“Fucking jerk, you’re a fucking jerk…”
He looked round and saw Alli slapping himself in the face.
A little boy, possibly four years old, wearing pyjama bottoms, barefoot, his hair filthy, opened the door and looked up at Erlendur, who stooped down to him. When Erlendur put out his hand to stroke the boy’s cheek he jerked his head back. Erlendur asked if his mother was home, but the boy just gave him a questioning look and made no reply.
“Is Eva Lind with you, sonny?” he asked.
Erlendur had the feeling time was running out. It was two hours since Eva Lind had phoned. He tried to dispel the thought that he was already too late to help her. Tried to imagine what kind of quandary she was in, but soon stopped torturing himself that way and concentrated on finding her. Now he knew who she was with when she left Alli that evening. He could sense he was getting closer to her.
Without answering, the boy darted back into the flat and disappeared. Erlendur followed, but could not see where he went. The flat was pitch dark and Erlendur fumbled to find a light switch on the walls. After trying several that did not work, he groped his way into a small room. At last a solitary light bulb, hanging from the ceiling, flickered on. There was nothing on the floor, only cold concrete. Dirty mattresses were spread all around the flat and on one of them lay a girl, slightly younger than Eva Lind, in tattered jeans and a red T-shirt. A metal box containing two hypodermic needles was open beside her. A thin plastic tube lay curled on the floor. Two men were sleeping on mattresses on either side of her.
Erlendur knelt down by the girl and prodded her, but got no response. He lifted her head, sat her up and patted her cheek. She mumbled. He stood up, lifted her to her feet and tried to make her walk around, and soon she seemed to come to her senses. She opened her eyes. Erlendur noticed a kitchen chair in the darkness and made her sit down. She looked at him and her head slumped to her chest. He slapped her face lightly and she came to again.
“Where’s Eva Lind?” Erlendur asked.
“Eva,” the girl mumbled.
“You were with her today. Where did she go?”
“Eva…”
Her head slumped again. Erlendur saw the little boy standing in the doorway. He was holding a doll in one hand and in the other he had an empty feeding bottle which he held out towards Erlendur. Then he put the bottle in his mouth and Erlendur heard him sucking in the air. He watched the boy and gnashed his teeth before taking out his mobile to call for help.
A doctor arrived with the ambulance, as Erlendur had insisted.
“I have to ask you to give her a shot,” Erlendur said.
“A shot?” said the doctor.
“I think it’s heroin. Have you got any naloxone or narcanti? In your bag?”
“Yes, I…”
“I have to talk to her. Immediately. My daughter’s in danger. This girl knows where she is.”
The doctor looked at the girl, then back at Erlendur. He nodded.
Erlendur had laid the girl back on the mattress and it took her a while to come round. The paramedics stood over her, holding the stretcher between them. The little boy was hiding in the room. The two men lay knocked out on their mattresses.
Erlendur crouched by the girl, who was slowly regaining consciousness. She looked at Erlendur and up to the doctor and the paramedics.
“What’s going on?” she asked in a low voice, as if talking to herself.
“Do you know about Eva Lind?” Erlendur asked.
“Eva?”
“She was with you tonight. I think she might be in danger. Do you know where she went?”
“Isn’t Eva okay?” she asked, then looked around. “Where’s Kiddi?”
“There’s a little boy in the room over there,” Erlendur said. “He’s waiting for you. Tell me where I can find Eva Lind.”
“Who are you?”
“Her father.”
“The cop?”
“Yes.”
“She can’t stand you.”
“I know. Do you know where she is?”
“She started getting pains. I told her to go to the hospital. She was going to walk there.”
“Pains?”
“Her gut was killing her.”
“Where did she set off from? From here?”
“We were at the bus station.”
“The bus station?”
“She was going to the National Hospital. Isn’t she there?”
Erlendur stood up and the doctor told him the hospital switchboard number. He phoned, only to hear that no one by the name of Eva Lind had been admitted in the past few hours. No woman of her age had been there. He was put through to the maternity ward and tried to describe his daughter as well as he could, but the duty midwife didn’t think she’d seen her.
He ran out of the flat, got into his car and raced to the bus station. There was not a soul around. The bus station closed at midnight. He left his car and hurried along Snorrabraut, broke into a run up the street past the houses in Nordurmyri and scanned the gardens for his daughter. He started calling her name as he drew closer to the hospital, but no one answered.
At last he found her lying in a pool of blood on a lawn sheltered by trees, about 50 metres from the old maternity home. But he was too late. The grass beneath her was stained with blood and so were her jeans.
Erlendur knelt beside his daughter, looked up at the maternity home and saw himself going through the door with Halldora all those years ago when Eva Lind herself was born. Was she going to die at the very same place?
Erlendur stroked Eva’s forehead, unsure about whether he dared moved her.
He thought she was seven months pregnant.
She had tried running away from him, but had given up long ago.
She had left him twice. Both times while they were still living in the basement flat on Lindargata. A whole year elapsed from the first time he beat her up until he lost control of himself again. That was what he called it. When he still talked about the violence he had inflicted on her. She never regarded it as losing control of himself. To her it seemed he never had more self-control than when he was beating the living daylights out of her and showering her with abuse. Even at the height of his frenzy he was cold and collected and sure of what he was doing. Always.
Over time she realised that she too would need to cultivate that quality to be able to triumph over him.
Her first attempt to flee was doomed to failure. She did not prepare herself, did not know the options available, had no idea where to turn and was suddenly standing outside in the chill breeze one February evening with her two children, holding Simon by the hand and carrying Mikkelina on her back, but she had no idea where to go. All she knew was that she had to get away from the basement.
She had seen the vicar who told her that a good wife does not leave her husband. Marriage was sacred in the eyes of God and people had to put up with much in order to keep it together.
“Think about your children,” the vicar said.
“I am thinking about the children,” she replied, and the vicar gave a kindly smile.
She did not try to approach the police. Her neighbours had twice called them when he attacked her, and the officers had gone to the basement to break up a domestic quarrel and then left. When she stood in front of the policemen with a swollen eye and split lip, they told the couple to take things easy. Said they were disturbing the peace. The second time, two years later, the policemen took him outside for a talk. She had screamed about him attacking her and threatening to kill her, and that this was not the first time. They asked if she had been drinking. The question did not register with her. Drinking, they repeated. No, she said. She never drank. They said something to him outside, by the front door. Shook his hand and left.