Outrage Read Online Free PDF Page B

behaviour: the blog indicated unmistakably that Valthor was something of a ladies’ man. It was clearly no coincidence that Elinborg had found a condom in his trouser pocket. He was forever mentioning girls he knew and writing about his social life with them: dances, trips to the cinema, none of which Elinborg knew anything about. Under the heading Say what you think , readers were invited to post their responses. It seemed to Elinborg that two, if not three, of her son’s girlfriends were competing for his affections.
    As the car sped through the glorious autumn woodland, under her breath Elinborg cursed the very idea of Valthor and his blog.
    ‘Pardon?’ said the policeman who was driving. The other sat in the front passenger seat, apparently asleep. They had given her some information about Runolfur’s mother and the village, but otherwise had not spoken.
    ‘Nothing. Sorry, I’ve got a bit of a cold,’ said Elinborg, digging a tissue out of her bag. ‘Do you have a police station in the village?’
    ‘No, we don’t have the funding. It all costs money. But nothing ever happens there. Nothing that matters, anyway.’
    ‘Is it much further?’
    ‘Half an hour,’ answered the policeman. They did not speak for the rest of the journey.
    Runolfur’s mother, Kristjana, lived in a fairly small modern townhouse and was expecting the police. She met Elinborg at the door. Looking tired and withdrawn, she left the door open and went back inside without speaking. Elinborg stepped inside and closed the door on her local colleagues. She wanted to speak to the woman in private.
    It was late afternoon. The weather forecast was for snow showers, but bright rays of sunshine broke briefly through the thick cloud cover, illuminating the room before vanishing again. It grew dark suddenly. Kristjana had taken a seat facing the television. Elinborg sat on the sofa.
    ‘I don’t want to hear any details,’ said Kristjana. ‘The vicar told me some of it, but I’ve stopped watching the news. I heard something about a brutal attack with a knife. I don’t want to know any more.’
    ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said Elinborg.
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘It must have a been a terrible shock.’
    ‘I don’t know what to say about how I feel,’ said Kristjana. ‘It was incomprehensible when my husband died, but this … this is …’
    ‘Is there someone who could come and be with you?’ Elinborg asked when Kristjana stopped in mid-sentence.
    ‘We had him rather late,’ said Kristjana, as if she had not heard. ‘I was nearly forty. My husband, Baldur, was four years older than me. We weren’t young when we met. I’d been living with someone for a few years. Baldur had lost his wife. Neither of us had children. So Runolfur was … We didn’t have any more.’
    ‘I know the local police asked you about this when they informed you of Runolfur’s death, but I want to ask you again: do you know of anyone who might have had a grudge against him?’
    ‘No. I told them, I can’t imagine that. I simply can’t conceive how someone would want to do such a thing. I think Runolfur was a chance victim, like in a car crash. That’s how Baldur went. They told me he probably fell asleep at the wheel - that poor man driving the lorry said he thought he had seen Baldur nodding off. I didn’t feel sorry for myself, although I was left alone. Self-pity’s no use.’
    Kristjana fell silent. There was a box of tissues on the table. She took one and wound it in her fingers. ‘You shouldn’t be feeling sorry for yourself all the time,’ she repeated.
    Elinborg watched the wrinkled hands twisting the tissue, the hair in a ponytail, the bright eyes. She knew that Kristjana was seventy and had lived in this remote community all her life. The policemen who had driven Elinborg had told her that Kristjana was well known in the village for never having been to Reykjavik. She said there was nothing to take her there - even though her son had been