‘Why didn’t you call the police?’ asked Elínborg.
‘It was such a shock,’ Nína replied. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t thinking straight. And I felt awful. I don’t know if that was the drug wearing off, or what. I was … I was sure I must have done it. Absolutely certain. And I was terrified. All I could think of was to ring home, and then try and conceal what had happened. Hide the horror. I didn’t want anyone to know I’d been there. That I’d done it. I … I couldn’t face it. Dad took my side. I told him to conceal everything. You’ve got to understand — he was just thinking of me. He’s not a dishonest man. He did it for me.’
‘Are you convinced that Runólfur drugged your drink?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see him do it?’
‘No. I wouldn’t have drunk it if I had, would I?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘I don’t do drugs. I don’t take anything. And I hadn’t had that much to drink. This was different.’
‘If you’d called us that night we might have been able to prove you’d been given Rohypnol. Now we can’t corroborate your story. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ answered Nína. ‘I know.’
‘Did you see anyone else in the flat?’
‘No.’
‘Did you notice anyone when you were in town, someone who might have been with Runólfur?’
‘No.’
‘Quite sure? Another man?’
‘I don’t remember any other man,’ said Nína.
‘And there was no one with Runólfur at the bar?’
‘No. Like who?’
‘Never mind that for now,’ said Elínborg. ‘Do you know what you did with the knife you used?’
‘No. I don’t know anything about the knife. I’ve gone over it again and again in my mind, and I don’t remember attacking him.’
‘He had a set of knives on a magnetic strip in the kitchen. Do you recall anything about them?’
‘No, nothing at all. I woke up in a strange flat with a man I didn’t know, who was lying on the floor with his throat cut. I know I probably must have done it. I don’t suppose anyone else could have done it, and I realise the circumstances don’t look good for me, but that night is a blank.’
‘Did you have sexual intercourse with Runólfur?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? That’s another factor we can no longer prove.’
‘I’m quite sure,’ Nína said. ‘That’s a ridiculous way to put the question. It’s a ridiculous question.’
‘Why?’
‘We didn’t have sexual intercourse. He raped me.’
‘So penetration took place?’
‘Yes, but it wasn’t sexual intercourse.’
‘Do you remember it?’
‘No. But I know. I don’t want to go into it. I know he raped me.’
‘That’s consistent with our evidence. We know he had sexual intercourse shortly before he died.’
‘Don’t say sexual intercourse. It wasn’t sex. It was rape.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I don’t know.’
Elínborg paused. She was not sure how much pressure the young woman could withstand during this first round of questioning. But dozens of urgent questions jostled in the detective’s mind. If Nína felt she was under duress, that was too bad. Elínborg decided to change her approach.
‘Are you covering for someone?’ she asked.
‘Covering?’
‘Maybe you rang your father much earlier than you claim? When you realised Runólfur had you cornered in the flat?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe you told him where you were, and said you were in danger? Did he come and rescue you?’
‘No, absolutely not.’
‘You claim not to remember anything, but you remember that?’
‘I …’
‘Isn’t it just as likely that your dad killed him?’
‘Dad?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re trying to confuse me.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Elínborg, relenting. ‘That’s all for now.’ She went out into the corridor and entered her office. Nína’s parents were hovering anxiously.
‘Is she all right?’ Konrád asked.
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ asked Elínborg, ignoring his question.
‘What?’
‘Your part in all this.’
‘My part?’
‘Why should I believe your little story? Your account and your daughter’s are a bit too consistent. Why should I accept what the two of you say?’
‘Why not? My part? What do you mean?’
‘Why couldn’t you have slashed Runólfur’s throat?’
‘Are you mad?’
‘We can’t dismiss the possibility that you killed him. Your daughter rings you, you hurry to her, slit Runólfur’s throat, and the two of you flee the scene.’
‘You can’t think it was me!’
‘You deny it?’
‘Of course I do! Are you insane?’
‘Was there any blood on your daughter when you arrived?’
‘No, not that I noticed.’
‘Shouldn’t there have been, considering the nature of the murder?’
‘Perhaps. I wouldn’t know.’
‘There was no blood on her,’ Nína’s mother said. ‘I remember that.’
‘What about your husband?’ countered Elínborg. ‘Was there any blood on him?’
‘No.’
‘I assure you that we will find the clothes he was wearing that night. Or did you burn them?’
‘Burn them?’ said Konrád.
‘Nína has a far better case than you have,’ Elínborg went on. ‘She could get off on self-defence, but you would go down for murder. You and your daughter have had plenty of time to get your story straight, after all.’
Konrád stared at Elínborg as if he could not credit what he was hearing. ‘I can’t believe you’re making such an allegation!’
‘There’s one thing I’ve learnt from play-acting like yours,’ Elínborg said. ‘It’s almost always based on a lie.’
‘Surely you don’t think I’d kill someone and lay the blame on my own daughter?’
‘I’ve seen worse.’
23
Elínborg was sitting in her car near Edvard’s house, nibbling at a sandwich and sipping at a cup of coffee that was now stone cold. She listened to the evening news on the radio, which included a report about the arrest of a father and daughter who were suspects in Runólfur’s murder and had been remanded in custody.
The news team speculated freely about what had happened in Runólfur’s flat, what had led to his death at the hands of the man and his daughter, precisely how the events had unfolded. Some of the ideas put forward were accurate, while others were nonsense. A theory was proposed that the woman now in custody had been raped by Runólfur and had then taken her revenge. The police had issued no information on the arrests and had avoided answering questions, which the media were now eagerly trying to answer for themselves. Not wanting to be caught up in the circus, Elínborg had left the station.
The sandwich was disgusting, the coffee was now undrinkable, and she was getting very uncomfortable in the car. Soon she would knock at Edvard’s door and ask him about Lilja, the young girl from Akranes who had disappeared six years ago. The car was chilly but she did not want to keep the engine running and risk drawing attention to her presence. She was also reluctant to pollute the atmosphere more than necessary. She never left the engine running when the car was stationary — it was practically the only cast-iron rule she observed as a driver.
Though Elínborg normally shunned fast food, she was hungry and had stopped at a snack bar on her way to Edvard’s. She had searched for something healthy to eat but there had been little choice and she had to settle for a tuna sandwich. The coffee, which had been stewing for hours on a hotplate, was revolting.
She thought about Valthór, who maintained that she had discriminated amongst her children and that Birkir had felt excluded. Before leaving for Sweden, Birkir had told her that he had been happy living with her and Teddi but that he wanted to get to know his father. She had asked him if that was the only reason, and he assured her that it was. She had taken him at his word but could not shake the suspicion that he was shielding her from the truth. Birkir was a quiet, self-effacing boy — like a shy guest at the party of his own life. He had been like that ever since he had come to live with them. Valthór demanded much more attention, as did Aron, and then along came the baby girl, Theodóra, the apple of her mother’s eye. Had Birkir really been left out? He did not seem to harbour any resentment against Teddi. Maybe it was different for men: so long as they could talk about cars and football they had no need for intimacy.