Outrage (6 page)

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ said Elinborg, with a glance at her watch. It was past ten o’clock.

‘No, you’re not,’ Valdimar assured her. ‘I’m just working on the tractor. I’ve got nothing else on. Did you want to talk to me about Runolfur?’

‘I gather you were friends when he lived here. Did you stay in touch?’

‘No, not really - not after he left. I visited him once when I went to Reykjavik.’

‘You don’t know anyone who might have had reason to hate him?’

‘No, not at all - but, as I say, we weren’t in touch. I haven’t been to Reykjavik in donkey’s years. I read that his throat was cut.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘No. We don’t know much yet. I came here to speak to his mother. What was Runolfur like as a boy?’

Valdimar put down his oily rag, opened a thermos of piping hot coffee and poured himself a cup. He glanced over at Elinborg as if to offer her one, but she shook her head.

‘Everyone knows everyone else around here, of course,’ he said. ‘He was older than me so we didn’t play together much as boys. He wasn’t as wild as some of us who were raised here in the village, maybe because he had a strict upbringing.’

‘But were you friends?’

‘No, not really, though we knew each other quite well. He left when he was very young. Things change. Not least in a little community like this.’

‘Did he go away to high school, or …?’

‘No, he just moved to Reykjavik to work. He always wanted to go there. He talked about going as soon as he got the chance. Or even travelling, abroad. He wasn’t about to waste his life in this backwater. He called it a hole. I’ve never thought of it that way - I’ve always been OK here.’

‘Was he interested in action comics, thriller films, do you know?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because we found indications of it at his home,’ answered Elinborg, without describing the posters and collectible figures in Runolfur’s flat in any more detail.

‘I don’t know. I don’t remember anything like that.’

‘I’ve been told his mother was a harsh parent. You mentioned a strict upbringing.’

‘She had a rather short fuse,’ said Valdimar, sipping his coffee carefully. He took a biscuit from his pocket and dunked it in the cup. ‘She had her own approach to parenting. I never saw her hit him, but he said she did. He only spoke of it once, so far as I know. He was embarrassed - I think he was ashamed. They were never close.’

‘What about his father?’

‘The old man was a bit of a wimp. Never said a word.’

‘He died in an accident, didn’t he?’

‘That was just a few years ago, after Runolfur had moved to Reykjavik.’

‘So have you any idea why Runolfur was murdered?’

‘No, I’ve no idea at all. It’s tragic, quite tragic, that things like that happen.’

‘Did you know anything about women in his life?’

‘Women?’

‘Yes.’

‘In Reykjavik?’

‘Yes. Or in general.’

‘I knew nothing about that. Is this to do with women?’

‘No,’ said Elinborg. ‘Or, at least, we don’t know. We don’t know what happened.’

Valdimar put down his coffee cup and took a spanner from a toolbox.

He worked calmly, his movements unhurried. He searched for a bolt in another box, feeling around with a finger until he found one that was the right size.

Elinborg looked at the tractor. There was apparently no pressure of work at this garage, yet here Valdimar was, working late into the evening.

‘My husband’s a mechanic,’ volunteered Elinborg without thinking. She was not in the habit of telling strangers anything about herself, but it was warm in the garage and the man was friendly. He came across as reliable and likeable. Outside, the storm was rising. She knew no one in this place and she felt a long way from her husband and children.

‘Oh?’ replied Valdimar. ‘So I suppose his hands are always black?’

‘I won’t allow it,’ said Elinborg, with a smile. ‘He must have been one of the first mechanics in Iceland, or maybe in the world, who started wearing gloves for work.’

Valdimar looked down at his own filthy hands. Elinborg saw old scars on their backs and on his fingers which she recognised, after her years with Teddi, as being the result of struggling with engine parts. Teddi had not always been careful: sometimes he got carried away, or his tools were faulty.

‘A woman’s touch,’ Valdimar said.

‘And I get a special hand-cleaning cream for him, which works wonders,’ added Elinborg. ‘Didn’t you ever want to move away, like the others?’

She saw that Valdimar was trying not to smile.

‘I can’t think what that’s got to do with anything,’ he said.

‘No, it was just a thought,’ said Elinborg, a little embarrassed. The man had that effect upon her; he seemed frank and at peace with himself.

‘I’ve always lived here, and never wanted to leave,’ he said. ‘I’m not one for change. I’ve been to Reykjavik a few times and I didn’t like what I saw. All that chasing after empty things - conspicuous consumption, bigger houses, more expensive cars. They hardly even speak proper Icelandic any more. They hang around in junk-food joints, getting fatter and fatter. I don’t think it’s the Icelandic way. We’re all drowning in bad foreign habits.’

‘I have a friend who thinks rather like you.’

‘Good for him.’

‘And of course you have family here,’ added Elinborg.

‘I’m not a family man,’ Valdimar said, disappearing under the tractor. ‘I never have been, and I can’t imagine I ever will be now.’

‘You never know,’ Elinborg ventured.

The man looked up from beneath the tractor. ‘Was there anything else?’ he asked.

Elinborg smiled and shook her head, apologised for disturbing him and then set off, back out into the storm.

When she reached the guest house she met the woman who had served her at the restaurant. She was still wearing her apron, with a name badge on it:
Lauga
. She was on her way out, and it occurred to Elinborg that perhaps she was involved in the guest-house operation too. That’s multitasking for you, she thought.

‘I heard that you talked to Valdi,’ said Lauga, holding the door open for Elinborg. ‘Did you get anything out of it?’

‘Not a lot,’ answered Elinborg, surprised again at the speed with which news spread round here.

‘No, he’s not much of a talker, but he’s a good lad.’

‘He seems to work hard. He was still working when I left.’

‘There’s not much else to do,’ observed Lauga. ‘He likes it, always has. Was it the tractor?’

‘Yes, he was working on a tractor.’

‘I should think he’s been fiddling around with it for ten years now. I’ve never seen such care and attention as he lavishes on that tractor. It’s like his pet. They gave him a nickname - Valdi
Ferguson
.’

‘Well,’ said Elinborg. ‘I have to get back to town early in the morning, so …’

‘Sorry. I wasn’t meaning to keep you up all night.’

Elinborg smiled and looked out at the forlorn village that was gradually disappearing in the blizzard. ‘I don’t suppose you have much crime here?’

Lauga was closing the door. ‘No, that’s for sure,’ she replied with a smile. ‘Nothing ever happens here.’

But for a niggling question at the back of her mind Elinborg would have dropped off as soon as her head touched the pillow; it might mean anything, or nothing. It was the girl she had bumped into at the video rack: she had spoken in whispers, as if she had not wanted anyone to overhear their conversation.

7

Elinborg landed in Reykjavik around midday. Accompanied by a counsellor from the rape-trauma centre, she went straight to the home of the young woman who had been found at the roadside in Kopavogur.

The counsellor, Solrun, was about forty. Elinborg had worked with her before. On the way, they discussed the increasing incidence of rape reported to the police. The number of offences varied: one year, twenty-five; another, forty-three. Elinborg was familiar with the statistics: she knew that around seventy per cent of rapes took place in the home, and in about fifty per cent of cases the victim knew the rapist. Rape by strangers was on the increase, although cases were still relatively rare. Such assaults might not necessarily be reported to the police; often, more than one man was involved. And each year the police dealt with six to eight cases in which the use of a date-rape drug was suspected.

‘Did you speak to her?’ asked Elinborg.

‘Yes, she’s expecting us,’ answered Solrun. ‘She’s still in a bad way. She’s moved back in with her parents and doesn’t really want to see or talk to anyone. She’s cut herself off. She sees a psychologist twice a week, and I put her in touch with a psychiatrist too. It’s going to take her a long time to get over it.’

‘And it can’t help that the justice system treats these victims with such contempt,’ Elinborg said. ‘Eighteen months on average for a rape conviction? It’s a disgrace.’

The young woman’s mother met them at the door and showed them into the living room. Her husband was not at home but was expected before long.

She went to let her daughter know that the visitors had arrived, and a brief argument ensued. So far as Elinborg could make out, the daughter was protesting that she didn’t want this - she didn’t want to speak to the police any more, she wanted to be left alone.

Elinborg and Solrun stood up when the mother and daughter entered the room. The young woman, Unnur, had met both women before and recognised them, but she made no reply when they said hello.

‘I’m so sorry we’re imposing,’ said Solrun. ‘This won’t take long. And you can stop whenever you want.’ They sat down, and Elinborg took care not to waste any time with small talk. Although Unnur tried to conceal it, Elinborg could see that she was uncomfortable as she sat by her mother’s side. She was striving to put on a brave face. Elinborg had learned to recognise the long-term consequences of major physical assault, and she knew what mental scars it left. To her mind, rape was the worst form of physical assault, almost equivalent to murder.

From her pocket she took a photograph of Runolfur, copied from his driving licence. ‘Do you recognise this man?’ she asked, passing it to Unnur.

She gave it a brief glance. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’ve seen his picture on the news, but I don’t know him.’ She returned the photo to Elinborg. ‘Do you think that’s him? The man who raped me?’ Unnur asked.

‘We don’t know,’ answered Elinborg. ‘We do know he was carrying a date-rape drug when he went out on the evening he was murdered. That information hasn’t been made public and you mustn’t tell anyone. But I wanted you to hear the truth. Now you see why we were anxious to meet with you.’

‘I don’t know if I could identify him, even if he were standing right here in front of me,’ said Unnur. ‘I don’t remember anything. Nothing. I vaguely remember the man I was last speaking to, at the bar. I don’t know who he was, but it wasn’t that Runolfur.’

‘Would you be willing to come to his flat with us, and look around? In case it jogs your memory?’

‘I … no, I … I haven’t really been out anywhere since it happened,’ said Unnur.

‘She doesn’t want to leave the house,’ said her mother. ‘Maybe you could show her some pictures.’

Elinborg nodded. ‘It would be very helpful if you felt up to coming with us,’ she said. ‘And he had a car - we’d be grateful if you would look at it.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Unnur.

‘The most noticeable feature of his home is that there are big posters of Hollywood action heroes on the living-room walls. Superheroes, like Superman and Batman. Does that …?’

‘It’s all a blank.’

‘And another thing,’ added Elinborg, producing the shawl, wrapped in a plastic evidence bag. ‘We found this at the scene of the crime. I’d like to know if you recognise it. I’m afraid I can’t take it out of the bag, but it’s all right to open it.’

She handed it to the young woman.

‘I don’t wear shawls,’ Unnur said. ‘I’ve only ever owned one, and this isn’t it. Did you find it at his place?’

‘Yes,’ replied Elinborg. ‘That’s another thing that hasn’t been released to the media.’

Unnur was beginning to see where the questions were leading. ‘Was there a woman with him when he … when he was attacked?’

‘It’s possible,’ Elinborg said. ‘We know at least that he was involved in some way with women who came to his home.’

‘Had he drugged her, or was he planning to?’

‘We don’t know.’

Silence reigned.

‘Do you think it was me?’ Unnur asked eventually.

Her mother stared at her. Elinborg shook her head. ‘Absolutely not,’ she replied. ‘You mustn’t think that. I’ve already told you more than you’re supposed to know, and you mustn’t misinterpret it.’

‘You think I attacked him.’

‘No,’ Elinborg said firmly.

‘I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. I’m not that kind of person,’ said Unnur.

‘What sort of questions are these?’ asked her mother. ‘Are you accusing my daughter of attacking that man? She doesn’t even leave the house. She was with us all weekend!’

‘We know. You’re reading far too much into what we’ve said,’ Elinborg said.

She hesitated. Mother and daughter watched her. ‘But we do need a sample of your hair,’ She said at last. ‘Solrun can take the sample. We want to establish whether you were in his flat the evening you were assaulted. Whether he might have been the one who drugged you and took you home to rape you.’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ Unnur objected.

‘No, of course you haven’t,’ agreed Solrun. ‘The police just want to rule out the possibility that you were in his flat.’

‘And what if I
was
there?’

Elinborg felt the horror behind the young woman’s words. She could barely imagine how she must feel, knowing nothing of the night when she was raped. ‘That would give us more information about what happened to you in the hours before you were found in Kopavogur,’ she pointed out. ‘I know this is hard, but we’re all looking for answers here.’

‘I’m not even sure that I want to know,’ Unnur said. ‘I’m trying to pretend to myself that it never happened - that it wasn’t me, but some other girl.’