“Would you be so kind as to explain the world of witchcraft, then?” asked Matthew.
Marta Mist groaned. “I’m not going to play teacher with you. All you need to understand is that magic is just an individual’s attempt to influence his own life in unconventional ways—at least, unconventional to the modern mind. In its day it was very common and for those born into poverty at the time it was the only hope they had of possibly changing their circumstances for the better. It mainly involves performing acts that will twist events in your favor—sometimes at someone else’s expense, sometimes not. In my view, when you’ve made the effort to perform the charm you’ve taken one step toward a specific aim and you can focus on it better afterward, so you’re more likely to achieve it than before.”
“Can you give me an example?” said Thóra.
“Winning love or success; healing; harming an enemy. There’s no limit, really. Most of the old charms are connected with basic needs, though—life wasn’t so complicated back then.”
After reading Malleus Maleficarum, Thóra begged to differ. To her mind at least, it was very complicated to try to defend someone in a judicial system that constantly bent and changed the rules according to the interests of the prosecution. “So what do you use in your spells?” she asked, and to get a rise out of Marta Mist she added: “Apart from headless chickens and homemade dolls?”
“Very funny,” said Marta Mist, without a trace of a smile. “In Iceland it was mainly magical symbols—although they often had to do more than carve or draw them to complete the spell. We know of magical symbols from other parts of Europe, too, and the same applied to them—it wasn’t always enough just to draw them.”
“Such as?” Matthew asked.
“Reciting a charm, collecting animal bones, human bones, the hair of a virgin. That sort of thing. Nothing serious,” Marta Mist answered coldly.
“Yes, and sometimes human body parts,” Bríet interjected. The group suddenly fell silent. She blushed and clammed up.
“Really?” Matthew said with feigned surprise. “Like what? Hands? Hair?” He paused briefly. “Or maybe eyes?”
No one said anything until Marta Mist spoke up. “I’ve never read of any spell where eyes are needed—apart from the eyes of animals.”
“What about the rest of you? Do you know about any such spells?” asked Matthew.
None of them spoke, but they all shook their heads. “Nope,” Brjánn said eventually.
“What about fingers?” Thóra asked quickly. “Have you read about—or performed—a spell that needs a finger?”
“No.” Dóri’s voice was firm and he swept his hair from his eyes in order to press his point home by looking Thóra and Matthew in the eye. “We want to make it perfectly clear that we haven’t been doing spells that use human body parts. I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but it’s ridiculous. We didn’t kill Harald—you can rule that out for a start. The cops have our alibis and had them checked out.” Dóri leaned forward and took a cigarette from one of the packets on the table. He lit it, took a deep drag, and exhaled slowly.
“So Hugi killed him, then?” Thóra asked. “Are you saying that?”
“No, I didn’t say that at all. You ought to listen more carefully,” Dóri said heatedly. He leaned forward as if about to say more, but Marta Mist put her arm out and pushed him back against the sofa.
Then she spoke, much calmer than Halldór. “I don’t know where your logic is coming from, but just because we didn’t kill Harald doesn’t automatically mean that Hugi did. Dóri was just pointing out that we didn’t kill Harald. Basta.” Now it was Marta Mist’s turn to lean back in the sofa. She plucked the cigarette from between Dóri’s fingers, took a drag, and returned it. Bríet’s face signaled annoyance; this obvious sign of intimacy seemed to jostle her nerves.
“Hugi didn’t kill him. He’s not like that,” Dóri muttered gruffly. He pushed Marta Mist’s arm away and reached across the table to tap the ash from his cigarette.
“What about you? Are you like that? If I remember correctly, you didn’t have as good an alibi as your friends.” Matthew stared at Dóri and waited for a response.
And it came. Dóri’s voice deepened in anger and as soon as he started speaking he shifted to the edge of the sofa—as close to Matthew as he could get without falling off. “Harald was my friend. My good friend. We looked out for each other, did stuff for each other. I would never have killed him. Never. You’re even wider off the mark than the cops, and you don’t know what the fuck you’re going on about.” To punctuate his words he stabbed his burning cigarette at Matthew.
“What did you do for him, anyway? Apart from translating for him?” interrupted Thóra.
Dóri took his eyes off Matthew and glared just as vehemently at Thóra. He opened his mouth as if about to say something, then stopped. After taking a last puff and stubbing out his cigarette, he moved back to his place on the sofa.
Brjánn, the history student, assumed the role of peacemaker. “Er, I don’t understand exactly what you’re driving at—of course someone killed Harald and if it wasn’t Hugi, who was it? But you’ll save yourselves a lot of time and effort if you just accept we’re telling the truth. None of us killed Harald. We had no reason to—he was fun, always doing crazy things, really generous, and a good friend and companion to us all. Our society’s nothing without him, for example. Not to mention the fact that none of us could have killed him—we weren’t anywhere nearby and plenty of witnesses can confirm that.”
Andri, who was working on a master’s degree in chemistry, backed him up. His eyes were glassy and Thóra had a faint suspicion that he was high. Perhaps his interest in chemistry went beyond the realms of academia. “It’s completely true. Harald was unique; none of us would ever have wanted to get rid of him. He could be sarcastic and acted weird sometimes, but he was always really decent when it came down to it.”
“How lovely,” Matthew said witheringly. “But I’d like to know one thing. You were all at the party apart from Halldór. Do you remember Hugi and Harald going into the bathroom together and coming out with bloodstains on their clothes?”
All the students shook their heads, except Halldór. “No one was thinking about clothes in there.” Andri shrugged. “That may well have happened but I for one don’t remember it.” The other three nodded in agreement.
They sat and said nothing for a while. Several cigarettes were stubbed out and more were lit. Matthew broke the silence. “So you don’t know who killed Harald?”
In unison, the group said firmly: “No.”
“And you’ve never used body parts, like a finger for example, in your black magic?” he went on.
With less synchronization: “No.”
“And you don’t recognize this magic symbol?” Matthew threw a drawing of the magic symbol that had been carved into Harald’s chest onto the table.
In unison again: “No.”
“That would be more convincing if you looked at the paper,” Matthew said sarcastically. None had done more than barely glance at the drawing.
“The cops showed us that symbol. We know perfectly well what you’re talking about,” drawled Marta Mist. She laid her hand casually on Dóri’s thigh.
“Fair enough—I understand. But can you tell us what happened to all the money Harald transferred to Iceland shortly before he died?” asked Matthew.
“No, we don’t know anything about that. We were Harald’s friends, not his accountants.”
“Did he buy anything, or talk about buying something?” Thóra asked, directing her words at Bríet, whom she thought most likely to tell the truth.
“He was always buying things,” Bríet said, darting her eyes toward Marta Mist and Dóri. Noticing the former’s hand on the latter’s thigh, she turned back to Thóra and added: “If not for himself, then for Dóri. They were so close.” She smiled maliciously.
Thóra noticed a blush fill Dóri’s cheeks. “What did he buy for you, and why?” she a
sked.
Dóri rocked awkwardly on the sofa. “It wasn’t like that. Sometimes he gave me this or that in exchange for the help I gave him.”
Thóra refused to let him off the hook. “Like what?”
Dóri blushed even more. “Just stuff.” He flicked his hair back over his eyes.
Matthew slapped his thigh again—more determined now than before. “Well, folks. I have an idea. Marta Mist, Bríet, Brjánn, and Andri—you don’t know anything, so you claim, and there doesn’t seem much to be had out of you. How about you going home to study, or to class, or whatever it is you’re so busy with—and Thóra and I can have a quiet chat with Dóri?” He addressed Halldór. “Isn’t that best? It might be less awkward.”
“As if!” Marta Mist shrieked. “Dóri doesn’t know any more than the rest of us.” She turned to Dóri. “You don’t have to stay. Let’s all leave.”
Dóri said nothing at first, then brushed her hand from his thigh and shrugged. “Okay.”
“Okay? Okay what? Are you coming with us?” Marta Mist asked irritably.
“No,” replied Dóri. “I want to get this over with. I’m staying.”
Marta Mist’s expression darkened, but she restrained herself and feigned indifference. She bent over Dóri and whispered something to him before standing up. He nodded vacantly. Thóra watched as Marta Mist planted a soft kiss on Dóri’s head and Bríet pretended not to notice. Andri and Brjánn busily put out their cigarettes and got to their feet. There was no mistaking their relief.
CHAPTER 22
Matthew showed the students to the door. Meanwhile, Thóra and Dóri sat in the modern living room with the horrors of the past all around them. Thóra felt sorry for the young man, who obviously wished he was somewhere else. In a way the circumstances reminded her of her own son—a young man locked in a mysterious inner struggle.
“You know we’re just looking for the truth, don’t you? We’re not wondering about anything stupid you may have been up to,” she said to break the silence and lighten the oppressive atmosphere. “Really, we agree with you on the basics of the case—that Hugi is innocent, or at least facing more serious charges than he deserves.”
Dóri avoided looking at her. “I don’t believe Hugi killed him,” he said in a low voice. “It’s a load of bullshit.”
“You’re fond of your friend, I can tell,” said Thóra. “If you want to help him, by far the best course is not to conceal anything from us. Remember that your friend can’t expect help from anyone except us.”
Dóri grunted, without indicating whether or not he would help them.
Matthew came back and threw himself down in the chair. He watched Dóri thoughtfully for a while. “A strange circle of friends you’ve got. The girls didn’t exactly look like they’d fall into each other’s arms on the way out.”
Dóri shrugged. “They’re all kind of down at the moment.”
“I see. Well, shouldn’t we get down to business?” asked Matthew.
“I don’t mind,” Dóri replied. “Just ask and I’ll try to answer.” When he reached out for a cigarette, Thóra noticed his hands were shaking.
“Okay, buddy,” said Matthew, sounding almost paternal. “We’re interested in a number of points you can surely help us with. One is the money that Harald spent and another is the historical research you worked on with him. Let’s begin with the money. What can you tell us about his finances?”
“Finances? I knew nothing about that, I swear. But you didn’t have to be Einstein to see that he was filthy rich.” Dóri gestured around the room, then shrugged. “His car was pretty flashy, too, and he dined out a lot. Unfortunately it wasn’t a lifestyle the rest of us could afford.”
“Did he dine out by himself?” asked Thóra. “Since you were poor students.”
This was clearly an uncomfortable question. “Well, sometimes.” He puffed on his cigarette. “Sometimes I went with him. He invited me.”
“So he took you along and paid the bill, is that it?” Matthew asked, and Dóri nodded. “More often than he dined alone?” Dóri nodded again. “What else did he treat you to?”
Dóri was seized with a sudden interest in the ashtray and stared at it as if the answer to the question was to be found there. “Well, just stuff.”
“That’s not an answer,” Thóra said calmly. “Just tell us—we haven’t come here to pass judgment on you or Harald.”
A short pause and then: “He paid for all sorts of stuff for me. My rent, textbooks, clothes, taxis. Dope. Everything really.”
“Why?” asked Matthew.
Dóri shrugged. “Harald said the money was his to do with as he pleased—he never denied himself something just because his friends were broke. I found it embarrassing, but I was flat broke and he was such a fun guy. There were never any hassles. I tried to repay him by helping with those translations and other stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?” Matthew asked.
“Nothing.” Dóri’s blushing cheeks grew even redder. “It was nothing sexual, if that’s what you think. Neither Harald nor I were, are, on that side of the fence. There have been plenty of girls.”
Thóra and Matthew exchanged a look. The spending that Dóri described was peanuts compared with the amount that had disappeared. “Do you know of any large investment Harald made just before the murder?”
Dóri looked up. From his expression it was plain that he was telling the truth. “No, no idea. He never mentioned anything like that. Actually, I hardly saw him the week before—he was busy and I was trying to catch up on my course work.”
“You don’t know what he was up to, or why he didn’t meet you on those days?” Thóra interjected.
“No. I phoned him a few times and he just wasn’t in the mood to do anything. I don’t know why.”
“So you hadn’t seen him for several days when he was murdered?” asked Matthew.
“No—just talked to him on the phone.”
“Didn’t that strike you as odd? Or was he in the habit of locking himself away for days on end?” Matthew persisted.
Dóri thought about it. “I didn’t wonder about it then, but now that you mention it, it was a bit unusual. It hadn’t happened before, anyway, I don’t think it had. I asked him what was going on, but he said he just needed a bit of time by himself. But he was cheerful and all that.”
“Didn’t you develop a grudge against him over that time?” asked Thóra. It must have been strange for him to lose his best friend for several days with no explanation, considering how much time they spent together.
“No, not like that. I had plenty to do for my classes anyway. And I took shifts and stuff like that. So I had lots of other things to think about.”
“You work at the hospital in Fossvogur, don’t you?” Thóra asked. Dóri nodded. “How do you manage to work there, study medicine, and do all that partying?”
Dóri shrugged. “It isn’t a full-time job, no way. I do the occasional relief shift, that’s all. I work there over summer vacations, and if there’s a crisis in the winter, I cover if someone’s sick or can’t come in. As far as my courses go, I’m just incredibly organized about studying. I’ve always found learning easy.”
“What do you do at the hospital?” asked Matthew.
“This and that. I work as an assistant in surgery—clean the instruments after operations, clear up, that sort of thing. Nothing important.”
Matthew gave him a meaningful look. “Clear up what? I’m just curious to ask, I know very little about hospitals.”
“Just stuff,” Dóri replied, reaching for his cigarettes again. “Garbage and things.”
“Aha!” Matthew cried. “What’s the name of your superior, or someone we could ask about this work—in particular about the night Harald was murdered?”
Dóri picked at one of the studded straps on his left wrist and clearly did not know how to reply. “Gunnur Helgadóttir,” he eventually muttered in a sullen voice. “She’s the senior surgical nurse.”
“I have a question,” said Thóra as she scribbled down the name. “Who did Harald’s tongue job? It was you, wasn’t it?”
Dóri was about to light a cigarette but stopped, startled. “Why? What difference does that make?”
“I want to know. Harald has photos on his computer showing the operation and it was done in someone’s house. Presumably someone he knew. The operation isn’t the issue—I just want to know.”
Hesitantly, Dóri looked at each of them in turn. Thóra thought he was probably weighing whether the operation required professional qualifications or was illegal. After biting his lower lip for a while he finally said: “No. I didn’t do it.”
“May I see your upper arm?” Thóra asked, smiling as she remembered what Hugi had said about Dóri’s regrets over the tattoo he had there.
“Why?” replied Dóri, leaning back in the sofa to put more distance between them.
“We just want to,” said Matthew, moving to the edge of his chair. He had no idea where Thóra was taking this. “Be a good boy and roll up your sleeves for the nice lady.”
Dóri went red as a beet. Matthew moved even farther forward on the edge of his seat, and Dóri edged farther back in the sofa. Suddenly he lost his nerve. Glowering, he rolled up his sleeves. “Here,” he snapped, and held out his arms. Thóra leaned forward and smiled. “‘Crap’?” she read, looking at his right arm just above the wrist.
“So?” Dóri said, rolling his sleeves down again.
“Interesting,” Thóra said. “The person who performed the operation on Harald had exactly the same tattoo.” She grinned at Dóri as she pointed at his right arm. “So, what’s the story?”
“Nothing,” Dóri said slowly. He ran his fingers through his hair, then squeezed his eyes shut. “Okay, I did it. We were at Hugi’s place. Harald had been pestering me for ages to do it for him and in the end I gave in. I borrowed the instruments from the hospital and stole some anesthetic. Nobody missed it. Hugi helped me. It was pretty disgusting. But it looked cool.”
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