Elínborg was not convinced. ‘The last thing he told me was that they were both innocent.’
‘He must have just had enough. I can’t read his mind.’
‘Does his daughter know about his confession?’
‘No, she hasn’t been told. I don’t suppose we’ll tell her till tomorrow.’
‘Thanks,’ said Elínborg.
‘Well, it’s all down to your good work, pardner,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Who’d have believed your Indian spices and sauces would solve the case? I wouldn’t.’
‘See you tomorrow.’
Elínborg broke the connection and absent-mindedly picked up her husband’s jacket. The garment smelt strongly of the motor workshop where he worked and a smell of lubricants and tyres filled the hall. Teddi usually took care not to bring the grime of his work into the house but this time he had forgotten. Maybe because he was so pleased to find her at home, thought Elínborg. She carried his jacket into the garage, hung it up, then returned to the kitchen.
‘What was the call about?’ Teddi asked.
‘We’ve got a confession,’ said Elínborg. ‘In the Thingholt case.’
‘Ah,’ said Teddi, a wine bottle in his hand. ‘I wasn’t sure whether to open it.’
‘Yeah, go ahead,’ said Elínborg flatly. ‘You left your jacket in the hall.’
‘Sorry, I was in a bit of a hurry. What’s the matter? The case is solved, isn’t it?’
He drew the cork from the bottle, with a loud pop. Teddi poured two glasses of wine and handed one to his wife. ‘Cheers!’ he said.
Elínborg toasted him back, her attention elsewhere. Teddi could see that she was distracted as she watched the rice boiling in the pan. He took a sip and watched her. He did not want to interrupt her train of thought.
‘Could it be?’ exclaimed Elínborg.
‘Could what be?’
‘He’s got it all wrong,’ said Elínborg.
‘What?’ asked Teddi, bewildered. ‘Is there something wrong with the rice?’
‘Rice?’
‘Yes — I just did the usual amount.’
‘He thought it was paraffin, but he was wrong,’ said Elínborg.
‘What?’
Elínborg stared at Teddi. Then she went out to the garage and fetched his jacket. She brought it back and handed it to him. ‘Can you tell me what this smell is, exactly?’
‘The smell on the jacket?’
‘Yes. Is it paraffin?’
‘No, not exactly …’ said Teddi as he sniffed at the garment. ‘It’s engine lubricant. Oil.’
‘Who was this Runólfur?’ said Elínborg under her breath. ‘What kind of a man was he? Konrád asked me that today, and I had no answer for him, because I don’t understand him. But I should.’
‘What should you understand?’
‘Konrád didn’t smell paraffin. Dear God! We should have found out more about him. I knew it. We should have paid far more attention to Runólfur.’
28
Elínborg sat in the car for a while before she entered the filling station. Busy as she was, she allowed herself the time to listen to the closing minutes of a radio programme playing golden oldies. Her first husband, Bergsteinn, had been a devotee of classic popular songs. He would often wax lyrical about the good old days of simple, innocent dance tunes, which had given way to raw, angry, confrontational music.
These familiar songs reminded her of Erlendur, who had gone east to where he had lived as a boy. In his desire to be left alone, it looked as if he had left his phone behind and severed all contact with the outside world. On the rare occasions when he took time off to go to the east, that was what he did as a rule. She wondered what he got up to over there. She had taken the liberty of asking about him at the guest house in the village of Eskifjördur, but he had not been seen there. She had hesitated to make the calclass="underline" she knew Erlendur at least as well as anyone else and she was well aware that he loathed any such interference.
Elínborg walked into the filling station. By trawling through old reports of fatal road accidents she had traced the driver of the lorry that had collided with Runólfur’s father’s car, killing him. The man had worked for a haulage company in Reykjavík. Elínborg had gone to the company offices to ask about the driver and had spoken to the manager:
‘I was wondering if Ragnar Thór was available. I’ve only got a mobile number and he’s not answering,’ said Elínborg, after introducing herself.
‘Ragnar Thór?’ the manager said. ‘He hasn’t worked here for years.’
‘Oh? Who’s he driving for now?’
‘Driving? No, Ragnar doesn’t drive any more. Not since the accident.’
‘The accident where the other driver died?’
‘Yes — he gave up driving after that.’
‘Because of the accident?’
‘Yes.’ The manager was standing in his office, flicking through bills of lading. He had scarcely looked up from his paperwork.
‘Do you know where he’s working now?’
‘Yes — he’s at a filling station in Hafnarfjördur. I saw him last a couple of months ago. He’s probably still there.’
‘So it affected him badly, did it?’
‘Yes. Like I said, he quit driving. Stopped there and then.’
Elínborg had left the haulage company to drive straight to the filling station that the manager had mentioned. It was a quiet time of day and the place was peaceful. A man was standing at a pump, filling the tank himself to save a few krónur. Inside, at the till, were a woman of about thirty and an older man. The woman ignored Elínborg, looking out at the forecourt, but the man stood up, smiled, and asked if he could help.
‘I’m looking for Ragnar Thór,’ said Elínborg.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ the man replied.
‘Your mobile doesn’t seem to be working.’
‘Oh, were you trying to get hold of me? I haven’t got round to buying a new one.’
‘Could we speak in private?’ asked Elínborg, looking at the woman on the till. ‘I need to ask you something. It won’t take long.’
‘Of course,’ said the man. He also looked at the woman. ‘We can step outside. Who are you?’
They went outside, and Elínborg explained that she was a police officer, working on a delicate case. To cut a long story short, she wanted to ask him about the accident he had been in some years ago, when he’d collided head-on with a car whose driver was killed.
‘The crash?’ replied Ragnar Thór cautiously.
‘I’ve read the reports,’ said Elínborg. ‘But I know things get left out of the written versions. I gather you stopped driving after that?’
‘I … I don’t see how I can help you,’ said Ragnar Thór, stepping away from her. ‘I’ve never discussed it.’
‘I understand. It must have been an awful experience.’
‘With all due respect, you can’t understand it unless it happens to you. I don’t think I can help you, so please leave me alone. I’ve never talked to anyone about it and I’m not going to start now. I hope you’ll respect that.’ He made as if to go back to his work.
‘The case I’m investigating is the Thingholt Murder,’ Elínborg said. ‘Have you heard about it?’
Ragnar Thór halted. A car pulled up at one of the pumps.
‘The young man who was killed — had his throat cut, in fact — was the son of the man who died in the accident.’
Ragnar Thór looked at her, baffled. ‘His son?’
‘Runólfur was his name. He lost his father in that crash.’
The driver who had stopped at the pump sat in his car, waiting to be served. The woman on the till did not move.
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ muttered Ragnar Thór. ‘The accident wasn’t my fault.’
‘I think that’s generally accepted, Ragnar. He swerved across in front of you.’
The waiting driver tooted his horn. Ragnar Thór glanced over at him. The woman on the till was ignoring them. He went over to the car. The driver lowered his window and, without a word, handed him a 5,000-krónur note, then closed the window again.