“Okay,” Thóra said eventually. “I promise to tell no one—not even the police—whatever it is you are about to tell me.” Matthew smiled, pleased, but before he could begin his revelation she added hastily: “But in return you must promise me that if this secret of yours proves Hugi’s innocence, and if we can’t demonstrate that in any other way, we will pass on the information to the authorities before the trial starts.” Matthew opened his mouth, but Thóra hadn’t finished: “And the authorities won’t be told that I knew. And—”
Matthew cut her short. “No more ‘ands’—please.” Now it was his turn to think things over. He regarded Thóra steadily. “Agreed. You say nothing and I’ll let the police know about the letter if we can’t prove Hugi innocent in good time before the trial.”
The letter? Yet another letter? Thóra was beginning to think this was one huge farce, but then she remembered the autopsy photographs, which were still vivid in her mind. “What letter are you referring to?” she asked. “I still stand by my promise.”
“Harald’s mother received a letter shortly after the murder,” Matthew replied. “The letter convinced her and her husband that the suspect could not be guilty. It was sent after Hugi had been taken into custody and therefore unable to send things through the post office. I doubt that the police would have done him the favor of posting it for him—especially because I presume they would first have read what it said.”
“Which was?” Thóra asked impatiently.
“What it said was nothing special—except that it was quite unpleasant about Harald’s mother. But it was written in blood—Harald’s blood.”
“Yuck!” Thóra said, before she could stop herself. She tried to imagine how it might feel to receive a letter written with her dead son’s blood, but could not do it. It was too bizarre. “Who was the letter from—did it say? And how did you know it was Harald’s blood?”
“The letter was in Icelandic and signed with Harald’s name, but a handwriting expert ruled that it wasn’t his hand. He couldn’t absolutely confirm this because it was written with a rough instrument. This complicated a comparison with Harald’s normal hand, so it was sent for tests, including whether the blood was his. It turned out to be—unquestionably. In fact they also found traces of blood from a passerine bird that had apparently been mixed with Harald’s blood.”
Thóra’s eyes widened. Bird’s blood? That repulsed her even more than human blood. “What did the letter say?” Thóra asked. “Do you have it with you?”
“I don’t have the original, if that’s what you mean,” Matthew answered. “His mother wouldn’t hand it over, nor a copy of it. She may well have destroyed it. It was quite disgusting.”
Thóra looked disappointed. “So what? I have to know what it said. Did you get someone to translate it?”
“Yes, we did. It was a love poem that began sweetly but soon turned rather nasty.” He smiled at Thóra. “You’re lucky that I managed to copy it out—you see, I was given the job of translating it, with the help of an Icelandic-German dictionary. I probably wouldn’t win a prize for the translation but the meaning was obvious.” While he spoke, Matthew produced a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. He handed it to Thóra. “I might not have written some of the letters down properly—I didn’t recognize all of them, but it ought to be fairly close.”
Thóra read the poem. It was long, considering it had been written in blood. She could not imagine how much blood it would have taken to write all those letters. Matthew had written it out in capitals—presumably to match the original. On the sheet of paper was written:
I look at you,
but you bestow on me
love and dearness
with your whole heart.
Sit nowhere,
stay nowhere,
unless you love me.
I ask of Odin
and all those
who can decipher
women’s runes
that in this world
you will nowhere rest
or thrive
unless you love me
with all your heart.
Then in your bones
you will burn all over
and in your flesh
half as bad again.
May misfortune befall you
unless you love me,
your legs shall freeze,
may you never earn honor
or happiness.
Sit burning,
may your hair rot,
may your clothes rip,
unless willingly
you wish me yours.
Thóra felt odd reading it—the poem was quite macabre. She looked up at Matthew. “I don’t recognize it, unfortunately. Who does that sort of thing?”
“I don’t have the faintest idea,” Matthew replied. “The original was even more repulsive, it was written on skin—calfskin. It takes a sick man to do something like that to a dead man’s mother.”
“Why his mother? Wasn’t it sent to his father too?”
“There was more with it, in German. I didn’t write it down but I more or less remember what it said.”
“And what was that?” Thóra asked.
“It was a short text—something along the lines of: ‘Mother—I hope you like the poem and the present—your son Harry.’ And the word ‘son’ was double-underlined.”
Thóra looked up from the page at Matthew. “What present? Was there a present with the letter?”
“No, not according to his parents, and I believe them. They were out of their minds after it arrived and in no state to lie convincingly.”
“Why is it signed ‘Harry’? Was the person who wrote it running out of blood?”
“No, his elder brother called him ‘Harry’ when they were small. Only a handful of people know that nickname—which is one reason why the letter had such an effect on his mother.”
Thóra looked at Matthew. “Did she treat him badly? Is that true?” She thought back to that photograph of the lonely little boy.
Matthew did not answer immediately. When he finally spoke he chose his words carefully; it was evidently important to him to express himself properly about the private affairs of employers whom he seemed to respect highly. “I swear that I don’t know. It was more as if she avoided him. But I do know that if their relationship had been normal, she would have sent the letter to the Icelandic police. It clearly struck a nerve.” He paused for a moment, watching Thóra thoughtfully before continuing. “She asked to talk to you. Mother-to-mother.”
“Me?” Thóra gaped. “What does she want from me? To apologize for her bizarre behavior toward her child?”
“She didn’t say,” Matthew replied. “She just said she wanted to talk to you, but not right now. She wanted time to get over the shock.”
Thóra said nothing. Of course she would talk to the woman if she insisted, but it would be a long time before she would console someone who had mistreated her child. “I can’t see the motive behind that letter,” she said, to change the subject.
“Nor can I,” replied Matthew at once. “There’s something so crazy about pretending Harald sent it himself that I think the murderer must be a psychopath.”
Thóra stared at the sheet of paper. “Could the person who wrote it be implying that Harald was dead and would come back to haunt his mother?”
“Why?” asked Matthew reasonably. “Who could expect to benefit from tormenting her like that?”
“Harald, of course, except that he was dead,” Thóra said. “His sister perhaps—maybe their mother mistreated her too?”
“No,” Matthew replied. “She wasn’t mistreated—I can promise you that. She’s the apple of her parents’ eye.”
“So who can it be?” Thóra asked, floundering.
“Not Hugi anyway. Unless he had an accomplice.”
“Pity we didn’t know about the blood on his clothes when we spoke to him this morning.” Thóra looked at her watch. “Maybe they’ll let me talk
to him on the phone.” She dialed directory assistance and got the number of the prison. The duty sergeant gave her permission to talk to Hugi on condition that they kept the conversation short. She held impatiently for several minutes listening to a digital rendition of Für Elise. Finally, a breathless Hugi came on the line.
“Hello.”
“Yes, hello, Hugi. This is Thóra Gudmundsdóttir who came to see you this morning. I won’t keep you long but unfortunately we forgot to ask you about the blood on your clothes. How do you explain that?”
“That fucking shit.” Hugi groaned. “The police asked me about it. I don’t know what bloodstained T-shirt they mean, but I explained the blood on my clothes from the night before.”
“How?” Thóra asked.
“Harald and I went to the toilet to snort up during the party. He got this huge nosebleed and some of it splashed me. The bathroom was tiny.”
“Couldn’t you get that corroborated?” Thóra asked. “Didn’t any of the other guests remember you coming out of the bathroom covered in blood?”
“I wasn’t exactly covered in blood. They were all off their heads too. No one mentioned it. No one noticed, I guess.”
Damn, thought Thóra. “But the bloodstained T-shirt in your closet—do you know how it got there?”
“I haven’t the foggiest.” A short silence followed before he added: “I think the cops planted it. I didn’t kill Harald and didn’t mop up any blood with a T-shirt. I don’t even know if it’s my T-shirt or someone else’s. They never let me see it.”
“Those are serious accusations, Hugi, and to tell you the truth I don’t think the police do that sort of thing. There must be another explanation, if you’re telling the truth.” They ended the call, and Thóra filled Matthew in.
“Well, he has an explanation for half of it,” he said. “We have to find out from the other guests at the party if they remember any nosebleeds.”
“Yes,” Thóra said, hardly expecting it to be worth the hassle. “But even if they do, the T-shirt in the closet still needs to be explained.”
A ping came from the computer, and they both looked at the screen. “You have new mail” appeared on a tab in the right-hand corner. Thóra grabbed the mouse and clicked the envelope icon.
It was an e-mail—from Mal.
CHAPTER 19
Hey, dead Harald.
What’s up, man? I’m getting mail from someone pretending to be the Icelandic police and some scumbag lawyer [Thóra could not help being riled by this—despite having been called much worse in her legal career]. Those jerks reckon you’re dead—as if, eh? Drop me a line, anyway—it’s all a bit weird.
Bye
Mal
“Quick, quick,” Matthew said. “Answer while he’s still at his computer.”
Thóra rushed to click “Reply.” “What should I say?” she asked as she typed in the customary: “Dear Mal.”
“Just anything,” Matthew snapped. Very helpful.
Thóra decided to write:
Unfortunately it is true about Harald’s death. He was murdered and won’t be replying. I’m the “scumbag lawyer” who tried to contact you the other day; Harald’s computer is in my safekeeping. I’m working for the Guntliebs—they are desperate to find the killer. A young man is in custody who is probably innocent of this awful deed and I suspect you may have information that could help us. Do you know what it was that Harald claimed to have found and who the “fucking idiot” is he refers to in his last e-mail to you? Please send me a phone number where I can contact you.
Regards
Thóra
Matthew read as she typed and as soon as she had finished—in record time—he gestured impatiently and muttered: “Send it, send it.”
Thóra sent the message and they waited in silence for a few minutes. At long last a pop-up announced a new message. Excitedly they looked at each other before Thóra opened it. And they were both equally disappointed.
Scumbag lawyer—fuck off. Take the Guntliebs with you. You all suck. I’d rather die than help you.
All my hate
Mal
Thóra slowly breathed out. No mixed messages there. She looked at Matthew. “Could he be joking?”
Matthew caught her eye but could not tell whether she was joking too. He presumed she was. “Sure—I bet he’ll send another mail with smileys bouncing all over the screen saying how much he loves the Guntliebs.” He groaned. “Screw it. Harald obviously didn’t speak highly of his parents to his friends. I think we can forget this guy.”
Thóra sighed. “Aren’t we wasting our time, then? We could go down to Kaffibrennslan, for instance, and talk to the waiter who gave Halldór his alibi, if he’s on duty. I do agree it’s a pretty weak testimony. If he isn’t working now we can just have a coffee.”
Delighted, Matthew stood up. Thóra quickly removed the memory stick, slipped it into her handbag, and switched off the computer.
There were few customers at Kaffibrennslan, so Thóra and Matthew had a choice of seats. They sat at a table close to the bar on the lower floor. While Thóra was struggling to hang her coat over the back of her chair, Matthew tried to catch the attention of the young waitress. Then Matthew turned to Thóra. “Why didn’t you wear the coat you were in this morning?” he asked, goggling at the huge padded coat spread out on either side of her chair—the arms were so stuffed with goose down that they almost stood out at ninety degrees.
“I was cold,” Thóra said, as surprised by his question as he seemed to be by her coat. “I keep it at the office—I wore the other coat there this morning and I wear this home in the evenings. Don’t you think it’s nice?”
Matthew’s expression spoke volumes about his opinion of the coat. “Lovely—if you were taking core samples from an Antarctic glacier.”
Thóra rolled her eyes. “God, you’re so uptight,” she said, smiling at the waitress who had appeared at their side.
“Can I help you?” the girl asked, returning her smile. She had a short black apron tied around her slender waist and was holding a small notepad, ready to take their order.
“Yes, please,” Thóra replied. “I’ll have a double espresso.” She turned to Matthew. “Don’t you just want tea in a china cup?”
“Ha-ha. Very funny,” he said, then turned to the waitress and ordered the same as Thóra.
“Okay,” she said without writing the order down. “Anything else?”
“Yes and no,” Thóra said. “We were wondering if Björn Jónsson is here now. We wanted to have a word with him.”
“Bjössi?” said the girl, startled. “Yes, he just got in.” She looked at the clock on the wall. “His shift starts now. Should I get him for you?” Thóra thanked her, and the girl went off to fetch Bjössi and their coffee.
Matthew smiled sweetly at Thóra. “Your coat is great. I mean it. It’s just so…huge.”
“You didn’t let that stop you flirting with Bella. She’s huge too—so huge that she has her own center of gravity. The paper clips at the office go into orbit around her. Maybe you should get yourself one of these coats. They’re incredibly comfortable.”
“I can’t,” Matthew said, smiling back at her. “Then you’d have to sit in the back of the car. That wouldn’t work. There’s no way to fit two of those in the front seat.”
Further discussion of coats was put on hold when the waitress arrived with their coffee. A young man was with her. He was good-looking in a slightly feminine way—his dark hair unusually well cut and groomed, and not the faintest hint of a shadow on his cheeks. “Hi, you wanted to talk to me?” he asked in a singsong voice.
“Yes, are you Björn?” said Thóra, taking one of the cups of coffee. The young man said he was and she explained who she and Matthew were. She felt it unnecessary to confuse him by speaking English, and stuck to Icelandic. Matthew said nothing and just sat there sipping his coffee. “We wanted to ask you about the night of the murder, and about Halldór Kristinsson.”
Bjös
si nodded gravely. “Sure, no problem—I’m allowed to talk to you, aren’t I? It’s not against the rules?” When Thóra assured him it wasn’t, he continued. “I was working here, with some others actually.” He looked around the half-empty bar. “It’s not like this on weekends. It gets packed.”
“But you remember him in particular?” Thóra asked, taking care not to sound as if she doubted his words.
“Dóri? You bet,” Bjössi said, a little self-importantly. “I was starting to recognize him—if you know what I mean. Him and that friend of his—the foreign guy who was killed—they came here often and you couldn’t help noticing them. That foreigner really stood out. Always called me ‘Bear,’ like my name means. Dóri came by himself sometimes, too, and I’d chat with him at the bar.”
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