The Shadow Killer

26

Brynhildur Hólm’s former landlord was eager to assist the police, especially when he heard that Thorson was Icelandic-Canadian. He had relatives in North America himself, he said: two maternal uncles who had emigrated to Winnipeg just after the turn of the century, with their entire families, and still kept up with their relatives back in Iceland. He was very interested in Thorson’s life out west, so Thorson told him a little about Manitoba, about the farming conditions and a few of the well known figures in the Icelandic community, poets and others who had made their mark. In spite of the landlord’s curiosity, he was deliberately vague about his own circumstances.

The man remembered Brynhildur well. She had rented rooms from him on Njálsgata for several years and always paid on time; he had no complaints about her as a tenant. She had been single, and he suspected she might have been a little lonely as few people came to see her and she made no effort to get to know her neighbours. Having said that, she had been helpful with their minor injuries and ailments once they learnt she was a nurse. He didn’t think she had ever been married, but her manner had discouraged personal questions, so he couldn’t be sure.

The landlord asked what the military police wanted with Brynhildur since he couldn’t imagine her ever breaking the law. Thorson dodged the question by explaining that he was merely assisting the Reykjavík police with a minor matter involving relations between the armed forces and local civilians. Brynhildur was a possible witness to the incident, he lied.

The man hadn’t heard from Brynhildur Hólm since she moved out. He had seen her about town but didn’t know where she might be lodging now. He had never come across Rudolf Lunden but knew of the headmaster, Ebeneser, by reputation. The rooms Brynhildur had rented were now occupied by a family from the East Fjords; the husband made a decent living working for the British at Nauthólsvík Cove.

As Thorson was thanking the man and about to leave, the landlord said that, come to think of it, he had been meaning to get in touch with Brynhildur Hólm for quite some time because she had asked him to look after two boxes of books for her when she moved out, but had never come back to fetch them. They were still in his storeroom and although they didn’t take up much space, naturally he would like to restore them to their rightful owner. Speaking of which, he wondered if Thorson would be seeing Brynhildur any time soon. Thorson said he assumed so, that it was only a matter of time before he managed to track her down.

‘You couldn’t possibly remind her about the two boxes she left with me?’ the landlord asked.

‘Sure,’ said Thorson.

‘They’re in here,’ said the man and beckoned Thorson to follow him, adding that honestly he would be grateful to be rid of them sooner rather than later. ‘There’s nothing valuable in there,’ he said. ‘I checked. Just some old books that she’s obviously not that bothered about.’

The storeroom was down in the cellar. The man showed Thorson inside and pointed to two small boxes protruding from a shelf among a lot of tools and pots of paint.

‘It needs a tidy-up in here,’ the man said, apologetically surveying the room. ‘I’m always meaning to clear it out but never find the time. No one uses the room but me. I expect most of this lot could be taken to the tip. But there you go.’

He lifted down one of the boxes, opened it and said he had sometimes thought of taking the books to an antiquarian to find out if they were worth anything — and selling them if they were. ‘It costs money to store these boxes, you know,’ he said. ‘Nothing in life comes for free. Nothing comes for free.’

As he rattled on, he showed Thorson the contents of the box. There must have been about fifteen books, mostly Icelandic children’s titles, including the Nonni books, some of them in German translations. When the man picked one up and flicked through it, Thorson noticed that Brynhildur had written her name on the flyleaf. The man put the books back, taking care to make it look as if they hadn’t been disturbed.

The other box contained German and English works on nursing — textbooks, Thorson thought. When the landlord handed him one, a small pamphlet fell out onto the floor. Picking it up, Thorson discovered that it had been translated from German to English and published in London five years ago. It consisted of no more than twenty pages and had a cheap grey paper cover, which featured the title and the author’s name. Thorson wouldn’t have given it a second glance were it not for the name that caught his eye when he picked it up from the floor. The author was one Hans Lunden. The title also aroused his interest. It was couched as a question: ‘Can crime rates be reduced by selective breeding?’

‘What’ve you got there?’ asked the landlord. ‘Anything of interest?’

‘Not really,’ said Thorson, leafing through the pamphlet.

‘Would you like to take it away with you?’ asked the landlord, seeing that Thorson was absorbed in the text.

‘No, thanks. No need,’ said Thorson, handing it back. He recalled what Graham and Ballantine had told him at the Leper Hospital. About the genetic research the Nazis were conducting on prisoners in an attempt to prove that criminal traits were hereditary. Experiments in German concentration camps, they’d said. The name Buchenwald had come up.

‘So, that’s all there is in these boxes. Probably not worth anything, like I say,’ said the landlord with a sigh, tidying away the pamphlet and putting the boxes back on the shelf. ‘Not surprising the lady has never got round to fetching them, really. Mind you, it’s not like her. She was always so neat and tidy when she lived here. Took good care of her belongings, from what I could see. Always punctual with her rent: I never had to ask. Not once. You’ll remind her when you see her, won’t you? About the boxes?’

Thorson promised. They went back upstairs, and he said goodbye to the landlord, and thanked him for being so helpful. As Thorson was driving away he regretted not having taken the pamphlet with him to show Flóvent. Especially the short paragraph about the author, which stated that Hans Lunden had been born in Schleswig-Holstein, graduated in medicine from the University of Stuttgart and subsequently worked as a lecturer at the University of Jena’s Pathological Institute, specialising in genetics.

Thorson was sure he remembered hearing that the German consul, Werner Gerlach, had carried out research in genetics at the same university.