It was high noon and the weather was calm and beautiful. After talking to several chalet owners without making any headway, Sigurdur Oli and Elinborg slowly worked their way towards the houses nearest to the hill. In such fine weather they were in no hurry. Enjoyed a jaunt away from the city, strolling in the sunshine and talking to the chalet owners who were surprised to be visited by the police so early in the day. Some had heard on the news about the skeleton being found on the hill. Others had absolutely no idea.
“Will she survive, or…?” Sigurdur Oli asked when they got into the car for the umpteenth time and drove on to the next chalet. They had been talking about Eva Lind on their way out of town and returned to the topic at regular intervals.
“I don’t know,” Elinborg said. “I don’t think anyone knows. The poor girl,” she said, heaving a deep sigh. “And him,” she added. “Poor Erlendur.”
“She’s a junkie,” Sigurdur Oli said seriously. “Gets pregnant and gets stoned without a care in the world and ends up killing the baby. I can’t feel sorry for people like that. I don’t understand them and never will.”
“No one’s asking you to feel sorry for them,” Elinborg said.
“Oh, really? When people talk about that crowd all I ever hear is what a hard time they have. From what I’ve seen of them… “He paused. “I can’t feel sorry for them,” he repeated. “They’re losers. Nothing else. Wankers.”
Elinborg sighed.
“What’s it like being so perfect? Always smartly dressed, clean-shaven and neatly groomed, with that degree from America, unbitten nails, not a care in the world other than being able to afford those flashy clothes? Don’t you ever get tired of it? Don’t you ever get tired of yourself?”
“Nope,” Sigurdur Oli said.
“What’s wrong with showing those people a bit of understanding?”
“They’re losers and you know it. Just because she’s the old man’s daughter doesn’t make her any better than the rest of them. She’s like all the other bums who are on the streets getting stoned and then sleep it off in the shelters and rehab. centres before they get wasted again, because that’s the only thing those creeps want. To laze around and get stoned.”
“How are you and Bergthora getting along?” Elinborg asked, having given up all hope of changing his opinions about anything whatsoever.
“Fine,” Sigurdur Oli said wearily as he pulled up outside yet another chalet. Bergthora simply wouldn’t leave him alone. She was insatiable, in the evenings and the mornings and in the middle of the day, in every possible position and place in their flat, in the kitchen and sitting room, even the laundry room, lying down and standing up. And although he had enjoyed it to begin with, he was starting to notice himself growing tired of it, and had begun to suspect her motives. Not that their sex life had ever been dull, far from it. But she had never before had such a strong urge or so much zeal. They had not discussed in any seriousness the matter of having children, although they had been together long enough. He knew that Bergthora was on the pill, but he couldn’t help feeling that she wanted to tie him down by having children. There was no need, because he was particularly fond of her and had no desire to live with anyone else. But women are unpredictable, he thought. You never know what they are up to.
“Strange that the National Statistics Office hasn’t got the names of any people who lived in that house, if anyone ever did,” Elinborg said, getting out of the car.
“The records for that period are all in a mess. Reykjavik was swamped with people during and after the war, registration was a bit hit and miss while they were moving in. And I think they’ve lost part of the population records. A bit of a mix-up. Said he wouldn’t be able to find it immediately, the man I spoke to.”
“Maybe no one actually lived there.”
“They needn’t have been there long. Might have been listed somewhere else and didn’t register the new address. Maybe lived on the hill for a couple of years, months even, during the housing crisis, then moved into one of the converted barracks after the war. What do you think of that theory?”
“Fits like a Burberry.”
The chalet owner met them at the door, a very old man, spindly and stiff in his movements, with thin white hair, and wearing a light blue shirt with a string vest clearly visible underneath it, grey corduroy trousers and new trainers. When Elinborg saw all the rubbish inside, she wondered whether he might live there all year round. She asked him.
“I suppose you could say that,” the man answered, sitting down in an armchair and gesturing to them to sit on some chairs in the middle of the room. “I started building this place 40 years ago and moved everything here in my old Lada about five years ago. Or was it six years? It all becomes a blur. I couldn’t be bothered to live in Reykjavik any more. An awful place, that city, so…”
“Was there a house up here on the hill then, maybe a summer chalet like this but not necessarily used for that purpose?” Sigurdur Oli hurried to ask, not wanting to listen to a lecture. “I mean, 40 years ago, when you started building yours?”
“A summer chalet but not a summer chalet…?”
“Standing by itself on this side of Grafarholt,” Elinborg said. “Built some time before the war.” She looked out of the sitting-room window. “You would have seen it from this window.”
“I remember a house there, not painted, not properly finished. It disappeared ages ago. It was definitely quite a sizeable chalet, or should have been, quite big, bigger than mine, but a total shambles. Almost falling down. The doors were gone and the windows were broken. I used to walk up there sometimes when I could still be bothered to fish in the lake. Gave that up years ago.”
“So no one lived in the house?” Sigurdur Oli asked.
“No, there was no one in the house then. No one could have lived in it. It was on the verge of collapse.”
“And it was never occupied, as far as you know?” Elinborg said. “You don’t remember anyone from the house?”
“Why do you want to know about that house anyway?”
“We found a human skeleton on the hill,” Sigurdur Oli said. “Didn’t you see it on the news?”
“A skeleton? No. From the people in that house?”
“We don’t know. We still don’t know the history of the house and the people who lived there,” Elinborg said. “We know who the owner was but he died a long time ago and we still haven’t found anyone registered as living in it. Do you remember the wartime barracks on the other side of the hill? On the south side. A depot or something like that?”
“There were barracks all over the countryside,” the old man said. “British and American too. I don’t recall any on the hill here in particular, that was before my time anyway. Quite a way before my time. You ought to talk to Robert.”
“Robert?” Elinborg said.
“If he isn’t dead. He was one of the first people to build a chalet on this hill. I know he was in an old people’s home. Robert Sigurdsson. You’ll find him, if he’s still alive.”
Since there was no bell at the entrance, Erlendur banged on the thick oak door with the palm of his hand in the hope of being heard inside. The house was once owned by Benjamin Knudsen, a businessman from Reykjavik, who died in the early 1960s. His brother and sister inherited it, moved in when he died and lived there for the rest of their lives. They were both unmarried, as far as Erlendur knew, but the sister had a daughter. She was a doctor, and now lived on the middle floor and rented out the flats above and below. Erlendur had spoken to her on the telephone. They were to meet at midday.