The Legacy

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  Huldar rubbed his face hard. His hands needed employment, but when he lowered them again he felt no different. He missed the days when it had been somebody else’s job to worry about the progress of the investigation. When some officer above him in the pecking order had to wrestle with the question of who would resort to such an act and whether the method provided any clues to the murderer’s motives. Now there was no escaping the responsibility. He studied the grotesque spectacle of Ástrós’s head, exhaling slowly. It had to be the same man. It was inconceivable that two psychopaths with an almost identical M.O. could exist in a small place like Iceland.

  The pathologist snapped his case shut and Erla, who had been standing in a daze against the wall, almost jumped out of her skin. It had been a long day. Too long. Huldar had not only fatigue to contend with but a splitting headache as well. The harsh lighting caused spots to dance before his eyes, forcing him to abandon the attempt to focus on anything. His phone rang in his pocket but he didn’t answer, just as he hadn’t when it had rung before. He hadn’t even bothered to check who was trying to reach him; the crime scene required his undivided attention. Murders, rare as they were in Iceland, thank God, had to take priority over everything else. The first time his phone rang, everyone had paused in the middle of what they were doing and looked at him, startled. Now no one took any notice when he didn’t answer.

  ‘Did you take the suction cups and glass-cutter?’ The pathologist’s voice hinted that even he was not having the best of days. He massaged his face where his mask had pinched it.

  ‘Yes.’ The phone went silent as Huldar spoke. His headache receded slightly. The attacker had entered through the balcony door. This was indicated by a kick mark on the wall beside it, footprints in the snow on the balcony and tracks leading from the door to the hall. The footprints were left by shoes in a common man’s size but the pattern on the sole was too indistinct to analyse.

  The balcony door had been opened by cutting a hole in the glass. A suction lifter had been used for the task but it appeared that the murderer wasn’t entirely familiar with the device as the suction cup had fallen inside the flat when he tried to free the round of glass, which had then shattered. After that it had been an easy matter for the intruder to reach in and open the door from the inside. He appeared to have attacked the woman in the bedroom hallway. This was indicated by the black lines on the floor, which started outside the bathroom and led to the kitchen where her body had been discovered. The lines were assumed to be rubber marks left by the woman’s slippers as the killer dragged her behind him. After this the sequence of events was unclear.

  The pathologist was removing his paper overalls. ‘There’s something you need to bear in mind. If this turns out to be the same man, he won’t hesitate to kill again. Of course, he might be satisfied with these two, but after this it won’t really affect his sentence how many more lives he takes. All it would mean is twenty years instead of sixteen. It’s a sobering thought.’

  The atmosphere grew oppressive again. ‘Let’s just hope the killer is concerned for himself. Presumably he doesn’t want to be caught, but every murder increases the chances that he will be. Always assuming it’s the same man.’ Huldar hoped this logic would serve to encourage the team: they had to believe that the worst was over.

  Personally, though, Huldar doubted it was, and his colleagues seemed to be of the same opinion. Ríkhardur turned back to the shelf he was dusting and Erla lowered her gaze and folded her arms. He decided to send them home; they had done well. He could finish things off with forensics. Their relief was plain, though they tried not to show it. But when Huldar asked Ríkhardur to drive past Freyja’s place on the way home, the man’s impassive mask slipped a little, betraying his exhaustion. He seemed grateful when Huldar explained that she lived on Grandi, not far from his own home in the west end. He was even more grateful when Huldar stressed that he needn’t go inside, just take a look around from the car and make sure all was quiet. Now that Margrét had been moved to Freyja’s flat, it was best to keep an eye on things. There weren’t many people he could ask; apart from the senior officers who had arranged it, Ríkhardur and Erla were the only members of CID who knew about the plan to send the girl there.

  Erla scowled, obviously feeling slighted, but Huldar was too tired to think of any job for her to do on the way home. Unless she could drop by the chemist and buy him some painkillers. But he doubted that would be sufficient to smooth her ruffled feathers, and didn’t have the energy to point out that it made no sense to send her to Freyja’s since she lived on the other side of town in Breidholt. She should just be thankful for the chance to go home and maybe even catch the evening news. Instead, he was silent and merely hoped she would realise how ridiculous it was to think he favoured Ríkhardur over her. The situation would never have arisen if only he had refused his promotion. Yet again he bitterly regretted his decision. But this only made his headache worse.

  It was freezing outside and grateful though he was for the fresh air, Huldar half wished he was inside in the warmth again. He still had to talk to the downstairs neighbours but all he could think about was how badly he needed a cigarette. He pressed the doorbell and held it down, though he knew this would have no effect on the ringing inside. He pressed it again. The occupants were home; another car had appeared in the parking space. He rang the bell a third time.

  One ciggie. It would rid his nostrils of the nauseating smell. All right, two. He had managed to stay off tobacco, had actually forced himself to drive past two kiosks before he reached the chemist. Since then he had been chewing nicotine gum non-stop. He spat out the exhausted gum and replaced it with a new piece. When the door opened, he introduced himself thickly, and asked to have a few words with the occupants.

  ‘Hello. Has something happened?’ The woman pulled her cardigan tighter as if to shield herself from bad news.

  ‘I need to ask you and any other people living here some questions about the events of yesterday evening.’ Huldar slid the gum into his cheek.

  ‘Yesterday evening?’

  ‘That’s right. Were you home?’ The words emerged more distinctly now the gum was out of the way.

  ‘Yes. My husband and I were home from about five. Our children have flown the nest.’ The woman turned her head over her shoulder and bawled: ‘Gunni! It’s the police.’ She turned back to Huldar. ‘We were watching television. The ten o’clock news.’ Her manner conveyed the message that his visit was extremely inconvenient. Evidently she would much rather watch the news than be involved in it.

  The door opened wider and the husband appeared. He seemed no more pleased by the interruption than his wife. ‘What’s up?’ He stuck his head outside and peered around as if he expected to find the explanation in the street.

  ‘I need to know if you heard any unusual noises from the flat upstairs yesterday evening, or noticed anyone coming or going, in the garden or inside the house.’

  The couple seemed indifferent. They didn’t display any concern or curiosity about his reason for asking. ‘Yesterday evening, you say?’ The woman furrowed her brow and glanced at her husband. ‘Was it yesterday or the day before that I heard that crash?’

  ‘Last night, I think.’

  ‘Crash? What time was this?’

  ‘Well, I fell asleep around half past ten, so some time after that. About two, maybe. It woke me up and I looked out of the window but couldn’t see anything. Was there a break-in at Ástrós’s place?’

  Huldar didn’t answer. ‘Are you sure the noise came from there?’ This didn’t fit with the estimated time of death; by 2 a.m. Ástrós would have been dead for a couple of hours. It couldn’t have been the balcony door they heard because the murderer must have broken in considerably earlier. Perhaps he had lingered to admire his handiwork or obliterate any possible traces. He may have knocked over a vase or some other object, though no sign of any other breakage had been found.

  ‘I’m not sure. I was woken by a noise and I was confus
ed. I didn’t check the time because it didn’t occur to me that it was linked to a burglary. If it had, I’d have made more effort to remember.’ Even so, the woman had been concerned enough to look out of the window, but Huldar let this pass. He was merely relieved that the couple had fixed on the idea of a burglary. They had obviously failed to notice the body being carried out to the ambulance.

  ‘What about during the evening? Were you aware of anything then?’

  The couple said no, but corrected themselves after a brief exchange, and concluded that around ten o’clock they had heard voices coming from Ástrós’s flat and what sounded like wailing or crying but it could equally have been laughter. They hadn’t paid any attention as Ástrós was always having visitors round. This last was uttered in a censorious tone. When Huldar questioned them about the gender and possible number of the visitors, they retracted and said maybe it had only been the TV or radio.

  After disagreeing with each other for a while they eventually concurred that it must have been a radio programme or play because there had been no background music or advertisements. The woman added that sound carried easily between the flats. Her resentful expression implied that this was a source of tension, but she abruptly shut up at an unobtrusive poke from her husband and let him take over. He scratched his sparsely covered scalp and racked his brain until it came back to him that he too had heard odd sounds like weeping or wailing from upstairs when he woke to go to the toilet some time after midnight. But he hadn’t thought Ástrós was ill or in trouble, just sad. She had lost her husband two years previously and relations had been rather strained since then, so they would never have dreamt of phoning to ask if she was all right. According to the man, since being widowed she had tried to wriggle out of her share of the upkeep of the property. The choice of colour for the exterior paintwork had been the final straw; Ástrós had insisted on yellow whereas the couple wanted grey. Huldar guessed that the moment they learnt of her death they would seize the chance to paint the house before a new owner could become involved.

  Huldar’s phone rang twice while the couple were busy denigrating their deceased neighbour. He ignored it. In a few minutes he would be back in his car, at leisure to return any urgent calls. In the meantime he listened to them droning on, taking it in turns to rake up all Ástrós’s alleged failings as a neighbour. Their tales became progressively pettier until finally they ran out of steam and lapsed into an awkward silence.

  Deciding there was nothing more to be gained from the couple, Huldar took his leave, explaining that they would be asked to provide an official statement some time in the next day or two. He was about to enter their mobile numbers into his phone when he noticed that the most recent call was from Freyja. Hastily he took the couple’s numbers and said goodbye. The cold and the soreness of the chewing gum in his cheek were forgotten, replaced by much more serious concerns. Freyja was unlikely to be calling him merely for a chat, and he had promised to be contactable day and night.

  ‘Hey!’ The husband was still at the door. ‘There’s something you might want to see.’ He vanished and returned after a brief interval, which seemed endless to Huldar in his impatience to call Freyja. He would never forgive himself if something had happened to Margrét because he failed to answer his phone. It was probably a minor matter; he hadn’t heard from Ríkhardur so it couldn’t be anything major. Then again, it must be half an hour since he had driven past and there could have been any number of developments in the interim.

  Huldar had no choice but to push aside his fear and wait. The husband reappeared, looking shamefaced, and held out an envelope covered in what appeared to be tomato ketchup. ‘Sorry but I threw it in the bin. The envelope was stuck under my windscreen wiper this morning. When I opened it I thought it was some kind of nonsense. You can throw it away if it has nothing to do with the burglary. I’ve no idea who the hell it’s from.’

  Huldar put on his latex gloves and gingerly took hold of the envelope. The man and his wife, who had also returned to the door, watched this precaution wide-eyed. Huldar ignored them. If this was what he thought it was, no further proof would be necessary: Elísa and Ástrós had been killed by the same man.

  Turning away from the couple, he drew the note from the envelope, scanned its contents, then carefully replaced it. Here was the evidence: two victims, one killer. Huldar raised his eyes to the man’s face. ‘I’ll need to take your fingerprints.’ Then he turned to the woman. ‘Yours too, if you’ve touched the envelope or note.’

  The couple’s faces were the picture of bewilderment.

  Chapter 20

  Margrét got on much better with Molly than Freyja did. The dog followed the little girl everywhere, refusing to leave her side; when Margrét sat down, Molly would settle at her feet. She lay with ears pricked, though her eyes were closed and she appeared to be asleep. It was as if the dog instinctively knew the girl needed protecting. She was right. Naturally everyone was hoping that their fears for Margrét’s safety would prove groundless, but no one dared take any risks.

  Geir from the Child Protection Agency had stressed this when he rang Freyja back to inform her of the final decision about Margrét’s placement. He had made it very plain that they expected Freyja to accept the responsibility, and seemed far more concerned about maintaining good relations with the police than hearing her views on the subject. And since the police and social services had agreed to try this solution, she had no choice but to comply.

  She didn’t give in without a fight, though, pleading the problem of Molly. But it turned out that in their eyes the security provided by the dog was a big advantage. Freyja’s description of the flat didn’t help her case either; on the contrary, they assumed no one would dream of looking for the girl there. Clearly, there was nothing she could do but resign herself to the inevitable.

  Two inspectors were sent round to evaluate both flat and dog. They appeared as soon as she’d hung up and she suspected they had been waiting outside in their car for her to give in. They inspected every inch of the flat under Molly’s watchful eye. The dog behaved impeccably and, bizarrely enough, they judged the flat perfectly acceptable. It helped, no doubt, that Freyja had hurriedly removed any incriminating objects that could get her brother into hot water. Luckily, she had moved the heat lamps out of the spare room several weeks ago when it had been her turn to invite the girls in her sewing circle round. They were unlikely to have met with the approval of the inspectors, or indeed of some of her girlfriends, though most would probably have smiled and one or two might even have shown an interest in the harvest.

  As a result, the storeroom in the basement was crammed to bursting and the wardrobe in the bedroom was overflowing with paraphernalia decorated with cannabis leaves and other drug-related designs.

  She was surprised by how cheerless and empty the flat appeared after this tidy-up. It matched Margrét’s dull eyes as she stood there with lowered gaze after the men had delivered her to the door. The girl didn’t say a word, simply took off her anorak and only reacted when Freyja told her not to bother taking off her shoes: the floor was always rather dirty from the dog and her socks would soon turn black if she walked around in them. The girl had glanced up then and from her anxious expression it seemed she thought Freyja was setting her a test or a trap. Freyja grinned and pointed to her own shoes. The men seized this opportunity to hand Freyja two bags of clothes and a DVD of the film Frozen, then made off without escorting the child inside, moving quickly away down the corridor to the head of the stairs.

  Some time later Freyja was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, which she had vacated for Margrét. She herself was planning to make do with the sofa in the living room rather than sleep in the little room that had housed the heat lamps. That would have involved removing the shutter her brother had fitted over the window, not to mention the other objects that didn’t belong in a bedroom, such as the collection of dumb-bells and other weight-lifting gear. It was this that had deterred the inspectors from ins
isting she sleep in there; neither of them fancied having to lug the weights out to make room for her.

  ‘Shall I make some cocoa?’ Freyja asked ‘I make really good cocoa, you know.’ She smiled at the girl. ‘Or would you prefer coffee?’

  Margrét looked up from her book. She was sitting on the bed, unnaturally upright, as if propped against an invisible wall. Her thin legs dangled over the edge, the slightly-too-large socks showing below her jeans, and her shoes lay kicked off on the floor. Her face bore the stamp of grief. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Freyja was suddenly worried that the child wasn’t eating or drinking. She had declined everything since she arrived and it was now 8 p.m. ‘I’ve got fizzy drinks too, if you like. And there’s water in the tap.’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Margrét’s lips barely moved. She looked like a doll, her china-white face only enhancing the impression.

  ‘Would you mind helping me feed Molly then?’ Freyja glanced at the dog that was lying curled up at Margrét’s feet. ‘I’m afraid she won’t want to come to the kitchen otherwise. She’s taken such a shine to you that she’ll refuse to leave your side.’ Freyja smiled again. ‘It’s quite unusual for her, you know. She’s certainly not very keen on me.’

  ‘Isn’t she yours?’

  It was the first time Margrét had offered an opening for conversation.

  ‘No, my brother’s. This is his flat. I’m just looking after it and dog-sitting for him.’