The Shadow District

3

Rivulets of sweat were pouring down Marta’s cheeks. She had ordered number seven, the pork curry, described as the hottest dish on the menu. Konrád, who had tried a little of hers and could taste nothing but chilli, was frantically gulping down lemon water to soothe his scorched mouth and lips. He had ordered a chicken dish that actually tasted of something; in fact, it was pretty good.

The restaurant, a Thai place situated in an industrial zone on the outskirts of Reykjavík, looked rather uninviting at first glance, its frontage more like a garage than an eatery. It was the kind of place Marta liked: cheap, with fast service, good food, and no danger of any yuppies wandering in off the street.

When Marta had rung Konrád from the police station to ask if he felt like coming out for a meal, he had jumped at the chance. It was a while since he’d heard from her, and, besides, he had nothing better to do now that he was retired. Despite the age gap they had worked well together in CID, but since Konrád left their relationship had changed and lost its easy intimacy. Meeting up felt different somehow, as if they were no longer on the same team: Konrád had clocked off for good; Marta was still immersed in police work, her caseload heavier than ever.

‘Bit hot for you, is it?’ asked Konrád, watching the streams of sweat coursing down Marta’s cheeks.

‘I wouldn’t say that. It’s good, and I’ve eaten hotter.’

‘I’m sure you have.’ Konrád let it drop. It was too easy to get a rise out of Marta. She could never let anyone get the better of her, never admit she was in the wrong; she always had to have the final word.

‘How are things with you?’ she asked.

‘Not bad. You?’

‘Surviving.’

Marta finished her curry and mopped her face. She was on the plump side, with thick fingers, a large double chin and heavy eyelids that had a tendency to droop, especially after a big meal. Her hair was usually a mess and she wore an unvarying costume of baggy shirts and trousers. She didn’t see the point in tarting herself up — didn’t know who it would be for. She was known in the force, with typical irony, as Smart Marta. She had shacked up with a woman from the Westman Islands for a while, but the woman had eventually taken the boat home. Since then Marta had lived alone.

‘Heard from Svanhildur at all?’ Marta asked, picking her teeth, a habit that got on Konrád’s nerves, especially when she started sucking air through them and blowing it out with loud smacking sounds.

‘No,’ said Konrád. It was a while since he had caught up with his old friend from the National Hospital.

‘She’s just been on the phone to us about a man who was found dead in his flat. A pensioner who lived alone. We assumed he’d died in his sleep. His name was Stefán Thórdarson. Maybe you heard about it?’

Konrád nodded. He recalled a report in the newspaper several days earlier. A pensioner had been found dead in his bed. He had lived by himself and appeared to have passed away alone and neglected. A neighbour had alerted the police after she hadn’t seen him for several days.

‘What about him?’

‘Doesn’t Svanhildur keep you posted on the interesting stuff?’

‘I don’t know where people get that idea.’

‘Well, she discovered something that had completely escaped the doctor we called to the scene.’

‘Not much gets by her,’ said Konrád.

‘She thinks this Stefán was smothered. With his own pillow, probably.’

‘Really?’

‘She reckons he was murdered.’

‘Why, for Christ’s sake? He was ancient, wasn’t he?’

‘What do you mean?’ countered Marta. ‘Why was he murdered or why does Svanhildur think he was?’

She regarded Konrád with heavy-lidded, sated eyes, jabbing at her teeth with the toothpick. Konrád smiled, regretting that he had passed up the chance to needle her earlier.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s start with the first question: why was he murdered?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘Then what makes Svanhildur think he was murdered?’

‘Traces in his throat and upper respiratory tract,’ recited Marta. ‘Tiny broken blood vessels in his eyes. The usual.’

‘What sort of traces? Fibres from his pillow?’

‘Yeah. Svanhildur says someone must have held the pillow over his face until he breathed his last. Quite literally. He wasn’t capable of putting up much of a fight. The poor old boy was over ninety, after all. It would have been over in no time, but even so those telltale fibres remained.’

‘That old, was he?’

‘Yes, it wouldn’t have taken much to smother him. The officers who found the body didn’t suspect a thing. There were two pillows, one under his head, the other beside it. He... It looked like he’d died in his sleep.’

‘In other words, someone wanted it to look like that. Like he’d died of old age?’

‘So it seems.’

‘And it had you lot fooled?’ Konrád couldn’t resist a little dig. ‘Were you there?’

Marta sucked her teeth. ‘The medic who was called in to examine him didn’t notice anything suspicious. And we’re not doctors — it wasn’t our job to go poking around in his throat.’

‘So what made Svanhildur check?’

‘Why don’t you talk to her?’

‘Maybe I will.’

‘You do that.’

‘Who was he? Anyone you know?’

‘You mean was he an old friend of the police? No, he wasn’t. He lived alone, like I said. Not a single brush with the law, at least not in the last twenty years. We still haven’t managed to track down anyone who knew him, apart from the woman next door.’

‘No friends or family?’

‘None that we know of. Not yet. No one’s laid claim to him. Though maybe that’ll change now. The news’ll break online this evening. It’ll be in the papers by morning. We’ll see if that has any effect.’

‘Was it a burglary? Any sign of a forced entry?’

‘None. We’ve carried out a thorough investigation of the flat. Forensics have been there all day.’

‘So he knew the guy who did it? Opened the door to him? Invited him in?’

‘I thought you’d retired?’

‘I have,’ said Konrád. ‘Thank God.’