“Unless he just killed himself,” Elinborg said. “The only foundation for your theory about Leopold’s double life is in your own fantasies.”
“I know,” Erlendur said. “The overwhelming odds are that he took his own life and that’s the only mystery there is to it.”
“I think you were bloody crass, trying out that ludicrous idea on the woman,” Elinborg said. “Now she thinks he might be alive.”
“She’s believed that herself the whole time,” Erlendur said. “Deep down. That he just walked out on her.”
They stopped talking. It was late in the day. Elinborg looked at her watch. She was testing a new marinade for chicken breasts. Sigurdur Oli had promised to take Bergthora to Thingvellir. They were going to spend a summer night at the hotel there. The weather was at its best for June: warm, sunny and with the scent of flowers in the air.
“What are you doing tonight?” Sigurdur Oli asked Erlendur.
“Nothing,” Erlendur said.
“Maybe you’d like to come to Thingvellir with me and Bergthora,” he said, making a bad job of concealing the answer he wanted to hear. Erlendur smiled. Their concern for him could get on his nerves. Sometimes, like now, it was merely politeness.
“I’m expecting a visitor,” Erlendur said.
“How’s Eva Lind doing?” Sigurdur Oli asked, rubbing his shoulder.
“I haven’t heard much from her,” Erlendur said. “I just know she completed rehab, but I’ve hardly heard anything else.”
“What were you saying about Leopold?” Elinborg suddenly said. “Did he speak with a foreign accent? Did you say that?”
“Lothar was bound to have had an accent,” Sigurdur Oli said.
“What do you mean?” Erlendur said.
“Well, the guy at the US embassy said that this German, Lothar, spoke fluent Icelandic. But he must have spoken it with an accent.”
“We’ll have to bear that in mind, of course,” Erlendur said.
“That they’re the same man?” Elinborg said. “Leopold and Lothar?”
“Yes,” Erlendur said. “I don’t think it’s an abnormal assumption to make. At least they both disappeared the same year, 1968.”
“So Lothar called himself Leopold?” Sigurdur Oli said. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Erlendur said. “I have no idea what was going on. Not the faintest.”
“Then there’s the Russian equipment,” Erlendur said after a long silence.
“And?” Elinborg said.
“Leopold’s last business was at Haraldur’s farm. Where would Haraldur have got a Russian listening device to sink him in the lake with? You could begin to understand it if Lothar had been involved, if he was a spy and something happened that ended with his body being dumped in the lake. But Haraldur and Leopold are worlds apart.”
“Haraldur flatly denies that the salesman ever went to his farm,” Sigurdur Oli said. “Whether his name was Leopold or Lothar.”
“That’s the point,” Erlendur said.
“What is?” Elinborg said.
“I think he’s lying.”
Erlendur went to three video rental shops before he found the western to take for Marion Briem. He had once heard Marion describe it as a favourite because it was about a man who faced a looming peril alone when the community, including all his best friends, turned its back on him.
He knocked on the door, but no one answered. Marion was expecting him, because Erlendur had telephoned in advance, so he opened the door, which was unlocked, and let himself in. Not planning to stay, he only intended to drop the video in. He was awaiting a visit that evening from Valgerdur, who had moved in with her sister.
“So you’re here?” said Marion, who had fallen asleep on the sofa. “I heard you knock. I feel so tired. I’ve slept all day. Do you mind pushing the oxygen tank over to me?”
Erlendur placed the cylinder by the sofa and an old memory of a lonely and absurd death suddenly crossed his mind when he saw Marion’s hand reach for the oxygen.
The police had been called to a house in Thingholt. He had gone with Marion. He had only been in the CID a few months. Someone had died at home and it was classified as accidental death. A large elderly woman was sitting in an armchair in front of her television. She had been dead for a fortnight. Erlendur was almost overpowered by the stench in the flat. The woman’s neighbour had called the police because of the smell. He had not seen her for some time and eventually noticed that her television could be heard softly through the wall around the clock. She had choked. A plate of salted meat and boiled turnips was on the table beside her. A knife and fork lay on the floor by the chair. A large lump of meat was lodged in her throat. She had not managed to get out of the deep armchair. Her face was dark blue. It turned out that she had no relatives who called on her. No one ever visited her. No one missed her.
“I know we all have to die,” Marion had said, looking down at the body, “but I don’t want to die like that.”
“Poor woman,” Erlendur said, covering his nose and mouth.
“Yes, poor woman,” Marion said. “Was that why you joined the police force? To look at things like this?”
“No,” Erlendur said.
“Why, then?” Marion asked. “What are you doing this for?”
“Have a seat,” he heard Marion say through his thoughts. “Don’t stand there like a dickhead.”
He returned to himself and sat down in a chair facing Marion.
“You don’t have to visit me, Erlendur.”
“I know,” Erlendur said. “I brought you another film. Starring Gary Cooper.”
“Have you seen it?” Marion asked.
“Yes,” Erlendur said. “Ages ago.”
“Why are you so glum, what were you thinking about?” Marion asked.
“”We all have to die, but I don’t want to die like that.””
“Yes,” Marion said, after a short pause. “I remember her. That old girl in the chair. And now you’re looking at me and thinking the same thing.”
Erlendur shrugged.
“You didn’t answer my question, “Marion said.” And you still haven’t.”
“I don’t know why I joined the police force,” Erlendur said. “It was a job. A cushy office job.”
“No, there was something more to it,” Marion said. “Something more than just a cushy office job.”
“Don’t you have anyone?” Erlendur asked, trying to change the subject. He di dnot know how to phrase it. “Anyone who can take care of things after… when it’s all over?”
“No,” Marion said.
“What do you want done with you?” Erlendur asked. “Don’t we have to discuss that some time? The practical stuff. You’re bound to have arranged it all, if I know you.”
“Are you starting to look forward to it?” Marion asked.
“I never look forward to anything,” Erlendur said.
“I’ve spoken to alawyer, a young solicitor, who will sort out my affairs, thank you. Perhaps you could handle the practical side. The cremation.”
“Cremation?”
“I don’t want to rot in a coffin,” Marion said. “I’ll have myself cremated. There won’t be aceremony. No fuss.”
“And the ashes?”
“You know what the film’s really about?” said Marion, clearly trying to avoid giving an answer. “The Gary Cooper film. It’s about the witch hunts against communists in 1950s America. An outlaw gang arrives in town to attack Cooper and his friends turn their backs on him. He ends up alone and defenceless. High Noon. The best westerns are much more than just westerns.”
“Yes, you said that to me once.”
It was well into the evening but the sky was still bright. Erlendur looked out of the window. It would not get dark, either. He always missed that in the summer. Missed the darkness. Yearned for the cold black of night and the deep winter.