Gallows Rock - Freyja and Huldar Series 04 (2020)

by Sigurdardottir, Yrsa

  Freyja laid her hand on his. The two of them stuck together – through thick and thin. If he was offering her some deeply flawed flat, it was because he meant well. It would be out of a genuine desire to help. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve just been burnt before. That rent is ridiculously low. There has to be a catch.’ This Tobbi character must owe Baldur money or a favour of some sort. If so, she would bet her life that there was nothing kosher about it.

  Baldur bent and put his hands over Saga’s ears. ‘Tobbi’s on his way to jail,’ he whispered. ‘He got a year and a half.’ Baldur lowered his hands again before Freyja could point out that Saga didn’t even know what ‘jail’ meant. ‘He doesn’t want to rent his place to a stranger because he’s leaving all his furniture and stuff behind. But he’ll trust anybody I recommend. I told him you’ve been looking after my place, so he knows you’ve got house-sitting experience. It’s a win-win situation.’

  It would never have occurred to Freyja to describe her time in Baldur’s flat as ‘house-sitting experience’, but if Tobbi thought she had the necessary qualifications, that was great. In fact, the offer didn’t sound bad at all.

  Her phone started ringing in the pocket of her coat, which was hanging over the back of her chair. She checked the screen. ‘Damn.’ She looked at Baldur. ‘I’ve got to go. Work.’ As she got up, she added: ‘But I’m willing to talk to your friend. Could we go and see the place together – as soon as possible?’

  Baldur nodded. He opened his mouth as if to add something, but seemed to think better of it and just said goodbye, promising to call that evening.

  Freyja kissed him on the cheek and Saga on the top of her head. Then she paid the bill and hurried off, walking on air at the thought that a flat might finally be within her grasp – if it worked out. Where Baldur was concerned, it didn’t pay to count your chickens.

  Freyja pressed the bell again, harder this time and for longer. She could hear it chiming inside the flat, but the moment she lifted her finger, there was silence again. The only sounds they had heard inside since they had arrived were the jangling of the doorbell and the ringing of a phone that went unanswered.

  ‘Shall I try again?’ Freyja looked at her companion, a tall, thin young man with a Viking beard, a gold ring through the middle of his nose, and tired eyes. Although they must be around the same age, as a full-time employee of Reykjavík’s Child Protection Agency he had far more experience of these types of cases. She only put in the odd evening and weekend, having started taking shifts on top of her day job at the Children’s House to save for her rent once Baldur got out of prison. If his friend Tobbi turned out not to be a complete idiot and his flat passed muster, she might be able to give up the overtime. But for now, here she was, attending a callout on a Sunday, standing in the incongruously wide corridor of one of Reykjavík’s new luxury apartment blocks. Even if she worked twenty-four seven, she’d never be able to afford anywhere this swanky.

  ‘Give it one more go. The child may be asleep. Or too frightened to come to the door.’

  Freyja rang the bell again, pressing it for a long time. Nothing happened. ‘No one could sleep through a racket like that.’

  ‘Maybe not. You never know.’ The social worker, whose name was Didrik, stepped up to the door and hammered on it so loudly that his knuckles looked red afterwards. Then again, the lurid tattoos emerging from his coat sleeves and covering the backs of his hands made it hard to tell their actual colour.

  At this point the door of a flat down the corridor opened and a middle-aged woman stuck her head through the gap. She seemed a little disconcerted when she saw Didrik, no doubt taking him for a debt collector or other type of lowlife – certainly not an employee of the Child Protection Agency. Freyja, by contrast, looked highly presentable, dressed up for the brunch she’d been forced to leave halfway through. When it became apparent that the woman wasn’t going to speak first, Freyja said: ‘I’m sorry about the noise. We’re from the council. We received a report that there was a child in this flat, alone and possibly at risk. Was it by any chance you who rang?’

  The caller had contacted emergency services because the council didn’t man the phones at the weekend. In cases like this, the police were normally sent to the scene first, but today there hadn’t been a single officer available, so the job had been passed all round the system before eventually landing on Didrik’s desk. By then, any details about the caller had gone astray.

  The woman made a face as if Freyja were accusing her of something, and shook her head. ‘No. I’ve only just got home, actually. And I haven’t noticed a thing.’ Her carefully made-up eyes strayed to a large tub containing an exotic plant that stood in the corridor between them. From the way she was looking at it, you’d have thought it demarcated an invisible line beyond which nothing bad could pass. The woman folded her arms. ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right address?’

  Freyja hesitated, wondering for a moment if they could have made a mistake. Perhaps the poor child they were supposed to be helping was in the next-door building, or even in the next street. It wasn’t often that social services were called out to properties like this, not because the residents were wealthy – mistreatment could occur in any social group – but because they were mostly well past childbearing age.

  Didrik answered before Freyja could, sounding sure of himself: ‘Yes, this is definitely the right address.’

  The woman frowned. ‘That’s strange. There are no children living in that flat – unless they’ve just moved in. The man who lives there is single. You must have got the wrong place. As far as I know, there are no children in the whole building. Families can’t afford these flats, especially not the one you’re trying to get into. That’s the most exclusive apartment in the block.’

  ‘It’s possible the child’s visiting or is being babysat here.’ Freyja thought of telling the woman that children had a tendency to wander off, but she didn’t want it to sound like a rebuke. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Didrik pressing his ear to the door as if he’d heard something. Next moment she thought she caught a faint sound herself, like the brrring of an alarm clock, though it could be coming from the woman’s flat.

  The woman didn’t look round, however, so presumably it wasn’t her alarm. ‘My neighbour’s not the babysitting type.’

  ‘No, maybe not. But we still have to take all tip-offs seriously.’ Freyja forced her mouth into an insincere smile and the woman responded with an equally chilly twitch of the lips.

  Didrik removed his ear from the door. It was unusually tall, reaching almost to the ceiling, as if the architect had wanted to leave the possibility open for the residents to keep a pet giraffe. ‘There’s someone in there.’

  Freyja turned away from the woman, who appeared distinctly put out. It was always galling to be proved wrong. The faint ringing Freyja thought she’d heard had now stopped.

  Didrik pressed the bell and pounded on the door again as hard as he could. Then, as they watched, the handle slowly began to move and finally the door opened a crack. ‘Hello,’ he said through the opening. ‘My name’s Didrik and I’m from the council. We got a message about a child in trouble at this address. Could we have a quick word?’

  There was no answer from inside. Didrik cleared his throat and repeated his request but was met by silence. Glancing at Freyja, he raised his eyebrows, then stepped aside, gesturing at her to give it a try.

  ‘Hello,’ she said in a gentle voice. ‘My name’s Freyja. Could you open the door for us? We just need to make sure everything’s all right. Then we’ll go away again, if you like.’

  ‘I want to go home.’ A high little voice, unmistakeably that of a small child. It was impossible to tell if the owner was a girl or a boy, or their exact age. Freyja guessed at anywhere between three and six.

  ‘We can help you go home. But first you need to open the door so we can see you.’

  Slowly the gap widened and a fair head appeared. A pair of wide eyes stared fearfully up at F
reyja from under a blond fringe. It was a little boy, maybe four years old. He had a padded green anorak on, though there was no reason to think it was cold inside the flat, and a pair of bulky snow-boots fastened with Velcro, as if he had just come in or was on his way out. ‘I want to go home,’ he repeated in a plaintive voice.

  ‘Of course. We’ll take you home.’ Careful to make no sudden movements, Freyja crouched down until her face was on a level with the child’s. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Siggi.’

  ‘Hello, Siggi. Is there a grown-up in there who we can talk to?’

  ‘No. I’m all on my own and I want to go home. This isn’t my house.’

  Freyja reacted matter-of-factly, as if there was nothing remotely unusual about finding a little boy alone in a flat that wasn’t his home. ‘Where do you live, then?’

  ‘In Iceland.’

  Freyja smiled. ‘Me too. But where in Iceland?’

  ‘In Reykjavík. It’s a city. It’s got a mayor.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ Freyja pointed at her companion. ‘This is Didrik. He works for the mayor. Could you open the door properly so we can talk to you inside? Didrik’s got a picture of an eagle on his arm. He can show it to you, if you like.’ Freyja had been on a callout with Didrik before, when he had persuaded a little boy to come out from under a bed by rolling up his sleeve to show him his tattoos. The boy had been especially taken with the eagle, soaring with outstretched wings among the other colourful designs.

  The blond child in the green anorak was thinking. Chewing his lip, he stared at what he could see of Didrik’s highly decorated arm, then warily opened the door. Freyja straightened up, peering into the smart apartment. ‘Who lives here? Is it your daddy?’ The boy shook his head. ‘Your mummy’s friend, then?’ Another shake. ‘Your uncle, maybe?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You can’t know everything.’

  Freyja and Didrik went inside, without another word to the woman who was still standing forgotten in the corridor. She wasn’t their problem.

  It was evident from the interior of the flat that whoever lived there had money to burn. The hall opened out into an impressive living area, minimally furnished with designer pieces, the chrome gleaming as if newly polished. One wall was dominated by a huge gas hearth, the other by a single abstract painting. No doubt the differently coloured brushstrokes were charged with meaning about the fragility of man’s existence or some other similarly profound message, but, if so, it went straight over Freyja’s head. Some of the furniture looked more like artworks than practical objects. She had never set foot in such an exclusive apartment.

  The wall of windows at the far end of the room shone as if they’d just been cleaned, despite being on the eleventh floor. The adjoining wall turned out to be a set of French windows, opening onto a large terrace with a view over Faxaflói Bay. Freyja walked over and looked out. The terrace was tastefully furnished with an outdoor table and chairs. Presumably it was only used in summer – if then. In countries by the sea, a good view was all too often accompanied by a howling gale.

  Wherever she looked she was struck by the same thing: the place appeared unlived in. There were none of the usual signs of habitation: no post piled up on the chest by the front door, and certainly no half-empty glasses on the tables, open newspapers or books lying on the sofa, or socks littering the floor.

  While Freyja was surveying the living room, Didrik took off his jacket, crouched down beside the little boy and began to tell him about the designs on his arm. She signalled to him that she was going to check there really was nobody else home. Didrik nodded and encouraged the curious child to touch his tattoos with a tentative finger.

  Freyja commenced her search in the open-plan kitchen at one end of the living area. It was the same story here: no signs of life, apart from a single brightly coloured parcel on the kitchen table. Freyja went over and peered at the label. ‘To Hallbera – from Helgi’. The writing was feminine. She turned in a slow circle, examining the rest of the kitchen.

  All the surfaces looked as if they had just been wiped clean, the empty stainless-steel sink was shiny and unmarked by scratches, and the few objects on display all appeared to be in the correct place. One wall boasted three ovens, none of which appeared ever to have been used, and a built-in coffee machine that looked as if it was fresh out of its box. Whoever lived here must employ a whole team of cleaners, while people like her could only dream of getting a woman to come in for a couple of hours a week. Freyja stopped short of opening the fridge or cupboards. No one could be hiding in any of them and she was supposed to be checking whether there was anyone else in the flat, not giving in to her curiosity.

  Next, she went into the corridor, which led to a master bedroom with a walk-in wardrobe, a bathroom and an office space. There was another bedroom as well, with a small en-suite. Every door she opened revealed another spotlessly clean, tidy room. Freyja was particularly interested in the wardrobe, since it established beyond a doubt that a single man lived here – presumably the Helgi who had bought the gift for Hallbera. Whoever Hallbera was, she evidently didn’t live here, since there wasn’t a single feminine garment to be seen. On one side of the space were rows of identical designer suits, stiffly pressed shirts for every imaginable occasion, and countless smart leather brogues in shades of brown. The other side was devoted to casualwear: piles of jeans, T-shirts and jumpers were neatly folded on the shelves, with pairs of running shoes and moccasins below them. She couldn’t resist sneaking a peek inside the massive unit in the middle of the wardrobe, which served as both table and chest of drawers. It was no surprise to discover that the drawers contained an assortment of rolled-up silk ties, leather belts, colourful socks, and other accessories. She’d seen enough films featuring rich bachelors to know what to expect. The only difference between this room and the ones in the movies was that there was no secret compartment concealed behind the clothes, containing a stash of forged passports, bundles of dollar bills and a wall hung with firearms.

  Despite the surface gloss everywhere you looked, the flat struck Freyja as depressingly soulless and impersonal. Even the desk in the home office was bare apart from a monitor planted in the middle, a cordless keyboard and a mouse. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen here either. The only signs of occupation were in the master bedroom. The bed had been made but on the side nearest the door there was a dent left by a small body, presumably that of the little boy. Beside it was a large, old-fashioned alarm clock and, on the bedside table, a half-empty bottle of orange juice. Next to the bottle were two used crayons, one red, the other green.

  Freyja returned to the hall and shook her head at Didrik. She couldn’t tell from his reaction what he made of the news that there was nobody else in the flat. He merely turned back to the little boy, who appeared totally out of place in his cheap anorak and clumpy snow-boots. ‘Have you been here all on your own for a long time?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you remember who brought you here? Was it your mummy or your daddy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who was it, then?’

  ‘A man.’

  ‘A man you know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Does the man live here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Is his name Helgi?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you know a woman or a girl called Hallbera?’

  Siggi shook his head, so Freyja changed tack:

  ‘Did you come here this morning or yesterday?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Didrik stood up. ‘How about we get out of here and go and buy you a hot dog or an ice-cream? Are you hungry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘After that we can go to my office and look for your mummy.’

  The boy opened his eyes wide, instantly brightening up. ‘Is she there? Is she hiding?’

  ‘No.’ Didrik smiled as he pulled his jacket on again. ‘But
we can make some calls from my phone and use my computer to find her. You can find out anything with my computer. About you and your mummy. We’ll soon have you back with her.’

  Freyja held out a hand to take Siggi’s, but just as the small fingers were placed trustingly in hers, the doorbell rang. The boy snatched back his hand, staring at the door in alarm. Freyja and Didrik were also startled by the loud, unexpected sound and didn’t immediately react, each expecting the other to take charge. But when the bell shrilled again, Freyja went to open the door.

  Outside stood a diminutive redhead in police uniform.

  And behind her was none other than Huldar.

  Chapter 4

  Out of the corner of his eye, Huldar watched Freyja take the wrapper off a straw and poke it into a carton of chocolate milk, before handing it to the little boy. The child was sitting on Huldar’s office chair, swinging his short legs. The chocolate milk seemed to hit the spot, since he gulped it down until the carton was sucked together in the middle. Apparently he had been promised a hot dog too but there were none available at the police station and no one had had a moment to run out and buy one. Instead, the boy had been given a biscuit, a cheese sandwich and chocolate milk from the canteen. He hadn’t so much as looked at the biscuit or sandwich.

  Despite his rather meagre snack, the boy seemed perfectly happy. His eyes grew round every time a uniform appeared, and he craned his head as far as his short neck would allow in order to watch it go by. In fact, the child seemed so contented that Huldar was half afraid he would never get his workstation back. On returning from the canteen, Huldar had found the hipster from the city council pinning a drawing to the wall above his desk. It showed three stick figures, with lines for mouths and wonky circles for eyes. One of the figures was much smaller, and one of the big figures was drawn considerably larger than the other. Perhaps it was just as well that the boy felt at home at the police station, since it was fairly obvious he had no future as an artist.

  Strictly speaking, Huldar should have taken the drawing down immediately, as personal items were not permitted, but the boy had seemed so proud to see it hanging there. And then Freyja had come back just as Huldar was giving the child his snack, and after that there had been no question of coming across as a miserable spoilsport. Especially when he noticed that she’d reapplied her lipstick in the ladies’, possibly in his honour.