Ashes to Dust

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  ‘But you’re convinced that this was murder?’ Stefán asked. ‘She was a nurse, and could have done this to herself. People do strange things when they’re unbalanced.’

  ‘It’s out of the question that she could have done this herself,’ said the doctor stubbornly. ‘The marks on her arms don’t suggest that she intended this conclusion for herself. I have the feeling that someone wanted to make this look like suicide, but panicked and wasn’t careful enough. The drugs themselves might have been enough, but the vomit found in the room suggests that her stomach couldn’t bear them and tried to expel the poison.’

  ‘And then it just happened that the murderer had Botox in his pocket,’ said Stefán. His head was spinning.

  ‘As you say, she was a nurse and no stranger to plastic surgery, judging by her body,’ replied the doctor. ‘Maybe she had the Botox at home, which the murderer used to his own advantage. Maybe the idea was to prevent the vomiting by blocking its way out.’

  ‘I don’t know whether you realize, but she worked at a plastic surgeon’s office,’ said Stefán. ‘Maybe she got the Botox from them, to keep in her first-aid kit if wrinkles suddenly appeared.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said the doctor thoughtfully. ‘I think it’s rather doubtful that she got her own supplies from them, though. This isn’t a substance to be used at home. On the other hand you never know, maybe the plastic surgeon she worked for dropped by?’ He snorted. ‘Now is not the right time, nor is it my job, to ponder who may have done this. My task is to uncover the cause of death, and I now think I know what that is. Premeditated murder by a most unorthodox form of choking. My report will be on your desk by noon tomorrow. I’d better get to work on it.’

  Four murders plus one made five. Stefán said goodbye and sighed heavily. He wasn’t going home for quite some time, that was for sure. He switched on his radio but switched it off again when he heard not music, but loud and obnoxious adverts. When he had turned down the radio earlier, a song about sex had been playing. He’d been hoping that it was still on, because he had absolutely no hope of the real thing any time soon. He sighed again and dialled his home number.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Thursday 19 July2007

  After the longest stretch of warm weather Thóra could remember, dark, heavy clouds now filled the sky. The light was yellowish and the horizon was all grey. She pulled her thin cardigan tightly around herself and realized that she hadn’t dressed for the weather at all. It only took two weeks of warm weather to make you forget what Icelandic summers could be like. Thóra felt as naive as the foreigners who tried to fend off the horizontal rain with mere umbrellas. She quickened her pace and flung open the door to the police station, where she was supposed to meet Markus. He had been called in for yet another round of questioning. Thóra had phoned the police officer, Stefán, to ask him what they wanted to talk about, but he had deflected all her questions and she sensed the case had taken a more serious turn. She shook most of the rain from her hair and brushed it from her clothing.

  She was ten minutes early. She took the opportunity to smarten up in the toilets, thinking to herself that it was difficult to respect a woman whose face was smeared with mascara. When she was more or less satisfied with the effect she walked back to the lobby. Markus stood there wearing a dark blue rain-jacket, sensible shoes and a hangdog expression.

  ‘Well,’ said Thóra as she walked towards him, ‘are you ready?’ She received only a grunt in reply. They both walked to the interrogation room in silence. Thóra was happy not to speak to Markus when he was in such a mood, since now was hardly the time to wonder what the police were planning to ask him. He had been summoned with just over half an hour’s notice in the early afternoon, but before Thóra had dashed out to her car she’d managed to shove the relevant files into her briefcase.

  Nevertheless, as they reached the door Thóra paused for a moment to reiterate to Markus that he should answer according to her advice and not say anything outside the scope of the questions, at least not without consulting her first. Markus nodded in agreement, still with the same sullen look, and they walked in. Thóra had to remind herself that people reacted differently to pressure: some became absolutely unbearable, like her client in this case. Could he be grieving for Alda so much? Everyone agreed that he’d been in love with her. True, Alda hadn’t felt the same, but it was possible that he had taken her death very badly. His eyes might not have been swollen with weeping, but perhaps he was someone who dealt with grief through anger and lack of communication. Thóra resolved to be nicer to him.

  Stefán was already in the interrogation room with another officer, who was leaving when Thóra and Markus arrived. The officer greeted them gruffly on the way out, and once again Thóra had the feeling that matters were about to come to a head. She crossed her fingers, hoping Markus wasn’t on his way into custody. Apart from the discomfort and shock he would experience, it would put increased pressure on Thóra, demanding more time from her than she actually had to give.

  Stefán opened the questioning by announcing that Markus remained a suspect, and that now the murder of Alda

  Thórgeirsdóttir was being investigated in addition to the murders of the four unidentified men in 1973. Thóra tried to look impassive but nonetheless dropped her pen on the floor. Markus didn’t have as much self-control, but seemed at first to be taking it very calmly. When Thóra sat up again, though, his face was flushed dark red and his breathing heavy.

  ‘Are you telling me that I’m suspected of Alda’s murder?’ he said, quietly but angrily. ‘Are you nuts? Didn’t she kill herself? What the hell is this?’

  Thóra put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s let Stefán talk. This must be a misunderstanding we can sort out.’ She looked at Stefán. ‘How did Markus come to be a suspect in Alda’s murder, and when was it actually revealed that she was murdered?’

  Stefán appeared completely unaffected by Markus’s reaction. ‘The results of the drug test on her blood and soft tissues revealed that it wasn’t suicide. In the interests of the investigation I can’t discuss these results right now. I need to ask Markus a few questions concerning his relationship with the murder victim, and I strongly recommend that he answer them.’ Stefán’s face was stony, making it impossible to read anything from it.

  ‘In the light of my client being considered a murder suspect, I insist on seeing these particular test results,’ said Thóra. ‘As well as the autopsy report.’

  Stefán smiled mockingly. ‘The report you got from the police in the Westmann Islands?’ He leaned forward slightly. ‘I know Gudni let you see the autopsy report on the bodies in the basement. That won’t happen again. If you want further files you have to acquire them through the proper channels.’ He straightened up again.

  Thóra would have to explain herself, as Markus could not afford to have Stefán and his colleagues against him because of the autopsy report - there was enough pressure from the media and police authorities to solve the case as quickly as possible. ‘It’s true that I got the report from Gudni without submitting a special request, but it must be borne in mind that I had already heard about its contents on the street. It can’t be considered natural that information from the case files is on the lips of everyone but the parties involved.’

  Stefán looked at Thóra, but said nothing. He turned again to Markus. ‘Where were you this past Sunday evening, the eighth of July?’ So they had confirmed the time of death; Thóra scribbled it down.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Markus sharply. ‘How am I supposed to know that?’

  ‘If I were you I’d try to remember. You have previously stated that you were on your way to the Westmann Islands, and you were there the next morning, as is now well known.’ Stefán flipped through some papers on the desk. ‘You said you left Reykjavik at about seven, and by eight thirty you were at your summerhouse on the banks of the Rang River. From there you went down to Bakki early the next morning, from where you caught a flight to the Islands. Is that
correct?’

  Markus appeared confused. ‘Yes, yes. I just didn’t remember the date. If you had asked about the evening prior to my trip to the Islands I would have answered immediately.’

  ‘In other words, you’re sticking to your statement?’ said Stefán.

  ‘Of course,’ snapped Markus. ‘Why wouldn’t I? That’s how it happened. Check with Westmann Islands Air. They must have a record of it.’

  ‘I’m not asking about your movements on Monday morning,’ said Stefán. ‘I’m asking about Sunday evening. It only takes two hours to drive to the airport at Bakki, so the fact that you were there the next morning doesn’t tell us anything.’ Stefán looked up from the report. ‘Can anyone verify your story? Did you stop for petrol or food along the way?’

  Markus rocked in his chair and seemed to be trying to remember. Thóra sincerely hoped that he’d stopped for both petrol and something to eat at some shop or other. Her hope was not realized. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I stopped for petrol on the way out of town, as far as I recall.’ He exhaled disappointedly. ‘A lot of time has passed. But I think I stopped at the Orka petrol station on Snorrabraut Road.’

  ‘At what time, do you suppose?’ asked Stefán.

  ‘Around seven, a little earlier. I don’t know,’ replied Markus, then added in irritation: ‘Can’t you see it on my credit card account? I pay for almost everything by card.’

  Stefán did not reply, but Thóra knew that the use of a card in a self-service petrol station didn’t amount to an alibi. ‘Sorry,’ she interjected. ‘Couldn’t you show that Markus was present at the scene rather than make him struggle to remember an evening from eleven days ago? I’m sure he would have paid better attention if he’d known what that evening had in store.’ Now it was Thóra’s turn to give Stefán a sarcastic smile. It felt good, but not for long.

  ‘That’s precisely what we think we can do,’ said Stefán. ‘Prove that Markus was at the scene on the evening in question.’ He looked from Thóra to Markus.

  ‘What?’ gasped Markus, completely deflated. ‘That isn’t possible,’ he said simply. He seemed too astonished to be angry. ‘That just isn’t possible,’ he repeated.

  ‘And yet it is,’ said Stefán. Thóra hoped he was referring to the bottles of tablets in Alda’s home, or something else Markus had already explained. She was out of luck. ‘We have a witness who claims to have seen you there around the time that Alda was murdered, as well as biological evidence on her body. Comparison of this evidence and your DNA, which you gave willingly in connection with the corpses in the basement, proves it unequivocally.’

  Markus was clearly not going to be heading home after this interview.

  Tinna lay in bed, her eyes wide open. She was tired, but she knew that you burned fewer calories in your sleep than you did while awake, so it was out of the question to take an afternoon nap. Through the closed door she could hear her mother tidying up in the front room. Things were unbearable since she’d left her job to look after Tinna, because it made everything so difficult. When her mother had been gone the whole day it was easy to say that she’d eaten food that she’d actually thrown away. That wasn’t possible now, because her mother watched her so carefully. On a normal day, Tinna would have been out there drying the dishes or helping tidy up, but she didn’t feel like it. She was angry at her mother, and it would be boring. Her mother had found her at the computer earlier, reading one recipe after another in utter fascination. Mum had lost it, saying Tinna would be better off eating some food than staring at it on the screen. The exchange ended with her mother starting to cry, and Tinna had disappeared into her room. Her mum would never understand how she felt, and it was useless trying to explain. Tinna longed for the food on the screen, craved it even. However, she never gave in to the temptation of making or buying any of it, since she felt better denying herself than succumbing.

  The vacuum cleaner started again outside, and Tinna put her hands over her ears to block out the noise. It was an old hoover that a friend of her mother’s had given her when the last one broke. Tinna tried to guess how long it would take for her mother to finish and leave. She always did the floors of the little apartment last, so she must be nearly finished. Then she would go to the shops, but before their falling-out she had asked Tinna to come with her. Tinna certainly wouldn’t be going now, and the thought actually made her extremely happy. Instead she could use the opportunity to have a long shower, and then wipe away the water in the bath-tub to cover her tracks. Her mother must never know that she had taken another shower, or she might call the hospital again and have Tinna readmitted. She knew now that Tinna took showers to wash off the calories and that the more often she washed, the more calories she got rid of. She felt the longing to start scrubbing herself grow stronger, especially since the disgusting drink that the doctor had given her was still in her stomach. What she wanted most was to puke it up, but she knew she wouldn’t get away with it. No, it was better to send this nasty nourishment down the plughole.

  She knew it hadn’t been that long ago that she’d avoided showers like the plague in case the water allowed calories to pass through her skin. She pushed away this thought, since she found it uncomfortable to compare the two theories. Which was right? Was it a mistake to wash too often? She pressed her eyes closed again and lay with her hands over her ears. By neither seeing nor hearing she could clear her mind. Despite the noise of the hoover she managed to make herself feel as if she weren’t there. She would just lie here and lose weight. Maybe then she could finally become what she wanted to be: slim. Nobody else understood her, not her mother or the doctors. Her father was the best of them, because even though he often said she was too thin, he didn’t seem interested enough in her to force her to eat. So with him, she was able to choose for herself how much she ate. She’d often been able to stay with him a whole weekend without actually eating anything. He just didn’t notice. Her mother, on the other hand, was more observant, and it was after one such weekend that she got some sort of court order to prevent Tinna from staying with her father. Now she could never be with him for more than four hours at a time.

  Images kept springing into her head. The lady visiting her father. The lady’s house. The visitor who had sneaked out. The note. The lady carried out to the ambulance beneath a white sheet. The lady who could have helped her so much. The lady God had sent from Heaven to make Tinna slim. The lady who made others beautiful, and would have loved Tinna however she looked. The lady who would have understood her. Tinna tried to avoid thinking about it. She had to shut out everything. One, two, three… she focused on meaningless numbers and didn’t know whether she was saying them out loud or silently. She had counted up to thirty-four when someone grabbed her shoulder and shook her. She opened her eyes but kept her hands over her ears.

  ‘Come on, Tinna,’ she heard her mother say, and Tinna relaxed the pressure on her ears. ‘You’re coming with me to the hospital.’

  Tinna shook her head and closed her eyes again. She felt her mother pull her clawed fingers away from her ears, forcing her to listen. Her mother was much stronger than she was, so resistance was futile. After Tinna became as slim as she planned to be, she would also be incredibly strong, and then no one would be able to force her to listen when she yearned for silence. ‘No,’ said Tinna quietly, but realized as soon as the word fell from her lips that she’d shouted it.

  ‘Yes,’ said her mother, her eyes sad. ‘You can come with me or I’ll be forced to call an ambulance. It’s up to you.’ She let go of Tinna’s hand and looked at her. Suddenly she ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair and several tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Get up, darling,’ she said, without doing so herself. ‘You’ve got to come with me.’

  Tinna wondered whether she could say anything to change her mother’s mind, but realized almost immediately that it was no use. This was not the first time this had happened. Maybe her mother would let her stay at home if she told her what had happened between her father and the l
ady. Especially if she told her the lady was dead, and that her father might have played a part in it. Maybe he knew the visitor who had slunk out of the lady’s house. It might be possible to use the note to find out. It had been blown out of the car. Tinna’s mother couldn’t stand her father and would definitely want to hear the story, but Tinna decided to say nothing. Even though her father didn’t pay much attention to her, he was generally good to her and had promised to buy her some clothes. He was expecting to come into a great deal of money, and then they could go shopping in town. If Tinna told anyone what she knew, he wouldn’t get any money and she’d get no new clothes. Her mother would never keep the secret, and it was no fun having a secret everyone knew. No, it would be better to get up and go to the car. She could act as if everything was fine and hopefully the doctor would just scold her mother for wasting his time. Tinna knew exactly what she was doing. If not, then she could point out again that it was her body and that it only belonged to her. Not to her mother and not to this doctor who peered so closely at her. She straightened up and swung her feet over the edge of the bed. Her mother started crying even harder.

  ‘Look at your legs, sweetheart,’ she said, and swallowed. She stood up and walked out of the room. ‘I’ll get the car keys. Put on your parka. It’s raining.’ Her voice cracked and she sniffed.

  Tinna stood up carefully. She felt dizzy but she mustn’t under any circumstances faint. Then they’d put her straight into the psych ward and keep her there for a long, long time. She breathed slowly and took several hesitant steps, picking up the English dictionary her aunt had given her as. a confirmation present. It was heavy, so Tinna would lose weight on her way out to the car. She cheered up. At the hospital she would get to take a shower, and then another when the shifts changed. Maybe it wasn’t all bad.