‘So he wasn’t all right, as you put it?’ asked Elínborg, shoving at the cat, which jumped down to the floor with a squeal and vanished into the kitchen. The other cat then followed its example and jumped into Elínborg’s lap. She did not particularly like cats. They sensed it, though, and would not leave her alone, as if they were trying to win her over. That would not happen any time soon.
‘I should never have invited him here,’ said Frída. ‘He wanted to take me back to his place but I wouldn’t go. It annoyed him, although he tried to conceal it.’
‘Was he used to getting his own way, do you think? Was that what it was?’
‘I don’t know. Do you know anything about him?’
‘Not a lot,’ replied Elínborg. ‘Did he talk about himself at all?’
‘Very little.’
‘We know he was from a small village.’
‘He never mentioned it. I assumed he was from Reykjavík.’
‘Did he talk about any friends, or family?’
‘No. I didn’t really know him that well. We used to chat about the gym, and films, that sort of thing. He never said anything to me about his personal life. I know he had a friend called Edvard, but I never met him.’
‘What do you make of Runólfur, based on your short acquaintance?’
‘He was a narcissist,’ said Frída, pushing her glasses up. ‘I’m sure he was. He worshipped himself. Like down at The Firm — he was in good shape, and not shy about showing off. He would strut around the place, trying to get the women to notice him, always putting on a show.’
‘So he …’
‘And there was definitely something weird about him,’ Frída went on.
‘Weird?’
‘You know … with women.’
‘We don’t know whether he used the date-rape drug, although it was found at his home,’ said Elínborg. She did not mention that Runólfur had also swallowed Rohypnol himself.
‘No, that’s not what I mean,’ said Frída. ‘I read about the drug you found — I wasn’t surprised.’
‘Really?’
‘He was really strange, the one time we … you know …’
‘I don’t quite follow.’
‘No. It’s not easy to talk about it,’ sighed Frída.
‘But you knew him quite well, then?’ asked Elínborg, trying to work out where the conversation was leading.
‘No, not really,’ said Frída. ‘Not well at all. These guys who come into the gym, they think they’re God’s gift, but Runólfur was always very polite to me. We would sometimes talk, and he asked me once if I’d like to go out to dinner. I said yes. He was very friendly, that wasn’t the problem. He could chat, and be funny and all that, but I still got the feeling that he was unhappy.’
‘Did he ever talk about it? Express how he felt?’
‘No, not at all. Not to me. When it came to the point, you see, he came over all shy and awkward. And after that he was just creepy.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, he wanted me to …’
‘What?’
‘Um, I don’t know.’
‘What did he want?’
‘He wanted me to play dead.’
‘Dead?’ echoed Elínborg.
Frída looked at her. ‘Dead,’ she repeated. ‘I wasn’t to move, if you see what I mean. I was supposed to lie still and hardly breathe. Then he started slapping me and shouting at me. I didn’t understand why. The words he used! It was as if he was in a world of his own.’ Frída shuddered at the memory. ‘What a pervert!’ she added.
‘So it wasn’t rape, as such?’
‘No. And he didn’t injure me, really. He didn’t hit me hard.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I just froze up. That seemed to be what turned him on, and then it was all over. He was pathetic afterwards. He left without a word, and I lay there paralysed, completely at a loss. I didn’t tell anyone, it was just too … I was embarrassed. It wasn’t rape, but I felt as if I had been raped. Looking back, I think that was what he wanted. I think that was the whole point.’
‘And you never saw him again?’
‘No. I avoided him, and he never got in touch. Just as well. It was as if he’d made his use of me. I would never have agreed to see him again. Never.’
‘And then you left the gym?’
‘I did. I feel soiled just talking about it, especially after I read about him, what happened.’
‘Did you know — or do you know now — about any other women in his life? Did he ever mention any female friends?’
‘No, no one,’ said Frída. ‘I know nothing about him, and I don’t want to.’
Elínborg knocked at the door. Berti had finally been persuaded to give her the name of a drug dealer, Valur, who lived in a block of flats in the suburbs with his partner and two children. The investigation had made little progress. Elínborg had uncovered nothing more about the shawl, and no clothes shop in the Reykjavík area had sold T-shirts with a San Francisco design.
A man in his thirties opened the door. With a baby girl slung on his arm, he looked with hostility at Elínborg and Sigurdur Óli in turn. Elínborg had felt that it would be safer not to make this call alone. She did not know much about Valur, who had crossed paths with the Drug Squad from time to time, both as a user and as a dealer, though always strictly small-time. He had once been caught smuggling a small quantity of marijuana into the country, for which he had received a short suspended sentence. Berti might have lied to her: maybe he wanted to get Valur into trouble, had a grudge against him; or perhaps he had just thought of a name in order to placate his beloved Binna.
‘What do you want?’ the man demanded.
‘Are you Valur?’ asked Elínborg.
‘What’s that got to do with you?’
‘We need to talk to him,’ snapped Sigurdur Óli. ‘What do you think?’
‘What’s your problem?’ the man retorted.
‘Just calm down, will you, mate,’ said Sigurdur Óli.
‘Are you Valur?’ Elínborg asked again. Perhaps it had been a mistake to bring Sigurdur Óli.
‘I’m Valur,’ the man replied. ‘Who are you?’ He transferred the baby over to his other arm, and looked again from Elínborg to Sigurdur Óli.
‘We need information about a man named Runólfur,’ explained Elínborg, and introduced herself and her colleague. ‘Can we come in and talk to you?’
‘You’re not coming in here,’ answered Valur.
‘All right,’ said Elínborg. ‘Did you know this Runólfur?’
‘I don’t know any Runólfur.’
The baby had a toy in her hand, which she was sucking with intense concentration. She was so endearing, safe in her daddy’s arms, that Elínborg had to resist the urge to ask if she could hold her for a minute.
‘He was in his own home when his throat was cut,’ explained Sigurdur Óli.
Valur looked at him with disdain. ‘Doesn’t mean I know him.’
‘Can you tell us where you were when he was killed?’ asked Sigurdur Óli.
‘We think you-’ Elínborg got no further.
‘Do I have to talk to you?’ asked Valur.
‘We’re only looking for information,’ said Elínborg. ‘That’s all.’
‘Yeah, well, you can fuck off,’ he sneered.
‘You can either answer our questions here, or you can come to the station and answer them there,’ she said. ‘It’s up to you.’
Valur was still looking from one detective to the other. ‘I’ve got nothing to say,’ he said. As he was about to shut the door in their faces Sigurdur Óli flung himself forward and leaned against it.
‘Then you’re coming with us,’ he said.
Valur stared at them through the gap. He saw that they meant what they said. Even if he refused to let them in this time, they would not leave him alone.
‘Wanker,’ he said, releasing the door.
‘Scumbag,’ said Sigurdur Óli and shoved his way in.
‘Charming,’ said Elínborg, following him in. The place was a mess of dirty laundry, old newspapers and leftover food. There was a nasty sour smell in the air. Valur was home alone except for the younger of his children. He put her down on the floor where she sat still, chewing on her toy and dribbling.