Arnaldur Indridason - Outrage

She was planning a new cookery book so she made careful notes of all she did. Her first, More than Just Desserts , had sold well; she’d been invited to appear on a TV chat show and had been interviewed in the press. She hoped the next book would enjoy equal success.

She heard Teddi come in. She recognised the sounds of each member of the family: Valthór would slam the door behind him, kick off his shoes, chuck his bag on the floor and disappear into his bedroom without so much as a hello. Aron had been tending to do the same lately; after all, he was a teenager now and strove to be just like his big brother. He invariably dumped his coat on the hall floor, however many times he was reminded to hang it up. Theodóra entered quietly, closing the door softly behind her, hung up her coat, and if her parents were at home she would join them in the kitchen for a chat. Teddi sometimes made a noisy entrance via the garage: invariably cheerful, he often came in humming a song that had been on the radio as he drove home. He cleared up as he went — hung the boys’ coats up, put their bags away, arranged their shoes on the rack — before coming into the kitchen to greet Elínborg with a kiss.

‘Hey! You’re home!’ he said.

‘I promised to cook the kids a steak ages ago,’ she said. ‘And there’s tandoori on the barbecue for us. Would you mind putting the rice on?’

‘So have you solved the case?’ asked Teddi as he searched out a packet of rice.

‘I don’t know. We’ll find out soon enough.’

‘What a clever girl you are,’ remarked Teddi, pleased to have Elínborg home at a reasonable hour. He had become a regular customer at various unappetising fried-chicken places at this time of the evening, and he had been missing his wife and her home cooking.

‘What do you say? Shall we have a drop of red wine to celebrate?’

Elínborg’s mobile started to ring in her coat pocket in the hall.

Teddi’s smile faded. He recognised the ringtone of her work phone. ‘Aren’t you going to take that?’ he asked, reaching for a bottle.

‘Don’t I always?’ answered Elínborg, making for the hall. She would have liked to switch the device off and actually considered doing so as she dug it out of her pocket.

Teddi’s jacket was lying over a chair in the hall.

‘Are you at home?’ asked Sigurdur Óli.

‘Yes,’ snapped Elínborg. ‘What do you want? What’s up?’

‘I was just going to congratulate you, but if you’re going to bite my head off I might as well-’

‘Congratulate me?’

‘He confessed.’

‘Who?’

‘The man you took into custody,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Your mate with the wonky leg. Hopalong Cassidy. He’s confessed to killing Runólfur.’

‘Konrád? When?’

‘Just now.’

‘So was it all straightforward?’

‘Yeah. They were finishing up for the day, and he said he gave up. I wasn’t there but that’s the gist of it. He confessed. He said he went crazy when he saw what had happened. He claims he didn’t force Runólfur to swallow anything but he did notice that he was under the influence of something. He used one of the kitchen knives, apparently, and threw it in the sea on the way home. Can’t remember exactly where.’

Elínborg was not convinced. ‘The last thing he told me was that they were both innocent.’

‘He must have just had enough. I can’t read his mind.’

‘Does his daughter know about his confession?’

‘No, she hasn’t been told. I don’t suppose we’ll tell her till tomorrow.’

‘Thanks,’ said Elínborg.

‘Well, it’s all down to your good work, pardner ,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘Who’d have believed your Indian spices and sauces would solve the case? I wouldn’t.’

‘See you tomorrow.’

Elínborg broke the connection and absent-mindedly picked up her husband’s jacket. The garment smelt strongly of the motor workshop where he worked and a smell of lubricants and tyres filled the hall. Teddi usually took care not to bring the grime of his work into the house but this time he had forgotten. Maybe because he was so pleased to find her at home, thought Elínborg. She carried his jacket into the garage, hung it up, then returned to the kitchen.

‘What was the call about?’ Teddi asked.

‘We’ve got a confession,’ said Elínborg. ‘In the Thingholt case.’

‘Ah,’ said Teddi, a wine bottle in his hand. ‘I wasn’t sure whether to open it.’

‘Yeah, go ahead,’ said Elínborg flatly. ‘You left your jacket in the hall.’

‘Sorry, I was in a bit of a hurry. What’s the matter? The case is solved, isn’t it?’

He drew the cork from the bottle, with a loud pop. Teddi poured two glasses of wine and handed one to his wife. ‘Cheers!’ he said.

Elínborg toasted him back, her attention elsewhere. Teddi could see that she was distracted as she watched the rice boiling in the pan. He took a sip and watched her. He did not want to interrupt her train of thought.

‘Could it be?’ exclaimed Elínborg.

‘Could what be?’

‘He’s got it all wrong,’ said Elínborg.

‘What?’ asked Teddi, bewildered. ‘Is there something wrong with the rice?’

‘Rice?’

‘Yes — I just did the usual amount.’

‘He thought it was paraffin, but he was wrong,’ said Elínborg.

‘What?’

Elínborg stared at Teddi. Then she went out to the garage and fetched his jacket. She brought it back and handed it to him. ‘Can you tell me what this smell is, exactly?’

‘The smell on the jacket?’

‘Yes. Is it paraffin?’

‘No, not exactly …’ said Teddi as he sniffed at the garment. ‘It’s engine lubricant. Oil.’

‘ Who was this Runólfur ?’ said Elínborg under her breath. ‘ What kind of a man was he? Konrád asked me that today, and I had no answer for him, because I don’t understand him. But I should.’

‘What should you understand?’

‘Konrád didn’t smell paraffin. Dear God! We should have found out more about him. I knew it. We should have paid far more attention to Runólfur.’

Elínborg sat in the car for a while before she entered the filling station. Busy as she was, she allowed herself the time to listen to the closing minutes of a radio programme playing golden oldies. Her first husband, Bergsteinn, had been a devotee of classic popular songs. He would often wax lyrical about the good old days of simple, innocent dance tunes, which had given way to raw, angry, confrontational music.

These familiar songs reminded her of Erlendur, who had gone east to where he had lived as a boy. In his desire to be left alone, it looked as if he had left his phone behind and severed all contact with the outside world. On the rare occasions when he took time off to go to the east, that was what he did as a rule. She wondered what he got up to over there. She had taken the liberty of asking about him at the guest house in the village of Eskifjördur, but he had not been seen there. She had hesitated to make the call: she knew Erlendur at least as well as anyone else and she was well aware that he loathed any such interference.

Elínborg walked into the filling station. By trawling through old reports of fatal road accidents she had traced the driver of the lorry that had collided with Runólfur’s father’s car, killing him. The man had worked for a haulage company in Reykjavík. Elínborg had gone to the company offices to ask about the driver and had spoken to the manager:

‘I was wondering if Ragnar Thór was available. I’ve only got a mobile number and he’s not answering,’ said Elínborg, after introducing herself.

‘Ragnar Thór?’ the manager said. ‘He hasn’t worked here for years.’