‘What do you want to know?’ asked Ragnar Thór, when he had started the pump.
‘Was there anything odd about the accident? Something you didn’t mention in your statement? Something to explain how it happened? The report only reaches the conclusion that Runólfur’s father seems to have lost control of the vehicle.’
‘I know.’
‘His wife says he fell asleep at the wheel. Is that true? Or did something else happen? Maybe something distracted him? Did he drop a cigarette on the seat?’
‘That lad in Thingholt was his son?’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Well, now you do.’
‘If I tell you what I left out of my statement, you mustn’t tell anyone else.’
‘I won’t. You can rely on me.’
Ragnar Thór finished filling the car. They stood by the pump. It was midday, a chilly day. ‘It was suicide,’ said Ragnar Thór.
‘Suicide? How do you know?’
‘You can’t breathe a word of this.’
‘No.’
‘He smiled at me.’
‘Smiled?’
Ragnar Thór nodded. ‘He was smiling when the lorry hit him. He had picked me out — my rig, because it was a big juggernaut with a trailer. He pulled over right in front of me, with no warning. There was nothing I could do. I had no time to react. He steered his car head-on into me and just before the vehicles collided he smiled — from ear to ear.’
The half-empty plane took off from Reykjavík’s domestic airport in the afternoon, climbing fast to its cruising altitude. There was talk of abolishing this route unless the government stepped in with an even larger subsidy for the service. Departure had been delayed by fog at their destination, and it was past two p.m. when conditions improved sufficiently for the plane to take off. The captain greeted the passengers over the public-address system: he apologised for the delay, told them when he expected to land, and informed them that there was low cloud at their destination, with a strong breeze. The temperature there was minus four degrees Centigrade. He wished them a pleasant journey.
Elínborg tightened her seat belt, and recalled her last flight, a few days ago. She thought she recognised the captain’s voice. They flew above the clouds for most of the way, and Elínborg enjoyed having the sun on her left. It had not broken through the clouds very often during the overcast autumn days in Reykjavík.
Elínborg had brought the case file with her and was reading a transcript of Konrád’s confession. He was standing by it and swore that he did not want to change anything. Elínborg knew that being held in custody could have strange and unpredictable effects on people.
‘I want to see my daughter,’ said Konrád, according to the transcript. ‘I won’t answer any more questions until you let me see her.’
‘That’s not going to happen,’ was the police officer’s reply. Elínborg thought it was probably Finnur, who had tipped them off about the possible connection between Edvard and Lilja.
‘How is she?’ asked Konrád.
‘We think she’s on the point of breaking. It’s just a matter of time.’
Elínborg grimaced. Konrád was always asking after his daughter and Elínborg felt that the police officer was attempting a rather simplistic form of psychological intimidation.
‘Is she all right?’
‘She’s all right. For now.’
‘What do you mean, for now?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s no picnic for her, being held in custody, of course.’
A little while later Konrád gave up all resistance. He was being questioned about how he got into the house. The questions were repeated over and over again until he put his foot down. Elínborg pictured him in the interview room, straightening up where he sat and sighing heavily: ‘I can’t go on like this. I don’t know how I thought I could get away with it. I should have contacted you at once, after I cut him. Then Nína wouldn’t have had to go through all this, for nothing. It was a stupid mistake but I maintain I did it in self-defence.’
‘Are you …?’
‘I killed him. Now leave Nína alone. It was me. I’m just sorry I dragged her into my lies. It was my fault. All my fault. When I saw the state Nína was in, and what had been done to her, I was overcome with rage. She had rung me, told me where she was, where the man lived. I received that horrific call for help from her and hurried over. Nína had managed to open the door for me. I went inside and the first thing I saw was the knife on the table. I thought he’d threatened Nína with it. I didn’t understand the situation. Nína was sitting on the floor, with a half-naked man standing over her. I’d never seen him before. I thought he was going to harm my daughter so I grabbed the knife and cut his throat. He never saw me. I picked up what I could find of her clothes and then took her out, through the garden, down to the next street and to the car. I stopped the car on the way home to throw the knife in the sea. I don’t remember exactly where. That’s what happened. That’s the truth.’
The police had interviewed Konrád’s wife that morning. If his confession was to be relied upon, she was an accessory. She confirmed that he had returned to the car with their daughter, but claimed not to remember Konrád pulling over to dispose of the murder weapon. She, like her husband and daughter, had been in a state of shock so she was not sure whether she had the correct order of events, or even if she remembered everything that had happened. It did not seem necessary at this point to take her into custody.
The plane hit a patch of turbulence and Elínborg gasped as it plunged and juddered. She grasped the armrests and her papers slithered to the floor. The commotion continued for several minutes. Once everything was back to normal, the captain addressed the passengers, explained about the turbulence, and requested them to stay seated with their seat belts fastened. Elínborg picked up her papers and rearranged them in the correct order in the file. She did not like these tinny propeller planes.
She returned to her reading. Konrád was questioned about various details and gave clear answers. But he could not answer the question that interested Elínborg most: what about the Rohypnol found in Runólfur’s body? Konrád had not forced him to swallow it, and Nína had almost no memory of events.
The plane was making its descent towards the runway. A light layer of snow still lay on the ground, contrasting with the muted hues of the landscape. Elínborg knew that two police officers were waiting for her at the little airport as before, to take her to Runólfur’s home village. She thought back to her kitchen at home, and Teddi’s bewildered expression when she had been struggling to understand the connection between what Konrád had said and the oily odour in the hall from Teddi’s jacket.
‘What? What about paraffin?’ Teddi had asked.
‘Konrád said Runólfur had been burning something,’ said Elínborg. ‘But he hadn’t burned anything. It wasn’t paraffin that Konrád smelt.’
‘What does that matter?’ asked Teddi.
‘Soon after we traced him, Konrád told me that he’d smelt paraffin in Runólfur’s flat. We didn’t find any paraffin — and Konrád’s description was a bit vague. At least, I think it was. I believe he smelt something like this. Maybe that’s enough — after all, if you leave your jacket in the hall the smell soon gets into everything.’
‘And?’ asked Teddi.
‘It’s an absolutely vital clue,’ answered Elínborg, and fetched her mobile to ring Sigurdur Óli back.
‘The confession’s rubbish,’ she said.
‘Oh?’
‘Konrád thinks he’s doing the right thing, taking the fall for his daughter. But I don’t believe they had anything to do with Runólfur’s death.’