It was some time before Huldar could tear his mind away from these distractions and concentrate on what the interviewee was saying.
The boy’s name was Bragi Lárusson and he was fourteen years old. He had turned up unaccompanied, saying his mother was ill and his dad was ‘who knows where’, adding off-handedly that he hadn’t seen him for years. Bragi was thin, with shaggy hair and bad skin, like so many teenagers. His tangled, overgrown fringe might have been an attempt to hide his acne but, if so, it had failed. His trainers were filthy and soaking wet, as if he were three years old and had jumped in all the puddles on his way there. The trail of footprints could still be seen glistening on the floor. But apart from this, he was respectably dressed, in clean clothes and a coat suitable for the rain. Obviously someone cared about him; presumably his sick mother.
Bragi was nervous at first and had trouble looking any of them in the eye when answering their questions. Nevertheless, his replies, delivered in a low voice, were clear and to the point. He was perfectly aware of the reason for the interview and that he himself wasn’t suspected of any wrongdoing.
To begin with, the questions were general. He was asked why he had been placed at the home, what conditions had been like, and who else had been resident there at the same time.
Bragi had spent just over two months in Bergur’s care when he was eleven because his mother had been admitted to a psychiatric ward. Neither his paternal nor his maternal relatives had felt able to take him in, which was unusual, to say the least, but Hafthór, Huldar and Freyja carefully refrained from commenting on the fact.
Bragi said there had been two teenagers at the home at the same time as him, a girl and a boy, but he couldn’t remember either of their names. They had been mean and ignored him. He did recall that the boy had monopolised the game console, although he was useless, and the girl had been on the phone the whole time, when she wasn’t in a sulk and slamming doors. He had mostly stayed in his room. When asked what he’d done to pass the time, he told them he’d done nothing. Just sat there. After a moment he added that he had probably been thinking. They didn’t ask what he’d been thinking about.
Once the general questions had been covered, Hafthór moved on to the trickier ones, the questions that required careful phrasing, designed to discover any possible abuse. Freyja had discussed with Hafthór how best to approach the subject. If he didn’t go about it right, there was a risk the boy would retreat into his shell or try to deny what had happened, to avoid having to admit to something he found embarrassing or humiliating to talk about with strangers. Freyja had offered them access to the interviewing facilities at the Children’s House, but Hafthór had turned this down. Although she didn’t come right out and say so, it was obvious that she was unimpressed by their feeble attempts to make the interview room at the police station more welcoming. Hafthór had defended his decision on the grounds that they were under pressure to get results and there was no time to re-schedule the interviews, and Freyja hadn’t pursued the subject, though Huldar could tell she thought he was making a mistake.
As Hafthór put his questions, Huldar reflected that he was doing a good job. On the rare occasions that he chose the wrong word or phrased something badly, Freyja came to the rescue. Together they guided the mortified boy through the points they needed to get straight. Some things required a number of questions, others had to be rephrased until he grasped what they were getting at. By the time it was over he was crimson in the face and his eyes kept sliding towards the door as if desperate to make his escape.
Huldar hadn’t opened his mouth once. He was entirely focused on listening, as befitted his role as an observer, which enabled him to keep a close eye on the boy’s reactions to questions that no one should need to ask a child. He was fairly confident that Bragi was telling the truth when he claimed that he had never been molested. He had never woken up to find the manager in his room or his bed, or any of the other staff either, for that matter. The man had never touched him in an inappropriate way or in any other way that Bragi didn’t like. In fact, the manager had taken very little notice of him when he was on duty. He’d fed Bragi, made him do his homework at the kitchen table and told him when to take a shower. Woken him up in the mornings, given him breakfast and sent him to school.
Further, Bragi told them he had never been given any medicine in the evenings, only the yellow pill he had to take every morning on school days. He recognised that pill and was familiar with the taste, so he was sure it had never been swapped for a different one.
Next, Hafthór moved on to asking similar questions about the two teenagers who had been there with him. Had Bragi ever been aware of Bergur going into their rooms at night? Had he ever seen them taking medicine from him or noticed the manager putting anything in their food or drink?
The answers to all these questions were the same: no, no and no. Bragi hadn’t been aware of anything untoward. Bergur had taken little interest in him and had mainly been concerned with the girl who apparently had a drug problem and required all his attention. Bragi followed this up with the assurance that he himself had never taken drugs and never intended to. He held his head a little higher after this declaration.
When it became clear that the interview was drawing to an end, Freyja slipped in a question of her own. Hafthór didn’t object, as it was a perfectly natural closing question that he would probably have asked himself. Her voice was softer and friendlier, more likely to elicit an answer from the boy. ‘Is there anything else you found strange at the time, or now, looking back?’
‘Ummm …’ Bragi licked his lips, thinking. When he spoke it was to Huldar and Hafthór. ‘It was all so strange. Totally different from being with my mum. It wasn’t like a home at all. They tried to pretend it was, but they were full of crap. None of us felt at home or wanted to be there. We were only there because we had no choice.’
Huldar and Hafthór both looked at Freyja, as if expecting her to trot out the standard response used by children’s services to counter this kind of accusation. She didn’t have a standard response, but answered anyway: ‘Care arrangements have nothing to do with the police, Bragi. We’re trying to find out if anything happened that struck you as weird or wrong at the time. Maybe nothing did, but if you do remember, it would be really helpful if you could tell us.’
‘I don’t remember anything.’
‘All right. But something might come back to you after the interview. If it does, please get in touch.’ Freyja glanced at Huldar and Hafthór. Realising what she meant, they got out their cards. The boy took them and stared, puzzled, at the small, rectangular pieces of card. Presumably he’d never been given one before. Fourteen-year-old boys had no truck with such things: it would have been more appropriate for them to swap Snapchat accounts.
Bragi looked up, still with the cards in his hand, seeming unsure whether he was supposed to return them or take them away with him. ‘Like I said, I don’t remember anything. Can I go now?’
‘Yes. But keep the cards in case anything occurs to you later. They’ve got our phone numbers on them.’ Huldar reached across the table to point at them.
There was no sign that the boy had any intention of following this advice as he pocketed the cards and rose to his feet.
Hafthór escorted him out, leaving Huldar and Freyja behind. She surveyed the room, shaking her head, her lips compressed disapprovingly.
‘It is a bit depressing, I’ll give you that.’ Huldar picked up the jug on the table and watered the doomed plant. Two more leaves fell off, which left only three.
Freyja shook her head again. ‘What’s that map? What are the markings?’
‘Fatal traffic accidents in the last ten years.’
Freyja’s jaw dropped. ‘That’s cheerful. Is that really all they could come up with?’
‘Apparently.’
Freyja was still gaping at the poster. But when she spoke again it was to express her astonishment at the statistics. ‘There must be more than a hundre
d crosses.’
‘Yes. There are quite a lot. I can’t say I know the story behind all of them but there are plenty I do remember.’
‘Such as?’
He told her about the ones that immediately sprang to mind: the recent collision between a lorry and a rental car in which two tourists died; the car that rolled over in the south of Iceland, throwing a little girl, who wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, to her death; the young couple whose car had turned over at the foot of Mount Akrafjall, killing them both; the drunk driver who had killed two pedestrians; and, one of the oldest on the map, the tragic incident ten years ago in the north-east, in which a six-year-old girl, left waiting by her father’s broken-down car at the side of the road, had fiddled with the gearstick and died when the car ran her over.
‘That’s enough.’ Freyja grimaced. ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t answer like that if any of the kids ask about the crosses. Just make up some lie. But that map has to go. There’s no way we want to plant images of broken and crushed bodies in these kids’ minds, especially not of a little girl. Take the map down.’
There was no time sort it out now. More interviews had been booked and he handed her the list of names. Freyja skimmed it, then asked about a girl whose name wasn’t there. Huldar told her that the Rósa in question was one of the kids they hadn’t yet managed to contact. Before Freyja could explain her look of disappointment, Hafthór appeared with another boy. The next interview was due to begin.
Chapter 8
Tuesday
Gudlaugur neatly laid down his knife and fork as a sign that he had finished and his plate could be removed. Since the police canteen was self-service, this was a singularly pointless gesture, but Freyja caught herself doing the same thing. Huldar, who’d helped himself to twice as much as the others, was still shovelling down his food.
Freyja and Huldar had been given an hour’s lunch break after the first three interviews. The next two teenagers, a boy and a girl, had told the same story as Bragi: neither had experienced anything untoward, or witnessed any improper behaviour. Both had turned up unaccompanied, though each gave a different explanation for this: ‘Mum’s working.’ ‘Mum’s busy at home.’ What the mothers considered more important than providing their child with moral support at the police station was not explained. As had been the case with Bragi, their fathers played no part in their lives. Having read the three kids’ files, Freyja knew why. One was an addict, another had left the country and the third was basically a bastard. Bad behaviour doesn’t always require complicated analysis to understand.
Freyja watched Gudlaugur take a sip of water, waiting for him to put down his glass so she could start grilling him. She’d held back long enough not to appear rude – but it had been an effort.
At first she had been wary about accepting Huldar’s invitation to eat lunch with him, but when Gudlaugur breezed over and joined them, she had changed her mind. She was longing to find out if he’d managed to get hold of Rósa yet. It was a sign of how eager she was for information that she was prepared to sit through a whole lunch hour with Huldar, putting up with his idiotic attempts to impress her. Mind you, she had to admit that he was looking bloody good and so far he hadn’t said or done anything too embarrassing. In fact, he had behaved like a normal person. Wonders would never cease. At this point, common sense kicked in, reminding her that her self-imposed abstinence might be affecting her judgement.
The instant Gudlaugur put down his glass, Freyja seized her chance. ‘I hear you’re trying to trace the kids who haven’t been contacted yet.’
Gudlaugur nodded dully, his eyes on his glass. ‘Yes. I’ve only just started and can’t really see how I’m supposed to go about it. I’m mainly checking social media at the moment, not that it’s provided many leads. I found two posts from yesterday evening, by a girl and one of the boys. But they didn’t tell me much beyond the fact that they’re both still alive.’
‘Well, that’s something, at least,’ Freyja said encouragingly. ‘You’ll find them in the end, I’m sure of it.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Gudlaugur said, sounding unconvinced. ‘I’m still waiting to meet the guy I’m supposed to be assisting – he’s a specialist in missing children. But he’s mainly active in the evenings and at night. Apparently he was up until four this morning, so he isn’t expected in until later. I just hope I’ll get to work on processing the information he’s gathered, rather than having to join him on night shift.’
No sooner had Gudlaugur finished than Freyja jumped in again. She had limited interest in hearing about his shifts. ‘The girl who posted. It wasn’t by any chance Rósa? Rósa Thrastardóttir?’
Gudlaugur shook his head. ‘No. I couldn’t find anything on her. She’s got profiles on most of the social media sites but she isn’t very active on any of them. Her last posts are from a week ago, but she hasn’t been missing that long.’
‘How long has she been missing?’ Huldar chipped in.
Freyja suspected him of feeling left out. He hadn’t been as eager for Gudlaugur to join them as she had.
‘Four days. She ran away from the foster home where she’s only been staying for a month or so. I spoke to the woman she was living with and she told me that the girl has a habit of doing this. Apparently children’s services have tried repeatedly to find more permanent solutions for her but she’s never happy and always runs away. She keeps ending up in temporary placements while they’re looking for a new foster family. I don’t know if that’s true or if the woman was just trying to make excuses for the girl’s disappearance. Maybe she thought I was blaming her.’
‘No, she’s right. Rósa’s a regular absconder.’
‘Why are you interested in her? Do you have reason to think she might be a victim?’ Huldar shoved a piece of bread in his mouth. He had used it to wipe his plate clean.
‘No. Or at least I’d be surprised if she was. I think our suspect’s interested in boys. Pubescent ones.’ Freyja noticed that Gudlaugur had lowered his eyes to his plate as if embarrassed, and added hastily: ‘Neither paedophilia nor a sexual preference for pubescents has anything to do with homosexuality. Or with heterosexuality, for that matter. These are specific urges.’ If anything, Gudlaugur looked even more pained at this, so Freyja gave up and replied to Huldar’s first question. ‘The reason I’m interested in Rósa is that she came across as very unusual when I read her file. And her stay at the home coincided with Tristan’s, which makes her a potential witness.’ Freyja wasn’t telling him anything new as the police already had information about when the various kids had been in residence.
Huldar swallowed the bread. ‘In what way unusual?’
The duty of confidentiality prevented Freyja from revealing any details of the girl’s case. ‘Just atypical,’ she said. ‘Strange history, strange behaviour.’
Huldar and Gudlaugur continued to stare at her in the hope of further details, until it apparently dawned on Huldar what was stopping her. ‘You realise we can access the information by other means?’ he pointed out.
‘Maybe you can, but that doesn’t alter the fact that I can’t discuss the Child Protection Agency’s files on individual cases.’
‘Coffee?’ Gudlaugur got to his feet. Freyja and Huldar both accepted the offer. Neither spoke as they watched him pumping dark liquid into three mugs. Freyja thought Huldar was searching in vain for an opening but she was too pre-occupied with pursuing her own train of thought to help him. She was wondering how much of what she had read was likely to emerge during interview, once the girl had been found. Hafthór’s questions weren’t designed to elicit the young people’s back-stories or emotional state, and yet those were exactly the aspects Freyja had found most intriguing about Rósa.
Her interest had initially been roused by references in the reports to the girl’s problematic relationship with reality. It was repeatedly mentioned that she had difficulty distinguishing real life from fantasy. But, oddly, the documents reporting this were accompanied by other reports o
n the girl that indicated she was perfectly normal. She was doing well at school and OK socially, was always clean and tidy, and had a healthy appetite.
There was no indication that the various professionals who had examined the girl or handled her case within the system believed she was suffering from a serious mental illness. At least, Freyja hadn’t found any indication that Rósa had been sent for psychiatric evaluation or treatment. Apparently the only action taken had been to document the girl’s problem with reality. And since when had documentation ever improved anyone’s mental health?
But maybe Freyja was reading too much into the incoherent nonsense the girl had come out with.
The second piece of information that had alerted her interest was the girl’s habit of running away. This was nothing new for adolescents in trouble. The same young faces were always turning up in the missing-persons’ notices. Unlike Rósa, most of them were addicts. Her disappearances were not apparently motivated by the desire to get hold of drugs, but she could never be persuaded to explain why she kept absconding. Every time she was placed with a foster family, in the hope that the solution would prove permanent, she would take off. Her reappearances would be followed by a spell in temporary care, often with Bergur, while children’s services were searching for another placement for her.
The USB stick had contained scans of letters relating to the girl’s frequent disappearances, which had only increased Freyja’s curiosity. Almost every time Rósa went missing, the Reykjavík branch of children’s services received a letter, consisting of a single, printed sheet:
To the Child Protection Agency, Reykjavík.
The Doll Page 8