mountainside was moving. They stopped, and at that very instant an avalanche crashed down, sweeping them out to sea. One person survived, badly crippled. All that was found of the others was a package that one of them had been carrying, and the lantern that had lit their way.
The telephone rang and Erlendur looked up from his book. He thought about letting it ring. But it might be Valgerdur, even Eva Lind, though he hardly expected that.
“Were you asleep?” Sigurdur Oli said when he eventually answered.
“What do you want?” Erlendur asked.
“Are you going to bring that woman with you to my barbecue tomorrow? Bergthora wants to know. She needs to know how many guests to expect.”
“What woman are you talking about?” Erlendur said.
“The one you met at Christmas,” Sigurdur Oli said. “Aren’t you still seeing each other?”
“What business of yours is that?” Erlendur said. “And what barbecue are you talking about? When did I say I wanted to come to your barbecue?”
There was a knock on the door. Sigurdur Oli had entered into a rigmarole about how Erlendur had said he would go to the barbecue that he and Bergthora were giving, and how Elinborg was going to do the cooking, when Erlendur hung up on him and answered the door. Valgerdur gave a quick smile when he opened it and asked if she could come in. After a moment’s hesitation he said that of course she could, and she walked into the living room and sat down on his battered sofa. He said he would make coffee, but she told him not to bother.
“I’ve left him,” she said.
He sat down on a chair facing her and remembered the telephone call from her husband telling him to leave her alone. She looked at him and saw the concern on his face.
“I should have left long ago,” she said. “You were right. I should have settled all this way back.”
“Why now?” he asked.
“He told me that he called you,” Valgerdur said. “I don’t want you getting dragged into our business. I don’t want him phoning you. This is between me and him. It’s not about you.”
Erlendur smiled. Remembering the green Chartreuse in the cupboard, he stood and fetched the bottle and two glasses. He filled them and handed her one.
“I don’t mean like that, but you know what I mean,” she said, and they sipped their liqueurs. “All we have done is talk together. Which is more than he can claim.”
“But you didn’t want to leave him until now,” Erlendur said.
“It’s difficult after all these years. After all that time. Our boys and… it’s just very difficult.”
Erlendur said nothing.
“I saw this evening how dead everything is between us,” Valgerdur continued. “And I suddenly realised that I
“I slammed the phone down on him,” Erlendur said.
“I know, he told me. Suddenly I saw through it all. He no longer has any control over what I do or what I want. None. I don’t know who he thinks he is.”
Valgerdur had been reluctant to reveal much about her husband, except that he had been cheating on her for two years with a nurse at the hospital and had had other affairs before. He was a doctor at the National Hospital, where she also worked, and Erlendur had sometimes wondered, when he was thinking about Valgerdur, what it must have been like for her to work at a place where everyone but her knew for a fact that her husband was chasing other women.
“What about work?” he asked.
“I’ll get by,” she said.
“Do you want to sleep here tonight?”
“No,” Valgerdur said, “I’ve spoken to my sister and I’ll stay with her for the time being. She’s been very supportive.”
“When you say it’s not about me…?”
“I’m not leaving him for your sake — it’s for my own good,” Valgerdur said. “I don’t want him controlling my every move any more. And you and my sister are right, I should have left him ages ago. As soon as I found out about that affair.”
She paused and looked at Erlendur.
“He claimed just now that I’d driven him to it,” she said. “Because I wasn’t… wasn’t… didn’t find sex exciting enough.”
“They all say that,” Erlendur said. “It’s the first thing they say. You should ignore it.”
“He was quick to blame me,” Valgerdur said.
“What else can he say? He’s trying to justify it to himself.”
They fell silent and finished their liqueurs.
“You’re—” she said, but stopped in mid-sentence. “I don’t know what you are,” she said finally. “Or who you are. I don’t have the vaguest idea.”
“Nor do I,” Erlendur said.
Valgerdur smiled.
“Would you like to come to a barbecue with me tomorrow?” Erlendur suddenly asked. “My friends are meeting up. Elinborg has just published a cookery book, maybe you’ve heard about it. She’ll do the barbecue. She cooks very well,” Erlendur added, looking at his desk on which sat the wrapper from a packet of microwaveable meatballs.
“I don’t want to rush into anything,” she said.
“Neither do I,” Erlendur said.
Plates clattered in the canteen at the old people’s home as Erlendur walked down the corridor towards the old farmer’s room. The staff were tidying up after breakfast and cleaning the rooms. Most of the doors were open and the sun shone in through the windows. But the door to the farmer’s room was shut, so Erlendur knocked.
“Leave me alone,” he heard a strong, hoarse voice say from inside. “Bloody disturbances all the time!”
Erlendur turned the handle, the door opened and he stepped inside. He knew precious little about the occupant. Only that his name was Haraldur and that he had moved off his land twenty years ago. When he gave up farming, before moving to the old people’s home, he had lived in a block of flats in the Hlidar quarter of Reykjavik. Erlendur gleaned some information about him from one member of staff, who told him that Haraldur was a crotchety old troublemaker. He had recently hit another resident with a walking stick and was rude to the staff. Most could not stand him.
“Who are you?” Haraldur asked when he saw Erlendur standing in the doorway. He was eighty-four years old, white-haired and with big hands turned stiff by physical labour. He sat on the edge of his bed in his woollen socks, his back bent and his head sunk deep between his shoulder blades. A scraggy beard covered half his face. The room smelled and Erlendur wondered whether Haraldur took snuff.
He introduced himself, saying that he was from the police. This seemed to fire Haraldur’s interest; he straightened up and looked Erlendur in the eye.
“What do the police want from me?” he asked. “Is it because I took a swing at Thordur at dinnertime?”
“Why did you hit Thordur?” Erlendur asked. He was curious.
“Thordur’s a wanker,” Haraldur said. “I don’t have to tell you about that. Get out and shut the door behind you. They’re always staring in at you all day long. Poking their noses into other people’s business.”
“I wasn’t going to talk to you about Thordur,” Erlendur said as he entered the room and closed the door behind him.
“Listen,” Haraldur said, “I don’t care for you strolling in here. What’s this supposed to mean? Get out. Just get out and leave me in peace!”
The old man straightened up, raised his head as far as he could and glared at Erlendur, who calmly sat down opposite him on the bed. It was still made and Erlendur imagined there was no point in offering anyone a room to share with grumpy old Haraldur. There were few personal articles in the room. On the bedside table were two dog-eared books of Einar Benediktsson’s poetry that had clearly been read over and again.
“Aren’t you comfortable here?” Erlendur asked.
