“Of course it fits in with the message that was left behind in Nordurmyri. And if the man Elin saw in Keflavik looks so much like Holberg, that fits in with the theory about his second child.”

“Holberg may not have had a son after the rape,” Sigurdur Oli said. “We’ve got no evidence as such to support that, except that Ellidi knew about another woman. That’s all there is. Besides which, Ellidi’s a moron.”

“No-one we’ve talked to who knew Holberg has mentioned he had a son,” Elinborg said.

“No-one we’ve talked to knew Holberg in the first place,” Sigurdur Oli said. “That’s the point. He was a loner, socialised with a few workmates, down-loaded porn from the Internet, went around with jerks like Ellidi and Gretar. No-one knows anything about the guy.”

“What I’m wondering is this,” Erlendur said. “If Holberg’s son does exist, how does he know about Elin, Audur’s aunt? Doesn’t that mean he must also know about Audur, his sister? If he knows about Elin, I presume he knows about Kolbrun and the rape as well, and I can’t work out how. There haven’t been any details about the investigation in the media. Where would he get his information from?”

“Couldn’t he have got this out of Holberg before he bumped him off?” Sigurdur Oli said. “Isn’t that likely?”

“Maybe he tortured him to make him confess,” Elinborg said.

“First of all, we don’t know whether this man even exists,” Erlendur said. “Elin was very emotional when she saw him. Even assuming he is real, we don’t have any idea if he killed Holberg. Nor whether he even knew of his father’s existence, having been born under those circumstances, after a rape. Ellidi said there was a woman before Kolbrun who got the same treatment, maybe worse. If she got pregnant by it, I doubt that the mother would have been too eager to name the father. She didn’t notify the police about what happened. We don’t have anything about Holberg’s other rapes in our files. We still have to find this woman, if she exists…”

“And we’re smashing up the foundations of a house to look for a man who probably has nothing to do with the case,” Sigurdur Oli said.

“Maybe Gretar isn’t under the foundations here,” Elinborg said.

“How come?” Erlendur said.

“Maybe he’s still alive, you mean?” Sigurdur Oli said.

“He knew all about Holberg, I’d imagine,” Elinborg said. “He knew about the daughter, other-wise he wouldn’t have taken a photograph of her grave. He definitely knew how she came into the world. If Holberg had another child, a son, he would have known about him too.”

Erlendur and Sigurdur Oli looked at her with growing interest.

“Maybe Gretar’s still with us,” she continued, “and in touch with the son. That’s one explanation for how the son could know about Elin and Audur.”

“But Gretar went missing a good 25 years ago and hasn’t been heard of since,” Sigurdur Oli said.

“Just because he went missing doesn’t necessarily mean he’s dead,” Elinborg said.

“So that…” Erlendur began, but Elinborg interrupted him.

“I don’t think we can rule him out. Why not allow for the possibility that Gretar is still alive? No body was ever found. He could have left the country. It could have been enough for him to move to the countryside. No-one gave a damn. No-one missed him.”

“I don’t remember any instance of that,” Erlendur said.

“Of what?” Sigurdur Oli asked.

“A missing person returning a whole generation later. When people disappear in Iceland it’s always for good. No-one ever comes back after an absence of more than 25 years. Never.”

Erlendur left his colleagues in Nordurmyri and went up to Baronsstigur to meet the pathologist. The pathologist was completing his autopsy on Holberg and was covering up the body when Erlendur went up to him. Audur’s body was nowhere to be seen.

“Have you found the girl’s brain?” the pathologist asked straight out when Erlendur walked in on him.

“No,” Erlendur said.

“I talked to a professor, an old girlfriend of mine from the university, and explained it to her, I hope that was all right, and she wasn’t surprised about our little discovery. That short story by Halldor Laxness, have you read it?”

“The one about Nebuchadnezzar? It has crossed my mind in the past couple of days,” Erlendur said.

“Isn’t it called ’Lily’, that story? It’s a long time since I read it, but it’s about some medical students who snatch a body and put rocks in the coffin, and basically that’s what happens. No-one kept any real tabs on that in the old days, just as the story describes. People who died in hospital had autopsies unless it was forbidden and of course the autopsy was used for teaching purposes. Sometimes samples were removed and they could be anything really, from whole organs to minor tissue samples. Then everything was wrapped up and the person in question was given a decent burial. These days it’s rather different. An autopsy is performed only if the relatives give their consent and organs are removed for research and teaching purposes only if certain conditions are met. I don’t think anything is stolen nowadays.”

“You don’t think so?”

The pathologist shrugged.

“We’re not talking about organ transplants, are we?” Erlendur said.

“A completely different matter. People are generally prepared to help others if it’s a question of life and death.”

“And where’s the organ bank?”

“There are thousands of samples in this building alone,” the pathologist said. “Here on Baronsstegur. The largest part of it is the Dungal collection, which is the largest bio-sample bank in Iceland.”

“Could you show it to me?” Erlendur asked. “Is there a register of where the samples come from?”

“It’s all carefully documented. I took the liberty of checking for our sample but I couldn’t find it.”

“Where is it then?”

“You ought to talk to the professor and hear what she has to say. I think there are some registers up at the university.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this straightaway?” Erlendur asked. “When you discovered the brain had been removed? You knew about it?”

“Talk to her and come back. I’ve probably told you far too much already.”

“Are the registers for the collection in the university?”

“As far as I know,” the pathologist said, gave him the professor’s name and told him to let him get on with his work.

“So you know about Jar City then,” Erlendur said.

“They used to call one room here Jar City,” the pathologist said. “It’s closed now. Don’t ask me what happened to the jars, I haven’t got the faintest idea.”

“Do you find this uncomfortable to talk about?”

“Will you stop this.”

“What?”

“Stop it.”

The professor, Hanna, who was head of the University of Iceland’s Faculty of Medicine, stared across the desk at Erlendur as if he were a cancerous growth that needed to be removed from her office at the earliest possible opportunity. She was somewhat younger than Erlendur but extremely firm, spoke fast and was quick to reply, and gave the impression that she couldn’t stand any nonsense or unnecessary digressions. She asked Erlendur quite brashly to get to the point when he embarked upon a long speech about his reasons for being in her office. Erlendur smiled to himself. He took an immediate liking to her and knew they’d be at each other’s throats before their meeting was over. She was wearing a dark suit, plump, no make-up, short, blond hair, her hands practical, her expression serious and pro-found. Erlendur would have liked to see her smile. His wish was not granted.

He had disturbed her during a lecture. Knocked on the door to ask for her as if he’d lost his way. She came to the door and asked him kindly to wait until the lecture was over. Erlendur stood in the corridor, as if he had been caught playing truant, for a quarter of an hour before the door opened. Hanna strode out into the corridor and past Erlendur and told him to follow her. He had trouble doing so. She seemed to take two steps for every one of his.