Outrage (11 page)

‘Possibly.’

‘Don’t they put it into alcoholic drinks?’

‘Yes. The alcohol intensifies the effect - it affects the memory as well. It’s more likely to cause amnesia if it’s taken with alcohol.’

Loa started connecting the dots: the telecoms engineer who came twice to her home, whom she then ran into by chance at a bar in town; the reports of date-rape drugs slipped into women’s drinks; the alcoholism with which she had battled for many years; the soft drinks she always ordered when she went out; how Runolfur suddenly lost interest; his violent death. All at once she saw herself in a bizarre, chilly, terrifying place. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she sighed, looking at Elinborg in astonishment. ‘Are you kidding me?’

Elinborg did not say a word.

‘Was he planning to rape me?’

‘I don’t know,’ answered Elinborg.

‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Loa in a sudden fury. ‘He didn’t find the screwdriver when he came back here. He said he’d left one behind. Looked everywhere. Talked to me as if we were old friends. Maybe there was no screwdriver. Was he having me on?’

Elinborg shrugged.

‘What a bastard!’ said Loa, staring at Elinborg. ‘I would have killed him, that bloody shit. I would so have fucking killed him! What on earth is wrong with these men?’

‘They’re crazy,’ said Elinborg.

Binna Geirs was short for a far more sonorous name: Brynhildur Geirhardsdottir. Elinborg thought it suited her: she was tall and heavily built, almost like a trollwife from a book of fairy tales, with long hair cascading down her back like thickets of vegetation. She had a large-featured face with a red nose, a powerful jaw and neck, and long arms. Her legs were like tree trunks. Next to her Fridbert seemed almost elflike: small and puny, with a completely bald head, big protruding ears, and small eyes under furry brows.

Solla had been right; Berti, sometimes known as Shorty for obvious reasons, had moved in with Binna. They were living in a small wooden house - which Binna had inherited from her parents - on Njalsgata near the city centre. She had somehow contrived not to lose it through the many vicissitudes of her life. The once-elegant little house with its traditional corrugated-iron cladding was now dilapidated, with a leaky roof, draughty windows and creeping rust. Looking after her possessions was not one of Binna’s talents.

Binna and Berti were both at home the second time Elinborg called round. The first time she had knocked at the door there had been no answer, and she had seen no sign of life when she peeked in at the window. On the second occasion the door was flung open and Brynhildur Geirhardsdottir herself stood in the doorway, displeased at the interruption. She was wearing an old woollen sweater and faded jeans, and in one hand she held a wooden spoon.

‘Hello, Binna,’ said Elinborg. She was not sure whether Binna was in any state to recognise her. ‘I’m looking for Berti.’

‘Berti?’ snapped Binna. ‘What do you want with him?

‘I just need a word with him. Is he in?’

‘He’s asleep in there,’ said Binna, gesturing towards the darkened interior. ‘Has he done something wrong?’

Elinborg saw that Binna knew who she was. Like Solla, Binna was one of the many people that Elinborg had run into in the course of her work when Binna had fallen foul of the police. Being so big and strong she sometimes got into fights. She had a difficult personality and drink had a bad effect upon her, making her even more moody and aggressive. Binna had assaulted police officers more than once when the worse for wear, and had been taken in handcuffs down to the station to sleep it off. She had been involved with various men over the years, and by one of them she had had a son, long ago. Elinborg was wary of Binna Geirs, although the two of them had never clashed. She had intended to take Sigurdur Oli along for moral support but had not been able to reach him.

‘No, not so far as I know,’ said Elinborg. ‘Can I come in and talk to him?’

Binna glowered down at Elinborg as if to weigh her up, before opening the door wider and letting her in. A familiar odour filled Elinborg’s nostrils: Binna was boiling air-cured haddock. It was early evening and daylight was fading. No lights were on in the house and only the faint glow from outside illuminated the interior. It was cold, too, as if the heating was off. Berti lay on a sofa, asleep. Binna tapped him with the wooden spoon and told him to wake up. Berti did not respond so she grabbed his legs and shoved them off the sofa, bringing him tumbling to the floor. He awoke with a start, jumped to his feet, then sat back down on the sofa.

‘What’s up?’ he asked blearily.

‘You’ve got a visitor, and the grub’s nearly ready,’ said Binna, and retreated into the kitchen.

Elinborg’s eyes gradually grew accustomed to the dark. She saw patches of damp on the old wallpaper, ancient worn-out furniture, filthy rugs on bare boards.

‘What the hell do you want?’

‘I’d like to ask you a few questions,’ Elinborg replied.

‘Questions? Who are you?’ asked Berti, peering at her in the dim light.

‘My name is Elinborg. I’m from the police.’

‘A copper?’

‘I won’t keep you long. We’re trying to find out how a man who was murdered recently got his hands on a drug, Rohypnol. You may have seen something about it on the news.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’ retorted Berti in a hoarse, sleepy voice. He was struggling to understand what was happening.

‘We know you sometimes sell prescription medications,’ said Elinborg.

‘Me? I don’t sell them. I don’t sell anything.’

‘Come off it. You’re on our list. You’ve done time for dealing drugs.’

Elinborg took a photo of Runolfur out of her pocket and passed it to Berti. ‘Did you know Runolfur?’

Berti took the picture from her. He reached over to a table lamp and switched it on, then put on a pair of reading glasses. He took his time examining the photo of the dead man.

‘Isn’t this the photo that was in the papers?’ he asked.

‘It’s the same picture,’ answered Elinborg.

‘I’d never seen this man before he was on the news,’ said Berti. He placed the photograph on the table between them. ‘Why was he killed?’

‘We’re trying to find out. He was carrying Rohypnol, which hadn’t been prescribed by a doctor. We think he bought it from someone like you. He might have used it to spike the drinks of women he met.’

Berti gave Elinborg a long look. She knew he was weighing up the pros and cons of agreeing to help her or of keeping his mouth firmly shut. A rattling of dishes was heard from the kitchen where Binna was hard at work. Berti had been inside for various offences - breaking and entering, forgery, drug dealing - but he was no career criminal. ‘I don’t sell to blokes like that,’ he observed at last.

‘Blokes like that?’

‘Who use it for that.’

‘What would you know about how they use it?’

‘I just know. I don’t sell to pervs. I don’t sell to blokes like that. And I’ve never met that guy. I’m not lying. I’ve never sold anything to him. I know who I sell to, and who I don’t.’

Binna appeared in the doorway and glowered at Berti, still clutching the wooden spoon. The odour of cured fish wafted with her out of the kitchen.

‘Where else could he have got hold of it?’ asked Elinborg.

‘I don’t know,’ answered Berti.

‘Who sells roofies?’

‘There’s no point asking me. I don’t know anything about it. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.’ A faint, gleeful smile flickered across Berti’s features.

‘Is this about that perv that got sliced up?’ Binna asked Elinborg sharply.

‘Yes.’

‘The one with the date-rape drug?’

Elinborg nodded. ‘We’re trying to find out where he got it from.’

‘Did you sell it to him?’ Binna asked Berti, with a fierce glare.

He did not meet her gaze. ‘No, I never sold him anything,’ he replied. ‘I just told her, I never saw that bloke.’

‘There you are, then,’ said Binna.

‘Maybe he can tell me about someone else who might have got the roofies for him,’ said Elinborg.

Binna watched her for a long time, deep in thought. ‘He was a rapist, wasn’t he, that perv?’ she asked.

‘He might have been,’ said Elinborg. ‘There are indications.’

‘Come and eat your grub, Berti,’ said Binna. ‘Tell her what you know, then come and eat.’

Berti stood up. ‘I can’t tell her what I don’t know,’ he complained.

Binna had turned to go back into the kitchen, but she stopped in the doorway, spun on her heel and pointed the wooden spoon threateningly at Berti. ‘Tell her!’ she ordered him.

Berti grimaced at Elinborg.

Binna went into the kitchen, and shouted over her shoulder: ‘Then come and have your fish!’

11

Elinborg looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table: 00.17.

She started to count backwards from 10,000 in her mind again: 9,999. 9,998. 9,997. 9,996 …

She strove to empty her mind until nothing was left but a meaningless series of numbers. It was her way of calming her thoughts and getting off to sleep.

Sometimes, when she could not sleep at night, her mind wandered back to a period of her life which as a rule she did her best to forget. It was to do with her first husband. Level-headed Elinborg, who never rushed into anything but gave careful consideration to every decision, large and small, had entered into a marriage which had turned out to be built on sand.

While studying geology she had met a fellow student named Bergsteinn from the West Fjords region. He took himself rather seriously. He was reserved but likeable, and they had got to know each other during a field trip. Then they had started seeing each other regularly. They rented a flat, lived on student loans - which were quite generous in those days - and two years later went to the registry office and were married. They held a big party for their families and friends. On that day Elinborg was sure that they would live together happily ever after. But it was not to be.

Elinborg had given up geology and joined the police force by the time their marriage started to collapse. Bergsteinn had completed his postgraduate studies, then worked for the State Drilling Authority, which searched out geothermal resources all over the country. In due time he became a manager. He was kept busy attending conferences, both in Iceland and abroad.

For some time Elinborg had felt that something was wrong: she was uneasy about Bergsteinn’s long absences from home, his lack of interest in her and what she was doing, his attitude to the future and to having children, which had in fact changed abruptly. One day he shamefacedly admitted that he had met another woman at a conference in Norway: an Icelandic geothermologist, he specified. He had been seeing her ever since, for nearly six months, and he envisaged a future with her.

Elinborg was overcome with rage. She had no interest in hearing Bergsteinn’s excuses and explanations, and least of all in fighting another woman for him. She told him to get out. She did not know what had made him turn away from her and look elsewhere, but suspected that it was something in his own character and nothing to do with her personally. At that point she did not care what he thought. She had been honest in the relationship, had respected him, loved him, and had believed it was mutual; the most painful part of the break-up was to know that she had been wrong. And to be rejected was a bitter experience, though she did not share that with anyone. In Elinborg’s view, the failure of their marriage was entirely his fault; if he wanted a divorce, so be it. She was not going to try to win him back. Their divorce went through without any serious obstruction. Bergsteinn had destroyed their marriage, and he was gone. That was all there was to it.

Over insipid liver in brown onion gravy, Elinborg’s mother confided that she had never really liked Bergsteinn, who she thought was a feeble idiot.

‘Oh, come off it!’ retorted Elinborg as she nibbled at the liver.

‘He was always such a twerp,’ said her mother.

Elinborg was well aware that her mother was trying to cheer her up, because she knew her daughter and realised that Elinborg was more deeply wounded than she would admit.

She grew more depressed and lonely than she had ever been, and was reluctant to talk about either Bergsteinn or the divorce. She resolved to grin and bear it, while underneath she was a seething mass of rage and helplessness and grief.

Her mother had a much higher opinion of Teddi, and was always commenting on what a solid, dependable man he was. ‘He’s so reliable, your Theodor,’ she said.

Which he was. Elinborg had met Teddi at the annual police dinner, which he attended with a friend who had since left the force. Teddi was great fun, but Elinborg was not yet ready for a new relationship. Teddi, who like her was twenty-eight, was keener, and set out to win her over. He took her home from the police dance, rang two days later, then invited her to the cinema and dinner. She told him all about her failed marriage. For his part, he had never lived with anyone. She heard from Teddi’s policeman friend that he had a sister who was enduring a long battle with cancer. The next time she saw him, she asked him cautiously about his sister, and he told her that she was the single mother of a son, that he and his nephew were close. His sister had been fighting the disease for years but the prognosis was not good. He had wanted to tell Elinborg about her, he said, but he had been hesitant as he did not know whether anything would come of their relationship.

Teddi’s sister, it transpired, was very much in favour of her brother’s new girlfriend, and was eager to meet Elinborg. He took her to visit one day, and the two women had a long talk while the uncle and nephew went on an expedition in search of ice cream. Teddi was caring and affectionate towards his sister; Elinborg was constantly discovering new aspects of his character.

Six months later she moved in with Teddi, who had a studio flat in the Haaleiti district and owned a garage in partnership with a friend. When Teddi’s sister died of cancer the following year, the couple gained a foster-son. She had hardly known the boy’s father, they had never lived together, and he had had nothing to do with his son. The boy, Birkir, was six years old; his mother had asked Teddi and Elinborg to take care of her little boy. They bought a larger flat and adopted Birkir, who missed his mother deeply. Elinborg embraced her new son unreservedly, doing all she could to ease his pain. She took time off work and made sure he settled in well at his new school. From the start, Elinborg’s parents accepted the boy as their own grandchild.