Reykjavík, 13 December 1947
My dear Thorson,
I hope this note will reach you. I don’t know if you made it through the war alive, but I wanted to try to find out.
Over the last couple of years I’ve often found myself thinking of you and our work together. I don’t know if I ever thanked you properly for all your assistance, cooperation and support, so I wanted to make amends for that now.
I can only begin to imagine the horrors you must have endured during the fighting. I’ve read a great deal about the Normandy landings and believe I have some idea, if only superficially, of the devastating bloodbath you must have witnessed first-hand.
Our final case is never far from my thoughts. I believe we came to the right conclusion, yet sometimes I feel a creeping suspicion that we could have done better. Pursued a different line of inquiry, perhaps. But this is probably only my uneasy conscience speaking, because of what happened to the boy. I have found it hard to come to terms with the way it ended. Naturally his family up north were shattered when they heard the news, but they didn’t blame us for what happened once they were apprised of all the facts.
Our principal witness and helper in all this was the MP’s son, Hólmbert. He confirmed all our suspicions about Jónatan, and this should have set my mind at rest, but for some reason the matter won’t give me any peace.
Well, my dear friend, I’d be grateful if you would send word, even if only a few short lines, to let me know how you are. I should be greatly reassured.
Yours, Flóvent
Thorson stood contemplating his old friend’s grave for a while, then made the sign of the cross and said a short prayer. Flóvent’s father was lying near at hand, and beyond his stone was one of the mass graves that had been dug at the height of the Spanish flu, where Flóvent’s mother and sister lay beneath the turf, side by side with other victims of the epidemic.
Rest in peace read the inscription on the headstone, and Thorson knew that if ever that prayer was appropriate for someone, it was for Flóvent.
46
With a little detective work, Thorson had discovered that Hólmbert was in a nursing home in Reykjavík, and it was there that he headed after his visit to the graveyard. He didn’t know the man from Adam, had never met him, though he had been a familiar face in the press over the course of his political career. His name had lingered in Thorson’s memory because Flóvent had made a point of noting how very helpful Hólmbert had been.
Thorson took the bus. Conveniently enough, it stopped close to the cemetery and its route also went right past the nursing home. He had given up driving. The fast-paced roads, the impatience of the other drivers, the heavy congestion these days: it had all become too much for him. Taking the bus was a far more pleasant way to travel, except in bad weather when it was easier to take a cab.
There were few other passengers to distract him, so he fell to thinking about his visit to the dressmaker’s daughter, Petra, and what she had told him about Rósamunda’s refusal to set foot in the MP’s house; about Hólmbert’s role in the whole affair, and his own recent telephone conversation with Magnús in Borgarnes, during which he had learnt for the first time about the presence of Magnús’s father and brother up north at the time of Hrund’s disappearance. Little by little the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. Pieces he’d known nothing about until now. Pieces that had been deliberately withheld from him and Flóvent, because certain people had thought they were best swept under the carpet. The words of Flóvent’s letter were running through his mind as he walked in through the doors of the nursing home: for some reason the matter won’t give me any peace.
He asked for Hólmbert and was given his room number. He summoned the lift. Up to now he hadn’t discussed his enquiries and suspicions with Birgitta for fear of worrying her. Besides, he wanted to wait and see what came to light before he started spreading gossip that might not actually be true.
Having located the right room, Thorson saw a man of about his own age lying in bed, surrounded by photographs of loved ones, children’s drawings, and vases of flowers.
‘Hólmbert?’ Thorson said, inching his way into the room. ‘Is that you?’
The man didn’t answer, or react in any way. He was lying flat on his back and one would have thought he was asleep were it not for the fact that his eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling.
‘Excuse my barging in on you like this but −’
Thorson broke off when a nurse breezed in with a tray of medicines and a glass of water. Raising the patient up in bed, he helped him to swallow the pills.
‘Am I in the right room?’ asked Thorson. ‘This is Hólmbert, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said the nurse. ‘You are …? Can I help you?’
‘I haven’t visited him before.’
‘Were you trying to talk to him? Hólmbert’s very far gone, I’m afraid. He’s got Alzheimer’s and hardly reacts at all to visitors.’
‘Oh, I had no idea. Alzheimer’s, you say?’
‘Are you a relative?’
‘An old acquaintance. I haven’t … we haven’t been in contact for many years. Does that mean there’s no point talking to him?’
‘You can talk all you like, but don’t expect any answers,’ the nurse said and continued on his rounds.
Thorson closed the door and sat down beside Hólmbert’s bed. He pitied the man his wretched fate, yet, however futile the gesture, he felt a compulsion to share with him the reason for his visit.
‘My name’s Thorson,’ he began. ‘One-time friend and colleague of a man called Flóvent. We conducted a murder investigation here in Reykjavík during the war. The victim’s name was Rósamunda and she worked for a dressmaker your family did business with. She used to take deliveries to your house until one day she flatly refused to go near the place again. Now it so happens that a few months before she died she was raped and her attacker told her to blame it on the huldufólk.’
Hólmbert lay motionless, staring at the ceiling with dull, colourless eyes.
‘Three years earlier a girl from Öxarfjördur, called Hrund, came out with the same story about being attacked by one of the huldufólk. She was so distraught after her ordeal that she vanished shortly afterwards. Took her own life perhaps. Or had an accident. At all events her body was never found. Then again, it’s possible that she was disposed of, and that the culprit was an important man from Reykjavík who just happened to be visiting the area at the time.’
Thorson shifted closer to Hólmbert.
‘Can you tell me anything about that?’
Hólmbert didn’t react.
‘Had you left the area or were you still in Öxarfjördur when she disappeared?’
The man in the bed lay deathly still.
‘The business of the huldufólk establishes a link between the two girls,’ Thorson went on doggedly. ‘Their stories were identical. Flóvent and I caught the man who killed Rósamunda. He as good as confessed to us. His name was Jónatan. A relative of yours, but not a blood relative. You helped us solve the case; you did your bit for the investigation and effectively incriminated your friend. Case closed. It didn’t hurt that Flóvent and I were already receptive to the idea. We’d made a mistake – Jónatan died in our custody. Perhaps, deep down, we felt that if what you told us was true then he’d got his just deserts for what he did to Rósamunda and there was no need for us to feel so guilty. We latched on to your story. In fact, your testimony couldn’t have come at a better time.’
Hólmbert began to stir and suddenly turned his head towards Thorson.
‘You know what I believe?’ said Thorson, looking him in the eye. ‘I believe it was you. You murdered Rósamunda, and you ruined Hrund’s life and maybe even killed her too. I still don’t know if you’d left the area by the time she vanished but I’m going to find out. You got the idea about the elves from your friend Jónatan. He was the expert. That’s why we were so sure it was him. But it wasn’t: it was you. You’d hea
rd him talking about folklore, about encounters with the hidden people. That’s what gave you the idea. Well, I’m going to make it public; let the world know your dirty secret. Jónatan was innocent when we arrested him. He was innocent, for God’s sake!’
Hólmbert stared at Thorson. The corners of his mouth trembled, his pale eyes began to water and his face twitched as if he were about to speak. His bloodless lips formed a word but all that emerged was a sigh.
‘What?’ said Thorson. ‘What?’
Hólmbert strained with all his might to articulate the word: ‘Ró … samund …’ he whispered.
At that moment there was a noise outside in the corridor, and the door opened.
47
Konrád drove up to the nursing home. He had called several such institutions in the capital area before finally discovering Hólmbert’s whereabouts. Fortunately, there were no other Hólmberts of a similar age. During his brief phone conversation with one of the staff, Konrád had posed as a friend from the countryside hoping to visit. The woman, who was very chatty, knew a bit about Hólmbert’s circumstances and explained that his condition was getting progressively worse. He had deteriorated, especially in the last few weeks, to the point where he was totally unaware of his surroundings and now required round-the-clock care. All the same, the woman encouraged Konrád to come and see him since visits were always appreciated, even if the patient himself was unaware of them. In most cases the relatives would be grateful. When Konrád asked if Hólmbert received many visitors, the woman said not really; most of his friends were dead and he didn’t have a large family.
Entering the foyer, Konrád approached the reception desk, where he learnt that Hólmbert was on the third floor, and was directed to the lifts. The place reminded him of Vigga’s nursing home. The same combination of bustling staff and shuffling patients; some walking unaided, others reliant on Zimmer frames; some fully clothed, others in their dressing gowns. Inside the rooms the elderly residents lay in bed, asleep, reading or listening to the radio; a few lifted their heads as Konrád walked past.
Hólmbert wasn’t in his room, and when Konrád enquired after him, he was told the old man was in the lounge. He was wheeled there every morning and passed the time staring at the TV. Konrád asked if he was confined to a wheelchair and was told yes, almost entirely these days. In spite of this, he asked if Hólmbert could have left the nursing home at all recently and was assured that he hadn’t gone anywhere for at least two months.
‘I’m afraid his Alzheimer’s is pretty advanced, poor old fellow,’ said the nurse.
Konrád found Hólmbert in the lounge, where he was sitting slumped in his wheelchair, eyes glued to a cartoon. The volume was turned down but he seemed content to watch the flickering screen. He was wearing a warm, blue-checked dressing gown, below which bony, white shins were visible above his slippers. There was a white floss of hair on his head and he had several days’ worth of stubble on his jaw. The eyes in his gaunt face were small and colourless like his hair; his lips invisible around a wrinkled, pursed mouth. He didn’t so much as look round when Konrád drew up a chair beside him.
‘Hólmbert?’ said Konrád.
The man didn’t answer or let this interruption distract him from the screen.
‘Hólmbert?’ Konrád repeated.
Unresponsive, Hólmbert continued to gawp at the cartoon characters.
Konrád had only a superficial understanding of Alzheimer’s, though he had tried to read up on it before coming here. He knew it was a degenerative brain disease that affected the short-term memory but, in its early stages at least, had less impact on the long-term memory. The disease was incurable, despite the development of new drugs that inhibited its progress, and it led slowly but inexorably to utter dependency and loss of the power of speech, culminating in total dementia and death within ten years or so. The disease also had a devastating impact on the next of kin, who were forced to look on, helpless, as their previously fit and healthy loved one fell prey to a pitiless mental and physical decline.
‘I wondered if I could ask you about something that happened a long time ago,’ Konrád said, ‘during the Second World War. It involved two girls, one called Rósamunda, the other Hrund.’
Still no reaction from Hólmbert.
‘Do you remember those names?’
Hólmbert gazed at the television as if he were alone in the room.
‘Hólmbert?’
The old man didn’t answer.
‘Do you remember Rósamunda? Do you remember a girl called Rósamunda who worked at a dressmaker’s?’
As the cartoon finished and another began, Konrád caught a hint of movement through the glass in the door. A man, in his fifties at a guess, was hurrying along the corridor towards the lounge. A slim, handsome figure in a dark suit. Konrád watched his approach, assuming he would turn aside into one of the residents’ rooms, but instead he burst into the lounge and brusquely demanded to know who Konrád was.
‘I heard downstairs that he had a visitor,’ the man said. ‘May I ask who you are?’
‘The name’s Konrád.’ He rose to his feet and held out a hand in greeting. The man shook it briefly.
‘What business do you have with my father? How do you know him?’
‘I don’t actually,’ said Konrád. ‘You are …?’
‘I’m his son. My name’s Benjamín. If you don’t know him, what are you doing here?’
‘I came to ask if he’d had a visitor recently, an old man called Thorson. He may have been using the name Stefán Thórdarson.’
‘Thorson? Stefán Thórdarson?’
‘Yes, but I gather your father won’t be able to help me. My sympathies. It must be a harrowing illness.’
‘Thank you. It is.’
‘Do you know if this Thorson I mentioned came to see him?’
‘Thorson? No, not that I’m aware. Though he may have visited without my knowledge. Dad had a lot of friends … has a lot of friends, and I haven’t met them all.’
‘No, of course not. The thing is, I’m investigating an old criminal case from the war years, and I thought he might be able to help me with some information. But I suppose that’s out of the question.’
‘There’s no point asking him anything. No point even talking to him any more.’
‘May I ask if you’ve heard of the case?’
‘From the Second World War?’
‘Yes. A girl was murdered. Her name was Rósamunda.’
‘My family’s familiar with that case,’ said Benjamín. ‘But I don’t see what it has to do with you.’
‘I used to be a detective, though I’m officially retired now. But CID asked me to dig around for information on this man Thorson, or Stefán. I assume you’ll have seen the news – he was found dead in his flat and the police believe he was deliberately smothered.’
Benjamín nodded. ‘I saw the news.’
‘I’ve established that Thorson made a phone call to your Uncle Magnús in Borgarnes. What he learnt during their conversation would almost certainly have propelled him to visit your father next. This would have been only a couple of weeks ago. I’m almost sure Thorson came here to see him. Were you aware of the fact?’
‘No, I wasn’t.’
‘What about you yourself?’
‘Me?’
‘Did you meet Thorson?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure? Are you calling me a liar?’
Konrád shrugged.
‘May I ask on whose authority you’re here?’ demanded Benjamín.
‘I’m assisting the police. If you’d like confirmation, you can ring CID and ask to speak to an inspector called Marta.’
‘Well, you could try talking to the staff here,’ said Benjamín, in a slightly more conciliatory tone. ‘There’s a chance they might remember the man, though I don’t recall having met him. Magnús hasn’t spoken to my father for decades, so I don’t know how reliable an informant you’ll
find him. They broke off relations completely, you know, and I wouldn’t put it past Magnús to blacken my father’s name.’
‘Are you implying that Magnús was lying about your father?’
‘Frankly, I’d rather not discuss my family’s private affairs with a total stranger,’ said Benjamín. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be left in peace with my father.’
‘Of course,’ said Konrád, ‘I’m sorry to intrude. Just one last thing. You knew at once which case I was referring to when I mentioned Rósamunda. May I ask how come?’
‘If I tell you, will you leave us alone?’
‘Of course.’
‘Our immediate family was aware of the girl’s fate, though it didn’t spread much further,’ Benjamín said, making no attempt to hide his impatience. ‘The police were quick to track down her killer. His name was Jónatan and he was a friend of ours. The incident affected my family very badly, as you can imagine. To make matters worse, Jónatan died in police custody. Apparently he escaped and ran in front of a car. The whole business was very unfortunate. Both the fact that he killed the girl, obviously, and also the way he lost his life. My grandfather was an MP at the time and used his influence to hush the matter up. He spoke to the girl’s parents and made them see the unpleasantness it could stir up. After all, the facts weren’t in doubt; the perpetrator had been caught. In my grandfather’s view there was no call for our family to be dragged into the scandal.’
As Konrád listened it became clear to him why there was no record of the case in the archives. The police must have been very confident they’d got the right man for them to have colluded in a cover-up. Either that or the MP had sufficient clout to go over their heads and supress the inquiry.
‘I have reason to believe that Thorson had unearthed some new information about your father,’ said Konrád. ‘He was one of the investigating officers at the time, working with the military police, and could never forget the case, perhaps because he felt it had never been properly resolved. Are you by any chance familiar with the story of a girl called Hrund, who lived in the Öxarfjördur area?’
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