“Do you think the murder is linked to the army?” Thóra was skeptical.
“No, definitely not,” replied Matthew. He shrugged. “But in Harald’s case you can never tell.”
“But why did he do national service?” Thóra asked. “Judging from his profile he would have been more likely to be against military warfare.”
“You’re quite right. He was called up, as it happens, but under normal circumstances he would definitely have gone for community service. You know about that option for conscripts?” Thóra nodded. “He didn’t opt out of service, however. His sister Amelia had just died and it upset him deeply. I suspect he made the decision in a mental crisis. This was at the beginning of 1999, and in November or December of that year Germany decided to send troops to Kosovo. Harald went there with a smile on his face. I’m not sure about all the details of his military career but I do know that he was a model conscript, steadfast and tough. So the incident in Kosovo took the army completely by surprise.”
“What happened?” asked Thóra.
Matthew gave a wry smile. “It’s quite a funny story—in a way. Especially bearing in mind that the expedition to Kosovo was the first German mission abroad since the Second World War. Up to then German soldiers had only been involved in peacekeeping work abroad. So it was vital for our troops to be model soldiers.”
“Harald wasn’t, then?”
“Oh, no. You could call him unlucky. After he’d been there about three months his regiment arrested a Serb who was suspected of having information about a fatal bombing. It cost three German soldiers their lives and many others were injured. The Serb was detained in the basement of the building where the German regiment was stationed. Harald was one of the guards. He was on duty alone when the prisoner had been there for two or three nights and still hadn’t confessed a thing. Harald had mentioned to his superior that he knew a thing or two about interrogation techniques and was given permission to try to get some information out of the prisoner that night.” Matthew looked at Thóra. “Of course, the man who authorized this had no idea that Harald was well versed in the history of torture. He must have expected Harald to put his head round the door every so often to ask the prisoner a few innocent questions.”
Thóra’s eyes opened wide. “Did he torture him?”
“Let’s just say that the Serb would gladly have swapped places with the men in the naked pyramid at Abu Ghraib. I’m not condoning what happened, but that was like Disneyland compared with what the poor Serb had to put up with that night. When the shift changed the next morning Harald had managed to get the man to tell everything he knew—and a lot more besides. But instead of earning the praise he thought he deserved, Harald was discharged on the spot—as soon as his superiors saw the barely breathing heap of raw meat lying in its own blood on the floor of the cell. Of course the affair was hushed up because it would have tarnished the army’s reputation. All the official documents state that Harald left the army for health reasons.”
“So how do you know this?” Thóra asked, relieved at being able to ask a reasonably normal question.
“I know people,” said Matthew enigmatically. “And I talked to Harald after he got back from Kosovo. He was a changed man, I can tell you. Whether it was his experience of military life or the taste of blood I can’t tell. But he became even weirder than before.”
“How?” Thóra asked, curious.
“Just weirder,” Matthew replied. “In appearance and behavior. He enrolled in college soon after this—he left home so I didn’t see him so often. From the few occasions when we ran into each other it was quite obvious that he was caught in a downward spiral. Presumably his grandfather’s death shortly afterward didn’t help either. They were very close.”
Thóra did not know what to say. Harald Guntlieb was clearly no ordinary person. Looking at her notes, she remembered the victim of erotic asphyxiation who was described in the newspaper clipping. But she decided she’d had enough for now. She glanced at her mobile and saw that it was late. “Matthew, I have to go home. My list isn’t finished but I have plenty to digest for the time being.”
They quickly tidied up the papers they had been rummaging through in the study. They made sure not to mix up the piles of documents they had sorted. The thought of the extra work that would have involved was unbearable.
As she put the final pile neatly to one side Thóra turned to Matthew and asked: “Did Harald make a will—considering all the assets he owned?”
“Actually he did leave a will—quite a recent one in fact,” said Matthew. “He’d always had one, but changed it in the middle of September. He made a trip to Germany specifically to meet the Guntliebs’ lawyer to draw up a new version. But no one knows what it says.”
“Really?” Thóra said, surprised. “Why not?”
“It was in two parts—with instructions to open one before the other. It stated that the second part must not be opened until Harald had been buried—which hasn’t been possible because of the investigation.”
“Was that all it said?” Thóra asked.
“No, there were also instructions about where he wanted to be buried.”
“And where is that?”
“In Iceland—which is strange considering the short time he spent here. The country seems to have captivated him. Another instruction was that his parents have to attend the funeral and stand at the foot of the grave for at least ten minutes after the casket is lowered. If they fail to comply, all his possessions will be bequeathed to a tattoo parlor in Munich.”
Thóra asked him to repeat that. “So didn’t he expect them to turn up?”
“Evidently not,” replied Matthew. “But he made absolutely certain of it with that clause—his parents don’t care to be splattered across the tabloids because their son left a small fortune to a tattoo parlor.”
“Do you think they’ll inherit it, then?” Thóra asked. “That is, if they turn up.”
“No,” Matthew replied. “They couldn’t really care less—they just don’t want to end up in the gutter press.”
He thought for a moment.
“I think his sister Elisa will probably inherit most of his belongings. But a good share of the money will doubtless go to someone here in Iceland—the lawyer implied that strongly when he was pressed. The second part of the will must be opened here, according to Harald’s instructions.”
“I wonder who it is,” Thóra said, curious.
“I don’t have a clue,” responded Matthew. “But he or she had ample reason to kill Harald, if they knew about it beforehand.”
Thóra was relieved to leave the apartment. She was tired and wanted to go home to her children. Yet she felt somehow uncomfortable. She had the feeling she had overlooked something. But no matter how she tried to recall it after she was alone in her “Bibbi’s Garage” car, she could not put her finger on what was eluding her. And when she parked in her drive she forgot it completely.
CHAPTER 12
The effects of divorce are not all positive. Thóra had long been aware that it had its drawbacks too. Previously, two people were running the household, but now Thóra had to stretch a single salary to fill the gap left after the split. The meager amount she received in child support from her husband did little to alleviate her financial problems. It’s an easy enough thing to step up one’s spending and be comfortable with it; at least Thóra did not recall any particular difficulties in converting from a poor student to a salary-earner. But it’s a different matter when it comes to cutting back, as she had found out.
Hannes, her ex, was an ER surgeon—in other words, he was in a stable and well-paid job. After their divorce Thóra had had to relinquish many things she had begun to take for granted. It was no longer a matter of course to go out for a meal, take a weekend break abroad, buy expensive clothes, or do any of the other typical things people who don’t need to worry about money do. Although not all the disadvantages involved money—no sex flashed through Thóra’s mind—what she
missed most was the lady who had come to clean their house twice a week. When Thóra and Hannes divorced she had been forced to let her go, simply in order to make ends meet. So Thóra now stood by the broom closet doing her best to shut the door without crushing the vacuum cleaner hose that repeatedly sprang out and prevented it from closing. When she succeeded at last she heaved a sigh of relief. She had vacuumed all the floors in a house of more than two thousand square feet and felt quite pleased with herself.
“Doesn’t it make a world of difference?” she asked her daughter, who was sitting in the kitchen absorbed in drawing pictures.
Sóley looked up. “What does?”
“The floors,” Thóra answered. “I’ve vacuumed. Don’t they look nice?”
The girl looked at the floor and then back at her mother. “You missed this.” She pointed with a green crayon at a ball of fluff under one leg of the chair she was sitting on.
“Oh, sorry, madame,” said Thóra, kissing her daughter on the head. “What’s that nice picture you’re drawing?”
“It’s you and me and Gylfi,” Sóley replied, pointing to three figures of different sizes on the paper. “You’re wearing a pretty dress and so am I and Gylfi’s wearing shorts.” She looked at her mother. “It’s summer in this picture.”
“Wow, don’t I look smart,” Thóra said. “I’ll definitely get myself a dress like that next summer.” She looked at her watch. “Come along. I’ll brush your teeth. It’s bedtime.”
While Sóley put away her crayons, Thóra went to her son’s room. She gave a light rap on the door before opening it. “Isn’t this just as good as new?” she asked, again referring to the floors.
Gylfi did not answer immediately. He was lying on the bed talking on his mobile. Seeing her, he said a quick good-bye and in a half whisper promised whoever he was talking to that he would ring later. He half sat up and put down his phone. Thóra thought he looked dazed. “Are you okay? You look so pale.”
“What?” Gylfi said. “Sure, everything’s okay. Great, really.”
“That’s nice,” she said. “I just came to see if you didn’t think the air is fresher since I vacuumed your room. And if I wouldn’t get a kiss as a reward.”
Gylfi sat up properly. He looked around vacantly. “Eh? Oh, yeah. Cool.”
Thóra studied her son closely. Something definitely wasn’t right. His normal reaction would have been to shrug or mumble something about not caring what the floors looked like. He darted his eyes and avoided looking at his mother. There was something wrong, and a pang shot through Thóra’s stomach. She hadn’t been looking after him properly. He had changed from a little boy into a half man since the divorce, and she had been too preoccupied with herself and her own problems to pay enough attention to him. Now she did not know how to act. Most of all she wanted to hug him and run her fingers through his unnecessarily long hair, but that would just look silly—that time had passed, it was long gone. “Hey,” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. She had to crane her neck to look him in the face, because he was looking away. “Something’s wrong. You can tell me. I promise not to get angry.”
Gylfi gave her a thoughtful look but said nothing. Thóra saw tiny beads of sweat on his forehead and for a moment she thought he might have the flu. “Are you running a temperature?” she asked, stretching out her hand to press the back of it against his brow.
Gylfi dodged her deftly. “No, no. Not at all. I’ve just heard some bad news.”
“Oh?” Thóra said cautiously. “Who was on the phone?”
“Sigga…I mean Siggi,” Gylfi answered without looking his mother in the eye. He added hastily: “Arsenal lost to Liverpool.”
Thóra was not born yesterday and was perfectly aware that he had just cooked up this excuse on the spot. She did not recognize the name Siggi from Gylfi’s circle—although of course he had countless acquaintances whose names and faces she did not know. But she did know her son well enough to realize that he was not so into soccer that he’d get depressed over the English league results. She wondered whether to press him further or let it go. Given the situation she judged the latter option more appropriate—for the time being. “Oh, dear. Rotten. Bloody Liverpool.” She looked him straight in the eye. “If you want or need to talk to me, Gylfi, then promise me you won’t hesitate to do just that.” Seeing his flustered expression, she swiftly added: “About the game, I mean. Arsenal. You know you can come to me, dear. I can’t solve all the problems in the world but I can try to tackle the ones that end up on our table.”
Gylfi looked at her without saying a word. With a wan smile he mumbled something about an essay he needed to finish. Thóra muttered something back, left the room and closed his door. She could not imagine what kind of setback could upset a sixteen-year-old boy—she had never been one, nor could she remember her own adolescence clearly. All that occurred to her was girl problems. Maybe he had a crush on someone. Thóra decided to find out diplomatically—she could pop a few subtle questions to him over breakfast the next morning. This crisis might even have blown over by then. It could all be a storm in a teacup—hormone shock.
After brushing Sóley’s teeth and reading her a story, Thóra settled down on the sofa in front of the television. She called her mother, who was on vacation for a month with her father in the Canary Islands. Constant bickering greeted her whenever she phoned. The last time it was not being able to buy curds for breakfast that was killing her parents. Now it was the Discovery Channel, which her father had become addicted to, on the hotel television—if her mother was to be believed, that is. As they exchanged good-byes, her mother said wearily that she was going to flop down beside her husband and hear all about the mating habits of insects. Smiling to herself, Thóra put down the phone and returned to watching TV herself. Just as she was dozing off in front of a banal reality show the telephone rang. She sat up in the sofa and reached for the phone.
“Thóra speaking,” she answered, carefully choosing a voice that did not betray the fact she had just nodded off.
“Hello, it’s Hannes,” said the voice on the other end.
“Hello.” Thóra wondered whether she would ever stop feeling uncomfortable talking to her ex. These excruciating exchanges surely sprang from the transition from intimacy to forced politeness, like when she met old boyfriends or men she had slept with when she was younger—an unavoidable hazard when living in a small country like Iceland.
“Listen, about the weekend, I was wondering if I could just call round to collect the kids a bit later on Friday. I’m taking Gylfi out for a driving lesson and I think it’s better to do that after rush hour, around eight o’clock.”
Thóra said yes, although she knew quite well that the delay had nothing to do with driving lessons. Undoubtedly Hannes had to work later or planned to go to the gym after work. One of the reasons for their endless quarrels after the divorce had been that Hannes never seemed able to take any responsibility; it was always the fault of someone else or fictional circumstances beyond his control. This was not her problem anymore, but his new partner Klara’s. “What are you doing over the weekend?” Thóra asked for the sake of saying something. “Should I pack them any special clothes?”
“We might go horseback riding so it would be good if they have outfits for that,” Hannes replied.
Klara was a horse lover and had dragged Hannes into the sport. It was a source of endless torment for Sóley and Gylfi, who had inherited Thóra’s nervous disposition—if anything, the fear genes had doubled from mother to child. Thóra had trouble driving on icy roads, climbing mountains, taking elevators, eating raw food—in fact, she didn’t do well with any activity that could conceivably end in disaster. For some incomprehensible reason, however, flying was the one exception. So she understood perfectly her children’s horror at the prospect of horseback riding, convinced as they were that each ride would be their last moment on earth. Hannes refused to admit that this condition was permanent and constantly tried to persuade his ch
ildren that they would get used to it in the end. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she asked, although she knew full well that she had little sway over Hannes’s plans. “Gylfi’s a bit down at the moment and I’m not sure that a riding trip is exactly what he needs now.”
“Rubbish,” Hannes snapped back. “He’s turning into quite a horseman.”
“You reckon? Try to talk to him, anyway. I suspect he’s having girl trouble and you know more about those things than I do.”
“Girl trouble? What do I know about those things?” yelled Hannes. “He’s just turned sixteen. You can’t be serious.”
“No, maybe not. But keep it in the back of your mind and try to deliver some words of wisdom.”
“Wisdom? What sort of wisdom? What do you mean?” Hannes was floundering, and Thóra smiled.
“You know, to help him deal with life’s challenges.” Her smile widened.
“You’re joking,” Hannes said hopefully.
“Actually, I’m not,” replied Thóra. “I trust you’ll find a way. I’ll do the same for your daughter when her boy problems start. You can try taking him aside on the riding trip and having a quiet chat from the saddle.”
They ended the conversation and Thóra had a hunch she had just lowered the odds that they would go riding. She tried once again to reimmerse herself in televised unreality. In vain, though, because the phone rang again.
“Sorry to call so late, but it occurred to me that you might be thinking about me,” Matthew said calmly after they’d said hello. “I decided to let you hear my voice.”
Thóra was flabbergasted—she could not tell whether Matthew was mad, drunk, or joking. “I can’t say you caught me doing that.” She stretched over for the remote to turn down the television volume so that he would not hear the trash she was watching. “I was reading.”
“What are you reading?” he asked.
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