The mother had committed suicide.
7
The bridegroom welcomed Erlendur into his office. He was a quality and marketing manager for a wholesaling company that imported breakfast cereal from America and Erlendur, who had never tasted American breakfast cereal in his life, pondered as he sat down in the office what a quality and marketing manager at a wholesaling company actually did. He couldn’t be bothered to ask. The bridegroom was wearing a well-ironed white shirt and thick braces and he had rolled up his sleeves as if managing quality issues required every ounce of his strength. Average height, a little chubby and with a ring of beard around his thick-lipped mouth. Viggo was his name.
“I haven’t heard from Disa,” Viggo said quickly and sat down facing Erlendur.
“Was it something you said to her that…”
“That’s what everyone thinks,” Viggo said. “Everyone assumes it’s my fault. That’s the worst thing. The worst part of the whole business. I can’t stand it.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about her before she ran away? Anything that might have upset her?”
“Everyone was just having fun. You know, a wedding, you know what I mean.”
“No.”
“Surely you’ve been to a wedding?”
“Once. A long time ago.”
“It was time for the first dance. The speeches were over and Disa’s girlfriends had organised some entertainment, the accordionist had arrived and we were supposed to dance. I was sitting at our table and everyone started looking for Disa, but she was gone.”
“Where did you last see her?”
“She was sitting with me and said she needed to go to the toilet.”
“And did you say anything that could have made her sulk?”
“Not at all! I gave her a kiss and told her to be quick.”
“How much time passed from when she left until you started looking for her?”
“I don’t know. I sat down with my friends and then went outside for a smoke — all the smokers had to go outside — I talked to some people there and on the way out and back, sat down again and the accordionist came over and talked to me about the dance and music. I talked to some other people, I guess it must have been half an hour, I don’t know.”
“And you never saw her during that time?”
“No. When we realised she was gone it was a total disaster. Everyone stared at me as though it was my fault.”
“What do you think has happened to her?”
“I’ve looked everywhere. Spoken to all her friends and relatives but no-one knows a thing, or that’s what they say anyway.”
“Do you think someone’s lying?”
“Well, she must be somewhere.”
“Did you know she left a message?”
“No. What message? What do you mean?”
“She hung a card on the message tree thing. ’He’s a monster, what have I done?’ it said. Do you know what she means by that?”
“He’s a monster,” Viggo repeated. “Who was she talking about?”
“I had thought it might be you.”
“Me?” said Viggo, becoming agitated. “I haven’t done a thing to her, not a thing. Never. It’s not me. It can’t be me.”
“The car she took was found on Gardastraeti. Does that tell you anything?”
“She doesn’t know anyone there. Are you going to report her missing?”
“I think her parents want to give her time to come back.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Then we’ll see.” Erlendur hesitated. “I would have thought she’d have contacted you. To tell you everything’s all right.”
“Wait a minute, are you suggesting it was my fault and she won’t talk to me because I did something to her? Jesus, what a bloody horror story. Do you know what it was like coming to work on Monday? All my colleagues were at the party. My boss was at the party! Do you think it’s my fault? Fuck it! Everyone thinks it’s my fault.”
“Women,” Erlendur said as he stood up. “They’re difficult to quality control.”
Erlendur had just arrived at his office when the phone rang. He recognised the voice immediately although he had not heard it for a long time. It was still clear and strong and firm despite its advanced age. Erlendur had known Marion Briem for almost 30 years and it hadn’t always been plain sailing.
“I’ve just come from the chalet", the voice said, “and I didn’t hear the news until I reached town just now.”
“Are you talking about Holberg?” Erlendur asked.
“Have you looked at the reports on him?”
“I know Sigurdur Oli was checking the computer records but I haven’t heard from him. What reports?”
“The question is whether they’re actually on file in the computers. Maybe they’ve been thrown out. Is there any law about when reports become obsolete? Are they destroyed?”
“What are you driving at?”
“Turns out Holberg was no model citizen,” Marion Briem said.
“In what way?”
“The chances are that he was a rapist.”
“Chances are?”
“He was charged with rape, but never convicted. It was in 1963. You ought to take a look at your reports.”
“Who accused him?”
“A woman by the name of Kolbrun. She lived in…”
“Keflavik?”
“Yes, how did you know that?”
“We found a photograph in Holberg’s desk. It was as if it had been hidden there. It was a photograph of the gravestone of a girl called Audur, in a cemetery we still haven’t identified. I woke up one of the living dead from the National Statistics Office and found Kolbrun’s name on the death certificate. She was the little girl’s mother. Audur’s mother. She’s dead too.”
Marion said nothing.
“Marion?” Erlendur said.
“And what does that tell you?” the voice replied. Erlendur thought.
“Well, if Holberg raped the mother he may well be the father of the girl and that’s why the photo was in his desk. The girl was only 4 years old when she died, born in 1964.”
“Holberg was never convicted,” Marion Briem said. “The case was dropped due to insufficient evidence.”
“Do you think she made it up?”
“It would be unlikely in those days, but nothing could be proved. Of course it’s never easy for women to press charges for that kind of violence. You can’t imagine what she would have gone through almost 40 years ago. It’s difficult enough for women to come forward these days, but it was much more difficult then. She could hardly have done it for fun. Maybe the photo’s some kind of proof of paternity. Why should Holberg have kept it in his desk? The rape took place in I963. You say Kolbrun had her daughter the following year. Four years later the daughter dies. Kolbrun has her buried. Holberg is implicated somehow. Maybe he took the photo himself. Why, I don’t know. Maybe that’s irrelevant.”
“He certainly wouldn’t have been at the funeral, but he could have gone to the grave later and taken a photograph. Do you mean something like that?”
“There’s another possibility too.”
“Yes?”
“Maybe Kolbrun took the photo herself and sent it to Holberg.”
Erlendur thought for a moment.
“But why? If he raped her, why send him a photograph of the little girl’s grave?”
“Good question.”
“Did the death certificate say what Audur died of?” Marion Briem asked “Was it an accident?”
“She died of a brain tumour. Do you think that could be important?”
“Did they perform an autopsy?”
“Definitely. The doctor’s name is on the death certificate.”
“And the mother?”
“Died suddenly at her home.”
“Suicide?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve stopped calling in to see me,” Marion Briem said after a short silence.
“Too busy,” Erlendur said. “Too damned busy.”
8
Next morning it was still raining and on the road to Keflavik the water collected in deep tyre tracks that the cars tried to avoid. The rain was so torrential Erlendur could hardly see out of the car windows, which were veiled in spray and rattled in the unrelenting south-easterly storm. The wipers couldn’t clear the water from the windscreen fast enough and Erlendur gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He could vaguely make out the red rear lights of the car in front and tried to follow them as best he could.