possible. That ensures a richer gene pool. Increases your chances of a biological bull’s eye.”
He turned to Martinsson.
“Do you have any children?”
“No,” she said.
“That’s not good. Is it intentional or accidental? Forgive my frankness, but infertile women are useless for the future of humankind.”
“Perhaps it leaves us free to get some work done instead,” Martinsson said. “While the rest of you are busy making children.”
“We can do all the work ourselves,” Hjorleifur said. “As well as make children. But I expect you are fertile in fact. Probably just one of them career women. With the right man you ought to be able to produce loads of children.”
“With the right men, surely, you mean,” Mella could not resist saying, and was delighted to note the cut-it-out look she received from Martinsson.
“But only one at a time,” Hjorleifur said, eyeing Martinsson covetously. “Come in.”
Martinsson gave Mella a look that said, “Come in and be impregnated, is that what he means?”
“We just wanted…” Mella said, but Hjorleifur had disappeared inside the house.
All they could do was follow him.
Hjorleifur was putting the fertility-boosting eggs into an egg box on the kitchen counter. He wrote the date on each of them with a pencil. Mella looked around with a mixture of horror and elation. She was impressed to see a kitchen as messy and dirty as this one – it made her own kitchen look like an advert in a home-improvement magazine.
In front of the wood-burning stove was a big pile of shavings and bark from timber Hjorleifur had sawn up. There was a cork mat on the floor, but it was impossible to see what colour it was under all the layers of dirt. A rag rug under the table was the same greyish-brown shade. The cloth on the kitchen table was stiff with congealed grime. The window panes had been half-heartedly wiped in the middle so that it was just about possible to see out. There were no curtains. Instead Hjorleifur had installed shelves in front of the windows, on which were rows of tins and potted plants. An old-fashioned zinc bathtub stood in the middle of the floor, and washing was hanging in front of the stove. There were piles of dirty dishes everywhere. Mella suspected that Hjorleifur never washed up, simply using the plate and mug nearest to him as needed. A yellowish-green sleeping bag lay on the kitchen sofa. The ceiling was black with soot, and the paraffin lamp hanging from it was covered in dust and spiders’ webs.
Both women declined the offer of ecological herbal tea.
“Are you sure?” Hjorleifur said. “I make it myself. It’s high time you started eating in an environmentally friendly way, if you don’t already. Only 10 per cent of us will give birth to children sufficiently capable of coping with life to ensure that our genetic heritage will survive for the next three generations.”
“You usually bathe at Vittangijarvi, is that right?” Mella said, thinking that it was time to change the subject.
“Yes.”
“Have you ever seen these two down by the lake?”
She showed Hjorleifur a photograph of Wilma and Simon.
He looked at the picture and shook his head.
“I think they were diving in the lake on October 9. That must have been shortly after the ice formed. Did you ever see or meet them? Have you noticed anything happening down by the lake? Do you know about Goran and Berit Sillfors’ shed door? Seems it was nicked last winter.”
Hjorleifur’s expression changed. He looked grumpy.
“Questions, questions,” he said.
For a while Mella said nothing.
“They may have been murdered,” she said eventually. “It really is important that you tell me anything you know.”
Hjorleifur remained silent the way little children do, his mouth tightly closed.
“Come back tomorrow,” he said finally. “Maybe I might have seen something.”
“Tell me now,” Mella said. “I…”
“Maybe I haven’t seen anything at all,” Hjorleifur said.
He eyed Mella defiantly. It was clear that she was not going to get anything out of him today.
She gritted her teeth.
The stubborn old goat, she thought.
She opened her mouth to urge him to tell her what he knew, but Martinsson got there first.
“Thank you so much for being willing to help us,” she said. “We’ll be happy to come back tomorrow.”
She smiled at him, revealing her perfect teeth. Her eyes gleamed. “What’s the name of your lovely dog?” she said.
Hjorleifur melted.
“Vera,” he said with a smile. “So there we are then. Come back tomorrow. I’ll boil a few eggs for you.”
Hjorleifur Arnarson stood outside his front door watching Mella and Martinsson drive away. Martinsson had put him in a good mood, but now he was suffering agonies.
When they came back tomorrow, what if they brought handcuffs with them? What if they took him to the police station and locked him up? What if he was no longer free? Unable to get out? Locked up in a grey concrete cage?
Back in the house, he fished his mobile out of a cupboard. He hardly ever used it. But this was an emergency. Holding a piece of aluminium foil between his head and the phone, he dialled the number of Goran and Berit Sillfors.
“What have you told the police?” he said in an agitated voice when Goran Sillfors answered.
Goran Sillfors sat down on a stool in the kitchen and took his time to convince Hjorleifur that he and his wife had not said anything at all, and that nobody believed that Hjorleifur had anything to do with the disappearance of the young couple.
Once Hjorleifur had calmed down, Sillfors couldn’t resist enquiring, “And what about you? What did you tell them?”
Hjorleifur could feel the vibrations coming from the telephone. They heated up his ear and gave him a headache.
“Nothing. They’ll be back again tomorrow,” he said curtly.
And hung up.
It is not easy to be Goran Sillfors. He is a talker, a blabber. He likes the sound of his own voice. He will hold forth about anything under the sun, especially himself. He is the type about whom people say, “He gossips like an old woman” and use phrases like “verbal diarrhoea”. He is the type people want to kill to get him to shut up.
Of course, he senses that this is how he is regarded. But instead of being quiet, he just talks some more. He has learnt to talk without pausing so that it is impossible for people to end conversations with him.
