The Shadow Killer

by Arnaldur Indridason

  ‘It’s our understanding that Eyvindur was fond of Felix. He probably didn’t have many friends, so their relationship was important to him, and he could never understand why Felix had suddenly turned his back on him,’ said Flóvent. ‘Why he suddenly wouldn’t talk to him any more. He suspected that it had all been an act, their friendship. In the end he came to the conclusion that Felix had simply been using him. And, from what you say, it seems he was right: the friendship was only on his side. Felix was indeed using him. Abusing his trust.’

  Brynhildur lowered her gaze to the papers and Flóvent sensed her reluctance to discuss the subject.

  ‘As I said,’ she went on, after a moment, ‘Felix can be very cruel when he wants to be. He was quick to gain a hold over the other boys and exploited his mental superiority over them. He knew his father had chosen them as the subjects of his research because they came from bad homes, and he picked on the weakest of them. The most vulnerable. But he managed to dominate those who were stronger than him too.’

  ‘How did he do that?’

  ‘In various ways. The goal was to see how far he could go. How easily influenced the boys would be. How they would react to his dominance and how he could manipulate them … Rudolf was … Felix was supposed to…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘What were you saying about Rudolf and Felix? Who set him this goal?’

  Brynhildur hesitated.

  ‘Felix didn’t come up with the idea, did he?’ said Flóvent. ‘Was Rudolf orchestrating all this?’

  Brynhildur nodded. ‘Halfway through the study, Rudolf began to consider Felix’s role among the boys,’ she admitted. ‘The role of the strong leader. It was a popular concept in Germany at the time. Rudolf realised that Felix had a hold over the other boys and he … Well, he encouraged his son. Conspired with him. Even put words in his mouth. Rudolf’s a very thorough man.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Inevitably, it ended in disaster.’

  ‘How? Between Rudolf and Felix, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, between them and … I’d rather not go into it. Rudolf abandoned the study, dropped it altogether and forbade us ever to mention it again.’

  ‘And so you two thought it had been safely swept under the carpet?’

  ‘Yes, until that letter came through the door and stirred everything up again.’

  ‘And it threatened to expose Felix’s role and the experiments unless, what did you say, certain conditions were met? What were they?’

  ‘The writer wanted a specific sum of money for keeping his mouth shut. Quite a large sum.’

  ‘And you two believe Eyvindur wrote the letter?’

  ‘We think it’s possible. Felix…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Felix … Felix may have blurted something out on one of his sales trips,’ said Brynhildur. ‘He says he was drunk and came out with a lot of stuff that he ought not to have said. About Eyvindur. And the experiments. It made Eyvindur angry. Understandably, I suppose.’

  37

  Thorson had been driving for about five minutes when he came to the turn-off the old woman had told him about. The road was blocked by a gate. He got out and opened it, drove through and closed it behind him. Two black dogs, of some indeterminate mongrel ancestry, greeted him at the gate, fawning over him and wagging their tails, ecstatic to receive a visitor.

  He parked the jeep in front of the farmhouse, took off his jacket and laid it on the back seat. The temperature had risen during the course of the afternoon, and he was sweltering. The old turf farmhouse was sandwiched between a small concrete house, built tight against one side, and a modern outbuilding, consisting of a cowshed and barn, which was now packed with fragrant, newly harvested hay. Thorson surveyed the meadows that stretched far into the distance. It looked as if the haymaking was over.

  There was no one at home in the concrete house, but Thorson noticed a wisp of blue smoke rising from the old turf building; he was about to head over there when he spotted a third dog, sitting a couple of yards from the door, watching his every movement without stirring from its place. It was a big, powerful-looking beast, with a red-gold coat and a dark stripe on its back, and it wore a collar, unlike the other dogs. As Thorson approached, the animal emitted a low growl, baring a fearsome set of fangs. Taken aback by this greeting, Thorson halted in front of the dog and warily held out the back of his hand, but the growling only intensified, and the dog showed its teeth again. The other two dogs watched, no longer wagging their tails. It was as if the animal was guarding its master, warning Thorson to leave him alone. At the foot of the turf wall lay the carcass of a lamb, badly hacked about, as if the ravens had got at it.

  Thorson wasn’t keen on dogs. He scanned the surroundings for help but couldn’t see a soul. He was unwilling to abandon his errand at this stage, but he had nothing to bribe the beast with, so he decided to see what would happen if he gave the dog a wide berth and approached the door from the side. The animal let Thorson pass, though it kept up a constant growling. Thorson heaved a sigh of relief, wondering what an earth he would have done if the dog had gone for him.

  Once inside, he caught the strong earthy smell of the walls and floor, and then a powerful reek of smoke, as if from burning peat. He thought he could hear classical music, punctuated by the ringing of metal on metal. As he made his way along the passage, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, he wondered if the old farmhouse had been converted into a smithy. He received his answer when he entered what would have been the living area and saw a man standing in the middle of the room, beating out a scythe with a heavy sledgehammer, then cooling it in a bucket of water, sending up great clouds of steam. A lone light bulb hung over the man’s head. The music was coming from a big wireless that had been set up on an old workbench. Strung from the rafters were large fillets of salmon, joints of smoked lamb and what looked to Thorson like a flayed guillemot.

  The man had his back to him and was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t notice his visitor until Thorson coughed and said good afternoon. He hadn’t meant to startle him, but the blacksmith jumped and whipped round. Then Thorson saw that, just as the old woman had said, the man wore a patch over one eye.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Thorson said hastily, ‘I didn’t mean to give you a shock.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the blacksmith, reaching over and switching off the music.

  ‘My name’s Thorson and I’ve just driven all the way from Reykjavík. I wondered if I might have a quick word. I won’t take up much of your time.’

  ‘Thorson?’ said the man with the eyepatch. ‘What kind of name is that? From Reykjavík, did you say? To see me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you a politician? Or the tax man? If so, you can get lost. I’ve nothing to say to you.’

  ‘No, I’m neither. I’m from the police. The military police, in fact.’

  The man regarded him, baffled, with his one eye. The old woman had told Thorson that he was a recluse who lived here with his dogs, a few cows and a herd of sheep. He was hard-working but unsociable, and took little interest in the doings of his neighbours, let alone in the course of the war. According to the old woman, a number of the local farmers’ daughters had set their caps at him, but to no avail. She blamed Vera for that. You’d have thought she’d cast a spell on the poor man.

  Thorson apologised again and started to tell the blacksmith about himself – the usual spiel about coming from an Icelandic family in Canada, which was why he spoke the language. He was working with the Icelandic police in connection with a recent incident in Reykjavík. The smith might have heard about it on the radio.

  ‘I only listen to music,’ the man said, still unsure of the reason for this unexpected visit. ‘I don’t follow the news much.’

  Thorson told him that a man’s body had been found in a basement flat in Reykjavík, shot in the head with what the police believed to have been a US military pistol. The victim’s name
was Eyvindur, and he had been living with a woman who came from around here. Although she had moved away to the city, Thorson gathered that the blacksmith had known her well at one time.

  Thorson’s explanation was met by a long silence. The man stood there watching him, the big sledgehammer in his hand, and although the question hung in the air between them, he seemed reluctant to voice it, as if he was afraid of the answer. Thorson waited, and after a while the man laid down the hammer and adjusted his patch, pulling it down more firmly over his eye.

  ‘What woman?’ he asked at last, though Thorson could see that he already knew the answer.

  ‘Her name’s Vera.’

  The man regarded his visitor without speaking. Thorson thought he detected a combination of distaste and surprise in his manner. A complete stranger, all the way from Reykjavík, had popped up out of the blue and was standing here, on his beaten-earth floor, telling him about a serious crime in the capital. Bringing up a name the smith had never expected to hear again. No wonder he was speechless. Thorson guessed that in his position he would have been pretty shaken himself.

  ‘Why … What do you want from me? Why are you here?’

  ‘I understand that you used to know Vera rather well.’

  ‘Is she involved?’ the blacksmith asked after a pause. ‘In what happened to that … that…’

  ‘Eyvindur? It’s not out of the question,’ said Thorson.

  ‘Why do you want to talk to me?’

  ‘To find out more about her,’ said Thorson. ‘I’ve been talking to some of the locals, and they advised me to speak to you. Said you knew her best, though you might not speak very highly of her. Was that a fair comment?’

  ‘You’d better leave,’ the man said, picking up the hammer again. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’

  ‘Would you at least think about it?’ asked Thorson. ‘I’d be grateful if I could ask you a few questions.’

  ‘You shouldn’t listen to what the people around here say. They think they know a lot more than they do. Good day.’

  ‘Is it true that she –?’

  ‘You’d better leave now,’ said the man, his manner starting to turn threatening. ‘I don’t want to talk to you. I never want to hear another word about that … that woman. Just leave me alone. Do you hear me? Leave me alone!’

  ‘All right,’ said Thorson. ‘I hear you. I won’t take up any more of your time. There’s just one thing I wanted to say before I go. She’s with a soldier now, a British sergeant. I don’t know if you’ve heard. She started seeing this soldier while she was still living with the man who was murdered. Does that surprise you? That she was cheating on him?’

  ‘Get out!’ The man raised his voice and stepped towards Thorson, clutching the hammer. ‘I don’t want to hear about it. Get lost. Get out of here!’

  Thorson retreated along the passage, out into the open air. The man followed and stood in the doorway, watching him sternly with his one eye, a powerfully built figure, with black hair and beard, in a frayed work shirt and worn braces, his face covered in soot.

  The moment Thorson stepped outside he encountered the red-gold dog with the dark stripe down its spine. It snarled at him, and Thorson stumbled away in the direction of his jeep. The other two dogs that had frisked around him earlier were standing a little way off, watching, but suddenly they started barking like crazy. He had only a few yards left to go when the savage dog – foaming at the mouth now, its growling giving way to ferocious barking – sprang at Thorson and knocked him to the ground. As Thorson rolled around in the dirt, frantically trying to stop the beast from ripping his throat out, his thoughts went to the pistol in his glove compartment. If he’d had it to hand, he would have used it without a moment’s hesitation. He felt the dog’s jaws close over his forearm, and he punched its nose as hard as he could, but it was too strong. Thorson yelled with pain and groped for a rock to bring down on the animal’s head. Then a dark figure loomed over him. The dog loosened its grip and went flying into the air with a yelp, landing several yards away on its back. It slunk off behind the turf farmhouse, its tail between its legs.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he heard the man ask and felt strong hands helping him to his feet. ‘I’m afraid he’s old and cussed. I’ve been putting off shooting him. He attacks anything that crosses his path. Don’t take it personally.’

  Despite what he said, Thorson sensed that the blacksmith wasn’t particularly sorry about the attack. Thorson made as if to continue towards his jeep but there was blood oozing from his arm where he had been mauled, and the man asked him to wait a minute; he couldn’t leave in that state.

  ‘Let me bind the wound,’ the blacksmith offered. ‘It shouldn’t get infected, but you never know. I’ve got some antiseptic in the house. And I can lend you another shirt, if you like.’

  Thorson examined the bleeding tooth marks and realised that it would be sensible to accept the man’s assistance. His shirt was ruined: the dog had shredded the sleeve.

  ‘Is that his lamb?’ Thorson asked, gesturing at the carcass lying by the wall of the turf building.

  ‘I expect so,’ said the man, and Thorson noticed that most of the hostility had left his voice. ‘There are foxes prowling around here too, but it was probably the dog. I was about to bury the thing when you arrived. I usually try to keep the place a bit tidier,’ he added apologetically.

  Thorson followed him inside the modern concrete house, and the blacksmith offered him a seat in the kitchen, then began searching in the cupboards and drawers for something to use as a dressing. He found iodine and the antiseptic cream, tore some rags into strips, then washed the wound with water.

  ‘I could put in a few stitches if you’d let me,’ he said, examining the two largest toothmarks. ‘But I’ve got nothing to use as an anaesthetic. Except brennivín, maybe.’

  ‘There’s no need. Just bind it up tight, and I’ll see how it looks when I get back to town.’

  ‘At least we can stop the bleeding. I’m sorry about the dog. He’s old, and I just haven’t been able to bring myself to shoot him. I’m too soft. He was a very good dog once.’

  ‘You hear stories about their loyalty,’ remarked Thorson, ‘but he seems to be taking it to extremes. It’s the first time a dog’s attacked me like that. And hopefully the last.’

  ‘Yes, he’s been faithful to me all right.’

  ‘More faithful than certain others?’ said Thorson.

  The man cocked his good eye at him, tilting his head as if to see Thorson better. ‘I don’t want to hear about her,’ he said. ‘I hope you understand. I don’t care what she’s up to over there in Reykjavík. I don’t give a damn.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Thorson. ‘I’ll back off. I just wanted to know who she was. If she has a history of stirring up trouble, I’ll have to find that out from someone else. I understand if you don’t want to talk about her. It’s just a shame that she may get away with murder because you’re protecting her.’

  The blacksmith paused. He had washed the wounds on Thorson’s arm and bound them with a clean rag, which he was fastening with two pins he’d fetched from his bedroom. He had also brought out a clean shirt for Thorson. The day had turned to evening, and the sun was glowing pink on the walls of the kitchen. There was a smell of stewed coffee, antiseptic and work-worn hands, and despite the dog attack and his injured arm, Thorson felt oddly contented. The man’s manner was quite different now. He seemed genuinely concerned about Thorson and ashamed of his dog, keen to make up for the hostile reception this Canadian visitor had been given on an Icelandic farm.

  ‘Protecting her?’ he echoed. ‘I’m not protecting her.’

  ‘I’d be able to put more pressure on her if you told me what happened between you. I have so little to go on. I don’t really know anything about her, and there aren’t many other people I can talk to. All I know is that she wasn’t well liked by her neighbours in Reykjavík.’

  ‘I can’t help you.’

  ‘What happen
ed between you?’ asked Thorson.

  ‘Nothing, except that I lost an eye,’ said the man, and Thorson sensed that he was about to flare up again.

  ‘All right. I didn’t mean to…’

  The man finished binding his arm. ‘Maybe … Sometimes I think it was a fitting punishment for having been so blind to her true nature. I closed my eyes to what she was really like.’

  ‘What she was really like?’

  ‘I thought I knew her. But it turned out I didn’t.’

  ‘Did you grow up with her?’

  ‘Partly. I’m not from round here originally. I was sent here after my mother died, and I was raised on this farm by some distant relatives, a fine couple who are both dead now. I’ve tried to get on with the locals, but perhaps I was … Yes, in answer to your question, I’ve known her a long time.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She started dropping by…’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

  ‘It’s OK. I understand.’

  The man watched as the setting sun painted the kitchen wall red. ‘It was an evening like this one,’ he said at last. ‘In August. After a good summer. I never suspected…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What she was … really like. She made a fool of me. Everyone round here knows about it. She turned out to be … two-faced…’

  38

  He remembered the first time she visited him on her own. This was after he had heard about their engagement. Previously, she’d always come with her boyfriend, but this time he spotted her walking up the path alone. He’d been hard at it in the smithy all day, so he hurriedly washed his hands and tried to scrub the worst of the soot off his face before she reached the door. An interest in ironworking had prompted him to start the smithy not long before. He’d set up his forge in the old turf farmhouse, where he also did a bit of woodturning, a skill he had picked up at a workshop during a visit to Reykjavík.