Arctic Chill (9 page)

'And a rabid communist,' Egill added. 'He attracted quite a bit of attention in those days, because it was always him who came to parents' meetings and school events. It was exceptional then for fathers to be seen with their children at school. He always turned up, the old bugger, and delivered thundering speeches about the bloody conservatives.'

'What about the mother?'

'I never saw her,' Egill said. 'They used to call him something, the old man. Some plumbing term. My brother's a plumber and recognised him immediately. What was it again that they used to call him?'

Erlendur glanced sideways at the red lump. It was turning paler again.

'Why can't I remember that?' Egill said.

'I don't need to know,' Erlendur said.

'Yes. Now I remember. They called him Permaflush.'

Finnur, the third-form teacher, was sitting in the staff room. His class was having a music lesson and he was marking papers when Elínborg disturbed him. The school secretary had told her where to find him.

'I understand you've been involved in a dispute with another teacher here by the name of Kjartan,' Elínborg said after introducing herself.

'There's certainly no love lost between Kjartan and me,' Finnur said. He was in his early thirties, thin, with a mop of dark hair and wearing a fleece jacket and jeans.

'What happened?'

'Have you spoken to him?'

'Yes. My colleague did.'

'And?'

'And nothing. What happened?'

'Kjartan's an idiot,' Finnur said. 'He shouldn't be allowed to teach. But that's just my opinion.'

'Did he make some kind of remark?'

'He always does. But he makes sure he doesn't go too far, because then he'd risk losing his job at this school. He's not such a coward one-to-one.'

'What did he say?'

'It was about immigrants, the children of immigrants. I don't think it has anything to do with this tragic incident.' Finnur hesitated. 'I knew he was trying to wind me up. I think it's fine for people from other countries to move here and I don't care in the slightest why they come, as long as they're not outright criminals. It doesn't matter whether they're from Europe or Asia. We need them and they enrich our culture. Kjartan wants to close the country to immigrants. We argued about that as usual, but he was exceptionally tetchy.'

'When was this?'

'Yesterday morning. But we're always arguing. We can hardly see each other these days without flaring up.'

'Have you often clashed?'

Finnur nodded.

'As a rule, teachers are very egalitarian and don't want or understand anything else. They look after the children, make sure there's no discrimination of any kind. We take a pride in it, it's sacrosanct really.'

'But Kjartan's an exception?'

'He's totally unbearable. I ought to lodge a complaint against him with the Education Board. We have no business employing teachers like him.'

'Is—?' Elínborg began.

'It's probably because of my brother,' Finnur interrupted. 'His wife's from Thailand. That's why Kjartan is always having a go at me. My brother met a woman in Thailand eight years ago. They have two daughters. They're the best people I've ever met. So maybe I have a vested interest. I can't stand the way he talks and he knows that.'

Erlendur's mobile rang as he got out of Egill's car. It was Gudný, the interpreter, who was back at Sunee's flat. Erlendur had asked her to be at Sunee's beck and call, day and night, and to contact him if anything happened. Niran had woken up after a rough night, she reported. His condition was unchanged. He refused to talk to anyone. Sunee insisted that he be left alone. She did not want any experts around him. She did not want any such visitors, or police officers, roaming in and out of the flat. Erlendur said he would drop in on them shortly, and they rang off.

Elínborg and Sigurdur Óli were still gathering information from Elías's classmates when Erlendur returned to the school. He watched them for a while. The children appeared to be making all manner of complaints about each other, but these rarely involved Elías directly. Someone had teased two girls, someone else had been kept out of a game of football, someone else had thrown a snowball so viciously at a boy's leg that it made him cry, but not Elías. Sigurdur Óli looked over to Erlendur and made a gesture to say that it would all take its time. The children were appalled at Elías's death and some of them were crying.

Erlendur phoned the head of the narcotics squad and asked him to investigate any drug offences that had occurred in the neighbourhood and might conceivably be linked to the school playground.

The principal looked rough and haggard, as if he had not slept well that night. Waiting in front of his office were people from the church and parents' association, as well as representatives from the police who were going to address the children in the assembly hall at lunchtime. They all crowded round the principal, who seemed to have no control over the situation whatsoever. The matter seemed too much for him to handle. His secretary appeared and informed him of some urgent telephone calls that he had to take, but the principal waved her away. Erlendur looked at the group and backed away. He followed the secretary and found out where he could locate Niran's form teacher.

The secretary looked at Erlendur dithering in front of her.

'Was there anything else?' she asked.

'Would you call this a multicultural school?' Erlendur asked finally.

'You could say that,' the secretary said. 'Just over ten per cent of the pupils are not of Icelandic origin.'

'And are people happy with that arrangement, as a rule?'

'It works very well.'

'No particular problems on that account?'

'None worth mentioning, I don't think,' she added as if in apology.

Niran's form teacher, a woman of about thirty, was clearly shocked at the news about Elías like everyone else. A media debate had already begun about the situation of immigrants and the responsibility of society, and endless experts were called in to testify to all the gains that had been made and what must be done to prevent such an episode repeating itself. They were trying to pin the blame somewhere: had the system failed the immigrants, was this merely the thin end of the wedge? There was talk of underlying racial tensions that had flared up, and the need to respond through public debate and education – make better use of the school system to publicise, to inform and to eradicate prejudice.

Teaching was under way in Niran's class when Erlendur knocked on the door. He apologised for the disturbance. The teacher gave him a weak smile and, catching on immediately, asked him to wait just a moment. Shortly afterwards she followed him out into the corridor. She introduced herself as Edda Brá and her petite hand vanished in Erlendur's palm when they exchanged greetings. She had cropped hair, wore a thick pullover and jeans, and had a serious expression on her face.

'I hardly know what to say about Niran,' she said without preamble, as if she had been expecting the police sooner or later. Or perhaps she was simply in a hurry. Her form was waiting for her.

'Niran can be difficult and I sometimes need to pay him special attention,' she continued. 'He can hardly write Icelandic and doesn't speak the language that well, so he's difficult to communicate with. He does little or no homework and seems to have absolutely no interest in studying. I never taught his brother but I understand he was very sweet. Niran's different. He can get the other boys' backs up. Gets into fights. The last one was the day before yesterday. I know it's difficult for children to change schools and he's had a rough time right from the beginning.'

'He came to this country at the age of nine and never managed to fit in properly,' Erlendur said.

'He's not alone in that,' the teacher said. 'It can be difficult for the older kids who come here and can't relate to anything.'

'What happened?' Erlendur asked. 'The day before yesterday?'

'Maybe you should talk to the other boy.'

'Is it a boy in his class?'

'The children were talking about it this morning,' Edda said. 'This particular boy comes from a difficult home and he's been getting into trouble in the playground. He and some of the others had it in for Niran and his friends. Talk to him, find out what he says, he never tells me anything. His name's Gudmundur, Gummi for short.'

Edda went back into the classroom and came out soon afterwards with a boy whom she made to stand in front of Erlendur. Erlendur was impressed by her firmness. She wasted no time on idle chatter, was on the ball and knew how best to assist.

'You told me I'd get my mobile back,' the boy moaned, looking at Erlendur.

'It's the only thing these kids understand,' Edda Brá told Erlendur. 'I didn't want to blare out in front of the whole class that he had to talk to the police. All hell would have broken loose in the present situation. Let me know if you need anything else,' she added, then went back into the classroom.

'Gummi?' Erlendur said.

The boy looked up at him. His upper lip was slightly swollen and his nose was scratched. He was big for his age, fair-haired, and his eyes radiated deep suspicion.

'Are you a cop?' he asked.

Erlendur nodded and showed the boy behind a screen that served to partition off several computers on a long desk. Erlendur propped himself on the edge of the desk and the boy sat down on a chair in front of him.

'Have you got a cop's badge?' Gummi asked. 'Can I see it?'

'I don't have a badge,' Erlendur said. 'I expect you're talking about what the cops carry in films. Of course they're not real cops. They're just Hollywood wimps.'

Gummi stared at Erlendur as if his hearing had failed for a moment.

'What happened between you and Niran the day before yesterday?' Erlendur asked.

'What business of yours—' Gummi began, his voice full of the same suspicion that shone from his eyes.

'I'm just curious,' Erlendur interrupted him. 'It's nothing serious. Don't worry about it.'

Gummi continued to prevaricate.

'He just attacked me,' he said eventually.

'Why?'

'I don't know.'

'Did he attack anyone else?'

'I don't know. He just suddenly went for me.'

'Why?'

'I don't know,' Gummi repeated.

Erlendur pondered. He stood up and peered over the partition. Then he sat back down. He did not want to be detained by Gummi for too long.

'Do you know what happens to kids who lie to the cops?' he said.

'I'm not lying,' Gummi said, his eyes growing to twice the size.

'We call their parents in straight away and explain to them that their child has been lying to the police, then we ask the parents to take the child down to the police station to give a statement, and we decide where to go from there. So if you're free after school we can fetch you and your mum and dad and—'

'He just went berserk when I called him that.'

'Called him what?'

Gummi still prevaricated. Then he seemed to steel himself.

'I called him shit face. He's called me far worse names,' he added quickly.

Erlendur grimaced.

'And are you surprised he went for you?'

'He's a twat!'

'And you're not?'

'They never leave you alone.'

'They who?'

'His Thai and Filipino friends. They hang around behind the chemist's.'

Erlendur recalled Elínborg mentioning a group of boys by the chemist's shop when she was going over the details of the case in his car the previous evening.

'Is it a gang?'

Gummi hesitated. Erlendur waited. He knew that Gummi was pondering whether to tell things the way they were and get Erlendur on his side, or to pretend to know nothing, just say no and hope the police officer would leave it at that.

'It wasn't like that,' Gummi said in the end. 'They started it'

'Started what?'

'Dissing us.'

'Dissing you?'

'They think they're better than us. More important. More important than us Icelanders. Because they come from Thailand and the Philippines and Vietnam. They say everything's much better there, it's superior.'

And did you fight?'

Instead of replying, Gummi stared down at the floor.

'Do you know what happened to Elías, Niran's brother?' Erlendur asked.

'No,' Gummi said, his head still bowed. 'He wasn't with them.'

'How did you explain to your parents about the injuries to your face?'

Gummi looked up.

'They don't give a shit.'

Sigurdur Óli and Elínborg appeared in the corridor and Erlendur signalled to Gummi that he could go. They watched him close the classroom door behind him.

'Getting anywhere?' Erlendur asked.

'Nowhere,' Elínborg said. 'Though one of the boys did say that Kjartan, that Icelandic teacher, was "a bastard headcase". I had the impression he was always causing trouble but I didn't find out exactly how.'

'Everything's just hunky dory with me,' Sigurdur Óli said.

'Hunky dory?' Erlendur growled. 'Do you always have to talk like an idiot?'

'What... ?'

'There's nothing
hunky dory
about any of this!'

The medical equipment bleeped at regular intervals in one of the wards but it was quiet in the room where Marion Briem lay on the brink of death. Erlendur stood at the foot of the bed, looking at the patient. Marion seemed to be asleep. Face nothing but bones, eyes sunken, skin pale and withered. On top of the duvet lay hands with long, slender fingers and long nails, untrimmed. The fingers were yellow from smoking and the nails black. No one had come to visit Marion, who had been lying in the terminal ward for several days. Erlendur had particularly asked about that. Probably no one will come to the funeral either, he thought. Marion lived alone, always had, and never wanted it otherwise. Sometimes when Erlendur saw Marion his thoughts turned to his own future of loneliness and solitude.

For a long time Marion seemed to adopt the role of Erlendur's conscience, never tiring of asking about his private life, especially the divorce and his relationship with the two children he had left behind and took no care of. Erlendur, who bore a certain respect for Marion, was annoyed by this prying and their dealings had often ended with big words and raised voices. Marion laid claim to a part of Erlendur, claimed to have shaped him after he joined the Reykjavík CID. Marion was Erlendur's boss and had given him a tough schooling during his first years.

'Aren't you going to do anything about your children?' Marion had asked once in a moralising tone.

They were standing in a dark basement flat. Three fishermen on a week-long bender had got into a fight. One had pulled out a knife and stabbed his companion three times after the latter had made disparaging remarks about his girlfriend. The man was rushed to hospital but died of his wounds. His two companions were taken into custody. The scene of the crime was awash with blood. The man had virtually bled to death while the other two carried on drinking. A woman delivering newspapers had seen a man lying in his own blood through the basement window and called the police. The two other men had both passed out drunk by then and had no idea what had happened when they were woken up.

'I'm working on it,' Erlendur had said, looking at the pool of blood on the floor. 'Don't you worry yourself about it.'

'Someone has to,' Marion said. 'You can't feel too good, the way things are at the moment.'

'It's none of your business how I feel,' Erlendur said.

'It is my business if it's affecting your work.'

'It's not affecting my work. I'll solve it. Don't fret about it.'

'Do you think they'll ever amount to anything?'

'Who?'

'Your children.'

'Please just let it go,' Erlendur said, staring at the blood on the floor.

'You ought to stop and think about that: what it's like to grow up without a father.'

The bloodstained knife lay on the table.

'This isn't much of a murder mystery,' Marion said.

'It rarely is in this city,' Erlendur said.

Now Erlendur stood and looked at the shrunken body in the bed and knew what he had not known then: that Marion was trying to help him. Erlendur himself lacked a satisfactory explanation for why he had walked out on his two children when he was divorced and had done almost nothing to demand access to them afterwards. His ex-wife developed a hatred for him and swore that he would never have the children, not for a single day, and he did not put up much of a fight for that right. There was nothing in his life that he regretted as much, when later he discovered the state his two children were in once they reached adulthood.

Marion's eyes slowly opened and saw Erlendur standing at the foot of the bed.

Erlendur suddenly recalled his mother's words about an old relative of theirs from the East Fjords on his deathbed. She had been to visit him and sat by his bedside, and when she returned she said he had looked so shrivelled up and odd'.

'Would you ... read to me ... Erlendur?'

'Of course.'

'Your story,' Marion said. 'And ... your brother's.'

Erlendur said nothing.

'You told me ... once that it was in ... one of those books of ordeals you're always reading.'

'It is,' Erlendur said.

'Will you... read it... to me?'

At that moment Erlendur's mobile rang. Marion watched him. The ringtone had been set by Elínborg one rainy day when they were sitting in a police car behind the District Court, escorting prisoners in custody. She had changed the ringtone to Beethoven's Ninth.