestimate what people will do in self-defence.’
‘She didn’t do it.’
‘Well, someone made him swallow the pills.’
‘Then it must have been someone else. Some other person there, in the flat with them.’ Konrád leaned forward over the table between Elínborg and him. ‘Nína couldn’t do it. And I didn’t do it, I know that. So there’s only one other possibility. There must have been someone else there with Runólfur. Someone other than my daughter!’
25
The idea that a third person could have been present at Runólfur’s place was not new to the police. Elínborg had twice questioned Edvard about his whereabouts on the night of Runólfur’s death and he gave the same answer both times: he had been alone at home watching television. His story could not be corroborated. It was not impossible that Edvard was lying, but the police were not aware of any motive for him to have killed his friend. And Elínborg’s assessment of him was that he would hardly have been capable of such a drastic act. Her theory that he was involved in Lilja’s disappearance was tenuous: there was no evidence that he had given the girl a lift to town, and even if he had that was not proof of anything. He could claim to have dropped her off anywhere, after which she had disappeared. Yet Elínborg could not let go of Edvard.
She spent the day questioning Nína and Konrád, whose accounts remained unchanged throughout repeated interviews. Nína was more convinced than ever that she must be responsible for Runólfur’s death; she almost seemed to hope that she had done it. Konrád, on the other hand, was tending in the opposite direction; he felt that his daughter was fundamentally incapable of the deed, and he steadfastly denied having killed Runólfur himself. No test could now confirm whether Nína had been drugged and had therefore been physically incapacitated. The police had only her word for it, that she had no memory of the events. It was entirely possible that she had been fully conscious the whole time.
And then there was the matter of Runólfur. He could hardly have taken the Rohypnol voluntarily. Someone must have compelled him — someone who wanted payback. Was it possible that Nína had forced the drug down his throat? So many questions remained unanswered. To Elínborg’s way of thinking, Konrád and Nína were the most likely suspects. Nína had not confessed directly but Elínborg was expecting to elicit a full confession before long, after which she thought the father and daughter would tell her where the murder weapon was. Not that she was pleased about it. Runólfur had dragged down good people to flounder in the filth of his unsavoury world.
Later that afternoon Elínborg parked, yet again, some distance from Edvard’s house to observe what went on there. His car was parked in its usual place. Elínborg had checked the website of the college he taught at and had found his timetable: he generally finished around three o’clock. She was not sure what she expected to gain by keeping an eye on Edvard. Perhaps her sympathy for Konrád and his daughter was making her a little biased and unduly keen to exonerate them.
From where she sat Elínborg could see the dry dock of the old harbour, soon to make way for new residential developments on the former dockside. History would be erased at a stroke. She thought of Erlendur, who clung to the old ways. She did not always agree with him — after all, progress demanded space. Erlendur had ranted on about one particular building, the Gröndal House, which was to be moved from its location in the old town to the open-air museum on the outskirts of the city. Why, he had fumed, shouldn’t it stay where it was, in the heart of the old town where it belonged, in the context of its history? The building was important, he said, bearing the name of the nineteenth-century writer Benedikt Gröndal who had written his autobiography — Erlendur’s favourite book — under that very roof. The Gröndal House was one of only a handful of nineteenth-century buildings remaining in Reykjavík: ‘And so they’re going to uproot it,’ Erlendur had grumbled, ‘and dump it in the middle of nowhere!’
Elínborg had been sitting in the car for nearly two hours when at last the door opened, and Edvard emerged and drove off. She followed him. He made his way first to a cut-price supermarket, after which he called at a laundry and then at a video-rental shop that was closing down. On the front of the shop was a sign: EVERYTHING MUST GO. CLOSING-DOWN SALE. Edvard spent a long time inside before reappearing loaded down with videos, which he put in the boot of his car. He stood outside for a long time talking to the owner before driving off.
His next port of call was a telephone company — the same one that had employed Runólfur. Through the window Elínborg watched Edvard examining mobile phones. A shop assistant came over to him and they discussed the phones at length, until Edvard made his selection and bought one. He drove back towards his home, stopping on the way at a burger joint. He took his time over his meal and Elínborg almost decided to abandon her surveillance. She did not know what she expected to find out; she was probably tailing an innocent man.
She rang home, and Theodóra answered. They spoke briefly. Theodóra had brought two friends home from school and did not have time to chat with her mum. Teddi was not home yet, and Theodóra had no idea where her brothers were.
Edvard finished eating and returned to his car. Elínborg said goodbye to her daughter and followed him again. He was heading westwards towards his home, along by the old harbour. At the old dry dock he slowed down and pulled over to park with his wheels up on the pavement. He seemed to be looking out over the dry dock and across the bay to Mount Esja. Elínborg was in a quandary. She could not pull in behind him so she went on and stopped in the next car park, where she waited until Edvard drove slowly past towards his home.
Elínborg parked in her usual spot and switched off the engine. Edvard carried his clean laundry, groceries and videos inside, and shut the door behind him. It was evening now and Elínborg felt guilty about neglecting her family, who these days were surviving mostly on takeaways provided by Teddi. She resolved that she must give more priority to her home life; she must be there for Theodóra and the boys, and make time for Teddi, who tended to spend his evenings in front of the television. He claimed to watch mostly documentaries, wildlife programmes especially, but that was rubbish. She had often come home to find him absorbed in mindless drivel such as American reality TV — weddings, models or castaways, it was all the same. Those were Teddi’s new ‘wildlife documentaries’.
Elínborg saw one of Edvard’s neighbours come out and open his garage door. Inside was an old car, which he set to waxing and polishing. It was a classic car, unfamiliar to Elínborg: a large, flashy vehicle dating from the 1950s, with baby-blue bodywork, shiny chrome fittings, and tall, dramatic fins at the rear. Teddi adored that kind of car, especially Cadillacs: Caddies, he said, were the best cars ever made. Elínborg had no idea whether this was a Cadillac, but she knew exactly how to strike up a conversation with the owner. She got out of her car and walked over to him.