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The elderly couple had finished their meal and gone, and the three football fans left as soon as the match ended. Elínborg sat for some time on her own, then went to the bar to pay. She thanked the bartender for a good meal. They spoke briefly about the bread, which Elínborg had enjoyed. The woman asked what brought her to the village and Elínborg told her.

‘He was at primary school here with my son,’ said the bartender. She was plump and dressed in a sleeveless black top, with sturdy upper arms and a heavy bosom under a voluminous apron. She said she had seen the news on TV. Runólfur was the talk of the village.

‘Did you know him at all?’ Elínborg enquired, looking out the window. It had started to snow again.

‘Everyone knows everyone around here. Runólfur was quite an ordinary lad. A bit rebellious, perhaps. He left as soon as he could — like most of the youngsters. I never had much to do with him. I know Kristjana was rather rough on him — she could lash out if he misbehaved. She’s hard as nails. She used to work in the local fish factory until it closed down.’

‘Are any of his friends still living here?’

The woman folded her hefty arms and thought. ‘They’ve all moved away, so far as I know,’ she said. ‘The population’s half what it was ten years ago.’

‘I see,’ said Elínborg. ‘Well, thank you.’

She was on her way out when she saw a shelf of videotapes and DVDs in a niche by the door. Elínborg did not go in for films much, but she watched sometimes if the males of the family rented something interesting. But crime films had no appeal, and romances left her cold. She preferred comedy. Theodóra had similar tastes, and occasionally the two of them would rent a comedy while Teddi and the boys were glued to some thriller.

Elínborg glanced over the shelf, and recognised one or two films she had already seen. A girl of about twenty was making her choice. She looked over at Elínborg and said hello. ‘Are you the policewoman from Reykjavík?’ she asked.

Elínborg realised that news of her presence had spread through the whole village.

‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘There’s one person here in the village who knew him,’ the girl said.

Him? You mean …?’

‘Runólfur. His name’s Valdimar. He runs the garage.’

‘And who are you?’

‘I was just taking a look at the films,’ replied the girl. Then she slipped past Elínborg and out the door.

Elínborg walked the streets in the heavy snow until she found a small motor workshop at the northern end of the village. Above the half-open sliding door of an old garage building a weak light shone on a weather-beaten sign on which the name of the business was illegible. It looked to Elínborg as if it had been peppered with shotgun pellets. She went through the reception area and into the workshop, where a man of about thirty was working behind a large tractor. He was wearing a tatty baseball cap and overalls that had once been dark blue but were now blackened with dirt. Elínborg introduced herself, and explained that she was from the police. The man twisted an oily rag in his hands as he returned Elínborg’s greeting, uncertain whether he should offer her his greasy hand. He was tall and lanky, awkward-looking. He said his name was Valdimar.

‘I heard you were here,’ he said. ‘Because of Runólfur.’

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ said Elínborg, with a glance at her watch. It was past ten o’clock.

‘No, you’re not,’ Valdimar assured her. ‘I’m just working on the tractor. I’ve got nothing else on. Did you want to talk to me about Runólfur?’

‘I gather you were friends when he lived here. Did you stay in touch?’

‘No, not really — not after he left. I visited him once when I went to Reykjavík.’

‘You don’t know anyone who might have had reason to hate him?’

‘No, not at all — but, as I say, we weren’t in touch. I haven’t been to Reykjavík in donkey’s years. I read that his throat was cut.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘No. We don’t know much yet. I came here to speak to his mother. What was Runólfur like as a boy?’

Valdimar put down his oily rag, opened a thermos of piping hot coffee and poured himself a cup. He glanced over at Elínborg as if to offer her one, but she shook her head.

‘Everyone knows everyone else around here, of course,’ he said. ‘He was older than me so we didn’t play together much as boys. He wasn’t as wild as some of us who were raised here in the village, maybe because he had a strict upbringing.’

‘But were you friends?’

‘No, not really, though we knew each other quite well. He left when he was very young. Things change. Not least in a little community like this.’

‘Did he go away to high school, or …?’

‘No, he just moved to Reykjavík to work. He always wanted to go there. He talked about going as soon as he got the chance. Or even travelling, abroad. He wasn’t about to waste his life in this backwater. He called it a hole. I’ve never thought of it that way — I’ve always been OK here.’

‘Was he interested in action comics, thriller films, do you know?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because we found indications of it at his home,’ answered Elínborg, without describing the posters and collectible figures in Runólfur’s flat in any more detail.

‘I don’t know. I don’t remember anything like that.’

‘I’ve been told his mother was a harsh parent. You mentioned a strict upbringing.’

‘She had a rather short fuse,’ said Valdimar, sipping his coffee carefully. He took a biscuit from his pocket and dunked it in the cup. ‘She had her own approach to parenting. I never saw her hit him, but he said she did. He only spoke of it once, so far as I know. He was embarrassed — I think he was ashamed. They were never close.’

‘What about his father?’

‘The old man was a bit of a wimp. Never said a word.’

‘He died in an accident, didn’t he?’

‘That was just a few years ago, after Runólfur had moved to Reykjavík.’

‘So have you any idea why Runólfur was murdered?’

‘No, I’ve no idea at all. It’s tragic, quite tragic, that things like that happen.’

‘Did you know anything about women in his life?’

‘Women?’

‘Yes.’

‘In Reykjavík?’

‘Yes. Or in general.’

‘I knew nothing about that. Is this to do with women?’

‘No,’ said Elínborg. ‘Or, at least, we don’t know. We don’t know what happened.’

Valdimar put down his coffee cup and took a spanner from a toolbox.

He worked calmly, his movements unhurried. He searched for a bolt in another box, feeling around with a finger until he found one that was the right size.

Elínborg looked at the tractor. There was apparently no pressure of work at this garage, yet here Valdimar was, working late into the evening.

‘My husband’s a mechanic,’ volunteered Elínborg without thinking. She was not in the habit of telling strangers anything about herself, but it was warm in the garage and the man was friendly. He came across as reliable and likeable. Outside, the storm was rising. She knew no one in this place and she felt a long way from her husband and children.

‘Oh?’ replied Valdimar. ‘So I suppose his hands are always black?’

‘I won’t allow it,’ said Elínborg, with a smile. ‘He must have been one of the first mechanics in Iceland, or maybe in the world, who started wearing gloves for work.’