Last Rituals

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  Matthew shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll never get a reply.”

  Thóra refused to give up as easily as Matthew. “Harald might have some information about him on his computer.”

  Matthew raised his eyebrows. “Do you keep information about your friends on your computer?”

  “Oh, you know what I mean, a contact list, address book.”

  Matthew shrugged again. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean. Maybe Harald had one. You never know.”

  Thóra turned her computer screen back to its normal position. “Why don’t you give the police a quick call to ask about Harald’s computer?” She looked at the clock on the screen. “It’s only just past two so the office is open.” The letter requesting the case documents was not in Bella’s tray that morning, so everything suggested it had been posted the day before. It had probably arrived, but that didn’t mean it had been dealt with. It would be sensible to wait a day or two and then phone about the computer and the documents at the same time. But Thóra’s curiosity outweighed her common sense at the moment. She could see little else to do in the situation. In the Internet directory, Thóra had already checked Harald’s friends’ mobile phone numbers and managed to find Marta Mist, Bríet, and Brjánn. They had all refused to talk to her—Bríet half hysterically—and pointed out that they had all made statements to the police. So Thóra and Matthew had little to work on for the time being. “Phone,” she insisted.

  Matthew gave in, and it turned out they could indeed collect the computer from the police. An officer by the name of Markús Helgason would be there to meet them.

  At the police station Markús greeted Thóra in Icelandic, then addressed Matthew in English with a strong Icelandic accent: “We’ve met twice before. Once when we searched the flat and then when you went to see my boss, Árni Bjarnason.” The officer smiled awkwardly. “You didn’t exactly hit it off, so they decided to send me this time. I hope you don’t mind.”

  He was a youngish man, wearing the blue shirt and black trousers of the police uniform. Markús was fairly short; he must have joined the force after the minimum height requirement was abolished. In other respects he was very ordinary-looking, neither handsome nor ugly, blond with unremarkable gray eyes. When he smiled as he shook their hands, Thóra’s initial impression of him changed completely. He had beautiful white teeth and Thóra hoped for his sake that he always had plenty to smile about.

  When Matthew and Thóra assured him that they didn’t mind not meeting his superior, the young officer gladly carried on. “I’d like to have a chat with you. We understand you’re looking into the circumstances of the murder, and since our investigation isn’t formally over it would be normal for us to have a little talk.” He hesitated, embarrassed, then added: “The computer’s being packed in a box now with some other evidence we were supposed to return. So you’ll have to wait a while anyway. We can sit down in my office.”

  Thóra darted a sideways glance at Matthew, who shrugged to indicate that he did not mind. She knew that the explanation about packing the computer was mere pretense—a one-handed man could do the job in no more than three minutes. But with a smile she played along and said it was fine. Visibly relieved, Markús showed them into his office.

  There were no personal articles apart from a coffee mug with a Manchester United logo. Markús invited Thóra and Matthew to take a seat and waited until they were comfortable before sitting down himself. No one said anything while they went through these motions, and the silence had become uncomfortable by the time they eventually got themselves settled.

  “Well, that’s that,” the police officer said, pretending to sound jolly. Thóra and Matthew just smiled but neither said a word. Thóra wanted Markús to speak first, and judging by the tight line of Matthew’s mouth he felt the same. The officer got straight to the point. “We understand that you went to the prison this morning and met Hugi Thórisson.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Thóra curtly.

  “Quite,” said Markús. “What came out of this meeting?” He looked expectantly at each of them in turn. “It’s a rather strange position to claim to represent the family as you do here and also to assist the prime suspect—which I understand you did this morning at the prison.”

  Thóra looked at Matthew, who waved his hand to indicate that she should answer. “Let’s just say that the situation is strange and unconventional and we’re simply acting on that. But we’re obviously still working for Harald’s family; Hugi Thórisson’s interests just happen to coincide with theirs.” She paused briefly to allow the officer to protest, which he did not. She continued: “We’re not at all convinced that he’s guilty. If anything, our talk with him this morning reinforced that belief.”

  Markús raised his eyebrows. “I must admit, I don’t understand how you can be quite so certain. Everything that our investigation has revealed points in the opposite direction.”

  “We feel there are many questions unanswered, I suppose that’s the main reason,” replied Thóra.

  The officer nodded, apparently in agreement. “Actually that’s quite true, but as I say, our investigation is not entirely over. But I’d be surprised if anything was found to overturn the theory that Hugi Thórisson murdered Harald.” He counted on his fingers. “First, he was with the victim just before the murder was committed. Second, Harald’s blood was found on the clothes he was wearing that evening. Third, we found a T-shirt hidden in his closet that had been used to wipe up a considerable amount of blood, which also came from the victim. Fourth, he was a member of the murdered man’s black magic cult, so he was familiar with the magic symbols carved on the body. And fifth, he was stoned enough to be able to gouge out the eyes. Believe me—no one in their right mind does that. He was a dealer and presumably planned to smuggle drugs into the country. The murdered man had plenty of money to finance that and a sizable sum vanished from his account shortly before the murder was committed. Without a trace. That doesn’t happen in normal business transactions. You can always trace them somehow.” The officer looked down. He was gripping his left hand tightly with his right. “In all honesty, most convictions are made on a lot fewer counts. All we lack is a confession, which I readily admit would normally have been made under such circumstances.”

  Thóra tried to look nonchalant. The blood on Hugi’s clothes had caught her off guard. She had seen nothing about it in the police reports or the other documents in her possession. She spoke quickly so Markús would not notice that he had unnerved her. “Doesn’t it bother you that he hasn’t confessed to the murder?”

  The officer looked at her candidly. “No, not at all. You know why?” When Thóra did not seem likely to answer him, he carried on. “He can’t remember. So he clings to the hope that he didn’t do it. Why should he confess to an act that he can’t even remember when there’s so much at stake?”

  “How do you explain the body being transported to the university?” asked Matthew. “This dope dealer hardly had access to the facilities there. It was a weekend, and presumably everything was locked.”

  “He stole Harald’s key. Very simple. We found a bunch of keys on the body—including a key to the department, or rather an access key, because there’s a security system. From the system we could see that the key was used to enter the building just after the murder.”

  Matthew cleared his throat. “What do you mean, just after the murder? Couldn’t it just as easily have been before the murder? The timing in this case isn’t that precise.”

  “In fact it isn’t, but that’s not the point,” answered Markús, more dryly than before.

  Matthew went on, not willing to let him off the hook so easily. “Let’s assume that Hugi stole the key and transported the body from his home, which is in the neighborhood, to the university building. What sort of transport do you suppose was used? You can’t put the body of an adult male in your pocket—or take it with you in a taxi.”

  Now the police officer smiled. “He transported the body on
his bike. It was found outside the Manuscript Institute, and, what’s more, Harald’s DNA was found on it. His blood was on the handlebars. Fortunately it had been thrown aside into the shelter so that it didn’t get snowed on.”

  Matthew said nothing, so Thóra spoke up. “How do you know it was Hugi’s bike?” She quickly added: “And even if it was, how do you know it was left there on the night in question?”

  The officer smiled, even more pleased than before. “The bike was thrown away over by the trash cans. The garbage was collected on Friday and the local garbagemen are adamant that there was no bike there at that time. Hugi recognized the bike himself and admitted it had been lying untouched in the bicycle storage in his apartment complex on that Saturday—and a woman who lives there stated that the bike was in its place when she took her stroller out of the storage around dinnertime to go shopping with her child.”

  “How on earth can a witness remember what was in a certain place and what wasn’t? I’ve lived in an apartment complex before and I don’t think I could have said what was in the bicycle room, although I often walked through it,” said Thóra.

  “The bike was noticeable because he used it a lot. Winter, summer, autumn, and spring. He didn’t have a driver’s license, so he didn’t have much choice. And he wasn’t the most considerate of people about storing it away—that weekend he’d left it resting on the woman’s stroller. She remembers it well because she had to move it to get the stroller out.”

  Matthew cleared his throat. “If Hugi stole the key for the security system, I presume a code or PIN number went with it. How could Hugi guess that?”

  “That’s exactly what we wanted to know,” Markús replied. “When Harald’s friends were questioned it turned out that he had told the number to all of them.”

  Thóra looked at him in disbelief. “Who do you expect to believe that? Why on earth would he do that?”

  “It seems the number amused him. He was allocated 0666, which apparently appealed to him because of his strange obsession with devil worship.”

  “Actually it was an obsession with magic and has nothing to do with the devil,” Matthew said. Then he quickly changed the subject to avoid a long discussion on the nature of magic. “You might be able to tell us one thing. We came across a printout from Harald’s e-mail, a short note sent to a certain Mal. Did you find out anything about that?”

  The officer looked blank. “I must admit I don’t remember that. We went through hundreds of documents. If you want I can look it up and let you know.”

  Thóra outlined the e-mail to him, even though she did not expect to gain much from the police on this point. Markús would surely have remembered if it had produced anything. He promised to check whether steps had been taken to identify the recipient, but played down the importance of whatever it was that Harald thought he had found at last. “He must mean some girl he was chasing after, that sort of thing,” he said. “But to change the subject, are you going to stay on this case much longer?” He looked at Thóra and Matthew in turn.

  “As long as is necessary,” Matthew said, frowning. “I’m still not convinced you’re holding the right man—in spite of what you said. Of course, I might be wrong.”

  The officer gave a faint smile. “We’d be grateful if you let us keep tabs on you, as the investigation is still ongoing. We don’t want any clashes and it would be better if we could cooperate.”

  Thóra seized her opportunity. “We’ve received some of the case documents, but by no means all of them. I sent you a letter, which will probably arrive tomorrow, asking to have all the documents handed over on behalf of the family—do you see any objection?”

  Markús shrugged. “Not as such, but it’s not my decision. It’s an unusual request but I still expect a positive answer. It could take some time to gather it all together. Of course, we’ll try—” A knock on the door interrupted him. “Come in,” he called, and the door opened. A young female officer stood in the doorway with a cardboard box in her arms. A black computer was sticking out of the top.

  “Here’s the computer you asked for,” the young woman said, walking in. She put the box on the desk and took out a transparent folder with a piece of paper inside. “The monitor’s down in reception; it’s coming straight out of storage because we didn’t need it. Actually it was quite stupid to take it along in the first place,” she said rather self-importantly to her colleague. “It might be worth pointing out to the teams who search houses that although the documents appear on the monitor, they aren’t literally there. They’re all in the computer and they come up on any screen.” She tapped the top of the computer.

  Markús did not appear too pleased at being told off by the young woman in front of Thóra and Matthew. He glared at her. “Thank you for that information.” He took the folder from her and took out the piece of paper. “Can you sign this receipt, please?” he said to Matthew. “The other papers that were removed are in there too.”

  “What papers?” asked Thóra. “Why weren’t they returned with the others?”

  “They were papers that we felt deserved a close examination. In fact they revealed nothing. I don’t know if you’ll find anything juicy in there, but I doubt it.” He stood up to indicate that the conversation was over.

  Thóra and Matthew stood up and Matthew picked up the box after signing the receipt. “Don’t forget the monitor,” said the female officer, smiling at Thóra. Thóra returned her smile and assured her they would take it.

  They walked out to the car, Thóra with the monitor in her arms and Matthew carrying the box. Thóra pulled out the wad of documents before getting into the passenger seat. She flicked through them quickly while Matthew started the car.

  “What the hell is this?” she said in amazement, turning to Matthew.

  CHAPTER 16

  Thóra was holding a small tan leather wallet that she had taken out of the middle of the wad of papers. The wallet was fastened with straps and she had undone them to examine the contents. The leather was still as soft as a glove to the touch, even though it was probably old. It was at least sixty years old, judging from the insignia printed on it: “NHG 1947.” But it was the contents rather than the wallet itself that caused her surprise. “What can this be?” she asked, glancing curiously at Matthew. She pointed to some old letters that were revealed when the wallet was opened—ancient letters, in fact, because judging from their appearance and script they were much older than their container.

  Matthew regarded the wallet in astonishment. “Was that among the papers in the box?”

  “Yes,” Thóra said, thumbing through the uppermost letters to count them. She was startled by a wordless howl as Matthew snatched the wallet from her.

  “Are you crazy?” he shouted, closing the wallet and flipping the straps back over it in a rush, rather clumsily because of the steering wheel and the cramped seating in the front of the car.

  Thóra watched his efforts in bewilderment without saying a word. When Matthew had closed the wallet he placed it carefully in the backseat. Then he wriggled out of his coat and covered the wallet with it, making sure that the lining and not the damp outside touched it. “Shouldn’t we move the car?” asked Thóra to break the silence. It was half backed out of the parking space, jutting into the street.

  Matthew grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and exhaled heavily. “Excuse my behavior. I didn’t expect to see those letters in some crummy cardboard box from the police.” He backed out into the street and drove away.

  “What are they, if I may ask?” Thóra said.

  “They’re very old letters from Harald’s grandfather’s collection, some of the most valuable ones. Actually they’re priceless, and I can’t understand why Harald sent them to Iceland. I’m certain the insurance company thinks they’re still in the bank vault, as they had agreed.” Matthew adjusted the rearview mirror to keep an eye on his precious cargo. “A nobleman from Innsbruck wrote them in 1485. They describe Heinrich Kramer’s campaign against w
itches in the city, before witch hunts became widespread.”

  “Who was Heinrich Kramer again?” Thóra knew she ought to recognize the name but simply drew a blank.

  “One of the two authors of The Witches’ Hammer,” Matthew replied. “He was the chief inquisitor in several regions that now mostly belong to Germany—doubtless a warped personality, he had a particular grudge against women. As well as chasing imaginary witches he persecuted Jews and blasphemers, in fact almost any group that was an easy target.”

  Thóra remembered the article she had read on the Internet. “Yes, right.” Then she added in surprise: “So are these letters about him?”

  “Yes,” Matthew said. “He went to Innsbruck. Maybe he came and saw, but he definitely didn’t conquer. It started well for him—he launched an inquisition using extreme violence and torture, and the suspects, fifty-seven women, were not allowed any legal defense. The local clerics and secular authorities were appalled at the trials. Kramer made such a show about the alleged witches’ sexual activities that the bishop was outraged and banished him from the city. The women he had detained were released but they were in a sorry state after persistent torture. The letters describe his treatment of the scribe’s wife. As you can imagine, it doesn’t make particularly pleasant reading.”

  “Who was he writing to?” Thóra asked.

  “All the letters are addressed to the Bishop of Brixen, George II. Gosler. The same bishop who had Kramer expelled from the city. I have a feeling the letters played some part.”

  “How did Harald’s grandfather get hold of them?”

  Matthew shrugged. “Lots of things went up for sale in Germany at the end of the war. The Guntliebs invested their assets to hedge the bank against the devaluation of the mark that left most people penniless after the war. It’s not a conventional bank—ordinary depositors don’t put their money in it and never have. In many ways, it was thanks to Harald’s grandfather that his clients didn’t lose everything. He was quick to see where things were heading and was able to exchange funds and invest without drawing a lot of attention to himself. So he was in a good position to snap up various things when the economy took a dive.”