The Doll

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  At that moment, a racket of screaming and shouting broke out in the container where the half-naked music lover lived. Huldar and Erla swung their heads round to see two policemen trying to drag the man out onto the narrow wooden step. They each had him by an arm but he kept writhing from side to side and it was all they could do not to lose their grip. The man had one of Huldar’s cigarettes hanging from the corner of his mouth and managed to suck in and blow out smoke throughout his struggles. In the end, he was overpowered, and shuffled over to the car with the officers, still barefoot. He made several more attempts to escape on the way, though how he thought he’d succeed when the area was crawling with police was anyone’s guess.

  Before Huldar made his own, rather easier, exit, he thought it best to prepare Erla for the worst. ‘I understand Rósa’s good at hiding. She’s vanished for days at a time on previous occasions. So it may be a while before you get to talk to her.’

  Erla was scornful. ‘Like it’s that hard to trace a missing teen in Reykjavík. She’ll turn up if they pull their fingers out. But just so it’s clear, I doubt the girl had anything to do with what happened here this evening. The odds are against it. She can’t be linked to three separate inquiries that crop up almost simultaneously. It’s statistically impossible.’

  ‘Unless the cases are connected.’ Huldar couldn’t see how, but then all three investigations were still in their early stages.

  ‘Don’t talk bullshit. You’re obviously knackered. Go home and I’ll see you at midday.’

  Huldar caught up with the police officer who was on his way to the station with the contents of Binni’s home, and hitched a lift with him. The entire way back, the man tutted over the disgusting mess around the containers. Anyone would have thought he was planning to build a summer house in the area. Huldar sat in silence, picturing the clean sheets awaiting him at home.

  But once he had picked up his car from the station and driven home, chewed some sugarless gum in lieu of brushing his teeth, pulled off his clothes and collapsed into bed, he found he couldn’t sleep. His tired mind wouldn’t stop wrestling with the problem of how the three cases could be connected. The discovery of the bones, sexual abuse at the care home and now the murder of a homeless man. In the end, his brain abandoned the struggle and he fell asleep, still none the wiser.

  Chapter 14

  Thursday

  Freyja sipped the watery police-station coffee that Huldar had brought her. It was tepid too. He’d obviously been a bit overgenerous with the milk, but it was the thought that counted, so she tried not to make a face. He looked absolutely shattered; unshaven, his hair unkempt as if he’d towelled it dry without bothering to comb it. The two adolescents they had talked to so far that morning had clearly appreciated his seedy appearance and directed their answers largely to him. It was almost as if Freyja and Hafthór weren’t there, although Hafthór was supposedly in charge of the questioning. But he didn’t take offence, merely looked pleased that the teenagers were answering at all.

  The map of traffic accidents had been taken down and replaced with an ancient, framed photo of Reagan and Gorbachev shaking hands outside Höfdi House during the historic Reykjavík summit of 1986. Freyja assumed it had been discovered gathering dust somewhere and they’d thought it would do. Apart from that, the room was unchanged – well, except for the pot plant, which had lost another leaf. If it went on like this, there would be nothing left but a bare stalk by the end of the week.

  Today’s interviews had also failed to produce anything of interest. One of the teenagers had plainly taken something which made him extremely jittery. His eyes were constantly flitting around the room and he seemed afraid that the ostensible reason for the interview was only a pretext and that really they were trying to nail him for drug use. Or for dealing. The other boy was much calmer.

  But neither could tell them anything about the crime under investigation and Freyja was beginning to have her doubts. From her job she knew that active child abusers are rarely satisfied with a single victim. When the object of their desire evades their attentions or grows too old to be of interest to them, they are usually quick to identify the next victim. But so far the kids’ statements hadn’t provided a shred of evidence for this. Admittedly, there were still plenty of names on the list and it might just be a coincidence that the ones who had escaped Bergur’s attentions had been the first to be interviewed, but even so it was troubling.

  Freyja’s suggestion that the interviews should be moved to the Children’s House, in the hope that this would make the young people more willing to talk, had met with the same opposition as before: the matter was too urgent. Although she realised there was no point arguing, she had to bite her lip to stop herself. Meanwhile, Reagan and Gorbachev smiled down at her from the wall.

  ‘I have to say, I’m a bit surprised we haven’t heard anything at all to back up Tristan’s allegations,’ Freyja said, inadvertently forestalling Huldar, who had opened his mouth to speak. But he was a big boy; he’d have his chance later.

  Huldar looked a little put out at the interruption but, recovering quickly, replied: ‘Do you think they’re lying? Covering up for the guy?’

  ‘No. Their statements are believable, for the most part. Of course, some of them reveal a distorted point of view, but in general they come across as honest. No, actually I was considering another possibility – that it’s Tristan who’s not telling the truth. False accusations do happen. Very, very rarely, but there have been examples, and it might be worth keeping an open mind.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Huldar sounded sceptical. ‘I gather he’s very convincing. I haven’t heard anyone else suggest he might be making it up.’

  ‘I’m just raising the possibility. Maybe what he says is perfectly true and we’ll find a witness to back him up …’ Freyja hesitated. ‘But if the abuse did take place, it would be better if we could find someone to confirm it. You know as well as I do what happens when sexual offences cases go to court and it’s one person’s word against another’s.’

  Huldar nodded. Then he cleared his throat. ‘By the way, what time is it?’

  Freyja checked her phone. ‘Ten past eleven. Whoops! We’d better get a move on.’ From Huldar’s pained expression, you’d have thought she’d just reminded him about a dental appointment. He’d be useless at poker. ‘Good night, was it?’ she asked with a grin.

  ‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘I was working. On the incident that was in the news this morning.’

  ‘Oh.’ It had taken all of Freyja’s powers to make it to the station in time for the first interview, what with having to dress Saga, give her breakfast, let Molly out, get herself ready, then drop her niece off at nursery school. There had been no time to check the news. ‘Anything serious?’

  ‘As serious as it gets.’ Huldar suppressed a yawn. ‘Murder. A nasty one.’

  ‘Oh. Has the murderer been caught?’ Freyja asked. Experience had taught her that in Iceland, murders committed during the night were generally solved before the morning news.

  ‘No.’ Huldar straightened up and knocked back the rest of his coffee. ‘But we’ll catch the person responsible, don’t you worry. It’s only a matter of time.’

  Freyja nodded. She didn’t doubt this for a moment. Then she forced herself to finish her own cup so she wouldn’t have to take it into the interview room with her. ‘By the way, any sign of Rósa yet?’

  ‘You’re still bound by confidentiality, aren’t you?’ Huldar asked. When Freyja nodded, he continued: ‘Funny you should ask. She’s the most popular girl at the party right now. She’s a possible witness to last night’s murder, incredible as it might seem.’

  Freyja gaped at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Yes. A crazy coincidence, if you like. Though it’s a bit too crazy for my taste.’ Huldar suddenly looked more cheerful. ‘I’m only here until midday. I’ve been recalled to CID because of the murder inquiry, so I should hopefully know more about the girl’s whereabouts later today. How about I buy you d
inner this evening and fill you in on what we’ve found out? She may have turned up by then. Since they’re sure to want you there when we interview her, it’s best to keep you in the loop.’

  The offer was very tempting. Freyja was dying to hear more about Rósa, and an evening in Huldar’s company didn’t sound so bad. Guessing what was behind her change of heart, she reminded herself of her three ground rules. But, as it happened, there was no need for them in this case as she couldn’t go anywhere this evening. ‘I can’t, unfortunately. I’m looking after Saga.’

  Huldar’s face fell and he looked as weary as he had before. There was no time to say any more as the next interview was about to begin.

  Freyja parked by the bike rental shop where there were plenty of free spaces, as one might expect. She got out and started walking in the direction of the container colony, which was now all over the news as a result of the murder Huldar had mentioned. She’d managed to catch up on the story in her break and her curiosity was roused. Since Saga’s nursery school was in the west of town, it provided the perfect opportunity to make a minor detour on her way to pick up her niece, and scope out the place everyone was talking about.

  The last interview of the day had been postponed, as the same kid who had failed to turn up the previous day had let them down again. Finding herself unexpectedly with time on her hands, Freyja had gone up to Huldar’s floor to plug him for news but was told he was interviewing witnesses with Erla. There had been no point hanging around as you never knew how long interviews would go on.

  There wasn’t enough time to drop by the Children’s House, and besides there was nothing waiting for her there. Nor was there any point in dashing home, and she couldn’t face doing a supermarket shop or taking the car to the garage. A quick drive out to Grandi was no worse an option than any other.

  If it hadn’t been for the police operation, she’d have missed the container colony altogether. Several officers were walking around with poles in their hands, poking at the ground. There was such a vast accumulation of junk lying around that it looked like a starter pack for a recycling centre. Although it would have been simplest for Freyja to park beside the police vehicles, she was afraid of attracting attention and being told to get lost. Better to park a little way off and stroll past casually like a lost tourist in search of the Valdís ice-cream parlour.

  She started walking, relieved that the rain had finally stopped. Ahead she could see the long flat-topped hulk of Mount Esja, free of cloud for once, and a cluster of white oil tanks in the foreground. There were far more of them than she’d realised, since most were hidden from view when seen from the more familiar angle out on Seltjarnarnes. She also noted the signs that industry was still thriving there, despite the encroaching restaurants and shops in the next street.

  Freyja turned her attention to the colony. At first sight, it would be easy to mistake them for four regular transport containers. These were a common sight on Grandi, after all. But the brightly painted doors gave them away, along with the dustbins, bicycles, chairs, mattresses and other objects associated with human habitation, though of course the average family didn’t chuck this kind of stuff out of their front door and leave it lying around on the ground outside.

  The police took no notice of Freyja. They were busy plucking objects out of the shopping trolleys that were lined up, side by side, like cars at a showroom. They examined them all, before dropping them carelessly on the ground at their feet. Freyja winced and looked away. This stuff had once been of value to somebody, perhaps to the dead man. Then again, she supposed that even if the things did belong to him, his relatives were unlikely to have any use for them.

  What puzzled her was why a sixteen-year-old girl would have been attracted to a place like this. Rósa wasn’t on drugs and there was nothing in her file to suggest that she drank either. She gave the impression of being totally clean, which was extraordinary when you considered her mental state. Alcohol and drugs were powerful comforters. Perhaps she had been given a bed here. According to Rósa’s file, she often disappeared for days at a time. But she was sensible and must have realised that a place like this wasn’t safe. In summer, she would surely have preferred to sleep in the open air. Freyja couldn’t remember if her disappearances had coincided with summer or if she had absconded in winter too. If so, that would complicate matters. An Icelandic blizzard would make a cold bed. In that case, it would be preferable to crash on a sofa here, on the margins of society. At least the occupants would be unlikely to report her. Perhaps that was the explanation. Perhaps Rósa’s desire for freedom had made it worth putting up with conditions like this.

  But none of these scenarios explained the letters that arrived in the post. They were unlikely to have come from anyone in the container community, and if Rósa was sleeping rough, it was hard to imagine where she would get access to a printer. Maybe they had them in hotel reception areas, but Freyja guessed that an Icelandic teenager would stand out like a sore thumb in a place like that and would be chased out the moment she tried to use the amenities.

  A painfully thin woman in an oversized quilted jacket now appeared between two of the tall stacks of timber which were dotted around the area, although they didn’t seem to serve any purpose since there was no sign of any building work in progress. The woman was holding a rather sorry-looking bunch of flowers and had just stooped to lay it on the ground when she caught sight of Freyja. She hurriedly straightened up, looking self-conscious. It was hard to work out her age. She had short, thin hair and although her unusually gaunt face wasn’t heavily wrinkled, the lines she did have were deeply entrenched, especially round her mouth, eyes and across her forehead. From a distance her cheeks had appeared a healthy red but Freyja saw now that they were covered in rosacea. The hands poking from the threadbare sleeves of her jacket looked blue, with bulging veins and swollen knuckles, like those of an old-age pensioner. Yet she couldn’t have been that old. It was plain that life hadn’t treated this woman kindly.

  ‘Are you a policewoman?’ Her voice was so hoarse she sounded like a chain-smoker who inhaled sand for kicks.

  ‘Me?’ Freyja smiled. ‘No.’

  ‘Work there, do you?’ The woman pointed at a building bearing the name of a publishing house.

  ‘No. I don’t work there either.’

  ‘What are you doing here, then?’

  Freyja was slightly taken aback by her directness. ‘I’m looking for a missing teenager. I understand she sometimes hangs out here.’

  ‘Your daughter?’ There was a flicker of sympathy in the woman’s eyes.

  ‘No. We’re not related.’

  ‘I hope she turns up soon,’ the woman said. ‘It’s no joke being on the streets.’

  Freyja decided to be equally direct in return, guessing the woman wouldn’t take it amiss. ‘What about you? Are the flowers for the man who died?’

  ‘Yes.’ The woman didn’t seem remotely put out by her nosiness. It wasn’t every day Freyja met someone that straightforward. ‘I used to know Binni well at one time.’ The woman turned her gaze towards the containers. ‘I cleaned up my act several years ago. He didn’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Freyja didn’t know what else to say. ‘Did you often visit him here?’

  ‘No, hardly ever. It’s difficult enough staying sober among a group of bloody born-again types. It’s almost impossible if you hang around with people who are still on the booze.’

  ‘I can believe it.’ Freyja didn’t feel qualified to comment. Not from personal experience, anyway. She herself drank, usually in moderation, occasionally too much, but when this happened she always had the sense to take herself home. It wasn’t really the alcohol she craved so much as the light-heartedness that went with it. Waking up in the morning wanting a drink was as alien a concept to her as waking up and wanting to go to the gym. As for drugs, she never touched them. ‘You haven’t run into the girl I’m looking for, have you? Her name’s Rósa. She’s sixteen, small for her age, with dark hair. L
ike I said, she used to show up here.’

  The woman wrinkled her brow, thinking. ‘I came over with some food for Binni once and there were a couple of kids at his place. A girl and a boy. Can’t remember her name. It might have been Rósa for all I know. She had dark hair.’

  ‘Was this recently?’

  ‘No. Must have been about a year ago. Longer. It was shortly after Binni moved into the container. I remember that because he didn’t have enough chairs for everyone and the boy had to stand.’

  ‘Can you remember anything about the boy?’

  ‘Not really. He was blond, I think – the pretty-boy type. He had a name that didn’t seem to belong in a place like that. It sounded like something out of a poem. A prince’s name. You know, like Alexander. But not.’

  ‘Tristan?’ The tragic knight who loved Isolde – because of a love potion, if Freyja remembered right. Medieval drugs sounded rather more romantic than the modern variety.

  ‘Yes, that could have been it.’

  ‘Did they mention what they were doing there?’

  The woman thought again. ‘No. Or if they did, I’ve forgotten. Maybe they’d brought Binni drugs. Not that they looked like dealers. Mind you, that would have made them ideal as carriers. So who knows? Gangs do use kids to deal and make deliveries.’ She contemplated her bouquet with a dejected look.

  ‘Aren’t you going to leave it here?’

  ‘No. I’ve changed my mind. The police will only take it, in case it’s connected to the murder. They’ve got my fingerprints on file and I don’t want to be mixed up in this. I’ve had enough of cops to last me a lifetime. I thought they’d have finished by now. It didn’t occur to me that they’d waste more than a couple of hours on someone like Binni.’

  ‘All murders should get the same treatment.’

  The woman gave Freyja a pitying look. ‘Yeah, right.’

  Their conversation had run out of steam. Freyja noticed that one of the police officers was taking an interest in them. He was holding a clunky old grey desk phone that he had fished out of one of the trolleys. The receiver fell off and dangled on its wire just above the ground as the officer studied Freyja and the woman with the bunch of flowers.