Freyja examined the display, studying the photographs and reading bits of text, fascinated by the horror, almost forgetting about Gudlaugur fidgeting behind her. Finally she looked round at him with a grimace. ‘This is major-league stuff.’
‘I know.’ He smiled shyly. ‘You must be pretty tough. Are you a doctor, by any chance? A psychiatrist, I mean, rather than a psychologist?’
‘No. I’m a psychologist.’ Freyja turned back and studied the photo of the hands. ‘Perhaps the pictures don’t affect me that much because they seem so unreal. I mean, I know they’re real but my mind can’t take it in. It just assumes they’ve been photoshopped.’
‘I can assure you they haven’t. Trust me, I was there when they found them.’
‘What about these … feet?’ Freyja pointed to a similar photograph. ‘I didn’t know about them.’
‘They were only discovered this morning.’
‘Do they belong to the same person?’
‘Almost certainly, but we’ll need to do a DNA test before that can be confirmed. The blood group matches, though, and the pathologist reckons they belong to a man of the same sort of age.’ Gudlaugur stared at the photo. ‘The feet were also cut off with a chainsaw, but it’s thought the man was dead by then. I was extremely relieved to hear that.’
Freyja smiled at him. His confession was unusually honest, and she automatically assumed that he must be from the countryside. ‘I see you’ve started taking Thröstur’s letter seriously. The one from the time capsule, I mean.’ She gestured at the whiteboard where the initials had been written in a single column. Names had been added after some of them. BT stood for Benedikt Toft, K for Kolbeinn Ragnarsson and JJ for Jón Jónsson. There were question marks after S and OV and also after the I. At the bottom was the name Thorvaldur Svavarsson, followed by two question marks. ‘Who’s Thorvaldur Svavarsson?’
‘The man who owns the garden where the feet were found. He’s a prosecutor but so far he doesn’t seem to have any link to Jón Jónsson. Except that the other day a stranger lured his children into a car, then returned them with a message to say hello to their father from Vaka.’
‘Vaka Orradóttir?’
‘We think so. It only emerged this morning when their mother was interviewed again. She was asked to come and fetch the children when the feet turned up – she and Thorvaldur are divorced. The fact didn’t come out during her original interview about the abduction.’ Looking embarrassed, Gudlaugur added: ‘That is, she didn’t mention it then. The mother, I mean.’
‘What about the man who took the children? Has he been caught?’
‘No. He was wearing a Father Christmas costume and they can’t describe him or his car. They’re very young – nursery age.’
Freyja was well aware of how imprecise children could be when it came to describing things. ‘Jón Jónsson’s the obvious candidate. Have you had any luck tracking him down?’
Gudlaugur shook his head. ‘No. Unfortunately.’ He brightened a little. ‘But we’ve established that the hands don’t belong to him. We compared the fingerprints to those on a book he used to own and they don’t match.’
‘Didn’t the police already have his prints on file?’
‘No. There was a mix-up. And now the Prosecutor’s office is having trouble digging up some records we wanted to see. But that’s inevitable when you’re dealing with historical cases. Nothing’s kept forever.’
Freyja was sceptical. Losing one set of fingerprints might have been a mistake, but when so many of the official records relating directly or indirectly to Jón Jónsson had vanished into thin air, there had to be more to it. You’d have thought the files had been systematically destroyed. She couldn’t imagine how one would go about this, who could have done it, or why, but she kept quiet as she didn’t want to come across as some kind of conspiracy theorist. The police must have realised how irregular the whole thing was. Unless it was a common problem; what did she know about record-keeping in the public sector? ‘Is he your main suspect for all this?’ With a sweeping gesture she indicated the material on the walls.
‘Yes and no. We don’t have any specific suspects. Though, having said that, we believe it must be two individuals working together. It’s hard to see how it would be possible for one person to carry a coffin, let alone lift it out of the grave.’ Gudlaugur pointed at some comments scrawled on the whiteboard: ‘1 person or 2?’ and ‘1, 2 or 3 cases?’, which had been repeatedly circled. ‘As you can see, we aren’t even sure that the coffin, the murder and the sawn-off limbs belong to the same case. Let alone the letter from the time capsule. Perhaps it’s all connected; perhaps not.’
‘Connected? Surely it must be? Einar Adalbertsson, the man in the coffin, was Jón Jónsson’s stepfather, and Thröstur, who wrote the letter, is his son. It can’t be a coincidence. And Benedikt Toft prosecuted in one of Jón’s trials.’
Drawing himself up, Gudlaugur announced rather pompously: ‘We’re hoping the situation will be clarified shortly. A number of questions remain but things are moving in the right direction. Having said that, the old letter’s causing us a few headaches. Did Thröstur draw up the list himself or are these names he knew were on his father’s hit-list? In that case, why are his father’s initials there? Jón Jónsson can hardly have intended to do away with himself.’
‘No. Hardly.’ Though Freyja couldn’t help thinking how convenient that would be. ‘If these are Jón’s intended targets, I suppose Thröstur could have added his initials to the list with the idea of finishing off his father himself.’
Gudlaugur didn’t seem to think this worthy of comment. He rubbed his smooth jaw. ‘Another puzzle for us is, if Jón Jónsson’s the perpetrator, who’s his accomplice? He doesn’t have many friends. You wouldn’t think he had many acquaintances either. He was in prison for over ten years. We’ve spoken to Litla-Hraun and most of the other inmates couldn’t stand him; he kept himself to himself. So it’s unlikely he made a friend there who could be acting as his accomplice now.’
‘And his son’s unlikely to be helping him.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met Thröstur.’ Gudlaugur folded his arms and perched on the table. ‘But we can’t rule out the possibility that he’s involved. He’s even a potential suspect for the murders, either of Benedikt Toft or of the owner of the hands and feet, or both.’
‘But let’s say he would have needed two accomplices?’
Gudlaugur shrugged. ‘A friend, his mother – even the sister, though I gather she looks as if she wouldn’t say boo to a goose. And personally I don’t believe a woman could be involved.’
Freyja bit back the observation that women were no slouches in this area. In fact, they had shown themselves capable of extraordinary brutality, especially in relation to paedophiles. But nothing like this had happened in Iceland to date; no women – or men for that matter – had retaliated in anything like the horrific fashion illustrated on the wall. The victims didn’t fit this scenario either; at least Benedikt Toft didn’t. As far as she knew, he was no paedophile. ‘Are any of these men – Benedikt Toft, Kolbeinn or this Thorvaldur – suspected of having abused children?’
‘No. Their backgrounds have been thoroughly vetted, so they’d have to have kept it incredibly quiet.’
It was as she suspected. This simply didn’t fit. ‘What about Vaka’s father, Orri? Have you considered him? Or her mother?’
‘Yes, but we didn’t get anywhere. As long as the hands could have belonged to Jón, Orri was a strong candidate, and if Jón’s found dead the guy will go back to the top of our list. And his ex-wife will be number two. But we can’t see what motive he had to murder Benedikt Toft. Or what could have prompted him to saw off somebody’s hands and feet.’
‘He’s outside right now. Sitting in his car, watching the entrance. I think he’s waiting for Jón Jónsson to appear. That’s not to say I believe he’ll actually kill him – but who knows?’
She accompanied Gudlaugur out of the room a
nd over to a window, but the car had gone.
The atmosphere in the interview room was oppressive. The room itself was drab and cheerless; its yellowing walls were kept deliberately bare so there was nothing to distract the attention of the person being interviewed; the chairs were hard so they couldn’t get too comfortable; the table was battered and stained. Freyja and Huldar’s strained interaction did nothing to alleviate the tension either. She kept her eyes averted and he seemed to get the message as he never looked her way.
He seemed sheepish and at the same time depressed. When he turned up with Sigrún he had avoided Freyja’s eye and merely offered her coffee. She quickly declined, having had plenty of practice by now as this was the fourth such offer she’d had since entering the building.
Sigrún completed the dreary scene. She sat facing them with the air of someone who has just been informed of the death of a close relative. Shoulders drooping, hands in her lap, though they seemed to be constantly fidgeting, judging by the twitching of her shoulders. Her long, dry hair hung down over her cheeks like two curtains. So far she had answered all Huldar’s questions with monosyllables. No, she didn’t know where her father was. No, she hadn’t seen or heard from him. No, she knew nothing about Thröstur’s letter. No, she didn’t know Benedikt Toft, Kolbeinn Ragnarsson or Thorvaldur Svavarsson. No, she had no idea who could have dug up the coffin of the man referred to as her grandfather, though he was no blood relation. No, she hadn’t been involved; she didn’t have a driving licence and didn’t know how to operate a mechanical digger. No, she’d never touched a chainsaw and didn’t know anyone who owned such a thing. Each answer emerged in a near whisper and Freyja’s head ached from having to strain her ears every time Sigrún opened her mouth.
Freyja felt a vibration in her coat pocket. Her phone. It must be Baldur, eager to hear how she had got on with the babyminding. She regretted having turned off the ringer; it would have been a relief to have an excuse to step outside and chat to her brother. She had no contribution to make. She was just sitting here, listening to what passed between Huldar and Sigrún. Baldur’s call was far more important; he couldn’t just ring someone else. Freyja felt even worse than before, upset by the thought that she was letting down the most important person in her life. Patience wasn’t one of Baldur’s virtues and she knew the phone would only vibrate a few more times before he gave up. Sigrún’s hands appeared from under the table and she brushed the hair back from her face. Again they saw her evasive gaze in her pale, expressionless face. Beside her, Freyja heard Huldar ask: ‘What happened to your hand?’
The result was the longest continuous speech Sigrún had produced so far, and Freyja snapped back to the present. ‘An accident. I was so young at the time, I don’t really remember it.’ Sigrún stared at the stumps where the little finger and ring finger of her right hand used to be, as if seeing them for the first time. Then she flinched and stuck her hands under the table again.
‘I understand that it was your brother Thröstur who did this to you. Is that correct?’ Huldar pushed a packet of Ópal liquorice towards Sigrún, who shook her head, though whether in reply to the question or to decline the sweets was unclear. Huldar persisted: ‘So Thröstur had nothing to do with it?’
‘No. Not as such. Not deliberately.’
‘Not deliberately? What do you mean? What exactly hap-pened?’
‘Does it matter?’ Sigrún met Huldar’s gaze, then dropped her eyes again, her face filled with sadness.
‘We simply don’t know at this stage. But I can tell you one thing, the more we know, the more likely we are to find this murderer who’s on the loose. He’s already killed two people. So I’d appreciate it if you could answer all our questions.’
‘Can this one wait?’ The small voice sounded like that of a little girl.
‘Er … yes, I suppose that’s OK.’ Huldar sounded taken aback: evidently this was an unusual request by an interviewee. ‘Last time we met, we asked you about visiting your father in prison. We know now that you went there once; it’s on record and you signed the form. Why did you visit him and why did you never go back?’
‘I went to tell him I didn’t hate him.’
At this point Freyja intervened for the first time. The question and answer had roused her curiosity. People like Sigrún didn’t usually act on impulse; they weighed things up carefully. ‘Why was that? What prompted you to go then?’
‘I … I was reading a book. A self-help book.’ Sigrún stopped talking, apparently with no intention of elaborating. She hardly needed to. Freyja had looked at a few of these works out of professional interest and could all too easily imagine the chapter on how people should face up to their fears; how attack was the best method of defence, and so on. In Sigrún’s case such advice was highly questionable; she had every right to be allowed to live in peace and security, and shouldn’t be forced to confront her traumatic past without help. Meeting their attacker face to face rarely helped the victims of sexual violence get over their ordeal. At best the effects were short-lived. Before long their distress would return.
‘Did this book recommend that you confront your past? And did you interpret that as meaning you should meet your father and talk to him?’
‘Yes.’ Sigrún kept her eyes lowered.
‘Do you feel it helped at all?’
Sigrún’s curtains of hair swung to and fro as she shook her head. ‘No. I just felt worse. I threw up in the bus on the way back to town.’
‘Tell me something, Sigrún. Since you’re obviously interested in working through your problems, have you never been to therapy? I promise you that it would be more beneficial for you than any self-help books.’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Not even as a child? After your father was sent to prison?’
‘No.’
‘May I ask why not? You could have received free treatment on the state.’
‘Mum didn’t want me to. Nor did Thröstur. They’re against that sort of thing.’
‘I see.’ Freyja looked at the abject creature in front of her, and allowed her righteous indignation to flare up, then subside again, before she went on. It would be futile to criticise Sigrún’s mother or brother, who were just as broken and damaged as she was. ‘I think we should have a chat later about the options available. It’s never too late to overcome the kinds of issues you must be grappling with, and I can help you if you like.’ For the second time that day Freyja dug a card out. She was turning into a walking advertising campaign. Usually her cards lay untouched until they were so creased she had to chuck them out.
‘Yes. Maybe.’ Sigrún put the card in the pocket of her anorak, which she hadn’t taken off, despite the warmth in the room.
‘Would you be willing to answer the question about how you came to lose your fingers?’
‘Then can I go? Once I’ve answered?’
Huldar clicked his tongue. ‘Yes. All right.’ He had slumped down in his chair but now straightened up again. Reaching for the packet of Ópal that neither Sigrún nor Freyja had touched, he popped two in his mouth and went on, a little thickly: ‘Tell me how Thröstur was involved.’
‘He didn’t do it. You mustn’t think that.’
‘I don’t know what to think. That’s up to you to fix. Go on.’ Huldar’s voice had acquired a harsher, more authoritative edge than before.
‘It was an accident. A mistake.’
‘You’ll have to be more precise. There are different kinds of accidents and mistakes. But they don’t usually end up with someone losing their fingers.’
‘I don’t really know any more than that. All I know is that he didn’t do it on purpose.’
‘Do what?’
‘I don’t know. I was too young to remember.’
‘Surely your mother or Thröstur must have told you what happened?’
‘He took me somewhere and it happened. Mum told me it was an accident; he was only a child, so he couldn’t have known what could go wrong. I rememb
er the policeman who found us, and our grandfather. He came to fetch us. Then I remember the hospital. And how strange I felt afterwards. For a long time I thought my fingers would grow back.’ Sigrún abruptly went quiet, as if she had surprised herself with this long speech. ‘I was only four, you see.’
‘Really? No one’s ever told you exactly what happened?’
‘No.’
‘And you never asked?’ Huldar couldn’t hide his astonishment. He leant forward over the table in an attempt to convey a solicitous interest. Although the harsh note had left his voice, Sigrún recoiled. His proximity obviously made her uncomfortable, as it had earlier when he had reached out a hand to guide her into the room. Freyja wondered if it would have been better for a female officer to conduct the interview. Unshaven, his hair a mess, Huldar gave off a powerful aura of masculinity, though it wouldn’t have made much difference if he had been tidy and clean-shaven.
‘I used to ask. In the old days. But I never got any real answers. Mum told me what I’ve told you. It was a mistake, an accident. It was better not to think about it. Only a pianist needs all ten fingers anyway.’ Sigrún met Huldar’s gaze with a firmness unusual for her. ‘And we never owned a piano.’
The interview was going nowhere. But before they called it a day, Freyja decided to ask the question that had been preying on her mind ever since she’d first laid eyes on the girl.
The Reckoning: Children's House Book 2 (Freyja and Huldar) Page 26