The Absolution

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  The report might not even be needed. The police had caught the guilty man, the sex pest who Freyja had seen with her own eyes when Stella’s friend had identified him at the station. At first sight, the man hadn’t looked particularly dangerous; quite the opposite, in fact: he’d resembled the kind of sheepish middle-aged bloke whose worst crime was leaving his dirty coffee mug in the sink at work. And although she knew that appearances could be deceptive, she couldn’t shake off the suspicion that they’d got the wrong man. He’d looked shifty, but that could be because of his disastrous attempt to pay for sex, a crime of which she had no doubt he was guilty. But in the brief time she’d seen him, he hadn’t come across as someone who was hiding a secret as big as murder. He had looked everyone in the eye, had blinked a normal amount and not too fast, his head hadn’t been constantly jerking round, and his arms had hung down naturally at his sides, with no twitching or fidgeting. It had been obvious that he was a bit nervous, but instinct had told her that here was a man who was confident that he could blag his way out of trouble; who regarded himself as the victim rather than the guilty party.

  Freyja resisted the urge to ring Huldar and hear the latest on the investigation, though she was bursting with questions. Had the man confessed, even told them where Egill was? Had he revealed the identity of victim number one? Surely she had the right to be kept informed? After all, she had pointed them towards the bullying angle.

  Her phone lay on the table beside the laptop, almost daring her to pick it up. There were now three calls she either wanted or needed to make: one to Kjartan to give him hell, one to Adalheidur’s father to take back her recommendation, and one to Huldar.

  This train of thought touched something deep in her consciousness. Something to do with a phone call. But what? However hard she racked her brain, the memory remained tantalisingly out of reach. Trusting that it would come back to her if she stopped pursuing it, she pushed the thought away, picked up her phone and selected Huldar’s number.

  When he didn’t answer, she tried Gudlaugur, who picked up at the first ring. Clearly he didn’t have her number stored in his phone as he seemed to regret having answered the moment he heard who it was. He was tight-lipped about the investigation, fobbing her off with the comment that they were making progress and hopefully things would be clarified soon. Freyja, tiring quickly of his evasions, interrupted him mid-sentence to ask if Huldar was there. He told her he wasn’t, then became even more deliberately vague when she asked where he was, though he did offer to pass on the message that she’d rung.

  Freyja was thoughtful after their conversation. Gudlaugur had been open and chatty when she’d said goodbye to him after their interview of Stella’s friend Bjarney. He was perfectly aware that she’d known what was happening in the inquiry at that point, so why was he answering in monosyllables now?

  As she’d suspected, the moment she stopped trying to remember it, the thing relating to a phone call that had been niggling at the back of her mind came back to her. Going into the bedroom, she dug around in the pile of clothes on the chair until she found the trousers she’d been wearing during the visit to Stella’s school on Monday. Sure enough, in the pocket was the scrap of paper bearing a telephone number that she’d torn off the poster on the school noticeboard. After watching Adalheidur and her father drive away, Freyja had gone back inside and read the notice. It wasn’t very informative; it merely asked if you or anyone close to you had been the victim of serious bullying. If so, help was at hand. There was no other information, just a fringe of tear-off phone numbers.

  Freyja smoothed out the tatty piece of paper. Perhaps it was a psychologist, like Kjartan, who specialised in bullying. If so, it would be handy to be able to refer to him or her in the report and leave that bastard Kjartan out altogether. After all, she only had his word for it that he was the top specialist in Iceland. Well, that and all the results including his name that had come up when she’d googled the subject. But that didn’t tell the whole story; there might be other experts who avoided the limelight. All she’d need was an hour with this person: she had the questions to hand and already knew most of the answers.

  However, when she rang the mobile number, it was either switched off or had no reception. Frustrated, she tried tapping the number into the telephone directory in the hope of finding out the person’s job title. If it turned out to be some amateur, she could chuck the scrap of paper away.

  The number turned out to belong to a man called Mördur Jónasson, a software programmer. She put down her phone, glad not to have got through to him. Looking back at the directory, she wondered why a man who worked in a logical profession like IT should have involved himself in as emotional and irrational an area as bullying. Perhaps he was a former victim himself or had a child who suffered from the problem. After all, it was rife in the country’s schools and workplaces.

  Curious now, she tried entering his name into the search engine. The results were oddly sparse and not one of them was linked to bullying. The more she thought about it, the stranger it seemed that an IT expert should have chosen to stick an old-fashioned poster on a noticeboard rather than advertising online. All she could think of was that the act of abandoning technology might be a means of reconnecting with the world of the emotions.

  While she was puzzling over this, her phone rang. It was a friend trying to lure her out on the town and she dealt with the conversation quickly, not letting herself be tempted by promises of a happy hour on cocktails or Hot Shots. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go out and have fun but she was determined to be at her absolute knock-out best the following evening. If she went out tonight and got lucky, she’d be a wreck until Sunday at least: with bloodshot eyes, a woozy head and – who knows? – maybe even a sore neck from too much sex. Turning up in that state could hardly be classed as ‘showing them’.

  During the brief conversation, Freyja felt a sudden impulse to tell her friend the truth. Confide in her about how important this class reunion was for her and why. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. In the eyes of her friends from sixth-form college she was one of the cool kids. If she hinted that she hadn’t always been part of the in-crowd, they might start looking at her differently. Seeds of doubt would be sown in their minds and everything she did, said or wore would be called into question in future. Unless, of course, they proved to be just as kind and understanding as they’d always been. But no, she couldn’t take the risk. So much of our experience of people is based on preconceptions. Up to now, they had assumed she was cool, not a sad frump like the girls at her secondary school had unanimously agreed.

  Her phone rang again and Freyja didn’t even check the screen before answering. It must be one of her friends, wanting her to change her mind about coming out this evening. But no, it was Gudlaugur, who took forever to come to the point, twice apologising for bothering her, and wittering on about why Huldar hadn’t yet returned her call, without actually explaining anything. In the end she lost patience and asked bluntly what he wanted.

  ‘I was wondering if you could access the Child Protection Agency computer system, though technically speaking it’s the weekend.’

  ‘Er … yes, I should be able to. I can access most of its records through my computer at work. What are you looking for?’

  ‘Information about a woman. From when she was a child – or a teenager, to be more precise.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘She lives in a group home.’

  Freyja rolled her eyes. ‘It’s going to be a little tricky to find anything based on information that general. Do you have anyone specific in mind?’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, of course, sorry. Her name’s Laufhildur.’

  ‘Laufhildur?’

  ‘Yes. Laufhildur Brá Mardardóttir.’

  ‘Did you say Mardardóttir or Hardardóttir?’ Freyja thought she must have misheard. ‘Mördur’s daughter’ … It wasn’t that common a name. Was it possible that this was the daughter of the man she’d just been tr
ying to ring? If so, the coincidence was extraordinary.

  ‘Mardardóttir. We need to know if she cropped up on the children’s services radar about twenty years ago. We also need the address of the group home where she’s currently living. She moved in recently but no one seems to have got round to informing the National Register yet.’ Gudlaugur paused a moment and, when he resumed, his voice had dropped to a murmur. ‘But your search must be absolutely confidential. You mustn’t discuss it with anyone. Do you think you can do that for us?’

  Freyja was pretty sure she could.

  Chapter 34

  The boy was dead. Of that there could be no doubt. His head had rolled sideways and his eyes were open, fixed blankly on the door. Perhaps he had been hoping in vain that someone would break in and save him. But now those eyes gave the appearance of staring at him accusingly as he stood in the doorway, his nose buried in the crook of his elbow. He’d remembered a torch this time and when he shone it on the boy’s face he noticed that there was something wrong with his eyes, a dark red welt running right across them, as if they’d been swapped for cat’s eyes that had been turned on their side. And what he had taken for a shadow on one cheek transpired, when he looked closer, to be a large bruise that hadn’t been there last time. Death showed little respect for the physical remains of the deceased.

  He went inside and dragged the door shut behind him, still breathing through the sleeve of his coat, partly to avoid the smell so he didn’t start retching and partly so he wouldn’t inadvertently spread any DNA when he breathed out. His fears were probably groundless but he wasn’t taking any chances. Just because he hadn’t heard of the police nailing any suspects thanks to particles of saliva carried on their breath, that didn’t mean it wasn’t possible. If he was in charge of the police, he’d make damn sure they withheld information like that from the public. Anyway, he avoided the known pitfalls, wearing disposable rubber gloves and a swimming cap hidden under his hood. He had no intention of leaving any hairs or fingerprints at the scene.

  He became aware that he was standing with his back pressed against the door, as if his body was baulking at going any nearer the dead boy. But he had to do it; he didn’t have a choice. Bracing himself, he took one step towards his macabre goal. The sooner he got it over with, the sooner he would be out of here. Able to breathe freely, dispose of his clothes and try to act normally for the rest of the evening. He’d read up on how memory worked and was planning to stay awake for most of the night. That way he was more likely to forget the details. The memories would still be there but he wouldn’t be able to access them, or so he understood. Sleep was needed to tidy them away and create the connections necessary for recalling them. But he didn’t want to picture the dead boy every time he closed his eyes for the rest of his life: some things were better forgotten.

  He made his way to the back where the boy was lying and clamped his torch in his armpit. For what he had to do next, he would need to lower his elbow from his face. Instead, he pulled the neck of his jumper over his nose, taking care to breathe sparingly and only through his mouth. Then, removing a small plastic ziplock bag from his pocket, he pulled out a tuft of hair and bent down. He swallowed, taking as deep a breath as he dared, and took hold of the boy’s icy hand. The fingers were stiffer than he’d been expecting, which gave him a jolt. Was he not dead after all? Was he resisting? But then, remembering that corpses stiffen after death, he applied a little more force to prising the boy’s fist apart. Fortunately the rigor mortis wasn’t advanced enough for this to result in a sound of snapping or cracking. He laid the tuft of hair in the boy’s palm, then closed his fingers again, one at a time.

  Straightening up, he put the bag back in his pocket, then fetched the boy’s phone from his breast pocket. It was an expensive model, more expensive than his own. Too expensive to belong to a teenager who clearly didn’t look after it. There was a hairline scratch across the screen, from corner to corner, and it was unbelievably battered, considering how recently this model had come on the market. Only someone who was confident of being given a newer, upgraded model if he damaged it would treat his possessions like that. It was a kind of luxury he himself had never known.

  Before switching on the phone, he hesitated, reminding himself that he had to act fast. Take a picture, send a Snap, place the phone beside the boy’s body, then get the hell out of there.

  He smiled grimly at the smeary screen and the smudges left by the boy’s fingers where he had pressed them against the phone to unlock it. Just as well the kid didn’t use facial recognition, given how smashed up his features were. He counted slowly to three, feeling all his muscles tense. The instant he switched on the phone, its location would be traced, as had been clear from what happened on the path on Öskjuhlíd. He didn’t want to be anywhere near the place when the police arrived. In hindsight, he regretted that phone call: he’d only eluded them by the skin of his teeth. It hadn’t been part of the plan but he’d panicked when the media didn’t publish the material they’d been sent. He’d just wanted to be sure of pointing the police in the right direction. But all deviations from the original plan were unwise; not only the phone call but also the fact that he’d allowed a delay before Egill’s body was found. That was the bloody boy’s own fault, though: he hadn’t been able to risk them finding him alive.

  One, two, three. He switched on the phone, holding his breath while it started up. It seemed to take an inordinate length of time but it was probably only a few seconds. Then he aimed the camera, taking care to get the boy’s face in focus, even if it did take slightly longer. He didn’t want to have to take another if this one came out blurred. The picture appeared instantly, those eerie cat’s eyes staring at him from the screen. With trembling fingers, he shared it on Snapchat, sending it to all the boy’s friends.

  The message took an agonisingly long time to send and he began to worry that the 3G connection wasn’t good enough. But finally it went, the picture of Egill’s body winging out into the ether in the form of an electromagnetic wave. After that, he laid the phone on the floor, pocketed his torch and got himself out of there. There was no need to lock the door this time but still he paused to check that it had definitely clicked shut. It would mess up the plan if someone got a glimpse inside before he was well out of sight.

  Then he walked away, taking the longest strides he dared to without drawing undue attention to himself.

  He would never come back. At last it was over.

  Now the process of forgetting could begin.

  Chapter 35

  The group home was located in an ordinary residential street and didn’t stand out particularly from the neighbouring houses apart from being a little bigger and having noticeably more parking spaces outside. Huldar could understand this arrangement. No one should be condemned to living somewhere that resembled a state institution. It wasn’t good for the soul.

  Huldar parked beside a beaten-up wreck that reminded him of Freyja’s car. The only other vehicle in the drive was a motorbike. From what Freyja had told Gudlaugur, the place was home to six residents, who required a fair amount of care. She’d failed to dig up any details about Laufhildur’s accident but had found information relating to her move and an explanation of why her case had been processed so quickly. Apparently people often had to wait years to get their adult children into a group home, but Mördur’s personal circumstances as a widower with a terminal illness, who had, moreover, shouldered the burden of caring for his daughter for far longer than most, had justified the speedy turnaround.

  When Gudlaugur passed this on to Erla, she decided he should go to the home and take Huldar with him. Arnar’s interview had been delayed by the non-appearance of his lawyer and was now unlikely to happen until tomorrow. Huldar was at a loose end and Erla couldn’t send anyone else as they still hadn’t cooked up a sufficiently plausible story to explain their interest in Laufhildur.

  Though you could say that Freyja had provided one on a silver plate.

 
; As usual, however, Erla was dismissive of any information that came from Freyja, saying it still didn’t sufficiently explain the police’s interest in Mördur and his daughter. Huldar and Gudlaugur could hardly object since it was true that the explanation wouldn’t stand up to much scrutiny. Though, to Erla’s credit, she did ring Adalheidur’s headmistress to ask about the notice. The woman was at home, in the middle of cooking supper. She vaguely recalled having seen the poster but that was it. A phone call to Egill’s headmaster proved more productive. He clearly remembered the notice appearing on the wall by the entrance shortly after term began, because he’d had it removed on the grounds that only notices about school business were permitted in the building. He had a feeling that two or three of the phone numbers had been torn off before he was made aware of its existence, and although he couldn’t be sure who had been behind it, he’d assumed it had been someone messing about. After all, they didn’t have a big bullying problem at his school.

  As Huldar and Gudlaugur left the station, Erla had still been debating whether to ring Adalheidur’s head again to request access to the school so the police could confiscate the notice as potential evidence. They had set out in a hurry before she could make up her mind, for fear of being landed with that job as well. The visit to the group home had to take priority. If they couldn’t find out anything about Mördur there, they would have hit a brick wall. The nurse from Ásta’s ward had rung Huldar to tell him that Mördur hadn’t had any visitors. Not a single one. The man seemed to have been a recluse.