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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: Forbidden Iceland
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Fresh from maternity leave, Detective Elma investigates complex case of a man murdered in a holiday cottage, while Sævar discovers something in a discarded box that could help crack the case. The multi-award-winning, NUMBER ONE bestselling Forbidden Iceland series continues… `She uses complex plots to explore how monsters are made and demonstrate that "evil can lurk behind the most attractive of smiles". Her many characters are people not puppets and she delights in pulling the rug from under their –and our – feet. If you have never read Aegisdottir, now is the time to start´ Mark Sanderson, The Times `Meticulously plotted, this beautifully written novel has it all: a shocking murder, small-town secrets, a cast of suspicious characters and a compelling female detective … Eva Björg Aegisdóttir at her best´ Lesley Kara `Emotive, atmospheric and chillingly suspenseful … one of the best thrillers I've read in a long time´ AA Chaudhuri `A detective as complicated as Jo Nesbø's Harry Hole. This is virtuoso suspense writing´ AJ Finn –––––––––––––– Fresh from maternity leave, Detective Elma finds herself confronted with a complex case, when a man is found murdered in a holiday cottage in the depths of the Icelandic countryside – the victim of a frenzied knife attack, with a shocking message scrawled on the wall above him. At home with their baby daughter, Sævar is finding it hard to let go of work, until the chance discovery in a discarded box provides him with a distraction. Could the diary of a young boy, detailing the events of a long-ago summer have a bearing on Elma's case? Once again, the team at West Iceland CID have to contend with local secrets in the small town of Akranes, where someone has a vested interest in preventing the truth from coming to light. And Sævar has secrets of his own that threaten to destroy his and Elma's newfound happiness. Tense, twisty and shocking, Boys Who Hurt is the next, addictive instalment in the award-winning Forbidden Iceland series, as dark events from the past endanger everything… ––––––––––––– `Your new Nordic Noir obsession´ Vogue `So chilling´ Crime Monthly PRAISE FOR THE FORBIDDEN ICELAND SERIES `Chilling and addictive, with a completely unexpected twist´ Shari Lapena `Riveting, exciting, entertaining and packed with intrigue´ Liz Nugent `Fans of Nordic Noir will love this´ Ann Cleeves `A tense, twisty page-turner that you'll have serious trouble putting down´ Catherine Ryan Howard `One of the rising stars of Nordic Noir´ Victoria Selman `Eerie and chilling´ Lesley Kara `A creepily compelling Icelandic mystery´ Heidi Amsinck `Elma is a memorably complex character´ Financial Times `An exciting and harrowing tale´ Ragnar Jónasson `Fantastic´ Sunday Times `So atmospheric´ Heat
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PRAISE FOR THE FORBIDDEN ICELAND SERIES
WINNER of the CWA John Creasey (New Blood) Dagger WINNER of the Storytel Award for Best Crime Novel WINNER of the Blackbird Award for Best Icelandic Crime Novel SHORTLISTED for the Amazon Publishing Readers’ Award for Best Debut Novel SHORTLISTED for the Amazon Publishing Readers’ Award for Best Independent Voice SHORTLISTED for the Petrona Award for Best Scandinavian Crime Novel of the Year SHORTLISTED for the CWA Crime Fiction in Translation Dagger WINNER of the Blood Drop Award for Best Icelandic Crime Novel SHORTLISTED for the Glass Key Award for Best Nordic Crime Novel
‘Fans of Nordic Noir will love this’ Ann Cleeves
‘Riveting, exciting, entertaining and packed with intrigue … like Succession on ice’ Liz Nugent
‘Boys Who Hurt is a superb addition to the Forbidden Iceland series. Meticulously plotted, this beautifully written novel has it all: a shocking murder, small-town secrets, a cast of suspicious characters and a compelling female detective. This is Eva Björg Ægisdóttir at her best’ Lesley Kara
ii‘Emotive, atmospheric and chillingly suspenseful … one of the best thrillers I’ve read in a long time’ A.A. Chaudhuri
‘Her best, boldest work to date: a mystery both merciless and compassionate, subtly eerie yet flat-out frightening, featuring a detective as complicated as Jo Nesbø’s Harry Hole. This is virtuoso suspense writing’ A.J. Finn
‘Chilling and addictive, with a completely unexpected twist … I loved it’ Shari Lapena
‘Another beautifully written novel from one of the rising stars of Nordic Noir’ Victoria Selman
‘A tense, twisty page-turner that you’ll have serious trouble putting down’ Catherine Ryan Howard
‘An exciting and harrowing tale’ Ragnar Jónasson
‘Beautifully written, spine-tingling and disturbing … a thrilling new voice in Icelandic crime fiction’ Yrsa Sigurðardóttir
‘As chilling and atmospheric as an Icelandic winter’ Lisa Gray
‘Eva Björg Ægisdóttir is definitely a born storyteller and she skilfully surprised me with some amazing plot twists’ Hilary Mortz
iii‘A creepily compelling Icelandic mystery that had me hooked from page one. Night Shadows will make you want to sleep with the lights on’ Heidi Amsinck
‘I loved everything about this book: the characters, the setting, the storyline. An intricately woven cast – this book had me utterly gripped!’ J.M. Hewitt
‘A country-house mystery worthy of Agatha Christie’ The Times Crime Book of the Month
‘As storms rage, people fall prey to a sinister figure. A canny synthesis of modern Nordic Noir and Golden Age mystery’ Financial Times
‘Your new Nordic Noir obsession’ Vogue
‘Confirms Eva Björg Ægisdóttir as a leading light of Icelandic Noir … a master of misdirection’ The Times
‘Elma is a fantastic heroine’ Sunday Times
‘So atmospheric’ Heat
‘The twist comes out of the blue … enthralling’ Tap The Line Magazine
‘An unsettling and exciting read with a couple of neat red herrings to throw the reader off the scent’ NB Magazine
iv‘Eva Björg establishes herself as not just one of the brightest names in Icelandic crime fiction, but in crime fiction full stop … An absolute must-read!’ Nordic Watchlist
‘Chilling and troubling … reminiscent of Jorn Lier Horst’s Norwegian procedurals. This is a book that makes an impact’ Crime Fiction Lover
‘The setting in Iceland is fascinating, the descriptions creating a vivid picture of the reality of living in a small town … A captivating tale with plenty of tension and a plot to really get your teeth into’ LoveReading
‘The author writes so beautifully you get immediately immersed into the chilly surrounds … A genuinely excellent novel again from Eva. Can’t wait for the next’ Liz Loves Books
‘The writing is skilful and the translation impeccable … I have found the Forbidden Iceland series to have a consistent quality throughout … I’m eager to read the next one’ Fictionophile
‘This series gets better with every instalment … Dark, chilling and tense. Another fabulous read from one of the best crime authors out there’ Random Things through My Letterbox
‘Cements her place as one of the most exciting current writers of character-driven, literary crime fiction … suspenseful, moving and unsettling. I loved every word and cannot recommend this exceptional novel highly enough’ Hair Past a Freckle
v‘This series is gaining a real momentum now as, while becoming more familiar with the central characters, there is a growing confidence in Ægisdóttir’s writing that could easily escalate her to the widespread recognition of fellow Icelandic crime authors Yrsa Sigurðardóttir and Ragnar Jónasson’ Raven Crime Reads
‘If you haven’t yet read this series then you are really missing out, it’s becoming one of my favourite series in crime fiction and I’m looking forward to reading the next book’ Hooked from Page One
‘One of the most compelling contemporary writers of crime fiction and psychological suspense’ Fiction from Afar
‘Another great addition to a series I have been thoroughly enjoying … an absolute must-read and a perfect addition to my bookshelves’ Jen Med’s Book Reviews
‘Once again Eva Björg Ægisdóttir has woven an intricate tale that burns steadily throughout the pages and positively roars towards the finale … A great addition to a series I can’t wait to get back to’ From Belgium with Booklove
viii
Boys Who Hurt
Eva Björg Ægisdóttir Translated by Victoria Cribb
Boys Who Hurt
xi
CONTENTS
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
Icelandic has a couple of letters that don’t exist in other European languages and which are not always easy to replicate. The letter ð is generally replaced with a d in English, but we have decided to use the Icelandic letter to remain closer to the original names. Its sound is closest to the voiced th in English, as found in then and bathe.
The Icelandic letter þ is reproduced as th, as in Thór, and is equivalent to an unvoiced th in English, as in thing or thump.
The letter r is generally rolled hard with the tongue against the roof of the mouth.
In pronouncing Icelandic personal and place names, the emphasis is always placed on the first syllable.
Names like Adda, Andrea, Elma, Begga, Konni and Magnús, which are pronounced more or less as they would be in English, are not included on the list.
Aðalheiður – AATH-al-HAYTH-ur
Æðaroddi – EYE-thar-ODD-ee
Akrafjall – AAK-ra-fyatl
Akranes – AA-kra-ness
Akureyri – AA-koor-AY-ree
Ásta – OW-sta
Bárður – BOWR-thoor
Birta – BIRR-ta
Bjarnalaug – BYAARD-na-lohg
Borgarfjörður – BORK-ar-FYUR-thoor
Borgarnes – BORG-ar-ness
Breki – BREH-kee
xiiiDagný – DAAK-nee
Dalurinn – DAA-loor-inn
Davíð – DAA-veeth
Eyrarvatn – AY-rar-VATN
Faxaflói – FAX-a-FLOH-ee
Freyja – FRAY-ya
Fríða – FREE-tha
Friðrik – FRITH-rik
Garpur – GAAR-poor
Gígja – GHYEE-ya
Guðrún Matthíasdóttir – GVOOTH-roon MATT-ee-yas-DOH-teer
Hafdís (Dísa) – HAAV-deess (DEE-ssa)
Hafþór – HAAV-thohr
Heiðar Kjartansson – HAY-thar KYAAR-tan-sson
Hörður – HUR-thoor
Hvalfjörður – KVAAL-fyur-thoor
Íris – EE-riss
Jón – YOEN
Jónína – YOE-nee-na
Kári – COW-ree
Kjartan – KYAAR-tan
Kristjana Dagsdóttir – KRISS-tya-na DAAKS-doh-teer
Laufskáli – LOHV-skow-lee
Líf – LEEV
Máni – MOW-nee
Matthías (Matti) – MATT-ee-yas
Mosfellsbær – MORS-fells-byre
Ólöf – OH-lerv
Ottó – OTT-toh
Presthúsabraut – PREST-hooss-a-BROHT
Reykjavík – RAY-kya-VEEK
Reynir – RAY-neer
Sævar – SYE-vaar
Sigrún – SIK-roon
Skagaver – SKAA-ga-vair
Skorradalur – SKORR-a-DAAL-oor
Snæja – SNYE-ya
xivSóley – SOHL-ay
Thorgeir Reynisson – THOR-gyayr RAY-nee-sson
Torfi – TOR-vee
Vatnaskógur – VAT-na-SKOHG-oor
Viðvík – VITH-veek
Vogabraut – VOR-ga-BROHT
AKRANES 1995
They sit in the living room on the black leather sofa that’s coming apart at the seams, he with the video tape in his hand, she gnawing at dry, cracked lips.
‘I don’t want to watch,’ she whispers.
Her words have the opposite effect. He gets up and resolutely pushes the tape into the machine.
For a while there’s nothing but a black-and-white snowstorm, accompanied by a piercing high-frequency whistle. Then a black line flashes across the screen and the picture appears.
The camera is pointing downwards. They see feet. Shoes. Hear whispering, then laughter as the camera moves up from the trainer-clad feet to baggy, light-blue jeans, a checked shirt and white T-shirt. Before it can reach a face, the camera is directed down again, then across a wooden floor. There are glimpses of the sock-clad feet belonging to the person holding the camera, then a closed door.
Abruptly the screen turns black. After a moment, the wooden legs of a bed appear, followed by bedclothes. The camera jerks up fast to show a figure lying in the bed, arms limply at their sides, head turned away from the camera, the light-brown, shoulder-length hair clearly visible. Although the lights are off, the grey glow coming from the window is just enough to see.
Someone pulls the duvet cautiously off the still figure, revealing a black T-shirt, white underpants and bare limbs. The arms and hands are slender, the fingers slim and delicate.
‘Grab the legs,’ says a voice. ‘I’ll take the arms.’
2The person who is not holding the camera obeys, grasping a limp arm.
‘Quietly,’ another voice says, but it’s hard to make out the words through the crackling, as if the sound is carrying over a bad phone connection.
‘Turn it off,’ the woman says suddenly, standing up. ‘Turn it off now.’
But instead of stopping the tape, the man remains sitting on the sofa, staring fixedly at the screen as if she doesn’t exist and he can’t hear a word she’s saying.
The woman leaves the room. He hears the front door slam but even then he doesn’t react. As always, it’s left to him to deal with the problem.
To make this disappear.
NOW
Twenty-five years later Tuesday 8 December
When Elma and Hörður got out of the big police four-by-four, the snow that had fallen during the night lay white and untouched in the parking area and on the path leading to the front door, not a single footprint or tyre track marring its surface. The cabin, a wooden building with big windows and a generous sundeck, was considerably larger than Elma had been expecting. It was surrounded by birches, some taller than the house itself. Unusually for Iceland, the Skorradalur valley boasted a forest of mature trees, and the summer houses, clustered along the shores of the long, narrow lake with its backdrop of mountains, might almost have been somewhere in Scandinavia. Elma reflected that a handsome holiday property like this in a spot as popular as Skorradalur must have cost an arm and a leg, yet her neighbour in Akranes, the old woman who owned the place, had never given the impression of having any money to spare.
Ever since Elma and Sævar had moved into their new house, they’d regularly seen Kristjana walking past on her way to the supermarket, pulling a small shopping bag on wheels and wearing her inevitable headscarf, off-white coat and wellies. Kristjana was in her seventies but looked older. Although she barely acknowledged them when they met, Elma had noticed her watching them from behind her curtains.
Kristjana had last heard from her son on Friday, four days ago now. 4She had notified the police yesterday, after Thorgeir’s workplace called to say he hadn’t turned up.
Thorgeir was forty-one, single and worked as a software engineer. Kristjana hadn’t been aware that he was planning to spend the weekend at their summer house, but after she’d repeatedly called his phone without success, it had occurred to her that he might be there. The police from Borgarnes, half an hour’s drive away on the west coast, had gone over to the property and confirmed that Thorgeir’s car was parked in the drive but said there was no sign of the man himself. No one had answered the door when they knocked and they hadn’t been able to see him when they peered through the windows, although, according to them, it looked as if someone had recently been there: through one window they had spotted plates on the table and steam was still rising from the hot tub on the deck behind the house.
It seemed likely, then, that Thorgeir was either inside the house or not far off, and that something had gone wrong or he had decided for some reason to cut himself off from the outside world. Another possibility did spring to mind, but Elma felt it was premature to fear the worst. However, as soon as she unlocked the door with the key she had obtained from Kristjana, she was greeted by a sickly-sweet odour, the unmistakable smell of decomposing flesh.
❂
Inside, the house was a fairly conventional holiday cabin, the walls and ceiling clad in yellowed pine. There was a kitchen to the right and a living area to the left. The bookcase in the living room was so crammed with volumes that the shelves sagged in the middle. There was a big, cumbersome sofa, an old TV set and a painting of a glacier. On another wall hung a picture of Jesus with a metal cross above it.
As far as Elma could tell, there were two bedrooms. Opening the door to the first, she found what she was looking for.
Thorgeir was lying in bed, his lower half covered by a duvet, which was tangled in a knot at his feet as if he had got too hot during the 5night. The white sheets were dark with congealed blood and once Elma got closer the cause of death was glaringly obvious.
Thorgeir had been stabbed with a sharp instrument, probably a knife. His upper half was naked and Elma counted at least five wounds in his chest and stomach, as well as two in his neck.
Elma bent down low so she could see a little of the underside of his body; pale discolouration, where the blood had settled due to gravity, indicated that he had been lying in this position since he died. Although Elma was no expert in forensic pathology, she had picked up this much after more than a decade in the police. The paleness of this livor mortis was probably a result of severe blood loss, judging by how much of the stuff had soaked into the sheet and mattress.
In some places, especially on the abdomen, the skin had taken on a bluish-green hue. Decomposition had caused it to swell up with gas, become puffy and start to flake off. The man’s hair and finger nails looked as if they were coming loose too. A reddish-brown fluid had leaked from his nose and mouth. His eyes were half closed, and what could be seen beneath his eyelids was pale and matt, the dried-up corneas like contact lenses left out of their solution.
The body had evidently been lying there untouched for several days.
‘I count seven stab wounds,’ her boss Hörður said from behind her. ‘That’s pretty brutal.’
There was no arguing with that. In fact, it was the most violent murder scene Elma had ever witnessed. Images flashed before her eyes of the knife being raised and brought down to puncture the abdomen, not once but seven times. During her peaceful months on maternity leave with her baby daughter she had almost forgotten what an ugly place the world could be.
‘The question is whether he came here with his mates,’ Hörður continued.
‘A party that ended badly?’ Elma wondered aloud, immediately noting that there were various details that didn’t seem to fit with this theory. Surely Thorgeir wouldn’t have been lying in bed in that case? 6And there would have been signs of a fight? She hadn’t noticed any evidence of a party or a struggle.
The duvet and pillows on both sides of the double bed were crumpled. Either Thorgeir had been a restless sleeper who took up the whole bed or someone else had been lying beside him. On the bedside table was a contact-lens container. Pulling on a pair of gloves, Elma opened it. The lenses were floating in their solution like tiny jellyfish.
‘He took out his contact lenses before he died,’ she commented. ‘What does that tell us?’
‘That he’d retired for the night.’
‘Hm?’
‘I take out my lenses before going to sleep,’ Hörður explained.
Elma glanced at his glasses, which were in their usual place on his nose. ‘When do you use lenses?’
Hörður corrected himself. ‘Well, I use them on the rare occasions when I can be bothered to put them in rather than wearing glasses. But Gígja wore lenses. The last thing she used to do at night was take them out.’
Hörður’s wife, Gígja, had died just over a year previously after a short battle with cancer. No one who knew her had really got over the loss, least of all Hörður, whose unruly grey hair was now liberally streaked with white. Elma had managed to forget about it during her maternity leave with her daughter, who was now seven months old, but the moment she had gone back to work at West Iceland CID at the beginning of December the absence of Gígja had become achingly tangible again. Gígja had been a regular visitor at the police station in Akranes, generally bringing in gifts of food she had baked herself.
Not that Elma could contemplate eating anything, home-baked or otherwise, right now. ‘OK, so Thorgeir was asleep in bed and someone took him by surprise,’ she speculated aloud.
‘He’d probably have woken up during the attack.’
‘Or he was here at the cabin with one or more people and things ended badly.’
7‘Friends?’
‘Hardly very good friends,’ Elma said drily.
‘Would a friend take him unawares like that? Wait for him to fall asleep before going in for the kill?’
‘Unlikely, but not impossible. Thorgeir’s big. Maybe the friend wouldn’t have stood a chance otherwise.’
‘Other possibilities?’
‘Maybe a partner?’ Elma suggested.
‘Maybe.’
Elma raised her eyes to the pine panelling and examined the trail of blood that told its own story: it had been sprayed up the wall from below. Presumably, then, Thorgeir had been lying down while his killer stood or sat over him, stabbing him in the chest. The spattered stains reached almost to the ceiling.
Then she noticed that something had been written in black marker pen on the wall. Not very obviously, but in small, rather indistinct letters. She craned forwards, trying not to think about the rotting corpse below her.
‘What’s this?’ she muttered to herself.
‘Isn’t it just some old writing?’ Hörður asked.
‘The writing on the wall …’
The words were hard to make out, the letters small and run together like bad joined-up writing, but Elma thought it was fairly clear that they had been scrawled there after the attack. They were written over Thorgeir’s blood.
Take away my crimes and sins with blood, O Jesus.
BEFORE Thorgeir
Thorgeir is putting a bag of oats in his shopping trolley when he sees her. She’s standing on tiptoe, reaching for something on the top shelf – a box of muesli that’s fallen over. She’s wearing a khaki jacket, jeans and a short T-shirt that rides up when she stretches, revealing a slim waist. Her skin is as white as milk.
‘Need a hand?’ he asks.
She smiles. ‘Yes, please. That would be great.’
Thorgeir reaches for the box and hands it to her, and she thanks him again, puts it in her basket and is about to move away when he stops her.
‘Hey, haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’ The sentence sounds even lamer when he says it aloud than it had when he tried it out in his head. An obvious invention. They both know they’ve never seen each other before. He would remember her long hair, milk-white skin and those big eyes.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she says. ‘I don’t live in Akranes, I’m just visiting.’
‘Oh, OK.’ He’s not in the habit of striking up conversations with strangers. Normally he goes out of his way to avoid making eye contact with people in public places, so he gropes around frantically for something else to say, but all he can do is stare at her shopping basket. He starts wondering why she’s only got one banana and a packet of biscuits in it. Is she going on a mountain hike? Planning to stay over during this visit? Who is she here to see?
In the end it’s her who breaks the silence. ‘I’m Andrea.’
9‘Thorgeir,’ he says, holding out his hand like some sad middle-aged bloke rather than a guy who’s only just the wrong side of forty. She’s considerably younger, barely thirty, he guesses, though he wouldn’t bet on it. He’s bad at guessing people’s age.
She laughs and shakes his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Thorgeir, and thanks for getting down the muesli for me.’
‘Are you going to be here long? In Akranes, I mean.’ They are still holding hands but he comes to his senses and lets go, immediately missing the touch.
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I’m not one for planning ahead.’
‘The adventurous type?’
‘Maybe.’ She bites her lower lip as if to stop herself smiling too widely, and he realises that he’s doing the same. Struggling to suppress a foolish smile that is doing its best to break free.
He wishes he could think of something clever to say. Something to elicit that wide smile, to make her laugh, but in the end all he comes out with is one, desperately uncool word: ‘Awesome.’
She nods. Her smile fades.
‘Well, thanks for the help, anyway.’ Andrea starts to walk away, and he stares at the long, wavy pony-tail in that colour midway between brown and red. Then he hears himself calling after her.
‘Hey,’ he says, a little too loudly, a little too desperate.
Andrea turns round and waits.
‘Er, if you need anything … anyone … I can always …’ He sounds like he used to as a teenager, when he didn’t know how to talk to girls. He feels himself growing hot; his cheeks are burning. And to think he believed he’d got over being that boy long ago. He’s deliberately worked on himself, gone on courses and done exercises to learn to present himself as he wants to come across. To be the person he wants to be.
To hide his true nature.
Several, seemingly infinite, seconds pass before she replies.
‘What’s your number?’
He manages to say it right after one botched attempt. She taps it into her phone and he feels a vibration in his pocket.
10‘There,’ she says. ‘Now you’ve got mine.’
‘What? Oh, right, of course.’ He takes out his phone and sees her number on the screen. He wants to say something clever, like asking what she’d like to be called in his contacts list, but when he looks up again she’s gone.
Only then does Thorgeir notice that the muesli he’d got down for her is also available on the bottom shelf. It’s impossible to miss. Andrea hadn’t actually needed his help at all.
NOW
Tuesday 8 December
While Elma and Hörður were waiting for the pathologist and forensics to arrive, they stationed themselves by the open front door, their breath forming clouds in the frosty air. Elma had been feeling a bit weird inside the cabin. It wasn’t just the smell, it was the cross on the wall and that picture of Jesus, with eyes that seemed to follow her around. She’d never been exactly what you’d call a believer, not in God or the Holy Spirit, at any rate, but in here, enveloped in the choking miasma of decomposition, she felt oppressed by Christ’s visage. Perhaps it was the effect of that writing on the wall.
‘I gather Kristjana’s very religious,’ she remarked to Hörður. ‘She runs the church Sunday school, or used to for many years.’
Elma was indebted to her mother for this information. After she and Sævar had moved into their new house, her mother had filled them in on all the gossip about their neighbours. Which is how Elma knew that the couple in the house behind theirs had recently shacked up together after divorcing their respective spouses. Elma sometimes caught sight of their six children, who now made up one large family. In addition, she knew that the man living in the house to the left of theirs had once been a promising student but had suffered from burnout at university and ended up working as a swimming-pool attendant. He lived alone but had a son who sometimes came to visit, though Elma hadn’t spotted him yet. Also through her mother, she had learnt that Kristjana was not only extremely devout but eccentric as well. She had only the one son 12and had never remarried after losing her husband in an accident many years ago.
‘Yes, I know who she is,’ Hörður said.
‘That writing on the bedroom wall doesn’t seem consistent with the rest of the house,’ Elma went on. ‘It’s all very neat and tidy, not the kind of place where you’d expect people to scribble on the walls in black marker pen.’
‘What about Thorgeir?’
‘You mean, would he deface the walls?’
‘No, I mean, was he religious?’ Hörður stuck his head outside to see if there was any sign of forensics arriving, but there was nothing but snow, dark, wintry trees and their vehicle parked at the end of the gravel track. He filled his lungs with the icy air, then looked back at Elma.
‘No idea.’
‘Could he have written the words on the wall in his death throes?’ Hörður continued. ‘Would he have had time or been capable of that?’
Elma edged closer to Hörður and the fresh air outside.
‘To seek atonement?’ she wondered aloud. ‘“Take away my crimes and sins…” Which begs the question: what crimes and sins?’
‘Aren’t we all sinners?’
‘I suppose so.’ Elma glanced over her shoulder at the painting of Jesus. There was no condemnation in his brown eyes but even so there was some indefinable quality that made her uneasy. Perhaps it was his air of perfect innocence and goodness. Nobody was perfectly innocent or good.
‘Still, I don’t believe either of them wrote those words,’ Elma added. ‘They were written on top of the blood. After the murder.’
‘We’ll leave that to forensics to judge,’ Hörður said. ‘Look, I’m going to step outside and call Reykjavík. Check how much longer they’re going to be.’
Elma would have liked an excuse to go outside too but her curiosity got the better of her and she decided to use the chance before forensics arrived to examine the interior again for evidence 13that Thorgeir might not have been alone. In spite of her discomfort, or perhaps because of it, she found the summer house intriguing.
The silence that fell after the door closed behind Hörður was like someone holding their breath. Elma nearly jumped out of her skin when the fridge suddenly emitted a loud hum.
Now this was a crime scene, she took the precaution of donning shoe protectors as well as the latex gloves before embarking on her exploration of the property. First, she checked the entrance hall, but she couldn’t see any shoes apart from those presumably belonging to Thorgeir and his mother: old boots, worn slippers and one pair of newish trainers. If anyone else had been there with Thorgeir they must have taken their shoes with them when they left. Not that there was anything unusual or suspicious about that: you’d expect people to leave in the same footwear they had arrived in.
There was a moss-green waxed jacket and a checked scarf hanging from one peg. A yellow rain hat too, and various other woolly hats and headscarves.
In the kitchen sink Elma found dishes, two water glasses and two wineglasses. On the table there was a bottle with dark dregs in the bottom.
It wasn’t his mates Thorgeir had been entertaining but a woman, Elma thought. Or a man. She pictured a romantic evening. Red wine and a dip in the hot tub.
She surveyed the living area. It looked clean and tidy, and she couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Apart, perhaps, from the rug, which was oddly placed in relation to the coffee table and TV. It lay askew across the middle of the room, out of sync with the rest of the furniture; too far away from the sofa and too far to the left of the television for symmetry. This misalignment would have driven Sævar nuts, judging by the OCD way he reacted every time Elma failed to straighten the bedspread or so much as accidentally opened a box of Cheerios at the wrong end.
The bathroom didn’t yield any useful information either. The shower was typical for a summer house: a small, plastic cubicle with 14an inadequate shower head. Elma opened the medicine cabinet on the wall and found two toothbrushes and a tube of toothpaste inside. In addition, there was a tube of Gamla apótekið moisturiser and a bottle of contact-lens solution.
Next to the room Thorgeir was lying in, there was a second, smaller bedroom. It contained a single bed with a bare mattress, a wall lamp and a pile of books on the floor. Paperbacks mostly; a mixture of crime novels and love stories.
The underlying smell in here was even more pervasive than in the rest of the house, a combination of rot, mildew and the sulphurous odour of decay. The mattress had seen better days and it was hard to tell whether it had originally been yellow or white. Elma thought she would rather not know.
Something was bugging her. Something she had seen or perhaps something that should have been there but wasn’t.
The instant her phone vibrated in her pocket she realised what it was: Thorgeir’s phone. Nowadays, most people owned a smartphone that accompanied them everywhere, yet she hadn’t seen any sign of Thorgeir’s.
Taking out her own phone, she saw that Sævar had sent a selfie of him and Adda. Smiling to herself, she put the phone back in her pocket, then, holding her breath, opened the door to Thorgeir’s room again. Ignoring the body, she concentrated on the other details. Thorgeir had put his clothes on a chair in the corner. The homely sight of the neatly folded jeans and dark-blue jumper was in jarring contrast to the gruesome vision on the bed.
Elma pictured Thorgeir folding his clothes, taking out his contact lenses and getting into bed. Had he been asleep when the first blow fell?
Most people kept their phone on the bedside table at night. Elma bent down and peered under the bed, hoping it might have fallen on the floor in all the commotion.
She spotted something black – not a phone but what appeared to be a crumpled sock.
15When Elma fished out the item of clothing, she realised it wasn’t a sock after all. Between two fingers she was holding a skimpy pair of knickers made of silk and lace, which almost certainly didn’t belong to Kristjana.
❂
Matthías lay very still while Hafdís got quietly out of bed, pulled on her clothes and left the room. As he listened to her and their daughter getting themselves ready and having breakfast, his tears spilled over and seeped into the pillow. He was thinking that this was one of the last mornings he would ever wake up beside Hafdís, that they would ever be together as a family. Yet, instead of being out there with them, he was lying here, unable to face the new day.
Hafdís wanted a divorce.
She had broken it to him last weekend, the night of her work Christmas buffet. Since then, she had behaved as if nothing had happened, even though everything was about to change. Hafdís had said she wanted to wait until after Christmas for their daughter’s sake: New Year, new life – perhaps that was how she saw it.
Once he had heard her and Ólöf leave, he dragged himself out of bed. Skipping breakfast, he took a six-pack of beer from the fridge and got in the car.
It was only a few minutes’ drive from Akranes to the stables at Æðaroddi. The large complex of stable blocks and enclosures, used by a number of local horse owners, was located on the coast, not far from the foot of Mount Akrafjall, with views north over Borgarfjörður fjord. Matthías had practically grown up there, going over every day with his parents and siblings. These days they had five horses that they took it in turns to look after. His father mostly took care of the stables, since he was retired, but fortunately there was no one there now. No one but the animals.
He cracked open a can of beer and walked over to see Garpur, their oldest horse, twenty-five next spring. He’d been Matthías’s 16seventeenth-birthday present. Although he’d never been a champion, never brought in much in prize money or stud fees, he remained Matthías’s favourite horse to ride.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. Taking it out, he saw that it was Kristjana, his old mate Thorgeir’s mother. He let the phone ring out as he had no wish to talk to her right now. All he wanted was to be left alone.
He stroked Garpur’s muzzle, and the big brown eyes studied him intently. It had always been Garpur he turned to when something was troubling him. Gazing deep into those gentle eyes, he sensed warmth and sympathy, as if his horse, at least, understood him.
How could Hafdís dream of giving up on them now, after all they’d been through? He’d thought she was joking when, the moment they got back to their hotel room after the party, she’d announced she wanted a divorce. Thought she was punishing him for behaving like an idiot.
He could have understood that, because he knew he’d been an embarrassment to her, going up to her like that and making a scene about her talking to a colleague. Behaving as if there was far more to it than an innocent chat.
Matthías had always been the jealous type. He had a stunning wife and sometimes he simply couldn’t handle the way everyone looked at her; the way she let them.
But never in his wildest dreams had he thought Hafdís might leave him. They had been together since they were sixteen, known each other more than half their lives. The last few months had put a strain on them both, however; it was undeniable. They’d invested a whole year’s work and all their savings in opening a small café in the centre of Akranes, and it had initially done well before eventually accumulating so much debt that it just wasn’t sustainable anymore. It had been a disaster: they’d taken out more and more loans until the repayments became so eye-wateringly high that they could no longer afford them. All their money, everything they had saved up over the years – gone from one minute to the next.
17Matthías had got a job in construction in the immediate aftermath, but it had almost deprived him of the will to live. As a result, he’d jumped at Thorgeir’s idea of coming in with him on the design of an app they could flog to a load of companies. They had broken their backs working on the project, received a grant from the Icelandic Innovation Fund and made countless trips to promote their concept to potential investors. It all appeared extremely promising. Thorgeir had secured the necessary capital and Matthías was confident that things were looking up at last; that he would be able to extricate himself and Hafdís from their sea of debts and they would finally be able to live the life they had always imagined for themselves.
Ice-cold sweat broke out on his back and he drained the rest of the can in one go. He pictured her again, standing at the basin in their hotel bathroom, brushing her teeth – such a mundane activity. Something they had done every evening for more than twenty years.
‘This isn’t working anymore,’ she had said, spitting toothpaste into the sink.
‘What isn’t working?’ he’d asked, never suspecting what was to come.
‘This. Us.’ Hafdís had opened a pot of face cream and started massaging it into her cheeks with firm, circular motions.
He couldn’t take in what she meant, just stood there gaping at her like an idiot.
She went on: ‘It hasn’t been working for a long time and I don’t think there’s any point dragging it out anymore.’
‘A long time … dragging it out anymore …’ Matthías thought he sounded like one of those toys that repeat everything that is said to them.
Hafdís turned. ‘I want a divorce.’
Matthías’s first reaction had been to laugh. His second, to think of their daughter.
Ólöf had been going to see a therapist ever since they had discovered the cuts on her inner thighs and upper arms. By then, she hadn’t been herself for a while; too silent, constantly shutting 18herself away in her room. Matthías hadn’t taken it seriously, regarding it as normal behaviour for a fourteen-year-old. It had never occurred to him that Ólöf might be feeling bad enough to self-harm. The whole thing had come out when some of her schoolfriends had spoken to a teacher after noticing her cuts in the changing rooms before games. For the last six months, they had been going to family sessions with the therapist every two weeks in an attempt to improve their relationship and banish Ólöf’s negative thoughts. To try to fix her.
Sometimes Matthías caught himself wishing that her illness was physical rather than mental – something that could be cut out with a simple operation.
‘She’ll cope,’ Hafdís had said when he’d brought up the subject of their daughter, and continued to massage in cream, moving on to her neck now. ‘We’ll both still be there for her, we just won’t be together. After all, it’s not like she’s a little kid anymore.’
Matthías had pursued Hafdís back into the bedroom where they had both sat down on the bed. ‘Have you met someone else?’ he had asked, thinking that if she had, they could work it out. He would take her back. He’d forgive her anything.
But Hafdís had insisted there was no one else. She had yawned while he was struggling to comprehend what was happening to him. Afterwards, he had lain there, wide awake half the night, listening to her regular breathing as she slept.
That had been three days ago, but Hafdís hadn’t changed her mind, still hadn’t so much as shed a tear, but talked about their divorce as matter-of-factly as if they were deciding what to have for supper.
Matthías found it so painful that his whole body ached.
‘What the fuck am I supposed to do?’ he whispered to Garpur, his throat choked with tears. ‘What the fuck am I supposed to do now?’
❂
19The pathologist, Hannes, lifted the duvet and pulled down Thorgeir’s underpants to insert the thermometer into his rectum. It was the most common and accurate method of measuring body temperature at the scene.
‘Just above room temperature,’ Hannes said, after reading the thermometer. ‘Which means we’re looking at more than two days, but then I’d already guessed that from the degree of decomposition. His nails are still in place but beginning to loosen, his hair too, so I’d estimate about three to four days. Rigor mortis has passed and the body is flaccid again.’
‘So, he died on Friday evening or in the early hours of Saturday morning,’ Elma said.
‘That would fit,’ Hannes agreed. ‘Yes, my guess is that he was murdered around then.’
‘When did Kristjana last hear from him?’ Hörður asked.
‘On Friday morning.’
‘Seven stab wounds,’ Hannes resumed. ‘As you can see. All with the same instrument, as far as I can tell. Have you found a knife?’
‘Not yet,’ Hörður said.
‘A fairly broad blade. A kitchen knife possibly. That sort of size.’
Elma made a note to check the knives in the kitchen. They often came in a set.
‘Thorgeir was lying on his back when the attack took place. His assailant would have been directly above him, possibly straddling him. I’ll need to take a closer look tomorrow, but the pattern of the wounds would fit that scenario. Deeper up here by the neck, shallower lower down. With a kind of tail that formed when the knife was pulled out. The incisions look quite deep to me, which indicates considerable force. Possibly the use of both hands.’
‘Would he have been asleep?’ Elma asked.
‘I can’t see any sign of defensive injuries. No cuts on his hands or arms, so he can’t have held them up to protect himself, or grabbed at the knife, as frequently happens.’
‘So, if he was asleep …’
20‘If he was asleep, he may not have realised what was happening at first. Seven wounds – that wouldn’t have taken long. No more than a few seconds.’
‘How long would it have taken him to die?’
‘Well, that would depend on the rate of blood loss. See this?’ Hannes pointed to a wound by the dead man’s neck. ‘This was the main source of the bleeding. The knife may have hit the artery. If so, he would soon have lost consciousness. A quick death. The other wounds would have speeded things up too, so I reckon that, assuming he was asleep, he wouldn’t have had much time to defend himself.’
Elma didn’t know whether this was good or bad news. A quick death was better than a slow one. But to be lying there asleep and never get a chance to fight back seemed a cruel fate, even if it did nothing to change the final outcome.
Someone, it seemed, had been determined that Thorgeir shouldn’t survive the attack.
❂
Feeling that she was getting underfoot wherever she stood, Elma went outside while forensics were at work. Although the weather was still, the freezing air immediately found its way inside her coat. She stamped her feet to keep warm, surveying the drive, which had filled up with vehicles belonging to forensics, the pathologist and the police. They couldn’t all fit into the limited space by the summer house and were now lining the gravel access road, spoiling the beauty of the surroundings. The snow that had been so pristine earlier that day had now been trampled to a muddy, brown slush. The sun was beginning its descent in a sky that had turned an intense blue, the pale moon already riding high, waiting for darkness to fall before it could shine forth in all its brightness.
Several of her colleagues had driven over from Akranes, including Begga and Kári, who were now busy knocking on the doors of the 21neighbouring properties to find out if the occupants had noticed anything of interest. Members of the forensics team were also at work outside the cabin, walking slowly to and fro with sticks, poking at the snow in search of clues or tracks, but didn’t seem to have discovered anything significant yet.
Elma, who had been there for hours, was thinking she might have to resort to eating snow soon to assuage her hunger pangs, when she heard the sound of the door opening. She looked round hopefully.
Líf came out and sucked air deep into her lungs as if emerging from a dive. She was clad in the usual white overalls worn by forensics technicians at crime scenes to avoid contaminating the evidence.
‘Hot in there?’
‘Uh huh.’ Líf opened a bottle of water and practically emptied it in one go. She’d been working in forensics for years and Elma knew her quite well.
‘We’ve still got plenty to do,’ Líf said. ‘But we’ve lifted fingerprints from all the main surfaces.’
‘Anything interesting emerged?’ Hörður asked, coming out to join them.
‘Yes and no.’ Líf stretched her spine with a grimace. ‘We found some long hairs in the bed that will be sent off for analysis, and there were fingerprints on the wineglasses. We also found something that may be unrelated to the crime but is still rather odd.’
She beckoned Elma to follow her inside and led her to the living area, where the large, brown rug had been pulled aside to reveal a stain on the floorboards so dark it was almost black.
‘This rug was placed at an odd angle for a reason,’ Líf said. ‘It appears to be blood. Old blood. And a lot of it. As if someone had bled dry here.’
‘Can you tell that for sure from this evidence?’ Elma asked.
‘No, maybe not one hundred per cent, but it’s clear that the person in question must have been pretty badly injured to suffer blood loss on this scale. And the blood would need to have been seeping into the floorboards for some time to produce an indelible stain like that.’
22‘Is there any way of telling how long the stain’s been there?’
‘It’ll be tricky,’ Líf said. ‘We’ll take samples, but don’t bank on a very accurate result.’
‘What about DNA?’
‘From that? No, I doubt it, but we can try.’
It occurred to Elma that if they wanted more precise information about the origin of the stain, Kristjana was more likely to be able to enlighten them than Líf and her colleagues. The old woman had obviously been at pains to hide the unsightly patch with the oddly placed rug.
Seeing the flash of a camera behind her, Elma turned and took another glance into the bedroom.
‘Are there signs of a struggle anywhere, other than in the bedroom?’ she asked.
‘I can’t find broken objects or anything like that,’ Líf said. ‘And no fresh blood, apart from around the body.’
‘What about the writing on the wall?’
‘That was a new one on me,’ Líf said. ‘A murderer who leaves a message. It sounds to me like we’re dealing with a sick mind.’
‘Not exactly your standard murder under the influence during a bar brawl.’
Líf shrugged. ‘Well, under the influence possibly, but whether of drugs, drink or some kind of religious fanaticism, I wouldn’t like to say.’
‘So you believe the murderer wrote it?’
‘Come with me.’
Elma followed Líf back into the room where Thorgeir was lying. The stench wasn’t quite as nauseating now that the windows had been open for a while. They got as close to the writing on the wall as they could without touching the body.
‘See these dark streaks?’ Líf asked. ‘The blood hadn’t yet congealed when this was written, so darker lines formed beside the letters as the blood was pushed aside by the strokes of the marker pen.’
Elma shook her head. ‘What kind of person would dream of writing something like that after stabbing a man to death?’
23‘One who felt that Thorgeir had it coming?’ Líf suggested. Then, smiling briefly, she added: ‘Though I’m just here to collect evidence and record the facts. Speculating is your job.’
Elma made a hasty exit from the bedroom and went straight to the kitchen window. Outside she could see steam rising from the hot tub and a few leaves floating on the surface. The tops of the birch trees were visible above the windbreak, a few sparrows hopping among their white branches. Thanks to the mountains and forest, the valley was well sheltered from the wind that was currently battering Akranes.
She felt a sudden longing to get into the hot water. She’d scarcely had a chance to go to the swimming pool on her own since Adda was born. Perhaps she should cajole Begga into filling the hot tub on her veranda one of these evenings.
The sound of a voice calling snapped her back to the present. It seemed to be coming from outside. Elma joined the others filing out of the front door to see what was up.
‘We’ve found something down here,’ called a member of forensics whose name Elma could never remember.
He waved them to follow him through a hatch cut in the deck, which led into a dark storage space under the house so large that Elma could almost stand upright. In the torchlight, she made out a mower that looked as if it dated from the last century, various other tools, and stacks of wooden panels and sheets of black corrugated iron that were probably left over from when the summer house was built. Although the deck should have provided shelter from the elements, it was actually colder under here than outside and there was a strong smell of earth from the frozen ground.
‘Here,’ said the man, aiming his torch at a large kitchen knife that lay beside the wooden panels.
❂
Kristjana’s weeping was a monotonous keening that died down, only to start up again, as loud and piercing as before. Elma had never 24heard anyone cry like that before, shedding no tears, though her eyes were red and there was snot running from her nose.
Kristjana was leaning on the shoulder of the vicar Elma had collected on the way there. His name was Bjartur and although he was mostly retired these days, his duties handed over to a younger colleague, he had agreed to come because he had known Kristjana for many years.
Neither Elma nor the vicar commented on the strong whiff of alcohol emanating from the grieving woman. This wasn’t the time or place.
After they had been sitting there for a while, Elma took out her phone, found the photo of the words written above Thorgeir’s bed, and read them aloud to Kristjana, wanting to avoid having to show her the wall covered in her son’s blood.
‘Have you heard that before somewhere?’ Elma had done an online search but the results hadn’t shed much light on the matter, apart from telling her that the words were from a hymn.
Kristjana narrowed her swollen eyes. ‘What’s that?’
‘A line from a hymn. It was written on the wall above the bed at the summer house.’
‘What did you say?’
Elma read the sentence out again and thought Kristjana stiffened momentarily.
‘Yes, I know the hymn,’ Kristjana replied after a pause. ‘“Take away my crimes and sins, O Jesus, and … and create in me a clean heart.”’
‘Does it have any special significance for you or Thorgeir?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Was Thorgeir religious?’
Kristjana didn’t answer at first, appearing suddenly fascinated by the hem of her jumper, but when Elma repeated the question, she seemed to return to the present.
‘When he was younger, yes, but not since he grew up. He wouldn’t even go to church with me at Christmas.’ Kristjana’s mouth tightened and she threw the vicar an apologetic glance. ‘But I pray 25for him every evening and I’m sure that deep down his faith still dwelt within him.’
‘Does anyone else apart from you and Thorgeir have a key to the summer house?’
Kristjana shook her head. Elma returned her phone to her pocket. Perhaps Thorgeir had rediscovered his faith on his death bed, despite his refusal to accompany his mother to church. And yet there was little chance that Thorgeir could have written those words himself. The drastic haemorrhaging following the knife attack would have made it almost impossible, and, according to Líf, the words had been written on top of the blood. Besides, ‘Take away my crimes and sins’ sounded like someone seeking absolution. The most obvious conclusion was that the sin in question was the murder itself, but it could also refer to Thorgeir. He could have been the sinner.
‘Do you know if something had been troubling Thorgeir recently or if he’d fallen out with someone, maybe?’
Kristjana took a while to think about this. ‘No, not as far as I’m aware,’ she said eventually. ‘My son was a beautiful soul who never wished anyone harm.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘He came round here for supper with me on Monday, just over a week ago. I cooked fish: haddock, with boiled potatoes and dripping. He loved that sort of food, did my Thorgeir. Good, old-fashioned Icelandic cooking.’
‘Did you notice anything out of the ordinary then?’
Kristjana shook her head.
‘Did he say anything about going to the summer house?’
‘No, I …’ Kristjana seemed to gather herself. Her voice suddenly harsh, she burst out: ‘I can’t believe anyone could have done this to my boy.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against him?’
‘My Thorgeir?’ Kristjana seemed outraged that this should even 26occur to Elma. ‘No, of course not. Everyone liked Thorgeir. He never hurt a soul.’
Kristjana probably wasn’t the best judge of that, Elma thought privately. Aloud, she asked the woman to write down a list of her son’s closest friends and associates.
‘Is he in contact with any other members of your family at all?’ she asked.
‘No, it’s just the two of us. Ever since his father died, it’s been just the two of us … What will happen now?’
Elma couldn’t tell Kristjana what her life would be like from now on, but, taking the question at face value, she replied: ‘Well, first thing tomorrow they’ll do a post-mortem on Thorgeir, which should hopefully give us some leads. Forensics are currently examining the summer house and you can rest assured that we’ll pull out all the stops to discover what happened.’
‘I always knew he’d die young. It’s … it’s a feeling I’ve had ever since he was born. Ever since I first saw him,’ Kristjana said. Then she began to recite: ‘“Good people pass away; the godly often die before their time. But no one seems to care or wonder why. No one seems to understand that God is protecting them from the evil to come.”’ After a moment, seeing that Elma didn’t recognise the quotation, she added: ‘Isaiah, fifty-seven.’
Elma was silent, unsure how to reply to this.
Kristjana fiddled with the paper napkin she was holding, then looked up at Elma again. ‘I want to see him.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Elma replied.
‘But I want to,’ Kristjana insisted. ‘I want to see my child. You can’t deny me that.’ Then, her voice thick with unshed tears, she intoned: ‘“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”’
The vicar responded: ‘“Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.”’ He laid a gentle hand on Kristjana’s shoulder as the ear-piercing keening started up again with such force it seemed it would never stop.27
❂
When Elma got home at eight p.m., Sævar was sitting on the floor with Adda, their seven-month-old daughter. He had already cooked and eaten supper himself, and fed and bathed Adda, while absent-mindedly humming a tune he realised later was the theme song to SpongeBob SquarePants, which had been on TV that morning.
‘Hi, poppet.’ Elma crouched down and scooped up her daughter from the floor as soon as she came in. ‘Have you missed your mummy?’
Adda laid her head on Elma’s chest for a moment, then tore herself free and set off at a crawl, making a beeline for the unicorn soft toy that was her current obsession. That and all the boxes stacked by the wall, waiting to be unpacked, which Adda was always trying to reach inside.
They had bought this house on Vogabraut more than a month ago. It was a street of detached properties, many of which were looking a little rundown these days but were popular with younger buyers who couldn’t afford houses in the newer parts of town. Elma and Sævar were slowly getting settled in, with the emphasis on slowly. The floor tiles in the hall had been half pulled up, an impulsive decision that they hadn’t got round to finishing, and the house was still cluttered with moving boxes. Sævar had made a start on them at the beginning of his paternity leave but was having trouble deciding where to put things without having Elma there to ask.
Although it was well into December, they hadn’t got as far as putting up any Christmas decorations; there had seemed little point when they were in the middle of moving. Trying to hang fairy lights and so on while they still had test patches of paint on the walls would feel as incongruous as putting up a Christmas tree in a cowshed.
‘I can’t answer for Adda, but I’ve missed you.’ Sævar got up off the floor, grimacing as his joints cracked. ‘You must be starving.’
‘I am, actually. But I don’t have the energy to go and fetch something to eat.’ Elma flopped onto the sofa, reaching out to pat 28Birta, who was lying on the floor at her feet. Sævar’s Labrador bitch was so old now that she did little but sleep these days.
‘It’s just as well you’ve got your own private butler, then,’ Sævar said, and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned with a plate of pasta in cream sauce and garlic bread that he had made for supper. While Elma was tucking in, she brought him up to speed on the day’s events.
‘The moment you turn up at the office, things get interesting,’ he said, mock ruefully. ‘I’m sure I’ve heard that story before.’
Elma eyed him wearily. ‘I was hoping for a gentle return to work.’
‘You’ll have it solved in no time.’
‘Will I?’
‘Won’t you?’
‘God, I hope so.’ Elma smothered a yawn and pulled a blanket around herself.
‘Shall I make some tea?’ Sævar asked.
Elma murmured what he took to be assent, so he went back into the kitchen and put on the kettle. He selected a bag of chamomile and added a little honey to the mug. Outside, the wind was raging, whirling snow off the ground and plastering it halfway up the window.
‘How did Kristjana take it?’ he asked when he returned to the living room and handed Elma her tea.
‘Oh, you know.’ Elma sat up and took the mug in both hands. ‘It’s never fun. And she couldn’t tell us anything. Like whether he’d been having problems, or whether he’d gone to the summer house with his mates or a girl, maybe.’
She told him about the writing scribbled on the wall above the bed and the pair of lacy knickers under it.
‘So you think he was there with a girl?’
‘Maybe.’ Elma blew on her hot tea. ‘Probably.’
‘Do you reckon she could have written that on the wall?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘And murdered him as well?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Elma repeated, apparently too tired to speculate.
29‘She could have left before it happened,’ Sævar pointed out.
‘Meaning that they arrived in separate cars?’
‘Sure. It’s possible.’
Sævar wondered if a date could really end that badly. A quarrel that got out of hand and escalated into violence. A multiple stabbing seemed a pretty drastic outcome. ‘Perhaps she had a boyfriend,’ he suggested.
‘Who stormed round in a murderous rage and knocked on the door?’ Elma shrugged. ‘Who knows? I’ll start looking into it properly tomorrow. By the way, we couldn’t find Thorgeir’s phone, and his mother didn’t seem to have a clue about any girl in his life.’
