The Shadow District

42

It was very late before Flóvent and Thorson were able to return to the Fríkirkjuvegur offices. By then, Jónatan’s body had been taken to the mortuary, the soldiers injured in the crash were being tended to in hospital, and their jeep had been towed away to the base in Skerjafjördur. Flóvent and Thorson had given the Reykjavík police a preliminary account. A more detailed report would have to wait until the following morning.

They still didn’t know who they should inform of Jónatan’s death. Their investigation into his background had only just got under way; they hadn’t yet identified his next of kin, and Jónatan himself had stubbornly refused to reveal any information about his personal life.

They sat in silence. The only illumination came from Flóvent’s desk lamp. Outside the snow had thickened and was now coming down heavily over the town. Their guilt felt as oppressive as the enshrouding darkness. Both men were haunted by the same thought: a young man in their care had lost his life. For as long as he was in their custody, they were responsible for him, and they had failed him. His death was their fault, though they had only meant to be kind. Their momentary lapse of concentration had cost him his life.

‘Do you think he was really going to take us there?’ asked Thorson, finally breaking the silence. ‘Or was that just a ploy?’

Flóvent didn’t seem to hear. Recalling Jónatan’s extreme distress at being locked up, he wondered if they should have foreseen what might happen; if they had ignored the danger signs. He should have been handcuffed to one of them when they left the prison. They should have read the situation better, guarded him more closely.

‘Flóvent?’

‘What was that?’

‘Was he using the Shadow District as a ploy? Did he really plan on taking us there?’

‘You mean in order to escape?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Flóvent. ‘Impossible to say. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know the answer to that. For God’s sake, why didn’t we handcuff him? We were so careless.’

‘I didn’t see it coming,’ said Thorson. ‘Neither did you. We didn’t forget. It was a gesture of goodwill. We were trying to create an atmosphere of trust. That was important. Then he gets hit by a car. We would have caught him. I was only a few yards behind when he ran in front of that jeep. It was a crazy attempt. And look how it ended.’

Flóvent nodded distractedly.

‘There’s no way we could have predicted that he would make a run for it,’ continued Thorson. ‘He was being cooperative... OK, he was upset at being in jail — we knew that. But wasn’t that because he’d been caught? Because he didn’t want to confess his guilt?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Flóvent. ‘But it’s also possible that we had the wrong man. He didn’t say anything to you?’

‘No. I believe he died instantly. I don’t think he even knew what hit him.’

The soldiers had been driving well over the speed limit, from what Thorson could remember, and he assumed there would be consequences. He had spoken to the man who had been sitting on the pavement, covered in blood, beside the wrecked vehicle. ‘There was nothing we could do,’ the soldier had said, distraught. ‘We didn’t even see him till he landed on the hood.’ He had been informed that Jónatan was dead.

Flóvent was finding it hard to master his despair. ‘The poor boy,’ he whispered, his voice cracking.

‘It was his decision,’ said Thorson. ‘He didn’t have to do it.’

Flóvent said nothing. He knew Thorson was trying to comfort him, and perhaps one could take the view that the student had been responsible for his own fate, but Flóvent was painfully aware that they had badly misjudged the situation.

‘We didn’t handle it right,’ he said. ‘We didn’t handle it right. We should have traced his family. Got him a lawyer straight away...’

‘We were going to,’ Thorson reminded him. ‘You told him we were going to fix that this evening. Maybe that’s what upset him. Maybe that’s why he was willing to try something that desperate. Maybe he wanted to speak to his family before we did. Who knows what was going through his mind? He wouldn’t open up to us.’

‘No, he was obstinate,’ admitted Flóvent. He grimaced, clutching at his stomach. ‘He was bloody obstinate.’

‘Are you OK?’ asked Thorson.

‘Yes, it’s nothing. I keep getting these twinges. I expect it’s this case. It... It’s all been rather a strain.’

Early the next morning Flóvent went to speak to Jónatan’s tutor at the university in the hope that he might be able to provide some information about the student. Thorson didn’t go along. They had agreed that there was no call for the military police to have any further involvement in the case. In fact, this had been apparent for some time, but Thorson had wanted to help out. Now that he had received his embarkation orders, he had only forty-eight hours to prepare for his transfer.

The news of Jónatan’s death came as a heavy blow to his tutor. The young man had been reserved, he told Flóvent, but a good student. The tutor had twice invited him round to discuss his studies and discovered that they had a shared passion for birdwatching. As a result they had struck up a friendship, in the course of which the tutor had learnt that Jónatan was adopted and had never known his real parents. He was brought up as one of the family on a farm not far from Húsavík, on the north coast, showed promise at school and was sent first to college in Akureyri, then south to Reykjavík to attend the university under the guardianship of some relatives of his adoptive mother: her sister, Sigfrídur, and Sigfrídur’s husband, who was a member of parliament.

‘Did he have any contact with the opposite sex, that you’re aware of?’ asked Flóvent.

‘No,’ said the tutor. ‘Not that he mentioned. At least not to me. I don’t think he had many friends, to be honest — he was a bit of a loner.’

Next, Flóvent paid a visit to Jónatan’s relatives. They lived on Laufásvegur, not far from Flóvent’s offices, in a large, detached house, set in a sizeable garden, which contained a small pond. As Flóvent passed it he noticed that the pond was frozen solid. A maid answered the door and showed him into the drawing room. When she enquired after his business, he said he would prefer to explain in person. The girl went to alert her employers and before long a woman of about fifty appeared at the drawing room door and greeted him formally.

‘Good day. Were you hoping to see my husband?’

‘Yes, ma’am, I should probably speak to him too. Are you by any chance Sigfrídur, ma’am?’

‘Yes, I am,’ said the woman. ‘And you are...?’

‘Flóvent, ma’am. I’m from the police and I’m here about a student called Jónatan.’

‘Oh, what about him?’

‘I’m very sorry to have to inform you that he’s passed away. He was hit by an army jeep on Laugavegur yesterday evening and died instantly.’

The woman stared at him blankly. ‘Jónatan?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so, ma’am. It was an accident. He was—’

‘What are you saying? Is he dead?’

At this point a slightly older man entered the room. Flóvent recognised him immediately as the member of parliament.

‘This... man has come here with some absurd story about Jónatan being dead,’ the woman said, turning to her husband.

‘Jónatan?’ he repeated. ‘What... how is that possible?’

‘According to him he was hit by a car.’

The husband turned to Flóvent. ‘Is this true?’

‘I’m afraid so, sir. I’m a detective from the Criminal Investigation Department. He was hit by a car on Laugavegur late yesterday evening. And there’s another matter...’

He had the couple’s undivided attention now.

‘Another matter?’ said the member of parliament.

‘I’m sorry to have to break it to you but Jónatan was in police custody at the time of the accident,’ said Flóvent. ‘He didn’t want anyone to know, so he refused to supply us with the names of any relatives or friends, and turned down the services of a lawyer. He was being detained in connection with the murder of a girl called Rósamunda, who was recently found strangled behind the National Theatre. I’m afraid to say he broke free of us outside the prison and fled down to Laugavegur, straight into the path of an oncoming jeep.’

The couple seemed stunned by this. He gave them a moment to assimilate the news. They exchanged glances, then turned their attention back to him, their faces registering utter disbelief.

Flóvent had already been called to a meeting with his superiors, and he had provided a blow-by-blow account of all that had occurred between the discovery of Rósamunda’s body and the moment Jónatan ran in front of the jeep. He had received a stern dressing-down for allowing Jónatan to slip out of his grasp, but in spite of this they had proved broadly sympathetic and agreed that he could remain in charge of the inquiry for the time being.

‘I don’t believe it,’ groaned the woman, groping for a chair. Flóvent quickly helped her to sit down.

‘Murder?’ exclaimed the MP.

Flóvent nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Surely there must be some mistake? How could you have arrived at such a conclusion?’

‘The evidence is fairly overwhelming, sir,’ said Flóvent. ‘He was about to show us the place in the Shadow District where he met her... or rather, where he subjected her to an assault. We were on our way there when he eluded our grasp and ran in front of the jeep. We were powerless to stop him. He tore himself free and fled.’

‘Shouldn’t you have been guarding him more closely?’ asked the MP.

‘Yes, of course, sir,’ Flóvent admitted. ‘But he was being cooperative, so we were keen to demonstrate a degree of trust in him. That’s why we didn’t use handcuffs. We simply couldn’t have foreseen that he would resort to such a desperate act. It was an accident. Deeply regrettable, it goes without saying, but an accident nonetheless.’

‘What then? Was he taken to hospital or...?’

‘No, sir. He was killed instantly, and his body is now in the National Hospital mortuary. You can—’

At that moment the door opened and a young man entered the room.

‘There you are,’ he said, then immediately sensed from the tension in the air that something serious was afoot. ‘What’s—?’

‘Hólmbert, dear,’ said the woman, rising and going over to him. ‘This policeman says Jónatan’s dead.’

‘Jónatan — dead?’ echoed the young man.

‘The poor boy was run over by a car,’ said the woman. ‘It’s simply ghastly. And there’s more — he was in police custody at the time and this officer is claiming that Jónatan killed that girl — the one who was found behind the theatre. Isn’t that madness? Isn’t it absolutely preposterous?’

‘He was a suspect,’ corrected Flóvent.

‘Jónatan?’ gasped the young man incredulously.

‘Isn’t it utter madness?’ said the woman again. ‘I’ve never heard such outrageous nonsense. That he met her in the Shadow District and... and mistreated her...’

The young man looked at Flóvent. ‘Is that true?’

Flóvent nodded.

‘I... don’t believe it.’

‘Did you know him well, sir?’ asked Flóvent.

The young man seemed distracted, and Flóvent had to repeat the question.

‘I... we were pals,’ he said. ‘Is he really dead? Jónatan, dead! And you actually believe that he...?’

‘Assaulted the girl? Yes, I’m afraid so,’ said Flóvent. ‘Unfortunately the evidence is compelling. He was about to take us to the scene of the crime when he escaped and met with this tragic accident.’