The Shadow District

38

A little online sleuthing soon revealed when the member of parliament and his wife had died, and the fact that they had been survived by several children and grandchildren. No wonder their names had sounded familiar. When Konrád looked them up he remembered that one of the sons had been an influential politician, a cabinet minister, and a leading light in Icelandic society. Of the MP’s four sons and one daughter, only two of the sons were still alive. One had died in his early sixties. Checking the obituaries, Konrád saw that he had passed away suddenly at home. A weak heart was mentioned. The other brother and the sister, however, had lived to a ripe old age. Their descendants were scattered all over the country and as far afield as Britain and Australia.

Konrád decided his first move should be to visit the younger surviving brother, who lived in sheltered accommodation in the little town of Borgarnes on the west coast. He was in the mood for a trip out of town, so the day after his visit to Vigga he got in his car and headed north. The drive took him almost two hours, as he decided to give the tunnel a miss and take the longer, more scenic route around Hvalfjördur. It was a beautiful day, and because most people now used the tunnel he had the road largely to himself. There wasn’t a breath of wind and the fjord lay smooth as a mirror. On a whim, Konrád turned off by the old wartime barracks that still stood above the Thyrill Service Station, which was a shadow of its former self now that traffic around the fjord had dwindled to a trickle.

The old barracks had been painted red and lovingly restored; Konrád had read recently that some were used as summer holiday homes by employees of the nearby whaling station. He drove slowly through the little colony, trying to picture how the area would have looked during the war when there were far more huts and the whole place was alive with activity, iron-grey warships lying at anchor in the fjord. Now silence reigned, broken only by the occasional roar of a passing car. A lone gull was floating on the wind above the old whaling station, as if hunting for the long-lost days of prosperity.

He reached Borgarnes just after midday, quickly located the retirement flats, continued on down the hill and parked outside. The man’s name was on the entryphone in the lobby. Konrád had given no advance warning of his visit, so he had no idea if the man would be home. After waiting for a decent interval, he pressed the bell again but no one answered. Then he rang the bell of what he assumed was the flat next door and a woman picked up. She said she hadn’t seen her neighbour that morning but he often went swimming at lunchtime. Konrád thanked her, returned to his car and drove over to the pool.

He had always liked Borgarnes, a friendly little town with a pretty church, perched on a strip of land surrounded by the sea and set against a dramatic backdrop of mountains. It was of historic interest too, as the area featured heavily in the medieval sagas. The only thing that spoiled it for him was the constant stream of tourists pouring into the snack bars and cafes, since Borgarnes was one of the main rest stops on the routes heading north and west.

None of the swimmers leaving the pool looked the right age to be the man he was after, so he cruised back down the main street. There his hopes were raised when he spotted an elderly man emerging from the local shopping centre with a plastic bag from the state off-licence in one hand and a small sports bag in the other. But they were dashed again when the man climbed straight into a car with a woman at the wheel and they drove away, heading out of town.

Konrád swung by the retirement flats again, tried the bell in the lobby and this time heard a sharp crackling over the entryphone.

‘Yes?’ blared a voice.

‘Is that Magnús’s flat?’

‘Yes, this is Magnús.’

‘Ah, my name’s Konrád and I’d like a brief word if that’s OK. It’s about your parents.’

‘My parents?’

There was a long pause, then the door to the lift area buzzed. When Konrád reached the second floor, Magnús was waiting for him outside his flat. They shook hands and Magnús invited him in, explaining that he had just come home from a swim. Konrád pretended this was the first he had heard of it.

‘How did you know my parents?’ the man asked, closing the door behind them and showing Konrád into the sitting room. ‘Are you one of those genealogists?’

The flat was compact, with an open-plan kitchen and sitting room, a small bedroom, and a fine panorama over the fjord and Mount Hafnarfjall. Its owner, Magnús, appeared to be in good physical shape for his age. He was of average height, straight-backed and sprightly, his head completely bald and his face round. No doubt the swimming kept him fit.

‘No, actually,’ Konrád said, ‘I’m not into genealogy. But I do have an interest in old criminal cases and—’

‘Criminal cases?’ interrupted Magnús.

‘That’s right. One of the cases I’ve been looking into recently dates back to the Second World War.’

‘Really? And that’s why you’re here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which case?’

‘A young woman who worked as a seamstress was found strangled behind the National Theatre in 1944. Her name was Rósamunda. I should think plenty of older people from Reykjavík would remember the incident.’

‘It does sound vaguely familiar,’ said the man, frowning slightly.

‘May I ask if you’ve received another visitor recently — he’d have come from Reykjavík like me — a man called Stefán?’

‘Stefán? No.’

‘He used to go by the name of Thorson; he was from the Icelandic settlement in Canada.’

‘No, that doesn’t ring any bells.’

‘So he didn’t come here to talk to you about the case?’

‘No. I’m not acquainted with any Stefán or Thorson. I don’t get many visitors out here. My daughters both live in Australia. They moved there during the recession in the late sixties and can’t be bothered to fly up to the frozen north that often. What... Why would this man have wanted to talk to me?’

‘He came over here during the war — he was in the military police and investigated the death of the girl I mentioned.’

‘So? I’m not with you. Where do I come in?’

‘He was still making enquiries about the case right up until his death a couple of weeks ago. You may have heard about it on the news. A pensioner was found dead in his home under suspicious circumstances. That was Thorson.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t follow the news very closely, and I still don’t understand what all this has to do with me.’

‘No, of course, I’m sorry; I’ll try and explain. The girl found by the theatre worked for a dressmaker’s in Reykjavík, quite a large enterprise called The Stitch, which had a wide range of customers — from all walks of life, as you might say. Thorson recently stumbled across a new piece of information — namely that the girl had refused to take any deliveries to a certain house in Reykjavík, whose owners were regular customers of the company.’

‘Thorson?’ repeated the man, distractedly.

‘Is it coming back to you now?’

‘He was in the military police, you say?’

‘Yes, that’s right. I assume he would have worn a uniform at the time. He was in the Canadian Army, but as far as I can work out he was seconded to the American forces stationed in Reykjavík and served in the military police.’

Magnús hadn’t offered Konrád a seat, and they were still standing, face to face, by the door.

‘Maybe you’d like to sit down?’ suggested Konrád.

‘Yes, I must admit I’m a bit tired after my swim,’ said the man, crossing the room to sink into an armchair. ‘What were you saying about the girl? Which house was it she didn’t want to visit?’

‘Your parents’ house, as a matter of fact. It seems likely that she had a bad experience when she delivered something there, and after that she refused to go anywhere near the place.’

The man didn’t seem to grasp the implication. ‘What are you driving at?’ he asked.

‘I imagine that to Thorson, all these years later, it must have suggested that she had reason to be afraid of a member of your household.’

‘Afraid?’

‘Yes. That might explain why she refused to go round there.’

‘But why? What would she have been frightened of?’

‘I was hoping you’d be able to answer that,’ said Konrád.

‘Me? I don’t know what you’re implying. I can’t imagine what she would have had to fear at our house.’