The Shadow Killer

5

When Thorson eventually got back to base out at Laugarnes Point, he received a message that his commanding officer had been asking for him. It was the first time he’d had any dealings with Colonel Franklin Webster, head of the US Military Police Corps in Iceland. The colonel was attending an important meeting at Höfdi House, and Thorson was ordered to report to him there. He jumped into his jeep again and headed over to the handsome white Jugendstil residence that stood down by the sea, just outside the town. When he first arrived in Reykjavík the house had struck Thorson as one of the most distinguished buildings in the place, and his opinion hadn’t changed. It had once belonged to a famous poet and was rumoured to be haunted. Shortly after the invasion on 10 May 1940, the British had purchased the house as a residence for their consul.

Thorson parked in front of the house, announced his arrival and explained who he had come to see, then was shown into a waiting room. There seemed to be a lot of coming and going: high-ranking men were conversing in low voices; British officers and their American counterparts hurried from room to room, and he recognised an Icelandic government minister striding briskly into the house and continuing straight up to the first floor, accompanied by two other men. There appeared to be some kind of flap on. A large photograph of the British prime minister, Winston Churchill, hung on the wall in the waiting room, and Thorson was standing contemplating it when he heard a deep voice address him.

‘I hear you had a little trouble with one of our entertainers,’ said the colonel, who had approached noiselessly from behind.

Thorson swung round and saluted. The colonel, who was at least thirty years older than him, looked amiable enough, but Thorson had heard from his colleagues in the military police that he was a tough customer.

‘We handled it, sir,’ said Thorson.

‘Good. I understand you speak Icelandic fluently — that you have Icelandic parents, though you grew up in Canada. Have I got that right?’

‘Yes, sir. I’m what they call a West Icelander. My parents emigrated to Canada and I was born and grew up there.’

‘I see. How long have you been in Iceland?’

‘I was posted here as an interpreter, sir, at the time of the occupation, along with some other Canadian volunteers. They transferred me to the military police right away. When the Americans arrived this summer I was seconded to your police corps. It helps to know the language when you’re dealing with clashes between the troops and the local population.’

‘Yes, I realise that. I happen to be on the lookout for a man who speaks Icelandic and understands the local character but has American interests at heart. Do you think you’re that man?’

‘Well, I speak Icelandic, sir,’ said Thorson. ‘But I wouldn’t say I understand the local character yet.’

A smile tugged at the colonel’s mouth. ‘I don’t suppose you know much about murder inquiries?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You’ll learn fast. The request comes from the Reykjavík police. Anyway, I’ve got to leave now but your job is to give them all the help you can. I believe the officer in charge of the investigation is called Florent or some such name. You’ll be working with him. He’s expecting to hear from you.’

‘What case is that, if I might ask, sir?’

‘An Icelander, shot dead in his apartment,’ said the colonel. ‘They’re claiming the bullet they recovered at the scene was fired from a US military pistol. In other words, they believe the crime was committed by an American. In my opinion that’s bull, but naturally I can’t... I expect regular reports on the progress of the investigation. If you need help, talk to me. If what they say is true and the trail leads to one of our men, it could be embarrassing. Not all the locals are happy about our presence here. Bear in mind that we don’t want any trouble: we’ve got enough of that.’

Colonel Webster left the waiting room as suddenly as he had entered it. Thorson’s eyes were drawn back to the portrait of Churchill, who frowned down at him as if to remind him of the gravity of the times they were living through. Then he turned on his heel and marched out of Höfdi House. On the steps he passed the Icelandic government minister and his two companions conferring in low voices, confident that no one could follow what they were saying. Thorson paused when he heard Churchill’s name.

‘... but they don’t know yet,’ said the minister, who was somewhat older than his companions. ‘Of course, it’ll have to be kept hush-hush.’

‘It seems highly unlikely,’ said one of the other men. ‘That he’ll come here.’

‘Well, they aren’t ruling it out. There’s no more information as yet, but they’re hoping for the best.’

The three men glanced at Thorson, who smiled blithely as if he didn’t understand a word they said, then continued down the steps to his jeep. As he drove into town, he wondered if he’d heard right. Could Winston Churchill really be planning a visit to Iceland?