“And the stab wound?”
“Nothing new there,” the pathologist said, opening the door. “The wound penetrated the liver and the boy would have bled to death relatively quickly. The incision is not particularly large, the instrument that inflicted it would have been fairly broad but needn’t have been especially long. I simply can’t work out what kind of instrument it was.”
“A screwdriver?”
The pathologist frowned. He paused in the doorway. He was needed elsewhere.
“I hardly think so. Something sharper. It’s really a very neat incision.”
“He wasn’t stabbed through his anorak?”
“No, his anorak was unzipped. He was stabbed through a cheap sweater and vest. They were the only obstacles, his only protection.”
“Would there have been splashes of blood?”
“Not necessarily. It’s a single straightforward stab wound which caused massive internal haemorrhaging. The blood wouldn’t necessarily have splashed his assailant, but he might have had to clean himself up.”
The pathologist closed the door. Erlendur walked over to the body and lifted the sheet that covered it. Looking at the neat little stab wound, he pondered the possibility which had occurred to him earlier that day: that the same instrument had been used to stab the boy as the one used to scratch Kjartan’s car. The incision in his side was so small as to be barely visible but it was in precisely the right place to inflict irreversible damage. A few centimetres either way and Elias might have survived the attack. Erlendur had already discussed this detail with the pathologist who would not commit himself but admitted that it was conceivable the attacker knew what he was doing.
As he draped the sheet over Elias’s body again, he wondered how Sunee must feel, knowing that her son was in this grim place. Surely she must start cooperating with the police soon; the alternative was unthinkable. Maybe she believed her son was in danger. Maybe she was protecting Niran from the furore that had raged in society since his brother’s death. Maybe she did not want pictures of him in the press and on television. Maybe she did not want all that attention. And maybe, just maybe, Niran knew something that had forced Sunee to send him into hiding.
The cold had intensified by the time Erlendur drove away, his eyes reflecting the frozen grief at the morgue.
Sunee met him at the door. She assumed that he was bringing news of the investigation but Erlendur said straight away that nothing new had emerged. She was still up; her brother Virote was asleep in her room and he sensed that she was glad of the company. He had not spoken to her before without the presence of either her brother or the interpreter. She invited him into the living room, then went into the kitchen to make tea. When she returned she sat down on the sofa and poured out two cups.
“All people come outside,” she said.
“We don’t want that kind of violence,” Erlendur said. “Nobody does.”
“I thank everything,” Sunee said. “It was so beautiful.”
“Will you trust me with your son?” Erlendur asked.
Sunee shook her head.
“You can’t hide him for ever.”
“You find murderer,” she said. “I look after Niran.”
“All right”
“Elias good boy. Not do nothing.”
“I don’t believe he was attacked because of anything he did. But it’s possible he was attacked because of what he was. Do you understand?”
Sunee nodded.
“Have you any idea who might have wanted to attack him?”
“No,” Sunee said.
“Are you quite sure?”
“Yes.”
“The kids at school?”
“No.”
“One of the teachers?”
“No. No one. All good to Elias.”
“What about Niran? He doesn’t seem very happy.”
“Niran good boy. Just angry. Not want to live in Iceland.”
“Where is he?”
She didn’t answer.
“All right,” Erlendur said. “It’s up to you. Think about it. Maybe you’ll tell me tomorrow. We need to talk to him. It’s very important.”
Sunee looked at him in silence.
“I know it’s difficult for you and that you want to do what you feel is right. I understand that. But you must also understand that this is a sensitive murder investigation.”
Sunee remained mute.
“Did Niran mention anything about the Icelandic teacher, Kjartan?”
“No.”
“Nothing about a quarrel between them?”
“No.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Not much. He just scared. Me too.”
Sunee glanced over at the small corridor leading to the bedrooms, where her brother now appeared. She held out her hand to him.
“Do you mind if I take a quick look in Elias’s room?” Erlendur asked, rising to his feet.
“Okay,” Sunee said.
She met his eye.
“I want to help,” she said. “But I look after Niran too.”
Erlendur smiled and went through the little corridor to the boys” room. He switched on a small desk lamp that cast a feeble glow over the room.
He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. The police had already searched the room without finding any clues as to where Niran might be hiding. He sat down on a chair and recalled that he and his brother Bergur had shared a room like this in the old days at home in the east.
As Erlendur examined the room, he reflected on the brutal act that had cut short Elias’s life. He tried to fit it into the criminal landscape that he knew so well but was completely at a loss. No mercy had been shown to Elias when he fell wounded on the path. No one had been there to help him in his pathetic struggle to reach home. No one had been there to warm him when he froze to the icy ground behind the block of flats.
He looked around. Model dinosaurs of every shape and size trooped round the room. Two pictures of dinosaurs were Blu-Tacked to the wall above the bunks. In one a menacing tyrannosaurus bared its teeth above its prey.
He noticed an exercise book on Elias’s bunk and reached for it. On the cover was written “Story Book” and Elias’s name. It contained creative-writing exercises and drawings. Elias had written about “Space” and illustrated it with a colour drawing of Saturn. He had also written about “A Trip to the Shopping Mall” that he had made with his mother. And one piece was entitled “My Favourite Movie’, about a recent fantasy film that Erlendur had not heard of. He read the stories, which were written in an attractive, childish hand, and turned the pages to the point Elias had reached in the book. He had written the title of the most recent exercise at the top of the page but had got no further.
Closing the exercise book, Erlendur replaced it on Elias’s bed and stood up. What had he wanted to be? A doctor, maybe. A bus driver. Or a cop. The possibilities were infinite, the world a new and exciting place. His life had barely begun.
He went back to join Sunee in the living room. Her brother was in the kitchen.
“Do you know what he wanted to be when he grew up?” Erlendur asked.
“Yes,” Sunee said. “He say often. Big word, I learn it.”
“What was it?”
“Palaeontologist.”
Erlendur smiled.
“It used to be a cop,” he said, “or a bus driver.”
On his way out he again asked the police officer on the staircase if he had been aware of any suspicious comings and goings on or near the landing but the answer was negative. He asked about the neighbour, Gestur, who lived in the flat opposite Sunee’s, but the officer had not been aware of him.