‘It smelt strongly of tandoori spices. I recognised the smell, because I’m keen on Asian cuisine myself. I have a special tandoori pot, which I use a lot. It’s essential for cooking those dishes. Does your daughter have a tandoori pot?’
‘I really couldn’t say.’
‘We know you bought one last autumn — I can show you a copy of the receipt if you like. Was it for your own use?’
‘Have you been investigating me?’ asked Konrád.
‘I need to know what happened in Runólfur’s flat when he was killed,’ said Elínborg. ‘If you can tell me, then you’re the person I’ve been looking for.’
Now Konrád stared at his daughter’s photograph.
‘This hasn’t been made public, but when Runólfur’s throat was slit he was wearing a T-shirt,’ said Elínborg. ‘It looks like a woman’s garment and I believe it was your daughter’s. You said she went to San Francisco with you, on your second visit. I believe she bought the T-shirt there. It has the words San Francisco on the front.’
Konrád’s gaze remained fixed on the photograph.
‘You were observed near the scene,’ said Elínborg. ‘You were hurrying, and talking on your mobile. I think you went to her aid. Somehow she managed to make a phone call and tell you where she was. When you got there and saw what had happened, when you realised what had been done to your daughter, you lost it, grabbed a knife …’
Konrád shook his head.
‘… that you had brought with you, and you went for Runólfur.’
Konrád looked steadily at Elínborg.
‘Did Runólfur visit your daughter’s home twice, about two months ago?’ she asked.
He made no reply.
‘We have a record of Runólfur’s call-outs. It lists all the homes and businesses he went to and it shows that he called twice within a few days at the home of Nína Konrádsdóttir. I think I’m right in saying she’s your daughter?’
‘I don’t keep tabs on exactly who calls on my daughter.’
Elínborg sensed that the man’s confidence was dwindling. ‘Did she ever mention his name?’
Konrád dragged his gaze from the graduation photo and turned to Elínborg.
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘I think you killed Runólfur,’ she said quietly.
Konrád sat staring at Elínborg, as if he were trying to work out what he should say, what he could say, to make the detective accept it and go away, so the problem would be over with once and for all and nobody would ask any more awkward questions. But he could find no words. He could not speak. Seconds ticked past and before long his features expressed defeat, followed by helplessness, as he spoke haltingly:
‘I … I can’t do this any more.’
‘I know it must be hard-’
‘You don’t understand,’ he interrupted. ‘You can’t possibly understand how awful it is. What a nightmare it’s been for all of us. Don’t even try to understand it.’
‘I didn’t mean to …’
‘You don’t know what it was like. You don’t know what happened. You can’t imagine.’
‘Tell me.’
‘He raped her. That’s what happened. He violated her! He raped my daughter!’ Konrád took a deep, shuddering breath. He avoided meeting Elínborg’s gaze. He reached for the photo, held it in his hands and studied his daughter’s face, her dark hair, her pretty brown eyes, and her happy face on that sunny day.
Then he groaned. ‘I wish it had been me that killed him.’
21
Konrád would never forget the phone call from his daughter that night. He saw her name on the screen: Nína, followed by three little hearts. His mobile had been on the bedside table and he’d answered at the first ring.
When he’d seen what time it was he had been taken aback.
And when he heard the pain in her voice, his blood had run cold.
‘Oh, God,’ he moaned. He was still clutching his daughter’s photo. ‘I … I’ve never heard anything like it in my life.’
Konrád and his wife had had no particular anxiety about their daughter. Not any more, at least. When she was younger, and they knew she was out on the town with her friends, they were always a little uneasy. And the same was true when she first left home and rented her own flat. News reports of brutal attacks in the city centre, growing violence in connection with drug use, and rapes were not calculated to reassure them, and they urged her always to carry her mobile. If anything happened, she was to ring home. They had been just as uneasy about their sons when they had first started going out at night.
Nothing serious had befallen any of them before. A wallet had been stolen on a foreign holiday, and a couple of years ago their younger son had caused a minor road accident. The family had lived a fairly uneventful life, and that was what they wanted. They had maintained their standards and treated others with consideration and respect. The couple were close and united in all they did, had a wide circle of friends, and enjoyed travelling both in Iceland and abroad.
They had made a good life for themselves, were happy with what they had achieved and were proud of their children. Both sons were now settled: the elder one, who lived in San Francisco, was married to an American woman who was also a doctor doing postgraduate training. They had a child, a little girl named after her Icelandic grandmother. For the past two years the younger son had been living with a woman who worked in the corporate division of one of the major banks. Nína was in no hurry to settle down. She had lived with a young computer scientist for a year but since then she had been single.
‘She’s always been reserved and self-sufficient,’ Konrád said to Elínborg as he replaced the photo on the table. ‘She’s never been any trouble. Although she has a lot of friends, I think she’s happiest on her own. That’s just the way she is. And she would never hurt a fly.’
‘They don’t care about that,’ said Elínborg.
‘No,’ said Konrád, ‘that’s for sure.’
‘What did she say when she called?’
‘It was impossible to understand her. A stifled howl of anguish — terror and weeping and fear, all at the same time. She couldn’t say a word. I knew it was Nína’s phone because I saw the caller ID, but I thought at first it was some stranger who had stolen it. I didn’t even recognise her voice. Then I heard her say Daddy, and that’s when I knew something terrible had happened. That she must have experienced some unspeakable horror.’
‘Daddy.’ The voice was racked with sobbing.
‘Now, now,’ Konrád spoke into the phone. ‘Try to calm down, sweetheart.’
‘Daddy,’ his daughter wept. ‘Can you come? Please … please … please come.’
Her voice cracked. Konrád heard his daughter keening at the other end of the line. He was out of bed now. He walked down the hall and into the living room. His wife followed anxiously.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked.
‘It’s Nína,’ he replied. ‘Are you there, darling?’ he asked. ‘Nína? Tell me where you are. Can you do that for me? Tell me where you are, and I’ll come and get you.’ He could hear nothing but crying. ‘Nína! Tell me where you are.’
‘I’m at … at his … his place.’
‘Whose place?’
‘Dad, you’ve got to come. You mustn’t call the police.’
‘Where are you? Are you hurt? Are you injured?’
‘I don’t know what I’ve done. It’s awful. It’s … so awful. Daddy!’
‘Nína, what’s wrong? What’s happened? Have you been in a car crash?’
His daughter was whimpering again. Konrád could hear nothing but her stifled wailing.
‘Speak to me, sweetheart. Can you tell me where you are? Can you do that? Just say where you are and I’ll come and fetch you. I’ll come right away.’
‘There’s blood everywhere, and he’s lying … lying on the floor. I’m scared, I’m scared to go …’