While Huldar was listening to Erla’s phone calls, he had received one himself from Gudmundur Lárusson. His old boss had wanted him to know that the mother of Vaka, the girl Jón had murdered, was making a scene down at the station on Hlemmur. Huldar decided he had better stick close to Erla so he could strike while the iron was hot. Nevertheless, curious to know what Vaka’s mother had to say, he asked Gudmundur to give Freyja a shout. He hadn’t heard from either of them since. He would ring Freyja as soon as things quietened down here. Deep down, though, he knew that the real reason he hadn’t contacted her directly was because of last night. He had to find some way of explaining his abrupt departure that would show him in the good light that he felt he deserved. The trouble was, he couldn’t plead in his defence that he had wanted to spare them both the usual outcome of his drunken one-night stands. Freyja was unlikely to be disarmed by any allusion to his long and varied list of conquests. Faced with the prospect of this conversation, he had begun to doubt the wisdom of his decision to walk out on her. In hindsight it would probably have been wiser to stay and spend the night with her. Not only wiser but a whole lot more enjoyable. Still, too late now. He pushed the thought away. He needed to focus on Erla and the investigation.
Morsel by morsel he had fed her every bit of information he had in support of his theory, like a mother feeding her young. He knew the battle was won when she told him to ring the Identification Committee and ask them to do another comparison between the fingerprints of the amputated hands and those of Jón Jónsson. Although no match had been obtained by running the prints from the hands through the police database – where Jón’s details were presumably stored – Erla thought it worth examining his prints especially, in light of his disappearance. The Identification Committee and Fingerprint Department were no more infallible than anyone else. But, as it transpired, there was another, much more serious problem.
‘When he called back it was to tell me that Jón’s prints are missing. They’re not there. If they ever were. I suppose it’s possible they omitted to take them during the murder investigation. It was an open-and-shut case after all,’ Huldar said.
‘Are you shitting me?’ Erla furrowed her brow. ‘That just can’t be right.’
‘No, actually you’re right, it can’t. His fingerprints were found on the pillow he used to smother the girl. So they must have been recorded, but they haven’t found their way into the database. It’s the same story with various other records relating to Jón and his son Thröstur; they should exist but they don’t. I still haven’t received any material from the Reykjanes District Court about the case in which he was acquitted.’
‘What the fuck is going on?’ Erla reached for the phone.
‘You can save yourself the effort. The guy I spoke to was positive – the fingerprints aren’t in their database.’
‘Great. So what the hell do we do now?’ The question wasn’t directed at Huldar; she was thinking aloud. ‘What about Litla-Hraun? Perhaps we could lift his prints off something there? He must have left some belongings behind. The bugger of it is that they’ll have cleaned out his cell by now and moved another prisoner in.’
‘It’s worth trying.’
Erla shook her head despondently. ‘This whole case is a total shambles.’
Huldar could only agree. ‘I’ll talk to them. And while I’m doing that, I’ll ask about the letters Jón received while he was inside. Perhaps they’ll remember who sent them – the person who wrote them might have offered him a roof over his head.’ Erla had been far from polite when she rang to question the prison staff about Jón, and Huldar doubted that a second call from her would be well received.
She made a dismissive noise that he chose to interpret as consent. When he got back to his desk, he was relieved to see that Gudlaugur wasn’t there. He needed to concentrate and the young man was forever interrupting him. Recently his questions had mostly been concerned with how to identify possible retail outlets for chains like those used in the murder of Benedikt Toft.
In the event, the prison guards at Litla-Hraun didn’t slam the phone down on Huldar, but the man he spoke to thought it unlikely that anything would be left with Jón’s fingerprints on it. Another inmate had moved into his cell and the few items that had belonged to Jón had disappeared with him. But the guard promised to check. Before he could hang up, Huldar managed to slip in a question about Jón’s letters. The man had to go and consult one of his colleagues and when he came back the answer proved to be yet another disappointment. The letters had been from Jón’s lawyer and their contents were therefore confidential; legal correspondence couldn’t be opened or phone conversations between lawyers and clients monitored. Jón had also written his lawyer any number of letters and their communications had continued almost to the last day of his incarceration. This news was better than nothing; perhaps the lawyer would know what had become of his client or, even better, would have organised his accommodation himself.
Huldar ended the call. He tapped the receiver against his forehead while pondering whether to ring the lawyer, one Sigurvin Helgason, next. Of course the lawyer wouldn’t be able to answer any questions except those relating to matters he was sure Jón Jónsson wouldn’t mind his revealing, but Huldar had to try. They were getting nowhere, yet the bloody man must have spoken to someone since he got out.
Before he could psych himself up to tap in the lawyer’s number, his mobile rang. Freyja’s ID flashed up on screen. He sat there staring at it, the ringtone seeming to grow ever louder and more insistent until the people at the nearby desks were looking at him and he could no longer avoid answering. He cast around frantically for an honest, sensible explanation of what had happened: he wanted to say of course he had been eager to sleep with her but, given his past experiences, he had wanted to wait until she wasn’t drunk – while simultaneously avoiding saying ‘sleep with’, ‘past experiences’ or ‘drunk’. Especially with his colleagues’ ears flapping.
‘Hi!’ He sounded absurdly upbeat, like a salesman for a health insurance company. ‘Thanks for yesterday evening.’ It was the best he could come up with.
Freyja took a moment or two to reply. ‘Yes, er, thank you.’ She sounded embarrassed, which only made matters worse. A conversation where one person was dying of embarrassment was bad enough, but when both were in the same boat it was hopeless. His fears proved unfounded, however, as Freyja was quick to recover her composure. ‘Anyway, I wasn’t calling about that. I just wanted to give you the lowdown on my visit to Hlemmur. To see Dagmar, Vaka’s mother. I assumed you’d want to know what happened.’
‘Yes, absolutely. Absolutely.’ He had to choke back a laugh in his relief at being spared the necessity of negotiating the minefield around their relationship – or non-relationship. How unlucky humans were to be the only animal that had to worry about such things. ‘What was the problem?’
‘She was furious that they hadn’t let her know about Jón Jónsson’s release. Her reaction was similar to Thröstur’s. Her ex-husband came along too and he didn’t seem much happier. Were you aware they were divorced?’
‘No. I don’t really know anything about them.’
‘Nor do I, despite having sat with her for a while. Except that she’s got a temper. So’s he.’
‘How did they hear about it?’ Iceland was a small place but Huldar found it hard to picture a friend or workmate excitedly picking up the phone to let them know.
‘She saw him. And guess where?’
‘Where?’ He couldn’t possibly guess. Any more than he could when his little nephews posed ridiculous questions for him: Guess what my teacher’s called? Guess what I found in the road? Guess what I’m thinking about?
‘By the accountancy firm. The one where that man was murdered.’
‘When was this?’
‘This morning. Or so Dagmar claimed. But she didn’t give an exact time.’
‘Listen, I’ll have to talk to you later. I’ll call you.’ He hung up and dashed over t
o Erla’s office. If the woman hadn’t been seeing things, Jón Jónsson was alive and kicking after all.
‘I’ve already apologised and I agree with you about the system being hopelessly flawed. I’m not sure if I’ll make myself any clearer by saying it all over again. What would really help now is if you’d answer the questions we came here to ask. The sooner you do, the sooner you’ll be rid of us.’ Erla reeled off this speech almost without pausing for breath. Ever since Dagmar had let them in, she had kept bringing the conversation back to complaining about how badly victims and their families were treated when violent criminals got out of jail. Erla had done her best to pacify the woman by agreeing with every word, but it wasn’t enough.
They were seated in a living room that was no doubt the last word in chic; everything was in complementary shades of grey: walls, furniture, vases, cushions, rugs, even the pictures. Every time Huldar took his eyes off the two women he felt as if he were suddenly seeing the world in black and white. The overall theme must be depression. That would chime well with the classical music emanating from invisible speakers, from a compilation entitled, at a guess: ‘Tearjerkers to Play at Funerals’. What surprised him was the total absence of pictures of Vaka. He had been braced to find them hanging on every wall and staring down from every shelf. Perhaps the woman found it hard enough to cope with her grief without being reminded of her daughter every time she sank into the grey sofa to watch a black-and-white film on TV.
‘Sorry. Sorry.’ Dagmar buried her face in her hands. She was a very different sight now from the description Freyja had given, her earlier state of agitation replaced by tiredness. She was an attractive woman; on a good day perhaps beautiful. Her features were unusually striking: those high cheekbones and large eyes with dark lashes. Her only flaw was her mouth; she could have been a model were it not for the thin, colourless lips that seemed incapable of smiling. And no wonder. Huldar was struck by her eyes, too: they were empty of life, as if her soul had died within her.
‘I know it’s not your fault. I’m not normally like this. Usually nothing gets to me. Nothing seems worth it any more.’
Huldar’s gaze had been wandering but now he snapped back to attention. At last they were getting somewhere. ‘No problem.’
Dagmar emitted a dry, mirthless laugh, without breaking into a smile. Her lips didn’t even twitch. ‘I want to move to America. Ridiculous, I know. I’m not even good at English and I don’t know anybody there. But at least the Americans don’t let men like that disgusting animal out of jail.’ She turned her head to stare blindly at the grey wall. ‘It’s just not fair.’
‘Could you tell us a bit more about your encounter with Jón this morning?’
The woman looked back at them wearily. ‘Why? Like I said to that woman earlier, what does it matter?’ Then, without waiting for an answer, she continued: ‘It was on Borgartún and it must have been about half past nine. I know that because I run a hair salon in the same street and we open at ten. He was loitering by one of those glass buildings, where the accountancy firm is. He was wearing an anorak and jeans. He hadn’t changed much, though his hair was thinner and of course he was older. But the strange thing was that he didn’t look any worse than he did at the trial. Prison seems to have agreed with him. Can you believe that?’
‘Did he see you?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ Dagmar averted her face again. ‘Funny. Orri and I sat through every day of the trial; we felt we had to hear every word. I stared at that man the whole time, imagining how I would tear him limb from limb if I ever got the chance. My thoughts weren’t pretty, I can tell you, but they kept me going.’ She emitted that same cold laugh and shook her head resignedly. ‘Then what happens when I eventually do bump into him? I run away. I think that’s why I lost it the way I did at the police station. I’m furious with myself. I just needed to get it out of my system, to blame somebody else.’
‘Violence doesn’t come easily to normal people. You should be glad you reacted the way you did. You wouldn’t have been any better off if you’d gone for him.’ Huldar’s smile did not prompt one from her in response.
‘I’m not so sure. To be honest, I think I’d be feeling a lot better now. I’d be feeling bloody great—’
Erla interrupted: ‘How come you didn’t go straight down to the station? You didn’t get there until after twelve.’
‘I couldn’t get away before then. I had customers to style, cut and colour. But I got more and more worked up and when I finally got off at lunchtime I stormed straight down to the station. Would you like the names of the customers or the member of staff who covered for me? Am I under suspicion for some reason?’ Dagmar’s face brightened. ‘Has something happened to Jón? Don’t say he’s been attacked?’ There was no mistaking her delight at the prospect. Her thin upper lip curled back to reveal her front teeth in a snarl that reminded Huldar of the hyenas in wildlife documentaries, circling the prey brought down by a lion. He doubted she had ever made a face like that while her daughter was alive.
‘Nothing’s happened to him, as far as we know. Are you quite sure the man you saw this morning was Jón Jónsson? You couldn’t have been mistaken?’ Erla’s words put an end to Dagmar’s vindictive pleasure as effectively as a lioness driving away a hyena.
‘I’m positive. A hundred per cent positive.’
‘Are you acquainted with anyone who works at the accounting firm where you saw Jón? Kolbeinn Ragnarsson, for example? Does his name ring any bells?’ Huldar bent forwards, watching the woman closely. He wanted to be sure he could read her expression, pick up the tiniest hint that she recognised any of the names he was about to mention.
‘I was asked the same thing this morning. Who is this man?’ Dagmar’s face revealed nothing but suspicion.
‘If you don’t know him, it doesn’t matter. What about Benedikt Toft?’
‘Who exactly are these men? Why should I know them? Don’t I have a right to know who you’re trying to link me to?’ When neither Erla nor Huldar replied, she leant back in her chair with a contemptuous expression. ‘For God’s sake, like I can’t just google them. What century are you people living in?’
‘We can’t stop you. You’re free to google them if you like.’ Huldar sat back. He hadn’t detected anything interesting in the woman’s reaction. Nothing but her trademark contempt and resentment.
‘Well, there we are.’ Erla caught Huldar’s eye. ‘Was there anything else you wanted to ask?’
‘Nope.’
‘Can I say something before you go?’ There was no mistaking Dagmar’s fury. Her eyes narrowed and the muscles in her face tightened, throwing her cheekbones into even starker relief. ‘Never, ever call my ex-husband again. He’s not my next of kin; he has no connection to me any longer. None at all. We divorced ten years ago and I can’t get over the fact that you had the nerve to involve him in this. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. How would you feel if your ex was hauled in to fetch you from the police station? When you were at rock bottom?’
They shook their heads foolishly. Neither wanted to answer but as Huldar was slightly more to blame than Erla, he felt obliged to speak for them both. ‘Again, we can only apologise.’
Dagmar glared at him, evincing not the slightest desire to forgive. ‘Are we done here then? I’ve had enough of the police for one day. Enough to last me a lifetime.’
Huldar thought he had never in his life met anyone so full of violent emotions, all of them negative. She fluctuated between rage, hatred, vengefulness and malice. The only gentle emotion that seemed to stir in her breast was grief; a gut-wrenching grief that was presumably the source of all the other feelings. He wondered if her ex-husband was in a similar state. Had the loss of their child robbed his life of all pleasure too?
On his way out Huldar happened to glance through an open door leading to the master bedroom, as the large, neatly made bed revealed. It wasn’t this that arrested his attention but the walls, which were covered from floor to ceiling
with framed photographs. Photographs of a little girl at various ages. Presumably Vaka. Although he walked past too quickly to see for sure, he could have sworn there was also a wedding picture of Dagmar and Orri. There was no doubt, then, about which of them had walked out on the other. With the murder of her daughter this woman had lost everything she cared about: her family, her child and the man she loved. Jón Jónsson had an awful lot to answer for.
Chapter 21
Although it was Friday outside, Huldar had the feeling that inside this drab little flat it was still only Tuesday. Perhaps it was forever Tuesday. No Fridays or weekends here. No holidays or other special days to break the monotony.
All the curtains were drawn to prevent the feeble daylight from spoiling the picture on the large flat-screen TV. In spite of its size, the TV looked like the cheapest model. No question who had been responsible for its purchase: Thröstur looked like the type who went for size over quality. His sister and mother, on the other hand, seemed like the kind of people who endlessly weigh up prospective purchases to be sure of getting their money’s worth, before eventually deciding not to buy at all. Huldar had also noticed that unlike him, this family seemed to be in the habit of repairing things that broke. The two glued-together china figurines on the coffee table were testimony to this spirit of thrift, though the person responsible for the repairs had done a clumsy job: the parts had been stuck together crookedly and the glue had dripped. He itched to take the statues with him when he left and chuck them in a bin.
The Reckoning: Children's House Book 2 (Freyja and Huldar) Page 20