The Shadow District

18

It didn’t take Flóvent long to find the right address, a small house clad in corrugated iron, with a cellar and a tiny attic, which stood on the edge of the Shadow District. He climbed the short flight of steps and rapped on the door. No one answered. There was a small yard behind the house and, rounding the corner, Flóvent saw that the owner had converted it into a vegetable garden. He was turning to go back to the street when the cellar door opened and out stepped a woman in a ragged jumper, dirty linen trousers and a pair of waders, with long woollen socks showing over the tops. Her thick shock of hair made her head seem huge. She was carrying an empty bucket.

‘Who are you?’ she asked, slamming the cellar door behind her and securing it with a padlock.

‘Excuse me, are you Vigga?’ asked Flóvent.

‘What’s it to you?’

‘I’m from the Reykjavík police. I’m investigating the death of the girl whose body was found behind the National Theatre. You may have heard about it. Her name was Rósamunda.’

‘Nothing to do with me.’

‘Is your name Vigga?’

‘Yes, that’s what they call me.’

‘I wondered if I might have a word with you.’

‘I’ve nothing to say to you,’ said Vigga and stumped off up the steps. She obviously had no intention of letting Flóvent interrupt her chores.

‘I hear you know a lot about Icelandic herbs.’

‘What business is that of yours?’

‘And understand their healing properties.’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘And destructive powers.’

‘Look, I haven’t got time for this,’ said Vigga. ‘Please get out of my garden.’

She went into the house, shutting the door behind her and leaving Flóvent standing there like an idiot. Determined not to admit defeat so easily, he climbed back up the steps and banged on the door. A long interval elapsed before Vigga appeared again.

‘I thought I asked you to leave.’

‘I understand Rósamunda may have come to you for help. I wanted to know if she had, and, if so, what passed between you.’

He pulled out a photograph of Rósamunda that her parents had given him and showed it to the woman. ‘This is the girl.’

Vigga studied the picture for a while, then regarded Flóvent impassively with small, catlike eyes. Her brow was high under the wild mop of hair, her face narrow with thin, almost invisible lips, her sour expression hinting at a life of hardship.

‘She did come here.’

‘What did she want from you?’

‘She was in a wretched state, poor thing. At her wits’ end.’ Vigga gave Flóvent a searching look. ‘Come in, then.’ She opened the door wider and went back inside. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll be able to get rid of you. But I’m not offering you anything. I don’t have any coffee and it’s no good asking me for booze.’

‘I don’t want anything,’ Flóvent assured her, following her inside.

Vigga led the way through a small hall to the kitchen and gestured to Flóvent to take a seat at the table. He didn’t get a glimpse into any of the other rooms. He sat down and Vigga positioned herself by the old coal range. She appeared to be making a concoction involving dried Iceland moss, reindeer lichen and wild thyme. The kitchen window faced the street and he saw a woman walk past in the gathering dusk, pushing a pram.

‘I’m experimenting with dyes,’ Vigga explained, when Flóvent expressed curiosity about the plants. ‘For an artist here in town. You won’t have heard of him. He’s nothing special.’

‘Do you make herbal cures? Mountain plants have strong medicinal powers, don’t they?’

‘Sometimes. If I’m asked to.’

‘Did Rósamunda ask you to help her?’

‘She told me her problem. Took her forever to spit it out. I told her straight off there was nothing I could do for her. She was almost hysterical, poor child, when she first arrived, but she soon calmed down. Sat where you’re sitting now. I gave her a tea that I brew myself. Felt sorry for her. I get visits like that from time to time because they think I’m some kind of witch who can sort out their problem. It’s to do with the soldiers, if you get my meaning. I directed her to a woman I know, but I’ve no idea if she ever went to see her.’

‘Which woman is that?’

‘I’m no snitch. You won’t get her name out of me so don’t bother asking.’

‘All right. Then what did you and Rósamunda talk about?’

‘The huldufólk, mostly. She started rabbiting on about the elves for some reason, so I told her about that girl up north in Öxarfjördur.’

‘What girl up north?’

‘The one who went missing.’

‘Who was she?’

‘A girl from the countryside. I met her once when I was working as a cook for the road-building crew. Hrund, her name was, if I remember right.’

‘What happened to her?’

Vigga stuck a sprig of wild thyme in her mouth and tipped the reindeer lichen into the concoction in the saucepan. Then she began to relate the story of a girl who had grown up on a poor croft in a rural farming community up north, one of a large brood of children; she’d received a good Christian upbringing and had just started walking out with a boy from the same district. One day, when she was twenty, she was sent to see her eldest sister, who was married and lived on a nearby farm. The girl arrived on foot at the appointed time, completed her business and set off home. But she didn’t turn up until twenty-four hours later, and when she did she was in a state of shock, weeping uncontrollably one minute, unable to speak the next, and proved incapable of explaining where she’d been, how she’d come to lose some of her underwear, why one of the sleeves on her jumper was torn, and how she had come by the injuries to her face and neck. She was terrified of being left alone and refused to leave the house. When questioned, all she would say was that she’d got lost and couldn’t really remember what had happened. She’d been out all night and only found her way home in the morning.

After two days she was a little calmer but still refused to describe what had happened in any detail. And she was in such a fragile state that no one had the heart to coax or scold her into revealing the truth. It would all come out in time, but no one could fail to see that she had gone through some terrible ordeal.

‘They should have kept a better watch on the poor child,’ said Vigga, ‘because one morning they found her bed empty. She’d run away in the night and was never seen again. They’d been keeping a close eye on her, but not close enough. They checked all the neighbouring farms but nobody had seen her. Later a big search party was sent out but they never found anything.’

‘Was this after the British occupation?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were there troops in the area, do you happen to know?’ asked Flóvent.

‘There were soldiers around — at Kópasker, for example. You used to see them from time to time.’

‘Was the girl involved with one of them?’

‘I don’t think so. But you never know.’

‘So it’s not impossible?’

‘I really couldn’t say.’

‘What did people think had happened?’

‘There were rumours doing the rounds that she wasn’t right in the head. That she may even have lied about the incident, invented it to cover up something else, something she didn’t want people to know about.’

‘Like what?’

‘Haven’t a clue.’ Vigga stirred the contents of the pan. ‘Nobody knew for sure.’

‘What do you think happened to her?’

‘How should I know? Some people thought she’d thrown herself into the waterfall at Dettifoss. But that’s just a guess. Nobody knows what became of her.’

‘Did it occur to anyone that the soldiers might have played some part in her disappearance?’

‘Nobody even considered that angle, as far as I know. The poor girl was assumed to have killed herself and that was that. But I expect people had their suspicions. Of course it was seen as a tragedy, but there was never an investigation or anything like that. That’s why I’m a little surprised by your interest.’

‘What did you say the girl was called?’

‘Hrund.’

‘Had she been having problems before the incident?’

‘No. Apparently not. I... well, I gather she was the gullible type: believed in the elves, used to lap up folk tales about the huldufólk as if they were the gospel truth. A bit simple, poor dear. Or so it was said.’

‘So the whole thing took everyone completely by surprise?’

‘Yes, I believe so. The only thing she ever said...’

Vigga’s herbs were in danger of boiling over, and she turned back to them, stirring them vigorously with a large wooden spoon.

‘Yes?’ prompted Flóvent.

‘This is too damned hot,’ said Vigga, blowing into the saucepan. ‘The only thing the poor girl said about it was something her younger sister reported later on.’

‘Which was?’

‘They were very close and Hrund had told her a bit about what happened to her that night — some nonsense about being waylaid by one of the huldufólk.’

‘The huldufólk?’

‘Yes. She insisted that an elf man had attacked and beaten her. Even had his way with her. I had to repeat this three times for Rósamunda. She couldn’t believe her ears. Then suddenly she was off. Ran out of the house without stopping to say goodbye, poor girl.’

When Flóvent didn’t respond, Vigga stopped stirring and turned to find that he had risen to his feet and was staring at her in disbelief.