Arnaldur Indridason - Outrage

The police had interviewed Konrád’s wife that morning. If his confession was to be relied upon, she was an accessory. She confirmed that he had returned to the car with their daughter, but claimed not to remember Konrád pulling over to dispose of the murder weapon. She, like her husband and daughter, had been in a state of shock so she was not sure whether she had the correct order of events, or even if she remembered everything that had happened. It did not seem necessary at this point to take her into custody.

The plane hit a patch of turbulence and Elínborg gasped as it plunged and juddered. She grasped the armrests and her papers slithered to the floor. The commotion continued for several minutes. Once everything was back to normal, the captain addressed the passengers, explained about the turbulence, and requested them to stay seated with their seat belts fastened. Elínborg picked up her papers and rearranged them in the correct order in the file. She did not like these tinny propeller planes.

She returned to her reading. Konrád was questioned about various details and gave clear answers. But he could not answer the question that interested Elínborg most: what about the Rohypnol found in Runólfur’s body? Konrád had not forced him to swallow it, and Nína had almost no memory of events.

The plane was making its descent towards the runway. A light layer of snow still lay on the ground, contrasting with the muted hues of the landscape. Elínborg knew that two police officers were waiting for her at the little airport as before, to take her to Runólfur’s home village. She thought back to her kitchen at home, and Teddi’s bewildered expression when she had been struggling to understand the connection between what Konrád had said and the oily odour in the hall from Teddi’s jacket.

‘What? What about paraffin?’ Teddi had asked.

‘Konrád said Runólfur had been burning something,’ said Elínborg. ‘But he hadn’t burned anything. It wasn’t paraffin that Konrád smelt.’

‘What does that matter?’ asked Teddi.

‘Soon after we traced him, Konrád told me that he’d smelt paraffin in Runólfur’s flat. We didn’t find any paraffin — and Konrád’s description was a bit vague. At least, I think it was. I believe he smelt something like this. Maybe that’s enough — after all, if you leave your jacket in the hall the smell soon gets into everything.’

‘And?’ asked Teddi.

‘It’s an absolutely vital clue,’ answered Elínborg, and fetched her mobile to ring Sigurdur Óli back.

‘The confession’s rubbish,’ she said.

‘Oh?’

‘Konrád thinks he’s doing the right thing, taking the fall for his daughter. But I don’t believe they had anything to do with Runólfur’s death.’

‘What are you on about? If it wasn’t them, who was it?’

‘I’ve got to look into it a bit further,’ said Elínborg. ‘I’ll have to see Konrád tomorrow. I’m sure he’s lying.’

‘Please don’t start stirring things up,’ pleaded Sigurdur Óli. ‘I’ve just congratulated you on solving the case.’

‘That was a bit premature. Sorry.’ She switched her phone off, and turned to Teddi. ‘Can I borrow your jacket tomorrow?’

Early the next morning she had sat down with Konrád in the interview room. He said he had not slept much. He looked exhausted, dishevelled and nervous. He hardly answered Elínborg’s greeting. As usual, he asked after Nína. Elínborg replied that she was much the same.

‘I think you’re lying to us,’ said Elínborg. ‘You were telling the truth all along and we didn’t believe you. The same applies to your daughter. We didn’t believe her, either. So you decided to take the blame. You’d rather go to prison than see her locked up. You’re middle-aged but she’s still young, with her life ahead of her. But there are two problems with your confession, which I don’t think you’ve given enough thought to. She’s never going to go along with your version of events. In addition, you’re lying.’

‘What would you know about it?’

‘I know,’ said Elínborg.

‘You’re determined not to believe a word I say.’

‘Oh, I do — some of it. Most of it, actually, up to the point when you say you went for Runólfur.’

‘Nína didn’t do it.’

‘I don’t know if you remember, but you told me you’d smelt something like paraffin when you got to Runólfur’s flat. You thought he’d been burning something. Was there a smell of burning as well?’

‘No, there was no smell of burning.’

‘So you just smelt the oily smell?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know what paraffin smells like?’

‘Not particularly. It just seemed sort of oily.’

‘Was it a strong odour?’

‘No, it wasn’t. More like a background scent in the air.’

Elínborg picked up a plastic bag and took out the jacket that Teddi had been wearing the day before. She placed it on the table.

‘I’ve never seen that jacket before,’ said Konrád, unprompted, as if to avoid any more trouble.

‘I know,’ said Elínborg. ‘Please don’t come any closer, and don’t sniff it from close up. Can you smell it?’

‘No.’

Elínborg took the jacket, shook it vigorously, then folded it back into the bag. She stood up and put the bag out in the corridor. She sat down facing Konrád. ‘I know this isn’t very scientific, but can you smell anything now?’

‘Yes,’ replied Konrád. ‘I smell it now.’

‘Is that what you thought was paraffin, in Runólfur’s flat?’

Konrád took two deep breaths. ‘Yes! That’s just the same as in Runólfur’s flat when I arrived,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a little bit fainter.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. That’s it exactly. What jacket is that? Whose is it?’

‘It’s my husband’s,’ said Elínborg. ‘He’s a motor mechanic, and co-owner of a garage. His jacket hangs all day in his office at the garage, so it absorbs the smell of lubricants. Every car workshop in the country smells the same. It clings — and it’s hard to get rid of.’

‘Lubricants?’

‘Yes. Lubricants.’

‘So? What about it?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not sure what it means, but please don’t go making any more confessions until we’ve spoken again.’

Elínborg was jolted abruptly back to the present as the plane made a jarring touchdown.

At the guest house in the village, Elínborg was given the same room. She took her time settling in. Night was falling and she was in no hurry. On the way from the airport she had rung Sigurdur Óli in Reykjavík and others involved in the investigation to try to gather more information on Runólfur’s family: his mother; his father, who had gone smiling to his death; Runólfur’s friends in the village, and their families. Her enquiries had not yielded much — not surprisingly, as it was all so last-minute. If her hunch was correct she would learn more in the next few days.

Her hostess recognised her at once. She was surprised to see her back in the village and made no attempt to conceal her curiosity: ‘Is there something special that’s brought you back so soon?’ she asked as she showed Elínborg to her room. ‘I don’t suppose this is just a social visit, is it?’

‘I seem to remember someone said nothing ever happens here,’ said Elínborg.

‘Yes, that’s true. Not much going on,’ replied the woman.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ said Elínborg. She went to the village’s only restaurant, took a seat, and ordered the fish again. On this occasion she was the only customer. The ubiquitous Lauga took her order without a word and disappeared into the kitchen. Either she did not remember Elínborg or could not be bothered to make conversation. She had been more talkative on Elínborg’s previous visit. Before long she reappeared and placed the plate of fish on the table.