“I killed him, Mum.”

“Because there was nothing else you could do. You must understand that, Simon.”

“But I feel so terrible.”

“I know, Simon. I know.”

“I don’t feel well. I never have, Mum.”

She looked at the bushes.

“There’ll be berries on the bushes in the autumn and everything will be okay then. You hear that, Simon. Everything will be okay then.”

29

They looked over to the front door of the home when it opened and a man came in, aged about 70, stooping, with thin white hair and a friendly, smiling face, wearing a smart thick pullover and grey trousers. One of the helpers with him was told that the resident had visitors. Simon was pointed in the direction of the sitting room.

Erlendur and Elinborg stood up. Mikkelina walked over to the man and hugged him, and he smiled at her, his face beaming like a child’s.

“Mikkelina,” the man said in an astonishingly youthful voice.

“Hello, Simon,” she said. “I’ve brought some people with me who wanted to meet you. This is Elinborg and this man’s name is Erlendur.”

“My name’s Simon,” the man said, shaking them by the hand. “Mikkelina’s my sister.”

Erlendur and Elinborg nodded.

“Simon is very happy,” Mikkelina said. “Even if the rest of us never have been, Simon is happy and that’s all that matters.”

Simon sat down with them, took hold of Mikkelina’s hand, smiled at her and stroked her face, and he smiled at Erlendur and Elinborg too.

“Who are these people?” he asked.

“They’re my friends,” Mikkelina said.

“Do you feel good here?” Erlendur asked.

“What’s your name?” Simon asked.

“My name’s Erlendur.”

Simon smiled.

“I’m Mikkelina’s brother.”

Mikkelina stroked his arm.

“They’re detectives, Simon.”

Simon looked at Erlendur and Elinborg in turn.

“They know what happened,” Mikkelina said.

“Mum’s dead,” Simon said.

“Yes, Mum’s dead,” Mikkelina said.

“You do the talking,” Simon said imploringly. “You talk to them.” He looked at his sister and avoided Erlendur and Elinborg.

“All right, Simon,” Mikkelina said. “I’ll come and see you afterwards.”

Simon smiled and stood up, went into the hallway and shuffled away down a passage.

“Hebephrenia,” Mikkelina said.

“Hebephrenia?” Erlendur said.

“We didn’t know what it was,” Mikkelina said. “Somehow he just stopped growing up. He was the same good, kind boy, but his emotions didn’t mature with his body. Hebephrenia is a variant of schizophrenia. Simon’s like Peter Pan. Sometimes it’s connected with puberty. Perhaps he was already ill. He had always been sensitive and when those terrible incidents took place he seemed to lose his grip. He’d always lived in fear and felt the burden of responsibility. He thought it was up to him to protect our mother, simply because there was no one else who could. He was the biggest and strongest of us, even if he turned out to be the smallest and weakest.”

“And he’s been in institutions since his youth?” Elinborg asked.

“No, he lived with my mother and me until she died. She died, what, 26 years ago. People like Simon are very manageable patients, usually gentle and easy to be with, but they need a lot of steady care and Mum provided him with that for as long as she lived. He worked for the council when he could. As a dustman or picking up litter with a stick. Walked the length and breadth of Reykjavik counting the pieces of rubbish that he put in his bag.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“David Welch never got in contact again?” Elinborg asked eventually.

Mikkelina looked at her.

“Mum waited for him until her dying day,” she said. “He never came back.”

She paused for a while.

“She phoned him from the dairy that morning when my stepfather came back,” she said eventually. “And she talked to him.”

“But,” Erlendur said, “why didn’t he go over to the hill?”

Mikkelina smiled.

“They had said goodbye to each other,” she said. “He was going to the continent. His ship was sailing that morning and she didn’t phone him to tell him about the danger, but to say goodbye to him and tell him everything was all right. He said he’d come back. Probably he was killed in action. She never heard any news of him, but when he didn’t come back after the war…”

“But why…”

“She thought Grimur would kill him. That’s why she went back to the hill by herself. Didn’t want him to help her. It was her business to sort out.”

“He must have known that your stepfather was due for release, and word got around about Dave and your mother,” Erlendur said. “Your stepfather knew about it, he’d heard something.”

“They had no way of telling how he knew. It was a very secret romance. We don’t know how my stepfather found out.”

“And the child…?”

“They didn’t know she was pregnant.”

Erlendur and Elinborg remained silent for some time while they pondered Mikkelina’s words.

“And Tomas?” Erlendur asked. “What happened to him?”

“Tomas is dead now. He only lived to be 52. Divorced twice. Had three children, boys. I don’t have any contact with them.”

“Why not?” Erlendur asked.

“He was like his father.”

“How?”

“He had a miserable life.”

“Excuse me?”

“It made him like his father.”

“You mean…?” Elinborg gave Mikkelina a searching look.

“Violent. Beat his wife. Beat his children. Drank.”

“His relationship with your stepfather? Was it…?”

“We don’t know,” Mikkelina said. “I don’t think so. I hope not. I try not to think about it.”

“What did your stepfather mean by what he said from the grave? ‘Please!’ Was he asking her to help him? Was he asking for mercy?”

“We discussed that a lot, Mum and I, and she had an explanation that satisfied her and satisfied me.”

“What was that?”

“Grimur knew who he was.”

“I don’t follow,” Erlendur said.

“Grimur knew who he was, and I think he knew, deep down inside, the reason he was like that, although he never mentioned it. We know he’d had a tough childhood. He was a little boy once and he must have had some link with that boy, some part of his soul that called out to him. Even when he was at his worst and his rage knew no bounds, that little boy shouted at him to stop.”

“Your mother was an incredibly brave woman,” Elinborg said.

“May I talk to him?” Erlendur asked after a short silence.

“You mean Simon?” Mikkelina said.

“Is it okay? If I go in and see him? Alone?”

“He’s never talked about those incidents. Not in all this time. Mum thought it was best to act as if none of it had ever happened. After she died I tried to get Simon to open himself up, but I could tell at once that it was hopeless. It’s as if he only has memories from afterwards. Like everything else has vanished. But he will say the occasional sentence if I press him. Otherwise he’s totally closed. He belongs to a different, more peaceful world that he’s created for himself.”

“Do you mind?” Erlendur said.

“It’s fine as far as I’m concerned,” Mikkelina said.

Erlendur stood up, went into the hallway and down the corridor. Most of the doors to the rooms were open. He saw Simon sitting on the edge of his bed, looking out of the window. Erlendur knocked on the door and Simon looked round.

“May I join you?” Erlendur said, waiting for permission to enter.

Simon looked at him, nodded, turned back to the window and went on looking out.

Although there was a chair at the desk, Erlendur sat down on the bed beside Simon. Some photographs were on the desk. Erlendur recognised Mikkelina and thought that an elderly woman in one of them could have been their mother. He reached out and picked it up. The woman was sitting at a table in the kitchen, in a thin nylon dressing gown with a coloured pattern on it, which many women of her age wore at that time, and she smiled a tight, enigmatic smile at the camera. Simon was sitting beside her, laughing. Erlendur thought it might have been taken in Mikkelina’s kitchen.