“What nonsense is this? I’ve made countless statements to the police about Harald’s untimely death. I had the misfortune to find the body but in other respects it has nothing to do with me. You should get out of here.” He pointed a shaking finger at the door.
“I’m certain the police will recheck all their statements from you now that it’s clear how the marks on Harald’s body were made,” Thóra said, smiling nastily.
“What do you mean?” asked Gunnar, agitated.
“They’ve found the person who removed the eyes and carved the symbol on the body. Your reaction on seeing the body is no guarantee that the police will treat you with silk gloves. Everything appears in a completely different light now.”
Gunnar seemed to be having difficulty breathing. “You’re busy people. So am I. I’d hate to delay you. Let’s call this a day.”
“You strangled him with your tie,” Thóra continued. “Your tiepin will confirm that.” She stood up. “The motive has yet to be revealed but it’s unimportant at the moment. You killed him. Not Hugi, not Halldór, and not Bríet. You.” She looked him in the eye, torn between revulsion and pity. Gunnar shuddered and Matthew stood up slowly, using one hand to edge Thóra gently back toward the door. It was as if he feared Gunnar would jump over the desk with his tie held aloft to strangle her too.
“Are you mad?” shouted Gunnar, staring at Thóra. He leaped clumsily to his feet. “How could you imagine such a thing? I advise you to seek help immediately.”
“I’m not mad—you killed him.” Thóra stood her ground. “We have several pieces of evidence to prove your guilt. Believe me. When the police get it and look into your case you’ll have trouble coming up with a defense.”
“This is ludicrous, I didn’t kill him.” Gunnar looked at Matthew plead-ingly, hoping for support.
“The police may be interested in hearing you deny it—but we’re not.” Matthew was stone-faced. “Perhaps the department can assist with an investigation into your private affairs. And perhaps a search will reveal more clues if the tiepin isn’t enough.”
Thóra’s phone rang. She kept her eyes on Gunnar for the short duration of the call. He nervously listened to her conversation without a clue about the context. Thóra put her phone back in her pocket. “That was the police, Gunnar.”
“So?” he blustered. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
“They asked me to go down to the station. They’ve discovered some interesting transactions from your bank account and want Matthew and me to explain our case more fully. As far as I can see, the police are closing in on you.” She stopped talking and stared at him.
Gunnar looked back at them, confused. Then he lifted his tie and stared at the pin. He opened his mouth twice to say something, then thought better of it. In the end he bowed his head in resignation. “Are you looking for the money?” he slurred. “I haven’t spent much of it.” He watched them, but got no response. “I have the book, too, but I’d rather not hand it over. It’s mine. I found it.” He clutched his forehead in a gesture of desperation. “I have nothing else valuable or unique. Harald seemed to have everything, plenty of money at least. Why couldn’t he covet something else?”
“Gunnar, I think we ought to call the police,” said Thóra gently. “You don’t need to tell us any more—save your strength.” She saw Matthew take out his phone, ready to dial. “One-one-two,” she said quietly to him. Gunnar didn’t notice. Matthew stepped outside to make the call.
“I always expected the police to accuse me of murder when they questioned me about finding the body. I was convinced they were just playing a game with me, pretending not to know I killed him. Then it turned out I wasn’t even under suspicion.” He looked up, smiling faintly. “It would have been impossible for me to feign the horror I felt when the corpse fell on me. The last time I’d seen it was on the floor of the common room. For a moment I thought he had risen from the dead to take revenge. You must believe that I did nothing to his eyes. I just strangled him.”
“In itself that’s quite enough,” said Thóra. “But why? Because he wanted to buy the manuscript of The Witches’ Hammer from you? Did you have it?”
Gunnar nodded. “I found it in the cave. Twenty years ago. I was on sabbatical, absorbed in the Irish monks. I got permission from the farmer to excavate there in the hope of finding relics of human habitation to prove whether the caves had been dug by them. They hadn’t been studied before. Mine was the first shovel to break the earth there, although a few other caves in the area had been investigated much earlier. Cattle were kept in them until the middle of the last century, so they were largely unexplored. But instead of finding relics of presettlement habitation I found a little chest which was completely hidden in a hole beside the altar. It contained that manuscript and a few other works. A handwritten Bible in Danish, a hymnal, and two beautiful books on the natural sciences in Norwegian.” He looked deep into Thóra’s eyes. “I couldn’t resist. I rushed off to hide the chest in my car before the farmer caught me, and I never told a soul about it. Gradually it dawned on me what treasures I had in my possession: the lost bounty from Skálholt. Two of the books were marked with Brynjólfur Sveinsson’s initials—LL. But it was not until Harald turned up that I received an explanation for what this bizarre edition of The Witches’ Hammer was doing there.”
“But how did he figure it out?” Thóra asked, adding: “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
Gunnar ignored the latter remark and answered her. “Beginner’s luck,” he said. “Actually, I wouldn’t call it luck, but rather misfortune. Harald came here specifically to look for that manuscript, as I’m sure you know. He turned all the sources inside out until he got on the right track, or so he thought. He was convinced that Bishop Jón Arason had taken the manuscript to be printed but hid it when his power base began to collapse upon the conversion to Lutheranism. At that time I didn’t realize what he was up to and did nothing to obstruct him. He went to Skálholt to examine the site of Jón Arason’s execution. There he got on the trail of the manuscript by sheer chance—someone told him about Brynjólfur’s collection of manuscripts and he studied all the records in the hope of identifying what had gone missing. It was only when he came to see me after Bríet had found out about the letter that disappeared from the national archive…”
He lowered his gaze, then looked back up at Thóra. “Of course I kept the letter after I realized what I’d discovered. I was scared it would lead other people to the caves—that someone would reach the same conclusion as you about the holy cross. That was a costly mistake. Bríet was easy to deal with, but then Harald appeared. He had studied the content of the letter. He got straight to the point, said he knew I’d found Kramer’s Witches’ Hammer and he wanted it. He had stolen an article about the Irish monks and the caves from my office—an old paper I was forced to write at the end of my sabbatical. I had to report on what I’d done and I published the article in an obscure journal that has since gone under. I made the mistake of including a photograph of the hole where I dug up the chest. I said it was an ancient fireplace. No one countered that finding—in fact I don’t think anyone ever bothered to read the paper at all. Harald simply put two and two together. And I thought the cleaner had stolen the article.”
Gunnar paused for a moment. “He wanted The Witches’ Hammer. Said he didn’t care what else had been there, but he had to have the book. Then he offered to buy it from me. He named an incredible sum, much more than I could have got for it on the black market even if I had the faintest idea where that market is. Instead of refusing and throwing him out, I lowered my defenses. The money tempted me. At the time I still didn’t know how remarkable the manuscript was. Harald didn’t tell me the whole story until he gave me the money. And that made me change my mind. But of course I couldn’t tell him that.” Gunnar sighed. “Naturally you can’t understand, but when you spend your whole life working with history, you instinctively become enchanted by what’s survived. I had my
hands on a remarkable treasure. Absolutely unique.”
“So you killed Harald to keep the manuscript—without trying to return the money or find out if he was prepared to back down?” asked Thóra. “Maybe he would have chosen to live without it, rather than to die.”
Gunnar laughed weakly. “Of course I tried. He just laughed in my face and said I’d be better off dealing with him than with the authorities, because he wouldn’t hesitate to inform on me if I double-crossed him.” He sighed. “I saw him. He was cycling up to the campus when I was driving home. I turned back and caught up with him at the entrance. He threw his bike aside and we entered the building together. One of his hands was covered in blood from a nosebleed he had. Disgusting.” Gunnar closed his eyes.
“He used his key and PIN number to open the door. He was drunk and high. I tried to talk to him again, asked him to show a little understanding. He just laughed at me. I followed him into the common room where he rummaged around in a cupboard and found a white tablet that he swallowed. That made him even weirder. He slumped down in an armchair, turned his back to me, and asked me to massage his shoulders. I thought he’d gone mad, but I later learned that he’d taken ecstasy, which apparently heightens the need for physical contact. I went up to him and at first I thought of indulging him in the hope that he would agree to my request. Suddenly I was seized with such fury that before I knew it I’d taken off my tie and wrapped it round his throat. I tightened it. He struggled. But there was no fight. Then he died. He slowly slipped out of the chair onto the floor. And I left.” Gunnar looked at Thóra, gauging her reaction. He seemed to have completely forgotten Matthew.
The sound of sirens could be heard through the window, growing louder. “They’re here to collect you,” said Thóra.
Gunnar looked away from her and stared out of the window. “I was going to run for vice chancellor,” he said sadly.
“I think you can forget that now.”
EPILOGUE
DECEMBER 13, 2005
Amelia Guntlieb stared at the tabletop, silent as the grave. Thóra suspected she did not feel up to talking. In her position, Thóra would doubtless have had little to say. Matthew had just given an account of the events as they understood them. Any more important details were unlikely to surface now. Thóra admired how he played down the parts of the story that must have hurt Harald’s mother. It was still a repulsive tale and difficult to listen to—even for Thóra, who already knew it inside and out.
“They’ve located The Witches’ Hammer and other things that Gunnar dug up in the cave,” said Matthew calmly. “The money too. He had spent only a fraction of it. It was all in the bank.”
After the police had arrested Gunnar the previous day, Thóra and Matthew’s plans to dine out were nixed by the interrogation. Thóra had not felt up to meeting Amelia Guntlieb after they left the police station. Instead she went home. Before sitting down with Gylfi to talk about Sigga and the baby she had a long chat with Laufey. She advised Thóra to make the situation clear to Gylfi by doing something to personalize the baby for him. That would help him realize what was going on. For example, she should encourage him to think of names for the child.
They were sitting in the deserted cafeteria in city hall. Elisa had shed a few tears while Matthew was telling the story, but her mother sat in stunned silence. She looked from her lap to the tabletop and back. Now she raised her head and took a deep breath. No one said a word. They half waited for her to say something, weep or show her feelings in some other way. It did not happen. Instead of looking at any of them she fixed her gaze on the large glass wall overlooking the lake and watched the ducks swimming there with a few geese. The wind ruffled the surface of the water and the birds gently bobbed with the waves. A seagull suddenly swept down into the midst of the dispersed group. “Should we take a look at the map of Iceland?” Matthew said suddenly to Elisa. “It’s out front.” Elisa nodded distractedly and they stood up and went over to the hall next to the cafeteria. Thóra and Harald’s mother were left sitting together.
The woman gave no sign of noticing that anyone had left the table. Thóra politely cleared her throat, without the intended result. She waited for a while but saw that more direct action was needed to capture the woman’s attention. “I don’t have much experience with this sort of thing so I find it difficult to express how sorry I am. I just want you to know that you and your family have my deepest sympathy.”
The woman snorted. “I don’t deserve sympathy—neither from you nor anyone else.” She turned away from the window and looked at Thóra. Her face was full of anger, then she seemed to soften up. “Sorry. I’m not my usual self.” She put her hands on the table and began fiddling with her rings. “I don’t know why I feel compelled to talk to you.” She looked up at Thóra from her jewelry. “Maybe because I’ll never see you again. Maybe because I need to have the chance to justify my actions, now that my behavior has had these terrible consequences.”
Thóra could only guess that “these terrible consequences” was a reference to Harald’s death. “You don’t have to explain it to me,” she said. “I wasn’t born yesterday, and I know there’s often more to things than meets the eye.”
The woman smiled vaguely. Thóra noticed how well she’d looked after herself. Admittedly she was beginning to show her age, but she was still stunning even as her beauty was beginning to fade into elegance. Her clothing did little to dispel that impression. Thóra imagined her dark dress suit and coat probably cost more than she herself spent on clothes in a whole year. “Harald was such a wonderful child,” the woman said dreamily. “When he was born we were immensely happy. We already had Bernd, he’d just passed two, and then came that lovely baby boy. My memories of the years after that, until Amelia was born, are how you would imagine paradise. Not a shadow fell on any moment of it.”
“She was ill, wasn’t she?” asked Thóra. “Didn’t she have a congenital disease?”
Amelia Guntlieb’s smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “No. She wasn’t born like that. She was perfectly healthy. She was the spitting image of me, judging from the photos I had of myself as a toddler. She was wonderful, as all my children have been—slept well and only cried now and again. None of them had stomach trouble or earaches. Lovely babies.” Thóra made do with nodding because she was unsure of the appropriate response. She saw a tear appear in the corner of the woman’s eye. “Harald…” Her voice cracked. She paused to collect herself before proceeding and swept away the tear with a deft movement of her hand. “I haven’t discussed this with a soul, apart from my husband and our doctors. My husband mentioned it to his parents but never to anyone else. We’re not an open family and we find it difficult to discuss things—accepting other people’s sympathy isn’t our greatest strength. I think that’s the reason anyway.”
“It can be difficult,” said Thóra, who had no idea how it must have been. Fortunately she had not needed much sympathy up to now.
“Harald was extremely fond of his little sister but jealous too. He had been my little baby for more than three years and sometimes found it hard to accept the new member of the family. We didn’t take it seriously, expected it to pass.” The tears rolled down her cheeks. “He dropped her, threw her on the floor.” She stopped talking and went back to watching the birds.
“He dropped the baby on the floor?” asked Thóra, taking care to remain calm. A shiver ran down her spine.
“She was four months old, asleep in a car seat. We’d just come back from shopping. I went to take off my coat, and when I got back, Harald was standing holding her in his arms. Not exactly in his arms, actually. He was holding her by the legs like a rag doll. Of course she woke up and started to whimper. He yelled at her and shook her. I ran over to him but I was too late. He just looked at me and smiled. Then he dropped her. Straight onto the tiled floor.” Her tears poured in single file, leaving glittering marks down her face. “I could never erase that memory. Whenever I looked at Harald I saw his expression wh
en he dropped her.” The woman paused to gather her strength. “Her skull was fractured,” she continued, “she went into a coma at the hospital and developed encephalopathy as a result. She never woke up the same again. My little angel.”
“Surely you must have been suspected of child abuse? Here they would have removed the baby from your care while they investigated the circumstances.”
Amelia’s expression implied that Thóra was rather naïve. “We didn’t need to go through all that. The family doctor helped us, and the other doctors who looked after her showed nothing but total understanding. Harald was sent to a psychiatrist, but that had no effect. He showed no signs of psychological disorder. He was just a jealous little child who made a terrible mistake.”
Thóra did not reveal her doubts that this incident could be classified as the behavior of a normal child. What would she know about that? “Did Harald remember this or did he forget it over time?” she asked instead.
“I honestly don’t know. We didn’t talk much together, the two of us. I think he probably knew—at least, he was especially kind to Amelia Maria until she finally found peace and died. My impression was that he was constantly trying to make up for what he did.”
“So this tainted your relationship all these years?” asked Thóra.
“There was no relationship. I found it hard to look at him, let alone be in his company. I simply avoided my son whenever I could. His father did the same, really. Harald found it difficult to take at first, he didn’t understand why his mother didn’t want him around any longer. Then he grew accustomed to it.” She had stopped weeping and her face had hardened. “Of course I should have forgiven him—but I just couldn’t. Perhaps I should have seen a psychiatrist myself, it might all have been different then. Harald would have been something other than what he became.”
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