The Shadow Killer

16

Thorson asked Flóvent if he could give him a ride down to Hótel Borg. He sat in the passenger seat, nursing the charred pages they had found at the German consulate and trying to decipher more names by the light of the torch. It was almost impossible given the state of the pages and the jolting of the car. They discussed what Rudolf’s maid had whispered to Flóvent about the headmaster’s visit. They couldn’t imagine what possible reason Ebeneser could have for covering it up.

‘I doubt we could have got any more out of him this evening,’ said Flóvent. ‘But I need to sound him out further about the Lunden brothers’ friendship with the German consul. I’ll talk to him again tomorrow. Perhaps it would be better if I went to see him alone. Having a representative of the defence force in his house seemed to put him more on his guard.’

‘What was the maid talking about?’ asked Thorson. ‘Who are these boys?’

‘Goodness knows,’ said Flóvent. ‘They were quarrelling about “some boys”. That’s all she said. I need to talk to her again as well.’

‘Well, he is the headmaster of a school,’ said Thorson.

‘Yes, but I find it unlikely that they were arguing about school-children,’ said Flóvent. ‘What I can’t work out is why Ebeneser would lie about something as natural as going to see his brother-in-law. Why doesn’t he want us to know that they met recently, that they had a bust-up? What’s he got to hide?’

‘We might be able to make out this part too,’ Thorson interrupted. He was pointing at an almost illegible name on the same page as the German doctor’s. While they talked he had been squinting at the writing, shining the torch on the burnt pages and holding them at every imaginable angle, even over his head, in an attempt to decipher them.

‘What does it say?’ asked Flóvent. ‘Who is it?’

Thorson tried to read the letters, guessing at the gaps. The first name was less damaged and he thought he could work out what it was.

‘It looks to me as if it could be a long name like... Bryn... hildur. And... what’s this? Some family name rather than a patronymic... H... e... or o... is that an l? Hel...? Not Helena. Or... could it be Hólm? Could that be it? Brynhildur Hólm? Is that an Icelandic name?’

They had reached Hótel Borg. Flóvent parked in the street in front of the revolving doors and switched off the engine. Town was busy, as it was Friday night and the dance halls were open. Young people walked along Pósthússtræti hand in hand; sometimes a girl would wander by with a soldier on her arm. Flóvent watched a pair of lovers disappearing into the hotel and wondered if Thorson had a date there, but he wouldn’t have dreamt of asking. Although he liked what he’d seen of the young Canadian, they didn’t know each other at all.

‘Yes, could be,’ he said. ‘But I haven’t heard the name before. Does it look as though she was there on the same occasion as Hans Lunden?’

‘It’s hard to tell,’ said Thorson. ‘But we should see if we can track her down. She might be able to tell us something about Dr Hans Lunden if she was a guest of the consulate at the same time.’

‘Yes, good idea,’ said Flóvent. ‘Are you off for a night out?’ he asked on a lighter note, nodding towards the hotel.

‘Yes, no, I’m billeted here at the moment — I’ve got a small room on the top floor,’ said Thorson. ‘But I might look in on the dance later. In the Golden Room. Isn’t that what they call it? The ballroom?’

‘Yes, that’s right. The Golden Room,’ said Flóvent, glancing at his watch and realising how late it was. ‘Have fun. We’ll talk in the morning.’

Thorson said goodnight and was about to get out of the car when he paused and closed the door again. There was something he’d put off discussing with Flóvent, despite the fact that it might be significant. He’d been trying to figure out whether it was connected to the case, but he hadn’t come up with anything. The thought wouldn’t leave him alone, though, and he felt he had to share his concerns with the Icelandic detective.

‘Something is bothering me, but I don’t know if I should even be talking about it.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s probably nothing, but I’ve been thinking about this case we’re working on and its links to the German consulate and German nationals living here, to Nazis, and...’

‘What are you worried about?’ prompted Flóvent, studying the young soldier who spoke the Icelandic of his emigrant parents with a hint of a northern accent. He looked troubled.

‘I happened to overhear something as I was leaving the meeting with my commanding officer at Höfdi,’ Thorson continued after a long pause. ‘When I was assigned to work with you — with the Icelandic police, that is. Some men from the government were talking on the steps outside. Of course they assumed I didn’t understand. From what I could hear, they were discussing... Winston Churchill.’

‘Churchill? What about him?’

‘It sounded to me like he might be planning a visit to Iceland. He’s got a conference scheduled with Roosevelt in the Atlantic somewhere off Newfoundland, and they said there’s a chance he might stop off in Iceland on his way home. Were the Icelandic police briefed about it?’

‘Well, this is the first I’ve heard about a visit, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything,’ said Flóvent. ‘I’m usually the last to hear what’s going on. Did you recognise the men you saw at Höfdi? Have you any idea who they were?’

‘At least one of them was a government minister,’ said Thorson, who took an interest in Icelandic domestic affairs. ‘I believe he was there specifically to discuss the visit, but that’s only a guess. I’ve been thinking it over and felt I had to tell... to tell you. In case there’s a connection to our case.’

‘You mean to Felix Lunden?’

Thorson nodded. ‘I think we should make it a priority to track him down,’ he said. ‘Just to be on the safe side. In case there’s anything to this rumour of a visit.’

‘Are you implying he might be some sort of threat?’ asked Flóvent. ‘Isn’t that a bit far-fetched?’

‘I’m not sure. We know there are German agents operating here. The occupation must have made things harder for them, but we’re assuming that spies are still active in the country, just as they are elsewhere in Europe. Iceland’s no exception.’

‘Yes, but we have no rock-solid evidence to link Felix to that type of activity,’ said Flóvent. ‘And nothing to link the incident in his flat to this visit.’

‘Well, I thought I ought to mention it,’ said Thorson. ‘In case we uncover any leads that point that way. After all, where is Felix? What’s he up to? Is he armed? We don’t know. Since there’s a pretty good chance he’s the killer, we have to work on the basis that he could be armed with a Colt .45. The question is, do we need help with this investigation? I can talk to Ballantine and Graham. Though, come to think of it, they’re...’

‘What?’

Thorson recalled Graham saying that it was their affair and sooner or later they would have to step in and take over the investigation. In the meantime, he had ordered Thorson to provide a daily report on their progress.

‘Nothing,’ said Thorson, ‘I just wondered if you might need more help from us.’

‘But this is an Icelandic matter,’ said Flóvent. ‘You’re involved because the murder weapon is almost certainly a military one and we need easy access to the occupation force if the trail leads us to a soldier. If we need any further assistance from your people, I’ll let you know.’

‘Yes, of course, I just wanted to mention the Churchill angle.’

‘Thank you. But I don’t believe there’s any cause for concern. Nothing like that would ever happen here. Not in Iceland.’

Thorson was taken aback by his assertion. Two years ago Flóvent could have said something like that without a second thought, but a great deal had changed since then. Iceland was no longer a remote island, cut off from the rest of the world. The country had been dragged into the maelstrom of world events and plenty was happening here now that would have been inconceivable before. Had Flóvent not yet woken up to this new reality or had he temporarily forgotten it? There were no longer any grounds for such misplaced optimism. Flóvent was deceiving himself. It wasn’t the first time Thorson had come up against this mindset. Perhaps it was the Icelanders’ innocence that had been the first victim when the British invasion force marched into town on 10 May last year. Thorson remembered a buddy of his asking if he’d be interested in settling in Iceland after the war. Thorson had used his leave to go hiking in the mountains in the mild summer weather. He’d come back waxing lyrical about the beauty of the landscape and the silence that had enveloped him as he slept out under the midnight sun. Thorson admitted he hadn’t given it any thought, and then his buddy had made a remark that stayed with him: ‘I guess you’d have to learn to think like an Icelander if you wanted to live here.’

‘You shouldn’t underestimate the seriousness of the situation,’ he said to Flóvent now. ‘I think we should still bear the possibility in mind — maybe try to get confirmation of whether he’s actually coming. If measures need to be taken. You see, Graham and co., they don’t trust...’

‘Who don’t they trust?’

‘I shouldn’t have opened my big mouth...’

Thorson hesitated again. He hadn’t meant to say any more, but he wasn’t happy with the dilemma he found himself in. On the one hand, he was accountable to his commanding officers and wanted to fulfil the task he had been entrusted with; he didn’t want to work against the interests of the occupation force or his comrades in arms. On the other hand, he felt a lot of sympathy for the Icelanders. His parents had taught him to consider them his own people, however distant. He had heard his fellow soldiers poking fun at the locals, sneering at them, and had tried to make up for their behaviour. It hurt him to hear people deriding the country and its inhabitants. And now he felt he was being forced to choose sides, forced into a thankless position. He hated not being able to speak honestly to Flóvent.

‘What’s on your mind?’ Flóvent asked, picking up on his hesitation. ‘Is everything all right? Who don’t they trust? What do they want? Is there something you can’t share with me?’

‘They want to take over the case,’ Thorson said at last, with a sigh. ‘And sooner or later they’ll do it. They have no faith in the Icelandic police. They don’t trust them — you, the Icelanders — to do it right.’

Flóvent gave Thorson a searching look. ‘Because of the visit?’ he asked at last.

‘No, at least I don’t think so. Well, that didn’t actually occur to me. They believe the killer has to be a member of the occupation force because of the gun. They may have even started their own inquiry.’

‘Are you aware that they have?’

‘No.’

‘Well, thank you for telling me. You didn’t have to.’

‘I don’t want to be a... some kind of a sneak. To do anything underhand. I felt it was right to come clean with you. That way at least everything’s straight between us.’

‘Not many men in your position would have behaved as honourably,’ said Flóvent.

‘I’m pretty sick of their attitude to the locals. And I don’t want to get caught up in some kind of double game...’

He was going to phrase it differently but could think of no other way of saying it. If anyone was playing a double game, it was him.

But Thorson said nothing about that either.