The Shadow District

46

With a little detective work, Thorson had discovered that Hólmbert was in a nursing home in Reykjavík, and it was there that he headed after his visit to the graveyard. He didn’t know the man from Adam, had never met him, though he had been a familiar face in the press over the course of his political career. His name had lingered in Thorson’s memory because Flóvent had made a point of noting how very helpful Hólmbert had been.

Thorson took the bus. Conveniently enough, it stopped close to the cemetery and its route also went right past the nursing home. He had given up driving. The fast-paced roads, the impatience of the other drivers, the heavy congestion these days: it had all become too much for him. Taking the bus was a far more pleasant way to travel, except in bad weather when it was easier to take a cab.

There were few other passengers to distract him, so he fell to thinking about his visit to the dressmaker’s daughter, Petra, and what she had told him about Rósamunda’s refusal to set foot in the MP’s house; about Hólmbert’s role in the whole affair, and his own recent telephone conversation with Magnús in Borgarnes, during which he had learnt for the first time about the presence of Magnús’s father and brother up north at the time of Hrund’s disappearance. Little by little the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. Pieces he’d known nothing about until now. Pieces that had been deliberately withheld from him and Flóvent, because certain people had thought they were best swept under the carpet. The words of Flóvent’s letter were running through his mind as he walked in through the doors of the nursing home: for some reason the matter won’t give me any peace.

He asked for Hólmbert and was given his room number. He summoned the lift. Up to now he hadn’t discussed his enquiries and suspicions with Birgitta for fear of worrying her. Besides, he wanted to wait and see what came to light before he started spreading gossip that might not actually be true.

Having located the right room, Thorson saw a man of about his own age lying in bed, surrounded by photographs of loved ones, children’s drawings, and vases of flowers.

‘Hólmbert?’ Thorson said, inching his way into the room. ‘Is that you?’

The man didn’t answer, or react in any way. He was lying flat on his back and one would have thought he was asleep were it not for the fact that his eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling.

‘Excuse my barging in on you like this but—’

Thorson broke off when a nurse breezed in with a tray of medicines and a glass of water. Raising the patient up in bed, he helped him to swallow the pills.

‘Am I in the right room?’ asked Thorson. ‘This is Hólmbert, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said the nurse. ‘You are...? Can I help you?’

‘I haven’t visited him before.’

‘Were you trying to talk to him? Hólmbert’s very far gone, I’m afraid. He’s got Alzheimer’s and hardly reacts at all to visitors.’

‘Oh, I had no idea. Alzheimer’s, you say?’

‘Are you a relative?’

‘An old acquaintance. I haven’t... we haven’t been in contact for many years. Does that mean there’s no point talking to him?’

‘You can talk all you like, but don’t expect any answers,’ the nurse said and continued on his rounds.

Thorson closed the door and sat down beside Hólmbert’s bed. He pitied the man his wretched fate, yet, however futile the gesture, he felt a compulsion to share with him the reason for his visit.

‘My name’s Thorson,’ he began. ‘One-time friend and colleague of a man called Flóvent. We conducted a murder investigation here in Reykjavík during the war. The victim’s name was Rósamunda and she worked for a dressmaker your family did business with. She used to take deliveries to your house until one day she flatly refused to go near the place again. Now it so happens that a few months before she died she was raped and her attacker told her to blame it on the huldufólk.’

Hólmbert lay motionless, staring at the ceiling with dull, colourless eyes.

‘Three years earlier a girl from Öxarfjördur, called Hrund, came out with the same story about being attacked by one of the huldufólk. She was so distraught after her ordeal that she vanished shortly afterwards. Took her own life perhaps. Or had an accident. At all events her body was never found. Then again, it’s possible that she was disposed of, and that the culprit was an important man from Reykjavík who just happened to be visiting the area at the time.’

Thorson shifted closer to Hólmbert.

‘Can you tell me anything about that?’

Hólmbert didn’t react.

‘Had you left the area or were you still in Öxarfjördur when she disappeared?’

The man in the bed lay deathly still.

‘The business of the huldufólk establishes a link between the two girls,’ Thorson went on doggedly. ‘Their stories were identical. Flóvent and I caught the man who killed Rósamunda. He as good as confessed to us. His name was Jónatan. A relative of yours, but not a blood relative. You helped us solve the case; you did your bit for the investigation and effectively incriminated your friend. Case closed. It didn’t hurt that Flóvent and I were already receptive to the idea. We’d made a mistake — Jónatan died in our custody. Perhaps, deep down, we felt that if what you told us was true then he’d got his just deserts for what he did to Rósamunda and there was no need for us to feel so guilty. We latched on to your story. In fact, your testimony couldn’t have come at a better time.’

Hólmbert began to stir and suddenly turned his head towards Thorson.

‘You know what I believe?’ said Thorson, looking him in the eye. ‘I believe it was you. You murdered Rósamunda, and you ruined Hrund’s life and maybe even killed her too. I still don’t know if you’d left the area by the time she vanished but I’m going to find out. You got the idea about the elves from your friend Jónatan. He was the expert. That’s why we were so sure it was him. But it wasn’t: it was you. You’d heard him talking about folklore, about encounters with the hidden people. That’s what gave you the idea. Well, I’m going to make it public; let the world know your dirty secret. Jónatan was innocent when we arrested him. He was innocent, for God’s sake!’

Hólmbert stared at Thorson. The corners of his mouth trembled, his pale eyes began to water and his face twitched as if he were about to speak. His bloodless lips formed a word but all that emerged was a sigh.

‘What?’ said Thorson. ‘What?’

Hólmbert strained with all his might to articulate the word: ‘Ró... samund...’ he whispered.

At that moment there was a noise outside in the corridor, and the door opened.