“Who is it?” the caretaker said behind Sigurdur Oli. “Who’s dead?”
Sigurdur Oli turned round.
“Sorry, maybe we can talk to you later,” he said as he shut the door.
“I need registers with the names and addresses of the parents,” he said, turning back to the principal. “I need a list of all the boy’s teachers. I need details of any friction within the school, gangs if there are any, race relations, anything that could explain what’s happened. Is there anything that springs to mind?”
“I … I can’t think of a thing. I don’t believe what you’re saying! Is it true? Can such a thing happen?”
“Unfortunately. We need to speed this up. The more time that passes from—”
“Which boy is it?” the principal interrupted him.
Sigurdur Oli told him Elias’s name. The principal turned to his computer, went to the school intranet and found the class and a photograph of the boy.
“Before, I used to know every single pupil by name. Now there are just so many. This is him, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s him,” Sigurdur Oli said, peering at the picture. He told the principal about Elias’s brother and they found Niran’s class and photograph. The brothers were not unalike, both with jet-black hair down over their eyes, dark skin and brown eyes. They emailed Niran’s photograph to the police. Sigurdur Oli phoned the station to explain and it was distributed at once, along with the one Erlendur had provided.
“Have there been any clashes between gangs in the school?” Sigurdur Oli asked when he had finished his telephone call.
“Do you think it’s connected with the school?” the principal asked, his eyes glued to the computer monitor. Elias’s photograph filled the screen, smiling at them. It was a shy smile and instead of looking straight into the camera he was looking just above it, as if the photographer had told him to look up or something had disturbed him. He had symmetrical features with a high forehead and inquisitive, candid eyes.
“We’re investigating all the possibilities,” Sigurdur Oli said. “I can’t say any more.”
“Does it have something to do with racism? What were you saying?”
“Only that the boy’s mother is from Thailand,” Sigurdur Oli said. “Nothing else. We don’t know what’s happened.”
Sigurdur Oli was relieved that the principal did not remember him from his days as a pupil at the school. He did not want to get into a conversation about the old days and old teachers, what had happened to his class and all that crap.
“Nothing’s been reported to me,” the principal said, “or at least nothing serious, and it’s out of the question that it could have resulted in this tragedy. I just can’t believe what has happened!”
“You’d better believe it,” Sigurdur Oli said.
The principal printed out a list of Elias’s classmates. It included the addresses, telephone numbers and names of the parents or guardians. He handed the list to Sigurdur Oli.
“They started here this autumn, the brothers. Shouldn’t I email it to the address you gave me too?” he asked. “This is terrible,” he groaned, staring at his desk as if paralysed.
“Definitely,” Sigurdur Oli said. “I also need the address and phone number of his form teacher. What happened?”
The principal looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
“You talked about something that wasn’t anything serious,” Sigurdur Oli said, “and it was out of the question that it could have resulted in this tragedy. What was it?”
The principal hesitated.
“What was it?” Sigurdur Oli repeated.
“One of the teachers here has expressed a strong dislike of immigration.”
“By women from Thailand?”
“Those too. People from Asia. The Philippines. Vietnam. Those places. He has very strong views on the matter. But of course they’re just his opinions. He would never do anything like this. Never.”
“But he crossed your mind. What’s his name?”
“That would be absurd!”
“We need to talk to him,” Sigurdur Oli said.
“He has a good grip on the kids,” the principal said. “He’s like that. He comes across as brash and surly but he gets through to the kids.”
“Did he teach Elias?”
“At some point, naturally. He teaches Icelandic but does a lot of substitution and has taught almost all the children in the school.”
The principal told him the teacher’s name and Sigurdur Oli wrote it down.
“I cautioned him once. We accept no racial prejudice at this school,” the principal said firmly. “Don’t imagine that. We don’t tolerate it. People discuss racial issues here like everywhere else, especially from the perspective of immigrants. There is absolute equality here, neither the teachers nor the pupils would put up with anything else.”
Sigurdur Oli could tell the principal was still holding back.
“What happened?” he said.
“They almost got into a fight,” the principal said. “Him and another teacher — Finnur. In the staff room. They had to be separated. He made some remarks that annoyed Finnur. It turned into a kind of cockfight.”
“What remarks?”
“Finnur wouldn’t say.”
“Is there anyone else we need to talk to?” Sigurdur Oli asked.
“I can’t inform on people just because of their views.”
“You’re not informing on people,” Sigurdur Oli said. “Just because the boy was attacked, it doesn’t have to be connected with people’s opinions. Far from it. This is a police investigation and we need information. We need to talk to people. We need to map what’s going on. It’s nothing to do with what views people have.”
“Egill, the woodwork teacher, he got into an argument here the other day. It was a discussion about multiculturalism or something like that, I don’t know. He’s rather tetchy. He keeps himself well informed. Perhaps you ought to talk to him.”
“How many children of foreign origin are there at this school?” Sigurdur Oli asked as he wrote down the woodwork teacher’s name.
“I suppose there are more than thirty in all. It’s a big school.”
“And no particular problems have arisen because of it?”
“Of course we are aware of incidents, but none of them serious.”
“So what are we talking about then?”
“Nicknames, scrapping. Nothing that’s been reported to me, but the teachers talk about it. Of course, they keep a close eye on what goes on and intervene. We don’t want any kind of discrimination in this school and the children know that. The children are very aware of it themselves and notify us immediately, and then we intervene.”
“There are problems in all schools, I imagine,” Sigurdur Oli said. “Troublemakers. Boys and girls who cause nothing but bother.”
“There are children like that in all schools.”
The principal stared thoughtfully at Sigurdur Oli.
“I have the feeling I recognise you,” he said suddenly. “What did you say your name was?”
Sigurdur Oli heaved a silent groan. Such a small country. So few people.
“Sigurdur Oli,” he said.
“Sigurdur Oli,” the principal repeated pensively. “Sigurdur Oli? Did you attend this school?”
“A long time ago. Before 1980. For a very short while.”
Sigurdur Oli could see the principal trying to recall him and could tell that it would not be long before the penny dropped. So he took a very hasty leave. The police would go back to the school and talk to the pupils and teachers and other staff. He was at the door when the principal finally began to get warm.
“Weren’t you in the riot in seventy—”
Sigurdur Oli did not hear the end of the question. He strode out of the staff room. The caretaker was nowhere to be seen. The building was deserted this late in the day. About to head back out into the cold, he suddenly stopped and looked up at the ceiling. He dithered for a moment, then headed back up the stairs and was on the second floor before he knew it. On the walls were old class photographs, labelled with the names of the forms and the year. He found the photograph he was looking for, stood in front of it and looked at himself, a twelve-year-old pupil at the school. The children were arranged in three rows in the picture and he was standing in the back row staring straight into the camera, serious, wearing a thin shirt with a wide collar and a bizarre pattern on it, and with the latest disco haircut.