6

Óttar Karlsson’s mother lived in a small, terraced house on Ásgarður, part of a neighbourhood built in the early sixties in an effort to provide affordable housing for low-income families. After the Second World War, Reykjavík grew fast and soon found itself in the midst of a housing crisis, with many poorer families having to live in army barracks in the camps the British and later the Americans had left behind. Before Garðar was born his parents had lived in one of these barracks with his two older siblings, after moving to the city from the countryside of northern Iceland. They had told him stories about life in the old army camps – the dampness and cold air, but also the colourful characters they had met. When the city council started offering low-income families new housing opportunities, Garðar’s family had been one of the first to escape the poor living conditions in the barracks. By the time Garðar was born, their standard of living had improved, so he only knew what a struggle their life had been from the tales he’d been told.

Sigurdís and Garðar had decided to change into civil clothing and drive in an unmarked car, so as to not alarm the elderly lady or pique the neighbours’ curiosity. They parked a little way from the house, outside the neighbourhood church, and walked the rest of the way. The home was immaculate, with a neat display of flowers in an elegant pot by the door and a crafted wooden bench on which lay an ashtray, which sparkled as if it had never been used.

Sigurdís rang the doorbell, and the initial response was the barks from the dog next door. Garðar was preoccupied, wondering how to break the news to this woman of her son’s death. Sigurdís had no idea how to break news like this to a victim’s close family. Her stomach ached with trepidation and her palms were clammy with sweat.

‘Thrúður Karlsdóttir?’

Óttar’s mother had obviously not been expecting visitors and opened the door no more than halfway.

She was a good-looking woman, around seventy but young for her age, with dark hair turning grey, pinned up with a clip. She wore grey slippers and a grey dressing gown that she held tight around her as she looked them up and down.

‘Yes, that’s me,’ she said. Then nodded to her attire. ‘I’m sorry, but I wasn’t expecting anyone. I don’t often get visitors these days.’

Garðar cleared his throat. ‘My name is Garðar Sigurgeirsson and this is Sigurdís Hölludóttir. We are from the city police CID.’

Thrúður looked surprise. ‘Have the boys in the house at the end of the terrace been stealing bicycles again?’ she asked with a sigh.

‘Unfortunately it’s nothing so trivial. Could we come inside?’

The smell of disinfectant hit their noses as they entered. The house was pristine, everything in its place – it was as if the place was barely occupied. The furniture was sparse and minimalist in shades of teak and grey. Thrúður invited them to take a seat on the sofa in the little living room then looked at them curiously.

‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ Garðar said. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that your son Óttar was found dead this morning. Some Japanese tourists on a sightseeing flight saw him lying on the beach east of Stokkseyri. All the indications are that he died on Wednesday night or in the early hours of Thursday.’

Thrúður said nothing. She sat rigidly and stared into space.

‘Our deepest condolences. We have already informed the local priest and he will be visiting you this afternoon. Is there anyone else we should inform?’

Thrúður said nothing. Garðar and Sigurdís exchanged glances, tacitly agreeing to give her some time to absorb the news. After what seemed to Sigurdís to be an age, Thrúður stood up and asked if they would like some water, before going to the kitchen. After a moment, they heard the tap turning on and the sound of running water. It was allowed to flow for a very long time.

Finally, Sigurdís decided to go into the kitchen, and found Thrúður sitting on the floor, her back to the sink. She was rigid. Sigurdís turned off the water and sat on the floor at the woman’s side. She could see tears running down the woman’s face.

Thrúður turned slightly and looked at her. ‘He was doing so well. I thought he must have been cheating on Erla, or they had had some disagreement, and that’s why he didn’t turn up yesterday for his birthday party. My son was fifty yesterday, you see. Did you know that? … How could this happen? What was he doing all the way out there? What happened to him?’

Sigurdís took her hand as Garðar appeared in the kitchen.

‘We don’t know exactly what happened,’ he said. ‘He has injuries to his head and face, as well as some bruising, and one shin bone is broken. The pathologists are working to determine the cause of death and we’re waiting for their conclusions. Can we call anyone for you?’

‘What about Óttar’s father – Karl?’ Sigurdís asked.

Thrúður looked into her eyes, her gaze sharper now. ‘He walked out when the children were small and we haven’t heard a word from him since. And his name’s not Karl. That slob’s name is Ómar Albertsson. After he left, I didn’t want my children carrying his name, so they took my father’s instead as their patronymic.’

‘You have a daughter, don’t you?’ Sigurdís said. ‘Can we call her?’

‘No. I’ll do it myself,’ Thrúður said.

She closed her eyes, and seemed to be drawing some kind of strength from somewhere Then she got to her feet and went over to where her bag lay on the kitchen counter.

She took out her phone and called, her face blank and tight. When her daughter answered, Thrúður simply announced: ‘Óttar is dead, Stefanía. Can you come? The police are here.’ And then she ended the call. She appeared not to have waited for any response from her daughter. Most likely she had been unable to cope with saying anything more.

Sigurdís wondered about the unfortunate Stefanía. What was it like to receive such a call from your mother without any further explanation, and then for the line to go dead? She saw the phone on the counter light up as Stefanía tried to call back.

‘I’m not answering. She’ll come,’ Thrúður said in a flat voice.

‘Would you like us to wait for her to arrive?’ Sigurdís asked.

Thrúður shook her head. ‘When should I expect the priest? Stefanía and I will talk to him about … about all this,’ she said in the same level tone.

‘He should be here shortly. If you have any questions, then please feel free to call at any time, day or night,’ Garðar said, handing her a card. ‘We’ll be in touch when we have more information on the cause of death.’

They were by the open front door when something Thrúður said came back to Sigurdís. ‘You mention someone called Erla. Who is she?’

‘Óttar’s long-term girlfriend. They’ve been a couple for a while but don’t live together. I had been hoping Óttar would marry this one and make me a grandmother.’ Thrúður looked through the open door into the distance. ‘But she’s as career-minded as he is, so they would probably have never found the time …’