His mobile rang. It was Elinborg. She had a printout listing Sunee’s incoming calls over the last month. Some were from her ex-mother-in-law, others from the chocolate factory or friends, and twice she had been called from the school.

“Then the same number crops up eight times.”

“Whose is it?”

“It’s a business number. An insurance company. It’s the only unexpected number on this list, as far as I can see. There aren’t many numbers.”

“Have you asked Sunee about it?”

“She claims not to recognise it. Says she vaguely remembers someone trying to sell insurance.”

“Do you think it’s the boyfriend?”

“We’ll soon find out.”

17

Ever since news of Elias’s murder had passed like wildfire round the country, a steady trickle of people had been coming to the block of flats to lay flowers and cards on the spot where his body was found. Toys, teddy bears and model cars could be glimpsed among the bouquets. A memorial service was to be held for Elias in the garden that evening.

Elinborg and Sigurdur Oli were busy in the area. Twice they drove past and saw people laying flowers on the spot. Most of their day was spent interviewing Niran’s friends individually. Their accounts tallied in all the main details; none of them admitted to knowing Niran’s movements on the afternoon Elias was attacked, nor could they say where Sunee might have taken him. They flatly denied selling drugs at the school, dismissing it as a lie, and although they admitted that they had once come to blows in the school playground, they insisted that it had not been their fault. None of them had seen Elias that day. Two of them had hung around with Niran for a while after school but parted from him at about the time Elias was found. They had been by the chemist’s. The two of them had spent the rest of the day together and seen no more of Niran. None was aware that Elias had any particular problems at school. They claimed they’d had no contact with Niran since Elias was found. As far as they knew, the brothers had a very good relationship.

The most talkative and helpful of the boys was called Kari. He seemed genuinely willing to help the police, whereas the other three were very reluctant, gave curt answers and volunteered nothing unless specifically asked. Kari’s manner was different. Sigurdur Oli saw him last and was prepared for a fairly brief interview but it turned out to be quite the opposite. The boy was accompanied by his parents; his mother was from Thailand and his father from Iceland. They knew Sunee and her brother and talked of the tragic, incomprehensible event.

“Mostly people just go on about having nothing against immigrants,” the man said. He was an engineer and had taken time off work to provide moral support for his son. He sat at the kitchen table, a tallish, rather overweight figure, with his wife who was small and petite with a friendly, smiling face. The police had contacted them and both were clearly very concerned. The woman had also cut short her day at work as departmental manager at a pharmaceuticals company. The man was talking about his experience of Icelanders, as the husband of a foreigner.

Sigurdur Oli nodded. He was alone. Elinborg had been called away to deal with another matter.

“We say we have nothing against Asian immigrants, nothing against people coming over from Asia and settling here. It’s exciting to eat out at Thai restaurants and experience an exotic culture, listen to different music. But when it comes to the crunch people always say that we shouldn’t let in “too many” of those people,” the man said, making a sign for quotation marks with his fingers.

“We’ve discussed it so often,” the woman said, looking at her husband. “I suppose it’s understandable in a way. There are so few Icelanders; they’re proud of their heritage and want to preserve it. Their tiny population makes them vulnerable to change. Then along come the immigrants and spoil everything. Many of the people who move here become isolated, whether they’re from Asia or wherever, they never learn the language properly and remain outsiders. Others do a better job of fitting in; they realise how important it is and really work at it. Learning the language is absolutely key.”

Her husband nodded. Kari sat looking down at the floor, awaiting his turn.

“Wasn’t there something about that on the news the other day?” the man said. “Some problem with the Icelanders living in Denmark. Their children refused to learn Danish. That’s no different, is it?”

“Of course immigration can cause problems,” the woman continued, her eyes on her husband. “That’s nothing new. It happens all over the world. The crucial thing is to help people adapt, though of course they have to show a willingness to adapt themselves if they really want a future in Iceland.”

“What’s the worst sort of thing you hear?” Sigurdur Oli asked.

“Fuck off home, Thai bitch.”

She came right out with it, without the slightest hesitation or sign of the impact such words might have on her. As if she had been asked this before and had developed a thick skin to such abuse. As if it was just another fact of life. Kari darted a glance at his mother.

“Do you get the impression that prejudice is on the rise?”

“I don’t know,” the man said.

“Do you experience prejudice at school?” Sigurdur Oli asked the boy.

Kari hesitated.

“No-o,” he said uncertainly.

“I don’t think you can really expect him to admit to that sort of thing,” the man said. “No one likes telling tales. Especially not after such a terrible thing has happened.”

“Some other kids have claimed that Kari and his friends are peddling dope at the school. They said it without hesitation.”

“Who said that?” the woman asked.

“It’s just something we’ve heard,” Sigurdur Oli said. “There’s probably no need to take it too seriously at this stage. And I can tell you that the witness was not very reliable.”

“I’ve never sold any drugs,” Kari said.

“What about your friends?” Sigurdur Oli asked.

“No, they haven’t either.”

“And Niran?”

“None of us have,” Kari said. “It’s a lie. We’ve never sold any drugs. They’re lying.”

“Kari doesn’t do drugs,” his father said. “It’s out of the question. He doesn’t sell drugs either.”

“You would know, would you?” Sigurdur Oli asked.

“Yes, we would,” the man replied.

“Tell us about the trouble at school that we’ve been hearing about,” Sigurdur Oli said. “What’s really going on?”

Kari stared down at the floor.

“Tell them what you know,” his mother said. “He hasn’t been very happy at school this winter. Some days he hasn’t wanted to go in. He thinks people are lying in wait for him, that some of the boys have got it in for him and want to attack him.”

“Mum!” Kari protested, looking at his mother as if she was giving away embarrassing secrets.

“One of Kari’s friends was beaten up,” her husband said. “The school authorities can’t seem to do a thing. When there’s trouble it seems they’re powerless to act. A boy was suspended for a few days, that was it.”

“The school claims there’s no overt racism or tension,” Sigurdur Oli said. “No trouble or fighting beyond what you’d usually expect in a large school. I take it you wouldn’t agree with that, judging from what Kari has told you?”

The man shrugged.

“What about Niran?”

“They often have a tough time, boys like Niran,” the woman said. “It’s not easy for them to adjust to a totally alien and remote culture, learn a difficult language, face open hostility, and so on.”

“They can get into trouble,” her husband added.

“Can you tell us anything about that, Kari?”

Kari cleared his throat awkwardly. Sigurdur Oli thought, not for the first time, that it was often better to talk to kids without their parents present.