“I’ve left him,” she said.
He sat down on a chair facing her and remembered the telephone call from her husband telling him to leave her alone. She looked at him and saw the concern on his face.
“I should have left long ago,” she said. “You were right. I should have settled all this way back.”
“Why now?” he asked.
“He told me that he called you,” Valgerdur said. “I don’t want you getting dragged into our business. I don’t want him phoning you. This is between me and him. It’s not about you.”
Erlendur smiled. Remembering the green Chartreuse in the cupboard, he stood and fetched the bottle and two glasses. He filled them and handed her one.
“I don’t mean like that, but you know what I mean,” she said, and they sipped their liqueurs. “All we have done is talk together. Which is more than he can claim.”
“But you didn’t want to leave him until now,” Erlendur said.
“It’s difficult after all these years. After all that time. Our boys and… it’s just very difficult.”
Erlendur said nothing.
“I saw this evening how dead everything is between us,” Valgerdur continued. “And I suddenly realised that I want it to be dead. I talked to the boys. They have to know exactly what’s going on, why I’m leaving him. I’m meeting them tomorrow. I’ve been trying to spare them too. They adore him.”
“I slammed the phone down on him,” Erlendur said.
“I know, he told me. Suddenly I saw through it all. He no longer has any control over what I do or what I want. None. I don’t know who he thinks he is.”
Valgerdur had been reluctant to reveal much about her husband, except that he had been cheating on her for two years with a nurse at the hospital and had had other affairs before. He was a doctor at the National Hospital, where she also worked, and Erlendur had sometimes wondered, when he was thinking about Valgerdur, what it must have been like for her to work at a place where everyone but her knew for a fact that her husband was chasing other women.
“What about work?” he asked.
“I’ll get by,” she said.
“Do you want to sleep here tonight?”
“No,” Valgerdur said, “I’ve spoken to my sister and I’ll stay with her for the time being. She’s been very supportive.”
“When you say it’s not about me…?”
“I’m not leaving him for your sake — it’s for my own good,” Valgerdur said. “I don’t want him controlling my every move any more. And you and my sister are right, I should have left him ages ago. As soon as I found out about that affair.”
She paused and looked at Erlendur.
“He claimed just now that I’d driven him to it,” she said. “Because I wasn’t… wasn’t… didn’t find sex exciting enough.”
“They all say that,” Erlendur said. “It’s the first thing they say. You should ignore it.”
“He was quick to blame me,” Valgerdur said.
“What else can he say? He’s trying to justify it to himself.”
They fell silent and finished their liqueurs.
“You’re—” she said, but stopped in mid-sentence. “I don’t know what you are,” she said finally. “Or who you are. I don’t have the vaguest idea.”
“Nor do I,” Erlendur said.
Valgerdur smiled.
“Would you like to come to a barbecue with me tomorrow?” Erlendur suddenly asked. “My friends are meeting up. Elinborg has just published a cookery book, maybe you’ve heard about it. She’ll do the barbecue. She cooks very well,” Erlendur added, looking at his desk on which sat the wrapper from a packet of microwaveable meatballs.
“I don’t want to rush into anything,” she said.
“Neither do I,” Erlendur said.
Plates clattered in the canteen at the old people’s home as Erlendur walked down the corridor towards the old farmer’s room. The staff were tidying up after breakfast and cleaning the rooms. Most of the doors were open and the sun shone in through the windows. But the door to the farmer’s room was shut, so Erlendur knocked.
“Leave me alone,” he heard a strong, hoarse voice say from inside. “Bloody disturbances all the time!”
Erlendur turned the handle, the door opened and he stepped inside. He knew precious little about the occupant. Only that his name was Haraldur and that he had moved off his land twenty years ago. When he gave up farming, before moving to the old people’s home, he had lived in a block of flats in the Hlidar quarter of Reykjavik. Erlendur gleaned some information about him from one member of staff, who told him that Haraldur was a crotchety old troublemaker. He had recently hit another resident with a walking stick and was rude to the staff. Most could not stand him.
“Who are you?” Haraldur asked when he saw Erlendur standing in the doorway. He was eighty-four years old, white-haired and with big hands turned stiff by physical labour. He sat on the edge of his bed in his woollen socks, his back bent and his head sunk deep between his shoulder blades. A scraggy beard covered half his face. The room smelled and Erlendur wondered whether Haraldur took snuff.
He introduced himself, saying that he was from the police. This seemed to fire Haraldur’s interest; he straightened up and looked Erlendur in the eye.
“What do the police want from me?” he asked. “Is it because I took a swing at Thordur at dinnertime?”
“Why did you hit Thordur?” Erlendur asked. He was curious.
“Thordur’s a wanker,” Haraldur said. “I don’t have to tell you about that. Get out and shut the door behind you. They’re always staring in at you all day long. Poking their noses into other people’s business.”
“I wasn’t going to talk to you about Thordur,” Erlendur said as he entered the room and closed the door behind him.
“Listen,” Haraldur said, “I don’t care for you strolling in here. What’s this supposed to mean? Get out. Just get out and leave me in peace!”
The old man straightened up, raised his head as far as he could and glared at Erlendur, who calmly sat down opposite him on the bed. It was still made and Erlendur imagined there was no point in offering anyone a room to share with grumpy old Haraldur. There were few personal articles in the room. On the bedside table were two dog-eared books of Einar Benediktsson’s poetry that had clearly been read over and again.
“Aren’t you comfortable here?” Erlendur asked.
“Me? What bloody business of yours is that? What do you want from me? Who are you? Why don’t you get out of here like I’ve been telling you?”
“You were connected with an old case of a missing person,” Erlendur said, and started to describe the man who sold farm machinery and diggers and owned a black Ford Falcon. Haraldur listened in silence to his account, without interrupting. Erlendur could not be sure whether Haraldur remembered what he was talking about. He mentioned how the police had asked Haraldur whether the man had been at the farm and he had flatly denied having met him.
“Do you remember this?” Erlendur asked.
Haraldur did not answer. Erlendur repeated the question.
“Uhhh,” Haraldur groaned. “He never came, the bugger. It was more than thirty years ago. I don’t remember any of it any more.”
“But you remember that he didn’t come?”
“Yes, what the hell, didn’t I just say that? Come on, piss off out! I don’t like having people in my room.”
“Did you keep sheep?” Erlendur asked.
“Sheep? When I was a farmer? Yes, I had a few sheep and horses, and about ten cows. Happy now?”
“You got a good price for the land,” Erlendur went on. “So close to the city.”
“Are you from the tax office?” Haraldur snarled. He looked down at the floor. Bent by manual labour and old age, it was an effort to lift his head.