The Shadow District

4

When Konrád got home that evening he put on a record of Icelandic pop hits from the sixties, uncorked a bottle of red wine — Dead Arm, a favourite of his — and sat down at the kitchen table. The window faced west and the room was bathed in a soft pink glow. He loved to listen to golden oldies, knew all the lyrics by heart. They would run through his head at odd moments, reawakening memories warm with nostalgia. He had only to hear Ingimar Eydal’s band playing the opening bars of ‘Spring in Vaglaskógur’ for his mind to fly back to the summer of 1966 when he had first heard the song.

His reverie was interrupted by the ringing of the phone in the sitting room and he got up to answer the call. It was past 11 p.m., so it could only be Marta. She would pick up the phone at any hour of the day or night for the most trivial of excuses. Often just for a chat. She’d been lonely since her girlfriend moved back to the Westman Islands.

‘Were you asleep?’ asked Marta, not sounding in the least concerned.

‘No.’

‘What are you up to?’

‘Nothing. Any developments in the dead pensioner case?’

‘We’ve finished searching his flat.’

‘And?’

‘We didn’t find much. He lived alone and we still haven’t established whether he had any living relatives. There were no family photos on the walls, no albums. Though he did keep a photo of a young man in a drawer by his bed. He had a few books, but apart from that hardly any personal possessions. The only items of interest were some old newspaper cuttings he must have hung on to for years.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Not that there’s much to be gained from them. I don’t remember ever hearing about the case.’

‘The case?’

‘The one in the cuttings. There are three of them, probably from the same paper, but they’re not dated or anything. There’s no indication that the case was ever solved or taken over by the Americans. The last article says the investigation’s ongoing but the police are reporting little progress.’

‘What are you talking about? The Americans?’

‘I’m talking about a murder inquiry,’ said Marta. ‘During the Second World War. A girl found strangled behind the National Theatre in 1944. Wasn’t that the year you were born?’

‘Yes.’

‘The case seems to have sunk without trace. I can’t find any record of it in the police files. We had to track it down in the newspaper archives.’

‘The body of a girl, found behind the National Theatre?’

‘Yes. What?’

‘Nothing...’

‘Does it ring a bell?’

Konrád hesitated. ‘No, I don’t know.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Why are you being so mysterious?’

‘I’m just sleepy,’ said Konrád distractedly. ‘It’s rude to ring people this late. Let’s talk tomorrow.’

He said goodbye, drained his glass and got ready for bed. But sleep eluded him. Thoughts about his father and the dead girl behind the theatre kept him awake into the early hours. Although he had been reluctant to share the fact with Marta, he was actually familiar with the case because of his father’s rather bizarre connection to it. Konrád didn’t much like talking about his dad, who had at one time dabbled in spiritualism, in partnership with a variety of psychics whose reputations didn’t bear close scrutiny. A few months after her death, the murdered girl’s parents had contacted one of these mediums and asked him to hold a seance for them. Konrád’s father had assisted. What happened at the seance had subsequently ended up in the papers.

Konrád stroked his left arm absently, wondering whether he should pay Marta a visit or let sleeping dogs lie. He had been born with a slightly withered limb, a defect that seldom bothered him; after all, no one would really notice that his left arm and hand were weaker than his right. Unable to get comfortable, he went on tossing and turning until somewhere in the no-man’s-land between waking and dreaming the notes of ‘Spring in Vaglaskógur’ stole into his mind and he drifted off to sleep at last, accompanied by a fair memory of yellow sand at Nauthólsvík Cove, children playing by the water’s edge, and a flower-scented kiss.