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

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  Huldar nodded. He had the brainwave of asking if he could have Freyja with him, calculating that Erla couldn’t afford to fly off the handle in front of the other two men. This might be his last chance to benefit from Freyja’s expertise. Sooner or later he would have to tell Erla that he wasn’t interested in continuing their relationship because he had feelings for Freyja. But he couldn’t do it today. Not when he was feeling this rough; not so soon after they had slept together. Once he had broken the news to Erla, there was no way she would allow Freyja anywhere near the case; she probably wouldn’t let her in the building. ‘Is it OK if I get Freyja from the Children’s House to interview the brother and sister with me, just to be on the safe side? I need to ask them about their relationship with their father, to find out if he abused them.’

  He had been expecting to have to provide further grounds to justify his request but Erla jumped in the moment he stopped speaking. ‘Absolutely. Give her a call. Good idea.’ For once she smiled at him, with apparent sincerity.

  Huldar hurried out before she could change her mind. He tried Freyja’s number. If she agreed straight away, Erla wouldn’t have time to retract. But Freyja didn’t answer. Disappointed, he sent her a text message. She’d told him she had to babysit her little niece over the weekend, so she might be busy. There would be no chance to go and feed the ducks together if the investigation lasted all weekend, but if she could be persuaded to come down to the station, he would at least see her.

  The reply came before he even reached his desk. I’m busy today. And tomorrow. And the next day, etc. Don’t call me again. Hope you enjoyed yourself last night.

  Huldar closed his eyes.

  Erla. So that’s why she had looked like the cat that got the cream. Erla had told Freyja. The tiredness that Huldar had been keeping at bay with regular injections of caffeine now overwhelmed him. He couldn’t even be angry with Erla; he was too livid with himself.

  When it came down to it, the responsibility for this cock-up lay squarely with him. And he would have to sort it out. Though how he was going to do that, God alone knew.

  Chapter 26

  From what she had seen of her flat, Freyja had assumed that Saga’s mother was into beautiful, expensive designs, but her taste for designer gear clearly didn’t extend to buggies. Freyja was on the receiving end of so many strange looks from other mothers that she felt she might as well be pushing Saga around town in a dining-room chair. Although the glances were mostly directed at the pushchair, the glower Saga bestowed on anyone who happened to peer under the hood also played a part. Her mouth was still firmly turned down and Freyja had utterly failed to coax a smile from her. But there had been a crow of laughter from the pushchair when a man slipped and fell on his backside right in front of them. Freyja had been so surprised that, ignoring the man as he struggled to his feet, she had darted round to catch a glimpse of Saga’s face. By then the perma-scowl was back in place.

  ‘What shall we do now?’ Freyja held out a spoonful of ice cream to Saga, opening her own mouth as she did so, in an age-old instinctive gesture – as if persuading children to eat was a problem in the West these days. Saga grimaced, then obeyed the signal and took a mouthful of ice-cream.

  This contravened Fanney’s strict instructions that no sugar was to pass the little girl’s lips. But reasoning to herself that ice cream was made from milk, Freyja felt they could just about get away with it. The gummy bears she had fed her earlier were a different story, of course. Still, it was their secret, and Freyja could trust a child who couldn’t talk not to give her away. ‘Shall we have another go on the swings and slides?’ Saga swallowed. She gave no sign of being particularly excited by the prospect. Freyja had completely run out of ideas; she hadn’t looked after a small child since one summer in her teens when she had babysat for a two-year-old boy. The playground had been a favourite in his case, but then the boy had been older than Saga, the sandpit hadn’t been frozen, and the swings and slides hadn’t been covered in wet snow. They couldn’t go home to Freyja’s place either. Molly had proved overly interested in their young visitor and kept trying to lick her face. Saga hadn’t minded but Freyja had been so nervous that in the end she had taken to carrying the child around with her. Setting out on a walk with them both hadn’t solved the problem. Molly kept sticking her head in the pushchair to sniff at Saga and lick her. Perhaps the little girl smelt of Baldur. Eventually, Freyja was forced to take Molly home before she and Saga could enjoy their walk.

  Freyja wiped Saga’s mouth and cheeks, then leant back and inspected the result. ‘There!’ Bending down to the small face, she sniffed. There was an unmistakable smell of ice-cream on her breath, and a hint of gummy bears too.

  It was getting on for two; she would have to return the little girl shortly. Saga’s mother had said she didn’t want to rush things; tomorrow Freyja could have Saga for the same length of time. That was fine by Freyja; she couldn’t imagine what she was supposed to do with the child for a whole day, though that time would be here soon enough. She’d better consult her male friends who had personal experience of being weekend dads.

  It might be an idea to ask the advice of the single father who had started chatting her up down by the lake. Freyja had been the only woman among a horde of fathers, and the man who had flirted with her had been the best-looking of the lot. He had been amused by Saga’s perma-scowl too. He had asked what had happened to make the little girl look so sad and when Freyja replied that she always looked like that, he had nodded thoughtfully and said, ‘Cool.’ OK, he might not be the world’s greatest wit, but he was handsome and well groomed. The child in his buggy had been a little older than Saga but of indeterminate sex. Freyja hadn’t liked to ask if it was a girl or a boy for fear of offending him. But if she was going to pluck up the courage to ring the number he had slipped her, she would have to find out somehow.

  Normally Freyja would have hesitated to accept a telephone number from a strange man on a Saturday morning, but it had come as a godsend at that moment. As she put the scrap of paper in her pocket she had almost got over her fury with that bastard Huldar. Almost. It would have taken a miracle to have been completely indifferent, so soon after that phone call. She had rung to see if he wanted to come down to the lake with her and Saga but instead Erla had answered Huldar’s mobile, cool as a cucumber, and when Freyja asked if she could talk to him, assuming they must be at work, the bitch had informed her that he was asleep. She could try again later but not until lunchtime as he’d got so little rest last night. At that moment Freyja had wished she had a good, old-fashioned desk phone with a receiver that you could bang down with satisfying violence.

  She bent down to Saga again, putting on her hat and tying it firmly under her soft chin, then lifted her out of the plastic highchair that hadn’t been designed for Icelandic children in snowsuits. One of Saga’s little boots got caught and fell off on the floor, leaving the woolly brown sock hanging off her toes. Freyja was stooping down to retrieve it with the child in her arms when her phone rang. Amazingly, the caller hadn’t hung up by the time she had finally settled the little girl in her pushchair and put down her boot. In spite of this, Freyja still took a moment to check that it wasn’t Huldar. Luckily it wasn’t. But then the text message she’d sent him that morning had been unequivocal, even for an idiot like him. ‘Freyja,’ she answered.

  ‘Hi, Freyja. It’s Elsa.’

  ‘Elsa? Oh, hi.’ The director of the Children’s House didn’t usually call her at the weekend.

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point. I’ve had a call from the Police Commissioner’s office.’

  ‘Oh?’ Freyja trapped the phone between ear and shoulder while she bent down to put Saga’s boot on. The little girl did nothing to make life easy for her.

  ‘Yes. I gather you refused to assist in an investigation into a possible instance of historical child abuse. I just wanted to hear your side of the story and find out if it’s a matter of crossed wires. You know how crucial it is f
or us to maintain good relations with the police.’

  It didn’t enter Freyja’s head to explain what had happened between her and Huldar. ‘I’m afraid I’m busy. I can’t get away. The case in question relates to a murder. It’s extremely inappropriate to link it to an old sex offence and try to put the blame on individuals who may have been victims. They’re not children any longer either; they’re both in their twenties.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but I’m not sure you have any say about it. If they want to investigate these alleged crimes now, they will. And if the case is sensitive, then all the more reason for you to be present during the interviews.’

  ‘What about Sólveig? Can’t she go? She actually knows one of the people they’re planning to interview; she treated him when he was a boy. I’d have thought she’d be ideal.’

  Elsa was silent for a moment, then said: ‘That’s a possibility.’ She paused. ‘I leave it up to you. Talk to Sólveig, and if you can persuade her to go, then fine. Otherwise, you’re to go yourself. No buts. The interview’s due to start at four.’

  Freyja could feel herself tensing up with rage but managed to ring off without saying something she’d regret. She didn’t want to find herself out on her ear this summer when the plan was to wait until autumn to start her new life. Perhaps she should enrol at the School of Navigation. At least there would be no shortage of hunky ships’ captains to feast her eyes on during boring lectures. They’d be an improvement on that bastard Huldar. He’d obviously put in a complaint about her, on top of all his other sins.

  The boot finally slid into place. Freyja pulled down the leg of Saga’s snowsuit and slipped the strap under her sole. ‘Remember, Saga?’ The little girl looked at her with a frown. ‘Huldar,’ Freyja said. ‘Huldar.’ Freyja made a face at her and waited.

  Saga produced a fearsome scowl and Freyja grinned. Attagirl.

  As soon as Freyja had delivered Saga back into the arms of her mother, who behaved as if she were recovering her daughter from an expedition to the moon, she phoned Sólveig. The conversation began well: Sólveig was thrilled to be so sought-after all of a sudden – until she heard that the case involved Thröstur and Sigrún. At that point she suddenly discovered all sorts of reasons why she couldn’t come out at such short notice. It wouldn’t be professional, she said. After that nothing Freyja tried, neither pleading nor veiled threats, had any effect. It was strange she was so opposed to helping out. Freyja thought briefly of the S in the letter … but why would Thröstur want to harm someone he had hardly met, and who had nothing to do with his father’s trial? And how many people in Iceland had names that started with S?

  It wasn’t worth walking home to fetch the car, so Freyja took the bus. Still in a foul mood, she sat at the back, wiping the mist from the window. The view was dispiriting. The anorak-clad pedestrians looked like zombies picking their way gingerly along the slippery pavements, heads down, hands thrust in their pockets. Every now and then Freyja’s reflection appeared in the glass, her face red in all the wrong places, her hair wild from her battle with the elements. Still, it wasn’t as though there was anyone she needed to impress at the dreary CID offices.

  She got off the bus and joined the ranks of the zombies, pulling up her hood, burying her hands in her pockets and trying to shield her face from the stinging pellets of snow. She had nearly reached the Police Commissioner’s headquarters when she passed a car parked outside. The driver was staring fixedly at the entrance and it was only as she was about to go inside that she twigged. It was Orri, Vaka’s father, the man who had come to fetch his ex-wife from the police station.

  Freyja turned back and studied him. He was peering at the doors, apparently without realising that she was watching him. What the hell did he want? Freyja continued inside and stamped off the snow. The big clock on the wall opposite showed that she still had twenty minutes until the interview started. As she had no intention of spending any longer than necessary in Huldar’s company, she decided to loiter in the lobby. Taking up position by the door, she watched Orri through the glass.

  The man was staring at the building as if transfixed. She thought he was holding something to his eyes – binoculars, perhaps. What on earth was he up to? There was something very poignant about the scene: the father of a long-dead girl sitting in his car outside police headquarters, binoculars to his eyes, on a freezing winter’s day. If life hadn’t treated him so badly he would be at home or at work right now, still married to Dagmar; Vaka would have moved out and perhaps been on the cusp of starting her own family. The melting snow dripped from Freyja’s coat, as if weeping for the family’s tragic fate. If Orri was awaiting his chance to attack Jón Jónsson, their fate would be even more tragic.

  Zipping up her coat again, Freyja went outside, walked straight over to his car and tapped on the window. When he turned and met her gaze he looked horrified, like a man caught trespassing. Freyja gestured to him to roll down the window.

  ‘Hi. My name’s Freyja. We met when you came to collect your ex-wife from the police station on Hlemmur.’

  ‘Yes, I remember you.’ While he was speaking, Orri laid the binoculars on the passenger seat and pulled a newspaper over them. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I just wanted to check if you were waiting for anyone in particular.’

  ‘No.’ The man paused, then added, sounding irritated: ‘Is there some law against sitting here? I’m not in anybody’s way.’

  ‘You can sit here as long as you like. I just wanted to point out that this isn’t the best place to ambush someone – if that’s your plan. Think about it – it’s police headquarters. You’d be arrested immediately.’

  Orri looked a little sheepish and seemed at a loss. Freyja could almost hear him thinking: Should I deny it or thank her for the tip and take myself home? She hoped he would opt for the latter course. If he did something stupid now it would only exacerbate his and Dagmar’s troubles. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware, but people who take revenge don’t get an easy ride from the justice system, however horrific the crime against them may have been.’

  Orri remained silent. Apparently he didn’t trust himself to look at Freyja.

  ‘Can I tell you something?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’m making assumptions here, but I’m guessing that you’re hoping to run into Jón Jónsson, possibly because you want to kill him. No need to confirm or deny it, I’m not a police officer.’ Seeing the man relax at this, she added: ‘But you should bear in mind that it’s extremely rare – extremely rare – for anyone to actually go ahead and do the deed. People may dream of revenge but when it comes to the crunch, they hardly ever go through with it. And there’s a reason for that: your life would never be the same again. If you’re sucked into the abyss, you’ll never get out. So you’d be better off leaving the man alone. He’s not worth it.’

  ‘Easy for you to say.’

  ‘I know what I’m talking about. I help children who’ve been sexually abused, so I’ve met countless parents who are coping with the same kind of thoughts that you’re wrestling with now.’

  ‘But you don’t work with children who’ve been killed by men like that. Or their parents.’ His voice emerged as a growl.

  ‘You’re right.’ Freyja wondered if she should leave it at that and stop interfering. Whatever he was planning, when it came to the point he would probably stop at beating the man up. Perhaps that would do him good. Or perhaps Orri was one of those who would be unable to restrain himself from committing more serious violence. ‘I do know for certain that you won’t heal your grief by attacking this man. You’ll only get yourself into terrible trouble.’

  Orri grunted. ‘Not that it’s any of your business but, to be honest, I don’t really know what I’m doing here.’

  ‘Why not go home then?’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Yes.’ The snow had turned into sleet and her trouser legs were soaked. ‘Or back to work.’ She recalled Gudmundur Lárusson telling her that Orr
i was an estate agent. Quite a successful one too. ‘When you’re struggling it can help to immerse yourself in work. It can provide temporary relief.’

  ‘Temporary, yes.’

  ‘Think about it.’ Freyja straightened up. She would have to go back inside or she’d be late. And anyway she couldn’t untangle the man’s emotional turmoil out here in the sleet. She pulled out her card and pushed it at him. He hesitated. ‘Take it in case you want to talk to someone. My specialism is children but I might be able to recommend someone who can help you – if I turn out to be useless.’

  Orri took the card. He examined it, then put it on the seat beside the binoculars. ‘Thanks. Though I doubt I’ll call.’

  ‘It’s entirely up to you.’

  He rolled up the window without saying goodbye. Freyja headed back inside. The clock in the foyer showed that she was cutting it very fine. As she entered the lift, she glanced back and saw that his car was still there.

  Chapter 27

  Freyja’s worries about being late turned out to be unnecessary. Huldar wasn’t even there when she arrived. Gudlaugur greeted her, shy and sweaty-palmed. He informed her that Huldar had gone to pick up Thröstur’s sister, Sigrún, since the plan was to interview her first. The young woman had rung to say she doubted she could come and he had thought it safer to jump in the car and go and fetch her himself.

  The atmosphere was muted in the CID office, even though virtually every desk was occupied. The detectives were pale and uncommunicative. Perhaps there was a bug going around.

  Gudlaugur, in contrast, seemed bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, despite his hapless attempts at conversation. He managed to offer Freyja coffee no fewer than three times but seemed unable to think of anything else to say. After an embarrassed silence, he invited her instead to come into the incident room. As he made to open the door, however, he hesitated, apparently recalling too late that she wasn’t actually a member of the inquiry team. From where she was standing Freyja could see documents and pictures pinned all over the wall and comments scribbled on a whiteboard. She glimpsed some rather grisly photographs. No wonder Gudlaugur had hesitated. Hastily she assured him that she was already bound by confidentiality, so it was quite safe to let her in. Her curiosity was piqued; it wasn’t every day that she came into contact with material like this.