Huldar didn’t bother to hold out his hand, knowing that it wouldn’t be taken. ‘I’m Huldar. This is Freyja. We’ll try and be quick.’
Thröstur led the way inside without inviting them to hang up their coats. Freyja and Huldar caught each other’s eye and removed their shoes by tacit agreement, though looking at the brown floor-tiles in the hall, they’d have to change their socks when they got home. The patterned carpet in the corridor only confirmed their fears. It looked as old as the flat and the underlay was showing through in places, but on closer inspection it appeared to have been recently vacuumed. The cheap shelves and battered sideboard they passed had also been dusted not that long ago. Huldar was willing to bet that Thröstur’s mother or sister took care of the housework: a hoover and feather duster didn’t really go with the recycled punk image.
‘You can sit here if you want, though it’ll hardly be worth it.’ Thröstur cleared a space for them on the sofa facing an enormous, new-looking flat-screen TV. He chucked the stuff in a heap on the floor, then seated himself in an armchair beside the sofa. ‘I know all about it, but I don’t know what you think you’re going to achieve. Try and stop me from doing something stupid? Just how do you plan to do that? The answer is, you can’t.’
As Huldar sat down, he considered how to respond to this. It hadn’t occurred to him that Thröstur would remember the letter after all this time. Perhaps someone had reminded him. All Huldar could think of was that the headteacher or one of the school’s office staff might have bumped into him and asked him about it. Surely Thröstur couldn’t have remembered the exact date when the time capsule would be dug up? Unless he had regretted the letter and his conscience had been nagging at him all these years. It wasn’t unheard of for someone who had lied in court to come forward and confess many years after the event. Perhaps this was similar. ‘We were only going to ask why you wrote the letter and who the people on your hit-list were.’
‘The letter?’ There was no mistaking Thröstur’s puzzlement. ‘What the fuck are you on about?’
‘The letter you wrote ten years ago, at your old school. The one you put in the time capsule, which has just been dug up. The letter listing the initials of people who are supposed to die this year.’
‘I—’ Thröstur broke off, opened his mouth as if to add something, then shut it again.
Freyja cleared her throat and glanced at Huldar before intervening. ‘We’re perfectly aware that you wrote those things all those years ago because you were angry and that the threats weren’t serious. I’m a child psychologist and I know that children say, write and do things that—’ She got no further.
Thröstur was gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles whitened, throwing the black tattoos into sharp relief. Huldar thought he could decipher the word ultio on his left hand and dulcis on his right. This meant nothing to him.
‘A child psychologist?!’ Thröstur exploded with such fury that a spray of spittle accompanied his words. ‘You’re not from the Child Protection Agency?’
Freyja gave no sign of being disconcerted by this outburst. She was probably used to such things. ‘I’m from the Children’s House, which is run by the Child Protection Agency. I’m not here on their behalf, though, but to assist the police.’
This did nothing to appease Thröstur. ‘Get out!’ he yelled. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you. You’ – he pointed a long, thin finger at Freyja – ‘and all the other psychologists and child protection shits are a load of fucking cunts. If I had my way, I’d chop off all your heads and piss down your throats.’
Huldar rose quickly. ‘Come, Freyja.’ He rounded on the young man who was frothing at the mouth now. ‘One more word like that and I’ll cuff you. Do you want to spend a night in the cells?’ His voice was steely but controlled.
Thröstur’s nostrils flared with the force of his breathing. ‘Get out! I’ve nothing to say to you.’
Huldar judged that there was no point trying to pacify him. He would have to summon him to the station and continue the interview there. As Thröstur’s rage seemed to be directed mainly at Freyja and her profession, Huldar ushered her out of the room and followed close behind, keeping himself between her and the young man. He wasn’t afraid of receiving a punch or a kick from the skinny little sod, but it occurred to him on the way out that Thröstur might just be crazy enough to pull a knife on them. ‘If your sword is too short, take one step forward.’ Perhaps the Latin motto meant something like that. At any rate, it appeared there was good reason to take the threats in his letter seriously.
Not until Freyja had her shoes on and was out on the landing could Huldar relax. He stepped out to join her but when Thröstur made to slam the door, Huldar stuck out a hand to stop it. Still keeping his voice perfectly calm, he asked: ‘What did you think we’d come to see you about?’
Thröstur shoved at the door but Huldar was bigger, heavier and stronger. ‘I asked, why did you think we were here?’
His face dark red with rage and effort, Thröstur snarled: ‘I was dumb enough to think the cops would be worried about us now he’s out. I should’ve known better.’
Momentarily distracted by this reply, Huldar relaxed his pressure and Thröstur flung his thin body against the door, slamming it in Huldar’s face.
What the hell did Thröstur mean? Who was ‘he’?
Huldar’s phone rang. A police number flashed up.
‘Hello, it’s Gudmundur. I just wanted to warn you: there’s something going on in connection with that Thröstur we were talking about earlier. I’ve just been asked to explain my interest in him. It’s only a couple of hours since you were here. If I were you, I wouldn’t advertise the fact you’re planning to speak to him. And be careful when you do. God knows why he’s being given the kid-glove treatment, but I’m guessing the reason’s none too pretty.’
‘Thanks for the warning but it’s a bit late. I’m standing outside his front door right now. He threw us out after we’d only just sat down. I think you’re right; something smells very odd about this. I’ll call you later, if that’s OK.’
They rang off and Huldar shoved the phone back in his pocket. He stared at the flaking paint on the door for a moment, then hurried off in pursuit of Freyja.
What the hell was going on?
Chapter 9
Freyja and Baldur’s childhood had been far from typical. For the first few years they had grown up with a young mother who was quite unfit for the role but did her best to split her energies between her two main priorities – her children and having fun. The latter had been the death of her in the end, long before her time, and Baldur and Freyja had been sent to live with their grandparents. But their grandparents couldn’t cope either. Not only were they remote and inflexible by nature, they were both retired and therefore badly equipped to take on two kids. The children’s fathers were both typical weekend dads who did their best to fulfil their duties, but it had quickly become apparent to Freyja and Baldur that a sense of duty was no substitute for unconditional love. After their mother died, they had no one to offer them that. Except each other.
And so they had grown up, each in their own way: Baldur reckless, with limited respect for rules and authority; Freyja determined to do well and not be distracted. The fact they had different fathers may have had something to do with it, but Freyja knew it wasn’t that simple. People were the product of both nature and nurture, and their influence was impossible to predict. Nevertheless, she and Baldur were alike in one respect: they were both tougher and more resilient than most of their contemporaries, undaunted by whatever life chose to throw at them.
So Freyja was completely unprepared for her reaction now. She was still badly shaken after the visit to Thröstur. Despite having experienced a thing or two in her time, she wasn’t used to violence, and she had expected Thröstur to follow up his explosion with kicks or blows. Her heart was still beating faster than normal and her small office seemed airless, though the window was wide open. She was sitti
ng in a freezing draught, the Post-it notes stuck to her computer screen flapping like small yellow flags.
She could do with a drink. A stiff one.
The outburst had come completely out of the blue. She had barely spoken when the whole thing blew up in their faces. Before joining the Children’s House she had often been present at interviews with troubled teenagers that had ended with the subject losing control. But by then alarm bells would already have gone off: they would start breathing faster, flushing, raising their voices and fidgeting in their seats. She was used to having time to prepare herself. Thröstur had been quite different. He had exploded as if at the flick of a switch. In view of the young man’s volatile temper, she now believed there was every reason to take his letter seriously. Unlikely though it was that he would hunt down and murder the individuals on a hit-list drawn up ten years ago, she wouldn’t like to answer for what he might be capable of if the opportunity came up.
The person Thröstur had referred to as ‘he’ had better take care, at any rate. Before they parted company, Huldar had said he would try and find out who ‘he’ was and let her know. Freyja had been checking her phone unnecessarily often and had twice made sure it wasn’t on silent mode. She was finding it impossible to concentrate on the section she had written for the Children’s House annual report and kept losing the thread mid-sentence, her thoughts straying back to the young man and his letter. Sólveig still hadn’t given her the authorisation, which meant she couldn’t request the report from the school. When Freyja had looked in earlier, Sólveig’s office had been dark and deserted. Not knowing Thröstur’s history frustrated her so much that she couldn’t think about anything else.
If she carried on at this rate, she’d be here half the night. The report was due tomorrow morning and that was one deadline she had better meet. She was in enough trouble these days without being the one responsible for delaying its publication. To make matters worse, Molly was at home, waiting impatiently to be fed and walked. If she was late, the dog was perfectly capable of gnawing the other arm off the sofa. The first one had paid the price when Freyja had had to work late back in the autumn.
She sighed as she thought of Molly. This wasn’t the life she had dreamt of as a child. Her youthful fantasies had featured no annual reports, no formal reprimands or difficulties in concentrating. And although there had been a dog, it had been a cute little white one, not a mottled brown beast bred to inspire fear.
The phone rang and Freyja almost dropped it on the floor in her eagerness. ‘Freyja,’ she said breathlessly.
‘Does the name Jón Jónsson mean anything to you?’ Huldar asked without preamble.
‘Jón Jónsson? Is this a joke? Is there a more common name in Iceland?’
‘No, probably not.’
‘I know several Jóns, and even more if middle names count. But I don’t remember their patronymics, though one of them’s bound to be a Jónsson.’
‘I don’t mean personally. Do you recognise the name Jón Jónsson in connection with the Children’s House or your other work?’
‘What?’ The question took her aback. ‘No. I can’t say I do.’ She had no sooner spoken than it dawned on her. A shiver ran down her spine. ‘You don’t mean—?’
Huldar interrupted: ‘Yes. He was released from jail less than a week ago.’ There was a dry rustling as he exhaled heavily into the receiver. ‘He’s Thröstur’s father.’
‘What?’ Freyja was so dumbstruck she couldn’t think of anything sensible to say. The Jón Jónsson in question was a paedophile. A paedophile of the worst kind. He had on his conscience not only the sexual abuse of a little girl but her murder as well. It couldn’t have been easy growing up as the son of a man like that. No wonder Thröstur had changed his second name.
‘Are you familiar with his case?’
‘No. It was before my time. I was still at university.’ She added, after a pause: ‘Is he really out? Didn’t he get sixteen years?’
‘Yes. Time flies. He served the usual two-thirds of his sentence – ten and a half years. He’s out on parole.’
‘Parole?’ Freyja closed her eyes and rubbed them as she tried to suppress the rage that flared up inside her. Her brother was constantly being denied parole, unlike this disgusting monster. Yet the harm Baldur had caused involved missing assets, the impact of which couldn’t begin to compare with the loss of a child.
‘Yes. That’s the system for you. Presumably he behaved himself during his time inside.’
Freyja snorted. ‘He raped and murdered a child. Who cares how he’s behaved since he was caught?’
‘Believe me, I wasn’t consulted.’ Huldar sighed wearily. ‘Thröstur must have been under the impression that we’d come round to let the family know and discuss how they should react if he got in touch, and so on. I’m guessing that’s why he lost it when it turned out we were there for a completely different reason.’
‘Is that what they do in these cases?’ Freyja transferred the phone to her left hand. She wanted to refresh her memory of the Jón Jónsson case and the best way to do that was to look up old news reports. It couldn’t wait until after they’d finished their conversation.
‘No. When people get out, the Prison Service assumes responsibility for them. In parole cases they monitor the released inmates but as far as I know they do nothing for the family unless the family contacts them first.’
Freyja mumbled some reply as she typed in Jón Jónsson’s name. She got about two million results, the top ones unrelated to the paedophile. It was a long time since he had made the headlines. She added the date 2004 and searched again. ‘So you don’t keep any tabs on these men? By you, I mean the police. You know how great the risks are that they’ll reoffend? There’s no cure for paedophilia, only treatments that have limited success in teaching them not to give in to their unnatural urges. And those treatments aren’t even offered in Iceland.’
‘I’m not an expert. I just assumed social services were involved when they were released. Kept track of where they lived and so on. After all, it’s your area.’ He added hastily: ‘I mean the consequences of their actions – the victims.’
‘We don’t receive any notification. Believe me, I’d have heard.’ Links relating to the right man had now appeared. Freyja clicked on an article in a weekly paper that no longer existed. She remembered the article well – it had been highly controversial. The consensus at the time had been that the newspaper should never have published an interview with the prisoner, and that it had done so in a cynical attempt to boost its failing circulation. Despite the scandalised public reaction, the issue had sold out, but the article hadn’t performed the required miracle, merely deferred the paper’s bankruptcy by a few weeks.
‘Anyway, what happens now?’ Freyja asked. ‘Should we make another attempt to talk to Thröstur? At least we know something about his background now, and of course this explains why he had problems as an adolescent; when he wrote the letter. “JJ” obviously refers to his father. The murder was less than two years before that, which isn’t much time to get over such a traumatic event.’
‘There’s no question of making another visit any time soon, I’m afraid.’
A photo of Jón Jónsson appeared on screen. He was sitting in one of the visitors’ cells at Litla-Hraun Prison, which Freyja instantly recognised, gazing out of the narrow window, looking as if he bore all the world’s sorrows on his shoulders. From what Freyja recalled, however, the interview had made it clear that he wasn’t exactly burdened with remorse, and the pose had struck her as tastelessly contrived. It was hard to imagine how the girl’s parents must have felt on reading this. Especially the part where Jón talked about the date of his release. The injustice of it was scandalous: he could count down the days until he got out, while little Vaka Orradóttir had been given a death sentence. She started out of her thoughts. ‘Did you say there was no plan to speak to Thröstur again? But what about the letter? Aren’t you supposed to investigate it further?’
‘No. I’ve been told to shelve it for the time being. There’s a more urgent inquiry in progress. Perhaps I’ll be able to come back to it once that’s resolved.’ She couldn’t gauge how Huldar felt about this decision, but supposed the big cases must be more challenging and therefore more satisfying than minor affairs like the letter.
‘I see.’ Freyja stared at Jón Jónsson’s profile. The photo was grainy, as the article had been scanned, but there was no mistaking his expression. The word that sprang to mind was slimy. Repellently slimy. She tore her eyes from the screen in an effort to concentrate on the conversation. ‘So it won’t be taken any further?’
‘No. Not at present. I’ll be in touch once things have quietened down, if that’s OK.’ Huldar hesitated. ‘Actually, I was wondering if you were busy this weeken—’ He got no further.
‘Call me if the case is reopened. Bye then.’ She hung up before he could make another attempt to ask her out. She was going out this weekend all right, but not with him. Absolutely, definitely not. Without giving it a second thought or allowing herself to feel guilty about cutting him short like that, she immersed herself in the interview. Just because the police had sidelined Thröstur’s letter, that didn’t mean she had to. Perhaps reading the interview would kick-start her brain again, galvanising her enough to finish revising the annual report.
As she skimmed the text the contents soon came back to her. She could feel her face twisting with disgust. Nothing that had happened had been the man’s own fault. He kept harping on about how he had been an alcoholic and warning readers of the dangers of drink. This elicited a cynical smile from her. Alcohol had its downsides but it didn’t turn people into sex offenders, let alone paedophiles. Though from what Jón said, you’d have thought it had been the decisive factor: excessive drinking had made him do it; alcohol had deprived him of his self-control. He had never done anything like that before and would never do it again. According to his statement, he had no memory of committing the crime. Although he didn’t go so far as to protest his innocence, he came close. No doubt he would have tried to deny all responsibility if the evidence hadn’t been rock solid. There had never been any doubt, if Freyja remembered right: biological specimens and DNA retrieved from the girl’s vagina, together with his fingerprints on her throat or her mouth from where he had throttled or suffocated her. She couldn’t remember which method he had used.
The Reckoning: Children's House Book 2 (Freyja and Huldar) Page 9