The Reckoning: Children's House Book 2 (Freyja and Huldar)

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  Sigrún had to check for herself before she could be persuaded to venture round the corner, and kept glancing behind her as they walked into the cemetery, as if expecting the couple to come back. They might have forgotten something by the grave. Thröstur said nothing, though her neurotic behaviour annoyed him. Why did she always have to act like that? But he knew there was no point criticising her; her nerves would only become worse if he showed that he’d noticed.

  They knew the way by heart, having trodden this same path for the last eleven years. The first time a year after the girl died, then every year since on her birthday. Like reluctant party guests. She would have been twenty this year, if she’d lived. On the way here this fact had suddenly dawned on Sigrún; she had abruptly turned to him and said the number aloud. Much louder than was normal for her; loud enough for the only other passenger on the bus to look round and stare at her in surprise. She had flushed and waited for the old lady to turn away again before explaining. She hadn’t remembered that it was a milestone birthday or she would have invested in a more expensive bunch of flowers. She had been seized by an urge to go back and buy a different bouquet, but Thröstur, who was enjoying the heating on the bus, had managed to dissuade her, idiot that he was, with the result that they had arrived at the same time as the parents and he had almost died of exposure. He’d argued that they had already forked out for flowers and bus tickets – it was quite unnecessary to make a fuss about the imaginary twentieth birthday of someone who was dead. Perhaps that explained Sigrún’s jumpiness now, though it wasn’t always easy to guess how her mind worked.

  She stationed herself at the foot of the grave and stood there in silence, her eyes lowered. After a while, she lifted her chin from her chest and laid down the flowers, which looked small and cheap next to the two large bouquets propped against the headstone. Thröstur had to look away: the tatty little thing was somehow symbolic of him and Sigrún.

  Unlike his sister, he followed no fixed routine on these annual visits but wandered around, reading the inscriptions on nearby graves, lighting a cigarette or kicking up snow. Anything to occupy himself while Sigrún was meditating, or whatever she was doing. He had never been able to bring himself to ask what she was thinking about.

  This time he stood a little way off, silent and unmoving like her. Thinking how alone they were and how everyone had failed them. Always. Wondering how Sigrún would react when she learnt that their father was out. How best to break the news to her so she didn’t overhear it at work or bump into the bastard in the street. How to stop him forcing himself back into their lives. Which brought him back full circle to the thought that had haunted him ever since he could remember: no one would ever help them.

  It was up to him to protect his sister. And he wasn’t going to let her down.

  Chapter 11

  The underground car park was deserted, in stark contrast to that morning when only a few spaces had been free, and then of course only the most inconvenient ones. Kolbeinn, late for work due to heavy traffic on the way in from Hafnarfjördur, had been forced to park right up against a pillar. It had required extraordinary skill to reverse in, but then he’d become pretty adept at this since acquiring his expensive new car. If the weather had been better, he would have parked outside; he was always a little uneasy about leaving his pride and joy packed in tight down here. Many of the other garage users drove around in beaten-up old wrecks and a small scratch would be neither here nor there to them. He couldn’t bear the thought, though he no longer went so far as to note down the licence plates of the cars parked either side of him, in case he found a dent in his paintwork at the end of the day. He had abandoned the habit after one of his colleagues had caught him at it, and looked at him askance. Later that day Kolbeinn had come across the man by the coffee machine, sniggering about the incident with his cronies. Kolbeinn couldn’t abide being laughed at. It was even worse than the fear of scratches on his smart new car.

  His footsteps echoed and a sound of dripping came from one of the pipes that ran along the ceiling. Apart from that there was silence. The ceiling lights flickered into life one after the other as he walked past the sensors, except where the bulbs had gone. He could have sworn more of them had been working this morning.

  Six months ago the caretaker’s hours had been reduced to part time as a cost-cutting measure and the building was beginning to suffer the effects, especially in the areas where cleaning was considered low priority. The underground car park was unquestionably one of these. The accountants clearly hadn’t factored in the lighting deficiencies, pervading smell of damp and piles of rubbish collecting in every corner. But it didn’t occur to Kolbeinn to comment on this. During his almost fourteen years at the firm he had learnt that although the management encouraged people to speak out, in practice those who did complain seldom lasted long. For those seeking promotion, flattery was a far better policy. Certainly, this tactic had facilitated his own rise through the ranks, despite the fact he had no formal qualifications in accountancy or law. The CEO had even complimented him recently, saying that when he’d hired him on the recommendation of an old friend he had been a little doubtful of Kolbeinn’s fitness for the job, but that he had been proved quite wrong. Pity the CEO was approaching retirement. There was no guarantee that his younger successor would be as appreciative of Kolbeinn’s talents. And what would happen to him if there was a shake-up in the organisation?

  The lights stopped coming on as Kolbeinn approached the far end of the car park and he shook his head disapprovingly. But when he peered up, he saw that the fluorescent tubes had been smashed. He halted and listened. The dripping was now so continuous it was almost like rain. As he stood there straining his ears, he thought he heard a faint scraping noise coming from the direction of his car – assuming it was still there. He didn’t like the look of this. Who but thieves would have any reason to smash the bulbs? There was no other source of light in the windowless car park and darkness would provide the perfect cover. If he was right, his car was bound to be the target. It was the only desirable vehicle in here. Senior management parked in marked spaces near the entrance or beside the lifts. And anyway they invariably went home early. But now the place was as deserted as a tomb.

  What if the thieves were still down here? What if he interrupted them in the act of breaking in to his car? Would they go for him? The answer was obvious: yes, of course they would. They would hardly just walk away as if nothing had happened. Whoops, sorry. Again there was a sound of scraping. Kolbeinn coughed, ridiculously loudly, in the hope of scaring any potential thieves. It would be best if they fled. He wouldn’t give chase, and they were bound to be caught later. If they paused in their flight to beat him up, he could direct their attention to the CCTV and hope that would deter them. Kolbeinn coughed again, even louder. He could have sworn the scraping noise grew louder too. He was about to cough a third time when it dawned on him that the thieves must already be aware of his presence. They could hardly have failed to notice the lights coming on as he entered the car park.

  Are you a man or a mouse? Kolbeinn puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly. He had no choice but to walk over to the car. There was no security guard in the lobby any longer – another result of the economy drive. The caretaker would have gone home hours ago, and Kolbeinn would never dream of asking one of the few remaining people in the building to accompany him to his car. That would really give them something to snigger about. If he turned up with two black eyes and a broken nose after an encounter with thieves, he would at least earn their respect.

  Kolbeinn started walking again. His heart was thudding in a way that could hardly be good for him but in spite of that he quickened his pace. Best get it over with. The bonnet came into view, jutting out from behind the damned pillar that provided the perfect hiding place for thieves – if there were any. His heart was battering against his ribs now, as if a sparrow were trapped in his chest, fighting for its life. Of course there was someone, maybe more than one person, lur
king there in the dark. Something must be making that noise. The closer he got to the car, the louder the scraping became, combined now with a metallic squeaking and what sounded like mumbling. It occurred to him that the thieves might be murmuring to each other, plotting how to ambush him. But the closer he got, the less it sounded like human voices, and more like an animal. Perhaps, after all that, the thieves were only mice or rats.

  Nobody leapt out at him during those final few steps to the car, nor when his trembling fingers pressed the remote control to unlock it. Shaking with trepidation, he eased himself cautiously round the bonnet and was relieved to find nobody on the other side. But he wasn’t out of danger yet, so giving himself no time to relax, he hurried to the driver’s door. Before sliding behind the wheel and groping for the button to lock the doors, he hastily scanned behind the car to make sure no one was lying in ambush there. Immediately behind the boot was a waist-high concrete wall separating the parking space from the ramp to the lower level. The thieves could easily be hiding behind it, which seemed only too likely since the scraping, squeaking and mumbling were coming from there. The wall was topped by a handrail of steel bars, which the criminals would have to clamber over before they could get their hands on Kolbeinn, but the thought wasn’t much comfort. He jumped into the driver’s seat. The click of the electronic locks was one of the most welcome sounds he had ever heard. Without giving himself time to enjoy it, he inserted the key in the ignition. Not until the satisfying throb of the engine and the blast from the radio drowned out the muffled sounds did Kolbeinn allow himself to breathe easier.

  For once he didn’t bother to take care as he drove out of the space, perhaps because the rattling behind him seemed to grow louder as soon as he moved off. Instinctively, Kolbeinn stamped on the accelerator, ignoring the risks of driving too fast in an underground garage. In a moment he would be out in the open air and on his way home.

  But his joy was short-lived. There was a violent impact, as if the car had been struck from behind at full speed, which was impossible because he was barely clear of the space. He was hurled forwards, only prevented from headbutting the windscreen by the seatbelt locking. Kolbeinn automatically braked, though the car was behaving oddly and hardly making any headway.

  Ready for anything, he checked the mirror, then, after a moment, twisted round to peer through the rear windscreen in an attempt to work out what exactly he was looking at.

  Erla had Huldar’s full sympathy, though he didn’t say so. Her nerves were so frayed that there was no telling what might set her off. It seemed nothing was going to go smoothly. The media had got wind of an incident and photographers were already laying siege, their camera flashes hurting his eyes every time the door opened. To make matters worse, the police were still waiting for the portable floodlights as the section of the underground garage they most urgently needed to examine lay in semi-darkness. The ceiling lights had been smashed and no one was in any doubt that this was connected to what had happened there.

  Huldar leant against the wall and lit a cigarette. Like most smokers, he classified garages as outdoor areas. He had given up trying to conceal that he had lapsed; the smell had already given him away and anyway none of his colleagues could care less about his health. He took the first drag, then blew out a stream of smoke in the direction of the closed exit. Nobody was likely to object as they had more than enough to occupy them. Besides, he had an excuse ready – if he set foot outside he would be mobbed by the press and members of the public, who had gathered in the hope of witnessing some excitement. Strange how people were so drawn to horror and misfortune. He had a feeling they would quickly lose their enthusiasm if they were exposed to a scene like this one. He filled his lungs with smoke again. For once it was a beautiful, windless evening, just when a storm would have come in handy. Bad weather deterred both photographers and onlookers from hanging around crime scenes.

  In a perfect world he would be sitting at home right now, beer in hand, watching the match. But he didn’t really mind too much about missing it; there were plenty of other matches and these days pretty much all his evenings were free. To be at work outside office hours was the exception now, rather than the rule. He had been called out this evening because he was one of the few who hadn’t done any overtime for months. Erla had told him as much, so he wouldn’t start thinking he was back in favour. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Erla stalking towards him, her face grim. He hastily took another puff before stubbing out the cigarette, although he’d only smoked it halfway down. It would give her less reason to nag.

  ‘Isn’t smoking banned down here?’ Erla glanced round irritably in search of signs but, although there were plenty, they were all concerned with directing people to the exit or the lifts.

  Huldar could tell this wasn’t about smoking. Ignoring her comment, he asked instead: ‘How’s it going? Any sign of Forensics yet?’

  Erla sighed and leant against the wall beside him. ‘On their way, apparently.’ She shook her head. ‘What a bloody mess. The doctor’s refusing to turn up until the sodding lighting’s in place; the caretaker’s being a pain in the arse and saying he’s not paid to come in, and that Kolbeinn Ragnarsson’s one of the biggest twats I’ve ever encountered.’

  ‘Oh?’ Huldar glanced at the man, who was standing looking over the shoulder of the police officer taking down his statement. The man’s attention was directed at something towards the rear of the garage – his car, probably. ‘Isn’t he just in shock?’

  ‘Not so much shocked as worried about whether his insurance will cover the damage to his car. The back axle was almost torn off.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. It must have been a hell of a yank.’ A chain had been looped around the axle and the other end wound around the waist of the dead man lying in a heap in the parking space. They were working on the assumption that the victim had been on the other side of the concrete partition and that when Kolbeinn drove off, the man had been flung into the air, only to jam against the steel bars on top of the wall. Only for a moment, though. The force had been so great that the victim had been bent double and dragged through. Huldar, who had undertaken the job of measuring the gap between the bars, felt sick when it proved to be no more than thirty centimetres wide. He hoped the man had been dead at that point, but doubted it. The gag indicated that the perpetrator had wanted to make sure he couldn’t alert anyone to his plight. It wouldn’t have been necessary if the man had already been dead. Dead men don’t make a lot of noise.

  ‘Any chance it could have been suicide?’ Erla’s tone made it clear that she knew this was wishful thinking.

  ‘I think the answer to that has to be no. There are countless easier methods if you want to top yourself. Almost anything would be better than this.’ Huldar sucked air through his front teeth and clicked his tongue. He would rather not have to think about it, but felt obliged to reply since Erla was actually talking to him for once. The folded corpse was one of the nastier sights he had ever had the misfortune to see. Thank God the man’s face was hidden. ‘Can you imagine what the waiting must have been like? Nobody would do that to himself. I bet the poor guy would have given anything to suffocate while he was waiting.’

  ‘Maybe. For his sake I hope he didn’t know what was coming. But I have the feeling that whoever did this would have gone out of their way to tell him. This stinks of sadism. There are plenty of simpler ways to kill someone, so the intention must have been to make him suffer. Let’s hope the post-mortem will clarify things.’ Erla reached in her pocket for her phone and checked the time. ‘Where the fuck is everyone?’

  Huldar wondered idly how many of her questions were purely rhetorical. Quite a large number, probably. Erla was perfectly aware that he couldn’t answer this. ‘The first thing I checked was whether the man had both his hands,’ he said. ‘This murder’s so grotesque that it would have fitted with the hot-tub incident. I don’t know if I was relieved or disappointed when I saw he still had at least one of them. My gut feelin
g is that the two cases are connected. They’re both equally sick. And I don’t like the idea of there being two psychopaths on the loose. What do you think?’

  ‘No idea. Perhaps things’ll be clearer once the pathologist and Forensics get their arses over here and we can get an ID on the poor guy. Hopefully he’ll have a wallet or a credit card or something. It’s a pity the body’s lying like that so we can’t get at it to check.’ Erla sighed so heavily it was almost a groan. Then, pushing herself away from the wall, she walked back to the scene without another word.

  Huldar stood there for a moment, wondering if he should relight his half-smoked cigarette, but in the end he followed Erla, fighting back a powerful sense of reluctance. This had nothing to do with her but with the horrific vision that lay folded up like a napkin, tied to the car with a heavy chain. He could hardly bear to look at it.

  The situation didn’t improve when Forensics finally put in an appearance and set up the floodlights. In that unsparing glare it was hard to stop oneself looking away. Only when the doctor arrived did Huldar steel himself to watch. He instantly regretted it because the doctor asked him to help straighten out the man – or ‘unfold him’, as he put it. With gloved hands, they each took hold of one side of the torso lying forward over the legs and gently unbent him to lie flat. Even through the man’s clothing, Huldar could feel the broken ribs, crushed vertebrae and mangled flesh, as distinctly as if the body were naked and his own hands were bare. He fought down his nausea and had almost succeeding in mastering it when the doctor removed the gag and padding from the man’s mouth.

  Huldar stood up and tilted his head sideways to get a better look at the face. ‘Erla. Look!’

  Erla stared down thoughtfully at the dead man. ‘There’s our proof. The cases are linked.’ Her anxiety was obvious. ‘Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck. Fucking shit.’ She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘What a total cock-up.’