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

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  ‘The death notice says he died suddenly. And the Supreme Court issued a brief press release, saying only that he had died, followed by a lot of stuff about his education and career. I also went through the obituaries. There are tons of them. But nowhere is there any reference to what he died of; most gloss over the subject or just refer to a premature death. The thing is, it was the same when one of my friends killed himself: no one wanted to hurt his parents by referring directly to the fact that he’d taken his own life.’ Gudlaugur paused for breath. ‘So I reckon the judge committed suicide. Of course it’s unlikely to have had anything to do with this case, but it’s a bit odd all the same.’

  ‘When was this?’ Huldar didn’t know enough about obituaries or death notices to tell if Gudlaugur’s conclusion was correct, still less whether it was significant.

  ‘Very recently. Only two months ago.’

  So they had narrowly missed their chance to talk to the man. Suspiciously narrowly. Had he known that a storm was brewing and decided to make his exit? It was a strange coincidence, if nothing else. ‘Was he married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Ring the widow and ask her what happened. Find out how he died.’

  ‘What?’ Gudlaugur looked aghast.

  ‘Go on. You can do it. Just remember how you spoke to your friend’s parents at his funeral. And choose your words carefully. The woman will still be grieving. Tell her the truth – that her husband’s name has cropped up during an investigation, though of course he’s not suspected of any wrongdoing.’

  Gudlaugur was looking pale. ‘OK. I just need a moment to prepare myself.’ He sat down, vanishing from sight.

  Huldar reached for the phone.

  The lawyer answered after three rings, sounding as if he had high hopes of this conversation. ‘I was expecting a call from you. Does this mean he’s been found?’

  ‘I’m sorry – did you say you were expecting this call?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t the police put out a wanted notice for Jón? I assumed you must have caught him and that he’d asked for me. What’s he done this time?’

  Huldar cottoned on. ‘We’re appealing for news because no one’s seen him since his release. I was actually ringing you about another matter.’

  ‘Is he out already? God, how time flies.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t know?’

  ‘No. I just assumed he’d escaped and you were hunting for him. I haven’t heard from him since the verdict was returned at the Supreme Court.’

  ‘What?’ Huldar rooted around among the scribbled pages of notes beside his computer. ‘I was told you two had kept up a correspondence. About his case, I assumed. That’s what the prison authorities said, anyway.’

  ‘What? Me? I’ve never written to him or sent him anything. They must be mistaken.’

  Huldar raised his eyebrows. The lawyer sounded not only certain but astonished. He doubted the man had sent a single letter. ‘Then I must have misunderstood what they said. Anyway, that’s not what I was calling about. I was wondering if you could tell me about the time Jón Jónsson was acquitted by the Reykjanes District Court. We’re having a lot of trouble digging up any information on the trial and I was hoping you wouldn’t mind filling me in on the details. I know it’s Sunday but the matter’s rather urgent.’

  ‘I understand. May I ask why?’

  ‘It’s related to an ongoing inquiry into a serious incident.’

  ‘Benedikt Toft.’

  ‘Yes. He was the prosecutor in the case I just mentioned. We’re trying to find out if his job could have had something to do with his murder.’

  ‘So you think Jón Jónsson’s the killer?’

  ‘Maybe. It’s one of the angles we’re pursuing. Can you recall the trial? I don’t suppose you still have the paperwork?’

  ‘Of course I’ve still got all the paperwork. I never throw anything away. You’re welcome to copy anything that doesn’t touch on my confidential relationship with my client.’

  ‘Thanks, we’d be very grateful for that, but a brief summary would be helpful too. All we really know is that the trial was about the sexual abuse of minors.’

  ‘I see. That shouldn’t be a problem. The case was so bizarre that it stuck in my memory, although it was a long time ago.’ Huldar heard footsteps at the other end of the line, then a door closing and the creaking of leather as the lawyer sat down. Maybe even the clink of ice cubes. He had a mental image of the man sipping a whisky. That would be good, as the alcohol was bound to loosen his tongue. ‘Jón was charged with having abused his own daughter and son. I don’t remember their names. The story emerged when the girl started school at six and told her teacher. That alone was pretty unusual. The kids were supposed to tell the class what their parents did and she misunderstood the question. Before the teacher could stop her, the girl had come out with a description of certain acts that was explicit, to say the least. The teacher took her aside and after hearing the whole story she was convinced it wasn’t made up, so she took the girl to the police.’

  ‘There doesn’t appear to be any record of this.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me. The teacher must have been a tough cookie, judging by her witness statement. The police in Hafnarfjördur wouldn’t even listen to her, so she went to Reykjavík and reported the incident there. That finally got the ball rolling. But her reward was a letter from the school telling her she was dismissed. It beggars belief.’

  Huldar rummaged among his papers again until he found the page recording the verdict of the district court. Having checked the date, he did some mental arithmetic. ‘Am I right that the girl was six when the case was reported and the trial was held less than a year later? That’s an unusually quick turnaround.’

  ‘Yes, almost unprecedented. But that’s what happened. The inquiry was a complete shambles and the whole thing was rushed through.’

  ‘And he was let off? How was that possible if the child’s testimony was that strong?’

  ‘There was nothing wrong with her testimony, I can assure you. But her brother insisted their father was innocent – that he hadn’t touched either of them. Naturally his statement undermined half the charge, but the prosecutor didn’t seem to care. He didn’t ask the boy a single question. The prosecutor was Benedikt Toft, of course. I had the feeling he wasn’t particularly committed to winning the case, and no appeal was ever lodged. I kept having to restrain myself from intervening and doing the prosecution’s job for him, he let so many points pass unchallenged. The whole process made me very uncomfortable. But the mother backed up the boy’s statement, a representative from Hafnarfjördur social services gave the family a glowing report, the child psychologist appointed by the local authority said the girl had probably made it up, and after only half a day in court, the whole thing was over. The teacher’s name wasn’t even on the witness list, so her testimony was never heard. Two weeks later the verdict was announced and – what do you know? – Jón Jónsson was acquitted. I’m not particularly proud of that victory and it came as no surprise when he reoffended a year later. Much more seriously, of course. But, you know, trials were very different in those days.’ There was a definite rattle of ice cubes and the faint sound of sipping.

  ‘Have you any idea what was going on?’

  ‘Well, I have my suspicions, but they’re only a hunch. I’m not sure I should be sharing them with you.’

  ‘Right now we’d be grateful for any information. Another man’s been killed – Kolbeinn Ragnarsson – and there’s a third we haven’t managed to identify yet. We believe more people could be in danger too.’

  ‘Did you say Kolbeinn Ragnarsson?’

  ‘Yes. Did you know him?’

  ‘I could have sworn the man who represented Hafnarfjördur social services at the trial was called Kolbeinn. What was his patronymic again? The prosecutor never queried his participation in the trial, though there was every reason to. He was some kind of departmental manager for Hafnarfjördur Council, and had no q
ualifications as a social worker. And there were plenty more irregularities like that.’

  ‘What about the judge? Shouldn’t he have asked the questions the prosecution failed to put?’

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t. Yngvi Sigurhjartarson showed as little interest in the case as the prosecutor. It was all extremely odd. I didn’t know what to make of it when he was elevated to the Supreme Court shortly afterwards. Perhaps he already knew about his promotion and his mind wasn’t on the job.’

  ‘He died recently. Had you heard?’

  ‘Yes. There were rumours in the courts.’

  ‘Rumours? About what?’

  ‘Oh, I hate passing on gossip.’ The man exhaled and the phone crackled in Huldar’s ear. ‘You’d better take it with a pinch of salt, but the rumour is that it was suicide.’

  So Gudlaugur had been right. ‘How?’ It wasn’t unheard of for murders to be made to look like suicides, and the killer they were after would have no scruples about doing something like that.

  ‘I gather he walked into the sea.’ The man hesitated, then added: ‘But as I said, I don’t have that on reliable authority.’

  ‘I understand.’ Huldar wondered if he should leave it at that, then remembered that one question remained unanswered. ‘You said you’d had your suspicions about why Jón’s first trial was such a travesty. What were they?’

  The lawyer laughed coldly. ‘I think I’ll declare a conflict of interests if or when Jón’s arrested for these murders. I can only welcome his recapture. I’ve no desire to defend him again.’ The ice cubes clinked against his glass and he took another mouthful and swallowed before continuing: ‘At the time I got the impression that Jón’s father – or stepfather, rather – had something to do with it. Though I had no evidence for that apart from his being a big fish in Hafnarfjördur – I have a feeling he might even have been mayor.’

  ‘Einar Adalbertsson was chairman of the town council, not mayor. But he was influential in his day, president of all kinds of associations, not to mention his political connections.’

  ‘Exactly. In light of that, one can’t help asking oneself who was responsible for the odd decision to send Kolbeinn to represent the local authority in court. And what about the psychologist? How impartial was she? The accused was the stepson of a man who was to all intents and purposes her employer.’

  ‘But if Jón was Einar’s stepson, that means Sigrún was in a sense his granddaughter. What about her? And her brother Thröstur?’ Huldar couldn’t understand why Sigrún’s grandfather would be more likely to help his stepson get off than save his granddaughter from being abused.

  ‘Good question. Einar attended the trial and I remember watching him while the girl was giving her testimony and wondering how he felt. It can’t be much fun listening to your grandchild giving a detailed account of the incomprehensible things your stepson, her father, did to her. If it had been me, there’s no doubt whose side I’d have been on.’

  ‘Same here.’

  ‘One last thing. From what I could see, Einar and the judge were the best of mates. Einar and the prosecutor too. Yet another irregularity.’

  ‘Shouldn’t the judge have declared a conflict of interests?’

  ‘You’d have thought so. But Jón was the son of Einar’s second wife and never formally adopted, so the judge may have taken a different view. Of course that’s not a valid defence, but who was supposed to draw attention to the point? I couldn’t do it as it would have gone against the interests of my client. And the prosecutor seemed to share the same conflict of interests, so he wouldn’t have raised any objection. Sigrún’s mother and brother insisted everything was fine and so did all the other witnesses who testified at the trial. The only person who seems to have wanted justice was the little girl herself. But she was too young to realise that anything was amiss. And the rest is history.’ The lawyer paused, then added: ‘But I can’t for the life of me see why Jón would want to kill Kolbeinn or Benedikt. Neither of them showed any desire to put him behind bars. Quite the reverse. I think you’re after the wrong man.’

  They said goodbye, both in a rather more sombre frame of mind than when they had begun their conversation. Huldar closed his eyes so he could concentrate better and sat like that until the idiots at the neighbouring desks started joking that he’d fallen asleep again. Then he sprang up and marched over to Erla’s office, not to explain his feelings, but to talk about what really mattered – the inquiry.

  ‘What were you and Erla discussing?’ Gudlaugur had held back for all of five minutes after Huldar’s return. To give the boy his due, he hadn’t almost dislocated his neck trying to peer through the glass wall into Erla’s office, like his colleagues had. What kind of spectacle they’d been hoping to see was hard to say.

  ‘I was briefing her about my phone call just now. Which, I can tell you, was pretty interesting.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘First, tell me what the widow had to say. Unless you were ringing your mum while I was away from my desk.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Gudlaugur reddened, conscious that Huldar had overheard countless conversations between him and his mother. ‘I was right: he did kill himself.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. And?’

  ‘How did you know? In that case why did I have to call her?’

  ‘The lawyer told me but I needed confirmation. And to find out how he did it.’

  ‘He walked into the sea.’

  ‘OK. I knew that too. Anything else?’

  ‘His body was never found. Only his car, parked out at Grótta, and his clothes neatly folded up by the lighthouse, with a letter to his wife in his coat pocket. His watch and jewellery lay on top of his clothes.’

  ‘Jewellery? What kind of jewellery?’

  ‘A wedding ring. And a Freemason’s ring.’

  ‘A Freemason’s ring?’

  ‘Yes. He was a Supreme Court judge. They’re all Freemasons. That’s what his wife said, anyway.’

  Huldar didn’t waste time pointing out that this was unlikely to apply to any female judges. ‘Ring her back. Tell her we’re on our way over.’

  Gudlaugur looked horrified. ‘No, please. You do it. It was an incredibly awkward conversation.’

  ‘Do it. I’ll bring the car round and meet you downstairs. I promise you needn’t say a word when we meet her. I’ll do the talking.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Call the woman. I’ll fill you in about my phone call to the lawyer on the way over there. Chop-chop, we need to get there and back before the guy from Forensics leaves for the day.’ Without giving Gudlaugur a further chance to protest, Huldar left. He decided not to notify Erla: there was no time to lose and no need to raise her hopes unnecessarily. He was about to cause her enough disappointment as it was.

  Less than an hour later they left the home of Yngvi Sigurhjartarson’s widow. Huldar was carrying a plastic bag. The visit had been excruciatingly uncomfortable; the woman’s eyes kept filling with tears as though she was about to break down. She took so long to find something Yngvi alone could have touched that they were both twitching with impatience. Finally she located the tablet that only he had used in a drawer in their bedroom. Huldar took it from her with gloved hands and placed it in a clear plastic bag. Luckily the woman was too dazed to repeat her question about why on earth they needed his fingerprints. Once they had got what they wanted at last, they almost fell over each other in their haste to leave before the truth dawned on her.

  By observing only limited respect for the speed limit, Huldar managed to get back to the office before the forensic technician left for the day. The man heaved a sigh when Huldar ordered him to take off his coat and fetch his fingerprint kit, but he obeyed.

  He compared the prints on the tablet with those of the hands found in Benedikt Toft’s hot tub. The instant the results appeared, his complaints were forgotten.

  They left Forensics in a triumphant mood and Huldar got a particular kick out of bursting into Erla’s office
to break the news to her. They had found the owner of the hands: none other than the Supreme Court judge, Yngvi Sigurhjartarson.

  No one would dare to call him Sleeping Beauty now.

  Chapter 31

  Thorvaldur was cold. God, he was cold. The floor of this hellhole was wet; the ceiling was dripping and the rough walls were icy and damp, even slimy in places. Although as a rule he despised people who claimed to have illnesses caused by mould spores, he was beginning to wonder if there might be something in it after all. His throat was raw from the mildew in the air and the soreness had now spread right down to his lungs. If he didn’t get a grip on himself, his imagination would start running riot, picturing green spores spreading through his bronchial tubes, leading to years of chronic illness that would ruin his future prospects – as if they weren’t bleak enough at this moment. It was certainly hard to see how he was to escape from his current predicament in one piece.

  He mustn’t think like that.

  And he mustn’t let his eyes stray to the shapeless mound under the tatty old blanket in the corner. He still hadn’t dared look under it, put off by the ghastly stench. Whatever it was, it could hardly provide him with a way out of here. The concrete walls were windowless and the steel door was locked.

  He had never been good with his hands or performed any kind of manual labour. He had difficulty even picturing the kind of tools that could help him break out of here. All that came to mind was a gun, but that wouldn’t open the door. Though with a gun he could at least overpower the person who was keeping him prisoner here.

  If he had asked himself yesterday whether he would be prepared to shoot another human being, the answer would have been no. Today, he would aim straight for the heart or head. Without flinching.

  But he didn’t have a gun. That was pure fantasy. There would be no chance of stepping over the dead body of the person who had brought him here; of wiping his shoes on their corpse as he walked out of the open door.