“What’s this thing you’ve got about westerns?” Erlendur asked. He could not resist asking. He knew nothing of Marion’s passion for westerns before. In fact he knew very little about Marion at all, and when he started to think about it, sitting in the living room, he recalled only very rarely ever having spoken to Marion on a personal level.
“The landscapes,” Marion said. “The horses. The wide open spaces.”
Silence crept over the room. Marion appeared to be dozing off.
“The last time I was here I mentioned Leopold, the man who owned the Ford Falcon and went missing from the coach station,” Erlendur said. “You told me you’d telephoned his girlfriend to tell her there was no record anywhere of a man by that name.”
“Does that matter? If I remember correctly, that twat Niels was trying to avoid telling her. I’d never heard anything so stupid.”
“What did she say when you raised it?”
Marion’s mind drifted back in time. Erlendur knew that despite old age and various ailments, Marion Briem’s memory was still infallible.
“Naturally she wasn’t very pleased. Niels was handling the case and I didn’t want to interfere too much.”
“Did you give her any hope that he could still be alive?”
“No,” Marion said. “That would have been ridiculous. Totally absurd. I hope you haven’t got that kind of bee in your bonnet.”
“No,” Erlendur said. “I haven’t.”
“And don’t let her hear it!”
“No,” Erlendur said. “That would definitely be ridiculous.”
Eva Lind called him when he got home. He had been away from his office almost all day, then went to buy some food. He had put a ready meal in the microwave, which rang at the same moment as the telephone. Eva Lind was much calmer now. Although she would not tell him where she was, she said she had met a man in rehab whom she was staying with for the time being, and told her father not to worry about her. She had met Sindri at a cafe in town. He was looking for a job.
“Is he going to live in Reykjavik?” Erlendur asked.
“Yes, he wants to move back to the city. Is that a bad thing?”
“Him moving to the city?”
“You seeing more of him.”
“No, I don’t think it’s a bad thing. I think it’s good if he wants to move back. Don’t always think the worst of me, Eva. Who is this man you’re staying with?”
“No one,” Eva Lind said. “And I don’t always think the worst of you.”
“Are you doing drugs together?”
“Doing drugs?”
“I can hear it, Eva. The way you talk. I’m not reproaching you. I can’t be bothered any more. You can do as you please, but don’t lie to me. I won’t have you lying.”
“I’m not… what do you know about the way I talk? You always have to…”
She hung up on him.
Valgerdur did not come as they had planned. She called to say that she had been delayed at work and had just got back to her sister’s.
“Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “We’ll talk later.”
He went into the kitchen and took the meal from the microwave: meatballs in gravy with mashed potatoes. He thought about Eva and Valgerdur, and then about Elinborg. He threw the package, unopened, into the rubbish bin, and lit a cigarette.
The telephone rang for the third time that evening. He watched it ringing, hoping it would stop and leave him in peace, but when it didn’t, he answered it. It was one of the forensics experts.
“It’s about the Falcon,” he said.
“Yes, what about the Falcon? Did you find anything?”
“Nothing but dirt from the streets,” the forensics man said. “We analysed it all and found substances that could have come from cow dung or the like, from a cattle shed. No blood anywhere.”
“Cow dung?”
“Yes, there’s all kind of sand and muck like in most cars, but cow dung too. Didn’t this man live in Reykjavik?”
“Yes,” Erlendur said, “but he did a lot of travelling in the country.”
“It’s nothing to go by,” the technician said. “Not after all that time and so many owners.”
“Thank you,” Erlendur said.
They exchanged goodbyes and an idea crossed Erlendur’s mind. He looked at the clock. It was past ten. No one goes to sleep at this time, he thought to himself, uncertain whether to go ahead. Not in the summer. Yet he held back. Eventually he made a move.
“Hello,” answered Asta, Leopold’s girlfriend. Erlendur grimaced. He could tell at once that she was not accustomed to receiving telephone calls so late in the evening. Even though it was the middle of summer. After he had introduced himself she asked in surprise what he wanted and why it couldn’t wait.
“Of course it can wait,” Erlendur said, “but I’ve just found out that there was cow dung on the floor of the car. I had a sample taken. How long had you and Leopold owned the car when he went missing?”
“Not long — only a few weeks. I thought I told you that.”
“Did he ever drive it out into the countryside?”
“The countryside?”
The woman considered this.
“No,” she said, “I don’t think so. He’d owned it such a short time. I also remember him saying that he didn’t want to waste it on the country roads, which were in such bad condition. He was just going to use it to drive around town to begin with.”
“There’s another thing,” Erlendur said, “and forgive me for disturbing you so late at night, this case is just… I know the car was registered in your name. Do you remember how he paid for it? Did Leopold take a loan? Did he have any savings? Do you remember, by any chance?”
Another silence followed on the line while the woman went back in time and tried to recall details that few people would ever commit to memory.
“I didn’t pay any of it,” she said eventually. “I remember that. I think he already had most of what it cost. He’d been saving up when he was working on the ships, he told me. What do you want to know that for? Why did you telephone me so late? Has anything happened?”
“Do you know why he wanted to have the car in your name?”
“No.”
“Didn’t you find that odd?”
“Odd?”
“That he didn’t register the car in his own name? That would have been the normal procedure. The men bought the cars and were registered as the owners. There were very few exceptions to that rule in those days.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Asta said.
“He could have done it to cover his tracks,” Erlendur said. “If the car had been registered in his name it would have meant providing certain information about himself, which he might not have wanted to do.”
There was a long silence.
“He wasn’t in hiding,” the woman said at last.
“No, perhaps not,” Erlendur said. “But he might have had a different name. Something different from Leopold. Don’t you want to know who he was? Who he really was?”
“I know perfectly well who he was,” the woman said, and he could hear that she was on the verge of tears.
“Of course,” Erlendur said. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. I didn’t notice the time. I’ll let you know if we find anything out.”
“I know perfectly well who he was,” the woman repeated.
“Of course,” Erlendur said. “Of course you do.”
21
The cow dung provided no help. The car had had other owners before being sold for scrap and any one of them could have trodden in dung and carried it inside. Reykjavik had been so provincial thirty years ago that the owner would not even have needed to leave the city to come across cows.
Haraldur’s temper had not improved since the last time Erlendur sat in his room. He was eating his lunch, some kind of thin porridge with a slice of soft liver sausage, his dentures sitting on the bedside table. Erlendur tried to avoid stealing a glance at the teeth. Hearing the slurping of porridge and seeing it running out of one side of his mouth was quite enough. Haraldur sucked up his porridge and relished the liver sausage that went with it.