The Genetic Research Centre and the Ministry of Health, which issued the licence for the database, guaranteed that no outsider could break into the database and announced a complex encryption system for the data which was impossible to crack.
“Are you worried about your paternity?” Erlendur asked. He’d also put on rubber gloves and stepped carefully further into the sitting room. He picked up one of the photo albums and leafed through it. It was old.
“Everyone always said I never resembled my father or mother or anyone else in my family.”
“I’ve always had that feeling too,” Erlendur said.
“What do you mean?”
“That you were a bastard.”
“Glad you’ve got your sense of humour back,” Sigurdur Oli said. “You’ve been a little distant recently.”
“What sense of humour?” Erlendur said.
He flicked through another of the albums. These were old black-and-white photographs. He thought he recognised Einar’s mother in some of them. So the man would be Albert and the boys, their three sons. Einar was the youngest. There were photo-graphs taken at Christmas and on summer holidays, many of them ordinary snapshots taken of the boys in the street or at the kitchen table, wearing patterned, knitted sweaters, which Erlendur remembered from the late ’60s. The elder brothers had let their hair grow long.
Further on in the album the boys were older and with longer hair and they were wearing suits with wide lapels and black shoes with stacked heels. Katrin with her hair waved. The photos were in colour now. Albert beginning to turn grey. Erlendur looked for Einar and when he compared his features with those of his brothers and his parents he could see how different he looked. The other two boys had strong features from their parents, especially their father. Einar was the ugly duckling.
He put the old album down and picked a more recent one. The photographs seemed to have be taken by Einar himself, showing his own family. They didn’t tell such a long story. It was as if Erlendur had dipped into the course of Einar’s life when he was getting to know his wife. He wondered if they were honeymoon photos. They had travelled around Iceland, been to Hornstrandir, he thought. Thorsmork. Herdubreidarlindir. Sometimes they were on bicycles. Sometimes driving a battered old car. Camping photos. Erlendur presumed they had been taken in the mid-’8os.
He flicked quickly through the album, put it down and picked up what looked to him like the most recent one. In it he saw a little girl in a hospital bed with tubes in her arms and an oxygen mask over her face. Her eyes were closed and she was surrounded by instruments. She seemed to be in intensive care. He hesitated for a moment before going on.
Erlendur was surprised by the sudden ringing of his mobile phone. He put the album down without closing it. It was Elin from Keflavik and she was very agitated.
“He was with me this morning,” she said at once.
“Who?”
“Audur’s brother. His name’s Einar. I tried to get hold of you. He was with me this morning and told me the whole story, the poor man. He lost his daughter, just like Kolbrun. He knew what Audur died of. It’s a disease in Holberg’s family.”
“Where is he now?” Erlendur asked.
“He was so terribly depressed,” Elin said. “He might do something stupid.”
“What do you mean, stupid?”
“He said it was over.”
“What was over?”
“He didn’t say, just said it was over.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“He said he was going back to Reykjavik.”
“To Reykjavik? Where?”
“He didn’t say,” Elin answered.
“Did he give any indication of what he was going to do?”
“No,” Elin said, “none at all. You must find him before he does something stupid. He feels so terrible, the poor man. It’s awful. Absolutely awful. My God, I’ve never known anything like it.”
“What?”
“He’s so like his father. He’s the spitting image of Holberg and he can’t live with that. He just can’t. After he heard what Holberg did to his mother. He says he’s a prisoner inside his own body. He says Holberg’s blood is running through his veins and he can’t stand it.”
“What’s he talking about?”
“It’s as if he hates himself,” Elin said. “He says he isn’t the person he used to be any more, but someone else, and he blames himself for what happened. No matter what I said, he wouldn’t listen to me.”
Erlendur looked down at the photo album, at the girl in the hospital bed.
“Why did he want to meet you?”
“He wanted to know about Audur. All about Audur. What kind of girl she was, how she died. He said I was his new family. Have you ever heard the like?”
“Where could he have gone?” Erlendur said, looking at his watch.
“For God’s sake try to find him before it’s too late.”
“We’ll do our best,” Erlendur said and was about to say goodbye but sensed that Elin had something else to say. “What? Was there anything else?” he asked.
“He saw when you exhumed Audur,” Elin said. “He found out where I was and followed us to the cemetery and saw you take the coffin out of the grave.”
41
Erlendur had the search for Einar stepped up. Photographs of him were sent to police stations in and around Reykjavik and the main regional towns; announcements were sent to the media. He ordered that the man was to be let alone; if anyone sighted him they were to contact Erlendur immediately and not do anything else. He had a short telephone conversation with Katrin who said she didn’t know where her son was. Her two elder sons were with her. She had told them the truth. They didn’t know anything about their brother’s whereabouts. Albert had stayed in his room at Hotel Esja all day. He made two phone calls, both to his office.
“What a bloody tragedy,” Erlendur mumbled on his way back to his office. They hadn’t found any clue in Einar’s flat as to where he might be staying.
The day passed and they shared out the duties. Elinborg and Sigurdur Oli talked to Einar’s ex-wife while Erlendur went to the Genetic Research Centre. The company’s large new premises were on the West Country Road outside Reykjavik. It was a five-storey building with strict security at the entrance. Two security guards met Erlendur in the impressive lobby. He’d announced that he was coming and the director of the company had felt compelled to talk to him for a few minutes. The director was one of the company owners, an Icelandic molecular geneticist, educated in Britain and America, who had championed the idea of Iceland as a base for genetic research targeted at pharmaceutical production. Using the database, all the medical records in the country could be centralised and health information processed which could help to identify genetic disorders.
The director was waiting for Erlendur in her office, a woman aged about 50 by the name of Karitas, slim and delicate with short, jet-black hair and a friendly smile. She was smaller than Erlendur had imagined from seeing her on television, but cordial. She couldn’t understand what the CID wanted from the company. She offered Erlendur a seat. While he looked at the walls adorned with contemporary Icelandic art he told her bluntly there were grounds for suspecting that someone had broken into the database and retrieved potentially damaging information from it. He didn’t know exactly what he was talking about himself but she seemed to understand perfectly. And she didn’t beat about the bush, to Erlendur’s great relief. He had been expecting opposition. A conspiracy of silence.