“Because they want to put an end to it. Want someone to intervene. Intervene in a process they have no control over. They are incapable of doing so themselves and hope the doctor will see that something’s wrong.”
She looked at the father. Erlendur watched in silence. He was worried that Elinborg was going too far. She seemed to draw on every ounce of strength to act professionally, to show that she was not upset by the case. It seemed to be a hopeless struggle and he thought she realised. She was too emotional.
“I spoke to your GP ,Elinborg said. “He said he had twice reported the boy’s injuries to the child welfare agency. The agency investigated both times but found no conclusive evidence. It didn’t help that the boy said nothing and you admitted nothing. It’s two different things, wanting to be found out for the violence and confessing to it. I read the reports. In the second one, your son is asked about his relationship with you, but he does not seem to understand the question. They repeat the question: “Who do you trust most of all?” And he replies: “My Dad. I trust my Dad most of all.””
Elinborg paused.
“Don’t you think that’s appalling?” she said.
She looked over towards Erlendur and back to the father.
“Don’t you think that’s just appalling?”
Erlendur thought to himself that there was a time when he would have given the same answer. He would have named his father.
When spring came and the snow thawed his father went up to the mountains to look for his lost son, trying to calculate his route in the storm from where Erlendur had been found. He seemed to have made a partial recovery, but was nevertheless tormented by guilt.
He roamed the moors and the mountains, beyond where there was any chance of his son reaching, but never found anything. He stayed in a tent up there, Erlendur went with him and his mother took part in the search, and sometimes local folk came to help them, but the boy was never discovered. It was crucial to find the body. Until then, he was not dead in the proper sense, only lost to them. The wound remained open and immeasurable sorrow seeped from it.
Erlendur fought that sorrow alone. He felt bad, and not only about losing his brother. His own rescue he attributed to luck, but a strange sense of guilt preyed on him because it was him and not his younger brother who was saved. Not only had he lost his grip on his brother in the storm, he was also haunted by the thought that he should rather have died himself. He was older and was responsible for his sibling. It had always been that way. He had taken care of him. In all their games. When they were home alone. When they were sent off on errands. He had lived up to those expectations. On this occasion he had failed, and perhaps he did not deserve to be saved since his brother had died. He didn’t know why he survived. But he sometimes thought it would have been better if he were the one lying lost on the moor.
He never mentioned these thoughts to his parents and in his loneliness he sometimes felt that they must think the same about him. His father had sunk down into his own guilt and wanted to be left alone. His mother was overwhelmed with grief. They both blamed themselves in part for what happened. Between them reigned a curious silence that drowned out the loudest of shouts, while Erlendur fought his own battle in solitude, reflecting on responsibility, blame and luck.
If they had not found him, would they have found his brother instead?
Standing by the hotel window, he wondered what mark his brothers death had left on his life, and whether it was more than he realised. He had pondered those events when Eva Lind began asking him questions. Although he had no simple answers, he knew deep down where they were to be found. He had often asked himself the same questions as Eva Lind did when she quizzed him about his past.
Erlendur heard a knock on his door and turned away from the window.
“Come in!” he called out. “It’s not locked”
Sigurdur Oli opened the door and entered.
He had spent the whole day in Hafnarfjordur, talking to people who knew Gudlaugur.
“Anything new?” Erlendur asked.
“I found out the name he was called. You remember, the one after everything had collapsed around him.”
“Yes, who told you?”
Sigurdur Oli sighed and sat down on the bed. His wife Bergthora had been complaining how much he had been away from home recently when Christmas was drawing near; she had to handle all the preparations by herself. He intended to go home and take her to buy a Christmas tree, but first he needed to see Erlendur. Over the telephone on his way to the hotel, he explained this to her and said he would hurry, but she had heard that story too often to believe it and was in a huff by the time they finished speaking.
“Are you going to spend the whole of Christmas in this room?” Sigurdur Oli asked.
“No,” Erlendur said. “What did you find out in Hafnarfjordur.”
“Why’s it so cold in here?”
“The radiator,” Erlendur said. “It won’t heat up. Won’t you get to the point?”
Sigurdur Oli smiled.
“Do you buy a Christmas tree? For Christmas?”
“If I did buy a Christmas tree, I’d do it at Christmas”
“I located a man who, after waffling a bit, told me he knew Gudlaugur in the old days,” Sigurdur Oli said. He knew he had information that could change the course of the investigation and enjoyed keeping Erlendur in suspense.
Sigurdur Oli and Elinborg had set themselves the goal of talking to everyone who had been at school with Gudlaugur or knew him as a boy. Most of them remembered him and vaguely recalled his promising career as a singer and the bullying that accompanied his celebrity. The occasional person remembered him well and knew what happened when he left his father paralysed. One had a closer relationship with him than Sigurdur Oli could ever have imagined.
An old female schoolmate of Gudlaugur’s pointed him out to Sigurdur Oli. She lived in a big house in the newest quarter of Hafnarfjordur. He had telephoned her that morning, so she was expecting him when he arrived. They shook hands and she invited him inside. A pilot’s wife, she worked part time in a book shop; her children were grown up and had left home.
She told him all the details of her acquaintance with Gudlaugur, even though it was only slight, and also had a dim recollection of his sister, who she knew was older. She thought she remembered him losing his voice, but didn’t know what had happened to him after they left school, and was shocked to see the reports that he was the man who was found murdered in the little basement room at the hotel.
Sigurdur Oli listened to all this distractedly. He had heard most of it from Gudlaugur’s other classmates. When she finished, he asked whether she knew any name that Gudlaugur was called as a child and teased with. She didn’t remember any, but added, when she saw Sigurdur Oli was about to leave, that she had heard something about him a long time ago that the police might be interested in, if they didn’t know it already.
“What’s that?” Sigurdur Oli asked, standing up to leave.
She told him, and was pleased to see that she had managed to arouse the detective’s interest.
“And is this man still alive?” Sigurdur Oli asked the woman, who said that for all she knew he was, and gave his name. She stood up to fetch the telephone directory and Sigurdur Oli found the man’s name and address. He lived in Reykjavik. His name was Baldur.
“Are you sure this is the guy?” Sigurdur Oli asked.
“As far as I know,” the woman said, smiling in the hope that she had provided some assistance. “It was the talk of the town,” she added.
Sigurdur Oli decided to go there immediately on the off-chance that the man would be at home. It was late in the day. The traffic to Reykjavik was heavy and on the way Sigurdur Oli called Bergthora who-
“Please stop beating about the bush,” Erlendur impatiently interrupted Sigurdur Oil’s account.
“No, this part involves you,” Sigurdur Oli said with a teasing grin. “Bergthora wanted to know if I’d invited you round for Christmas Eve. I told her I had, but you hadn’t given an answer.”