Ashes To Dust

Chapter Nineteen

Yesterday’s stormclouds had disappeared and been replaced by thin wispy clouds in an otherwise clear blue sky. It was as if God had been puffing on a cigar and exhaled in the direction of Iceland. Thóra sat outside on her veranda, enjoying the morning. The pages of the Morgunbladid daily newspaper lying on the table in front of her rustled in the breeze and steam drifted up from her coffee cup. She closed the paper and took a sip of coffee. Mercifully, Morgunbladid had gone easy on Markus in its report on his arrest and the detention order pending trial. This was perhaps no surprise, since the judge had been on the fence. For a while Thóra even thought that he would deny the state prosecutor’s request. However, this did not happen, although he did reduce the recommended custody period from three weeks to five days. Thóra’s objection and her remarks on evidence that pointed to Markus’s innocence may have helped. For the first time in her life she wanted a cigarette, or at least to smell cigarette smoke. Passive smoke from Bella was probably to blame, unless she was losing her mind. Thóra hoped that it was the former. She couldn’t afford to fall apart today, since the High Court would rule on the detention order this afternoon.

Understandably Markus had wanted to appeal the district court’s decision. In fact only three days of the five had remained when the decision was announced, but she did not blame him. Three days felt like a thousand: no innocent man wanted to sit behind bars. She looked at the clock and saw that it wasn’t even eight yet. If she left the house within the next hour she might have time to find something else that could rebut the court’s decision. Yet she had no idea what exactly that might be. Without doubt, it was Alda’s diary from 1973 that had influenced the district court judge’s hesitation over Markus’s guilt. Thóra had handed it over to the police immediately after Markus’s interview. Stefán had reacted angrily and accused her of concealing evidence from the police, and Thóra had tried unsuccessfully to explain herself. When the prosecutor had tried to devalue the importance of the diary in court, the judge took Thóra’s side and said the handover hadn’t been delayed unnaturally in light of the circumstances. Another small victory had been won when the judge had asked numerous questions about the evidence that suggested the three bodies had been placed in the basement after the eruption had been going on for some time, which meant that Markus couldn’t have been there. The police didn’t have much on Markus as far as the bodies in the basement were concerned, if you didn’t count the head.

Alda’s death was a different story. Here there was very little in Markus’s favour: both a witness and evidence suggested that he’d been at the scene. The witness turned out to be a boy who had been distributing flyers for his sports club’s tin- can collection on the evening that Alda was murdered. The police had found one of the flyers in Alda’s house and tracked down the boy, who had given a description of a man who had shown up there at the same time as the boy had been walking away from Alda’s house, around seven thirty. The description fit Markus perfectly, and the boy had then selected a photo of him from a group of several he was shown. The boy said that the man had walked up to the house, but he hadn’t seen him get out of a car, nor did he particularly remember anything about cars on the street that evening. Thóra tried to point out that Markus’s car was a model that any normal healthy teenage boy would certainly notice, but to no effect. It was pointed out that Markus could easily have parked elsewhere, especially if he had come there with criminal intent and hadn’t wanted anyone to notice him. Thóra’s objection that Markus had an extremely average appearance and that the description could easily have applied to countless other men was also of little use, as, for that matter, was the fact that the boy could have selected Markus’s photo from the stack at random. However, Thóra hoped this assertion would find better support after she examined the photos that the boy had been shown, because the police could easily have given him a selection in which Markus alone fit the description. She would be allowed to see them later, and she also hoped that a record of calls to and from Markus’s phone, as well as Alda’s, would be turned over to her at the same time. Thóra clung to the hope that this log would reveal that Alda had called Markus as he was driving eastwards from Reykjavik, as he insisted. That would strengthen his testimony a great deal; Alda would hardly have rung Markus if he were at her house.

Thóra had more trouble finding an explanation for the DNA sample on Alda’s body, which proved to be from Markus. This was a hair discovered upon combing out the woman’s pubic hair. It was compared with hair that Markus had provided, and turned out to be from his head. The autopsy hadn’t revealed any recent sexual intercourse, so

Alda’s genitals had been swabbed in search of Markus’s saliva, which had not been found. What his head had been doing between the woman’s thighs was thus left undetermined, and Markus could not shed any light on this detail, since he insisted vehemently that he had not been at Alda’s home, much less between her legs. The only conclusion that Thóra could reach on this subject was that the hair could have come from toilet paper, or something else Markus had come into contact with during his visit the previous evening. Such a thing was not impossible, but this explanation would not be taken into consideration at this stage of the proceedings. On the bright side, if it came to trial, the prosecution would be required to prove unequivocally that the hair had been brought to the scene that fateful night and in connection with the murder; not before that night, and by accident.

Markus had taken the court’s decision incredibly calmly. He was unhappy with it, but understood that he had to swallow it and wait for the High Court’s decision. Thóra praised him for his courage and said that she would let his family know, among them Hjalti, Markus’s only son, who lived with Markus’s ex-wife when he wasn’t in the Islands with his uncle Leifur. The phone call proved to be difficult for Thóra: Hjalti was a little older than her son Gylfi, only nineteen and he seemed very upset at the news. He asked over and over whether his father would be sentenced to prison, and it didn’t matter how much Thóra tried to reassure him that this was unlikely – he wouldn’t be convinced. He only calmed down a little when Thóra gave him Markus’s message that everything would be all right and not to worry at all. Out of pity for the poor boy, Thóra told him at the end of the conversation that he could phone her if he had any questions or wanted to talk to her about his father’s case. She fully expected him to take her at her word and keep in touch, especially now that his father’s name was in the papers.

Thóra took another sip of coffee and stood up. She looked out over the calm swell and shaded her eyes, then closed them and breathed deeply through her nose. She considered how best she could spend her spare hours, without reaching any conclusion. Markus’s detention made it more difficult for her to determine a possible witness. It was clear that Alda’s mother and sister would hardly welcome her with open arms. And although Alda’s colleagues hadn’t been as close to her as her relatives, they would undoubtedly view Thóra with suspicion. Nonetheless, Thóra decided to start with them. Yesterday she’d received a message from Dís, one of the plastic surgeons at the office where Alda had worked, saying she would be willing to meet up. Who knew, maybe she had some useful information. She might even know the real reason behind Alda’s resignation from the A &E. Alda’s sister’s theory that her murderer was a vengeful rapist was starting to sound more convincing, in the absence of more plausible options.

Thóra reopened her eyes and looked out at the placid sea, so much nicer to look at than the overgrown garden. This was the summer that Thóra had intended to sort out her garden, but now it was almost over. She’d ticked almost nothing off the list, apart from mowing the lawn. The hedge had grown to the height of a man or taller, which Thóra wasn’t proud of. Its branches reached up to the sky, utterly neglected. The flowerbeds had succumbed to weeds. She could certainly see how entire cities could disappear beneath a rainforest’s lush greenery, considering how quickly vegetation could sweep over things even in a polar climate. She went back inside. The garden could wait until next year.

Of the four people in the waiting room, Thóra felt she was the one who could most use the services of a plastic surgeon. There were two young women who were attractive by any standards, although their bleached blonde hair did little for them. The other occupant was a young man, and Thóra couldn’t think for the life of her what he might need fixed. On behalf of all Icelandic women she sincerely hoped he wasn’t planning on having a sex change complete with breast implants.

The waiting room was plain, but the fixtures and fittings looked expensive. It made the little closet that served as a waiting room at her legal firm look ridiculous, which suggested a plastic surgeon’s time was worth far more than a lawyer’s. That was no surprise: people were more concerned about their looks than their reputations. Thóra looked at the clock and hoped that it would soon be her turn; she was getting uncomfortable sitting there, knowing the others were regarding her and wondering what work she was having done. She was on the verge of pointing out to one of them, who had glanced once too often at Thóra’s chest, to mind her own business, when the receptionist appeared and informed Thóra that Dís would see her now. Thóra stood up and followed the slender woman. She was wearing a short dress, and such high heels that Thóra’s toes ached in sympathy. Again she compared this to her legal firm’s office set-up, where Bella steered clients into the harbour of the waiting room like a squat little Gothic tug-boat, the tattered hem of her floor-length dress trailing behind her.

‘Through here, please,’ said the dark-haired girl, her snow-white smile gleaming. ‘And I hope it all goes marvellously for you.’ She opened the door to the office, turned and left.

Dís was on the telephone but indicated that Thóra should take a seat before putting down the phone, standing up and extending her hand. She was wearing a white fitted shirt and black jeans that hugged her slender waist, as well as a thick belt that clashed with an otherwise conservative outfit. Thóra thought they were about the same age, and noticed that the doctor was in very good shape. Her body didn’t look like it had been sculpted with a scalpel, but rather by blood, sweat and tears- probably requiring several hours a day with a personal trainer. It must be important for a plastic surgeon to look good.

‘Hello,’ said Dís, who seemed aware of Thóra’s scrutiny of her body. She sat back down.‘I’m sorry to have made you wait; I didn’t expect to be so busy. It’s usually quite calm here before lunch.’

‘That’s fine,’ said Thóra. ‘I’m just grateful that you were available to meet me at such short notice.’

‘I gathered it was important,’said Dís, smiling hesitantly. Her face was not dissimilar to Thóra’s, with high cheekbones and a wide mouth. The main difference was that Dís had nicely styled hair and flawless make-up, whereas Thóra usually dragged her hair into a messy ponytail and wore only mascara. ‘Of course I want to do anything I can to help apprehend whoever did this to Alda. I saw in the paper that a man had been taken into custody. I hope the sentence fits his disgusting crime.’

Thóra cleared her throat. ‘Ah, yes. I forgot to mention that I am actually representing the suspect.’She could see this information was not well received. The doctor’s friendly face hardened. ‘He says he’s innocent, and it’s indisputable that the police don’t have much to go on. His custody period is unusually short given the seriousness of the case, which reflects the judge’s doubts about my client’s guilt. There is a lot of evidence that actually supports his plea of innocence. I’m looking for information to back him up, and at the same time I want to find out whoactually did murder Alda.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘No one who cared for her will want to see the wrong man punished.’

Dís said nothing. She gazed thoughtfully at Thóra, who looked resolutely back. Then Dís’s expression suddenly seemed to relax. ‘Of course I don’t want that,’ she said. ‘Nobody wants an innocent man to be found guilty. So shall we say that I’m prepared to help you in the unlikely event that this man didn’t do it?’

Thóra decided not to spend any more time defending Markus to the doctor. She hadn’t come here to argue, and it wouldn’t strengthen her position to antagonize her informant.‘Okay, thanks.’ She turned to her list of questions, determined to make the most of her time since she didn’t have long. One of the people sitting outside was probably waiting for a consultation with the woman about some urgent operation. ‘When you heard that Alda had been murdered,’ she said, ‘did you wonder how such a thing could have happened, or who could possibly have wanted to harm her?’

Dís didn’t take time to think, but replied immediately. ‘I must admit, the first time I heard it was murder was this morning, when I read about the custody order. As you know, I was the one who discovered Alda, and I thought at that point that she’d killed herself. Suicides don’t often make it to the papers, so I was very surprised this morning when I saw her death had been reported. I actually have no idea what else has gone on since I found her body. No one’s told us anything about the progress of the investigation.’ She added hurriedly:‘Of course, we didn’t even think that there was an investigation.’

‘You say we,’ said Thóra.‘Who do you mean?’

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Dís replied. ‘I mean myself and Agúst, my partner in the clinic. He’s a plastic surgeon too, and Alda worked with both of us.’

‘I understand,’ said Thóra. ‘But when you saw this morning that it was a murder investigation – did anyone come to mind as the culprit?’

Dís’s cheeks reddened slightly and she muttered a negative, before enquiring: ‘A thief, maybe?’

‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ Thóra replied. ‘Would anything in Alda’s house have been particularly attractive to thieves?’

‘No, nothing I can think of,’said Dís. ‘But are burglars that picky? I suppose Alda had everything one might imagine a petty thief would steal – television, stereo equipment, some jewellery. Maybe these things weren’t top of the range, but I would imagine anyone poor enough to take others’ property isn’t very fussy.’

‘That’s true,’ conceded Thóra. ‘But they’re also not usually into killing people and making it look like suicide.’

‘No, I don’t imagine they are,’ said Dis. ‘It’s just that Alda had no enemies I’m aware of, so that was the only thing I could come up with.’

‘No ex-husbands or boyfriends who had been bothering or harassing her?’ asked Thóra.

‘Nothing likethat,’ the woman replied. ‘Not to my knowledge. As a matter of fact she was divorced, but as far as I gathered the divorce was amicable, and they hadn’t had any recent contact. As far as boyfriends were concerned, she kept that to herself, if there were any. She never spoke to me about men.’

Thóra found it incredible that the woman hadn’t been in any relationships. The autopsy report stated that she had had breast implants, signs of a face-lift, Botox in her forehead and scars where the bags under her eyes had been removed, along with evidence of stomach stapling and several other minor operations. Why would she undergo such ordeals if not to attract a man’s attention? ‘Could she have been in relationships that she chose not to talk about?’ she asked.

‘Yes, yes,’ replied Dis, and her cheeks flushed again. ‘That’s quite likely. Alda didn’t confide in people much, although she was always pleasant and friendly.’

‘Did she ever mention why she never went to the Westmann Islands, or talk about a bad experience she’d had around the time of the eruption there?’ Considering that Dis had described Alda as the shy, retiring type, Thóra didn’t expect much of an answer to this question.

‘She never talked about the Westmann Islands,’ said Dis. ‘She tended to change the subject if conversation ever turned to anything about the Islands, which wasn’t often.’ She looked curiously at Thóra. ‘What experience are you referring to?’ she asked. ‘Alda never mentioned anything.’

Thóra chose not to answer the doctor’s question, since she didn’t know what had happened. She smiled at the woman and simply said ‘Botox,’ then waited for Dis’s reaction. She clearly couldn’t expect any useful theories on Alda’s murder or insight into her life, so she might as well change the subject.

Thóra didn’t have to wait long for Dis’s reaction, though it was somewhat baffling. The woman leaned back in her chair and said nothing for a moment. She looked straight at Thóra, who would have given a lot to know what she was thinking.‘What about Botox? Are you thinking of getting some injections?’She pulled out a pen. ‘If so, you need to make an appointment like everyone else.’

Thóra smiled fiercely, so all the possible wrinkles in her face would show themselves. ‘No, actually I’m not,’ she said. ‘Not right now, anyway. The forensic pathologist’s tests revealed that Botox is one of the likeliest causes of Alda’s death.’

‘What?’ muttered Dis, not completely convincingly in Thóra’s opinion.‘How could that be? Botox isn’t life-threatening.’

‘Not in the forehead,’ said Thóra. ‘I can’t tell you what the report said, other than that the Botox was used in a very unconventional manner.’ She could see that the doctor was almost biting her tongue with the effort not to blurt out questions. ‘Could Alda possibly have had Botox at home?’ she asked, before Dis’s curiosity could get the better of her.

‘What, Alda?’ asked Dis. Thóra said nothing, allowing Dis to realize the stupidity of her question. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Alda didn’t have any Botox, to my knowledge. Of course she had access to it here, but we keep close track of all our supplies and it’s out of the question that she took drugs from this clinic. We’re particularly careful about all our work here and would never have let her take the substance for her own use. Where else she could have got it from, I couldn’t say. The A &E doesn’t keep a supply of it, I know that much.’

‘Where do you get the Botox you use in this office?’ asked Thóra.

‘We order it through the pharmacy that supplies us,’ replied

Dis. ‘We have a good deal there and get a decent enough Discount to allow us not to have to contract with wholesalers. Of course we buy far more goods and drugs than just Botox.’

‘Who was the clinic’s point of contact with the pharmacy?’ asked Thóra.

Dis looked at her. ‘I was. Agúst a couple of times.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘Alda never had anything to do with it,’ she added.

‘You realize that if Alda didn’t have Botox in her house, then whoever murdered her took it there?’ said Thóra. She allowed Dis to digest this for a moment before continuing.‘There aren’t that many people with access -to those kind of supplies. Certainly not my client.’

Dis’s foundation partially masked the blush that was spreading over her cheeks again, but it didn’t escape Thóra’s notice. ‘I should admit now that I haven’t taken an inventory since the end of last month. It may well be that there’s something missing from the drug cabinet, but if there is it would be the first time.’ She cleared her throat daintily. ‘Neither Agúst nor I had any reason to wish Alda harm. On the contrary, her death was a great blow to us. That’s no secret.’

The woman appeared to be sincere. ‘No doubt the police will be in touch with you,’ said Thóra.‘The results of the drug test have just come back, and I expect they have had more urgent matters to attend to in the light of this. But they will be here sooner or later. They’ll go over the inventory with you, which may clear a few things up.’

‘The police?’ repeated Dís. ‘Yes, of course. I gave a statement after I found the body. They thought it was suicide at the time, and didn’t really ask me anything.’ She shook her head. ‘Of all the crazy things.’ She closed her eyes and shuddered slightly.‘It’s unbelievable how self-centred one can be. When you said that, my first thought was how embarrassing it would be to have the police stampeding through here.’ She looked away. ‘Of course that doesn’t matter. We have nothing to hide and hopefully that will be proven as quickly as possible.’

Thóra saw Dís glance at a little clock on her desk. Her time would soon be up. ‘Until recently I’ve heard only good things about Alda, from her childhood friends, her sister, and others. Then I spoke to a woman who worked with her in the A &E and I started to see a different picture emerging. She didn’t actually say anything bad about Alda, but she did suggest that something had happened, although I couldn’t find out exactly what it was. Do you know what might have happened to make Alda resign?’

Dís shook her head. ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ she said. ‘I thought she didn’t want to talk about it, but that she might open up later. Now she’ll never have the chance. It’s easy to be wise in hindsight.’ She shrugged unhappily. ‘I’ve thought a lot about this and can’t say I’ve reached any conclusions. Plenty of wild theories, of course, but nothing more.’

Thóra had the feeling there was more behind this comment. ‘And do you find one theory more plausible than the rest?’

Dis bit her lip. ‘I don’t know if I should tell you this.’ She stared at Thóra, who could do little more than look back at her and wait. ‘I found an unbelievable amount of pornography on Alda’s computer. I was mortified. She didn’t strike me as that type – generally it’smen who get obsessed with it.’ She took a deep breath. ‘After I Discovered it I started putting two and two together and wondered if she’d had a sexual relationship with someone in the A &E, a doctor or one of the staff. These things do happen.’

‘Would that be reason enough for her job to have been at risk?’ asked Thóra, half wondering if it could have been her ex-husband. ‘Are workplace romances prohibited at the hospital?’

‘No,’ Dís replied.‘I don’t think so. Something like that might be kept under wraps, but it’s hardly forbidden. Anyway, the material on her computer could hardly be described as romantic. This was hardcorepornography, plain and simple. It crossed my mind that Alda might have had sex with someone on the hospital premises, which would be taken very seriously.’

Obviously Thóra would have to phone Hannes again. He wouldn’t have missed any gossip that followed in the wake of something like this. ‘You don’t have any idea about the person with whom such a thing might have happened? A doctor, or even a patient?’

‘No, I have no idea, this is all just guesswork,’ said Dís. ‘The only reason it occurred to me at all is that I also found emails between Alda and a sex therapist on her computer. It crossed my mind that she might have sought their help after her obsession got her into trouble.’

‘Did the email mention anything like that?’ said Thóra.

‘No, they were just confirmations of appointments, whether Alda could make it on this or that particular day and so forth.’

‘Do you remember the name of the therapist, by any chance?’ Yet another person Thóra would need to speak to.

Dís nodded. ‘Yes, she’s called Heida. I don’t remember her surname, but there can’t be many sex therapists with that name working in Reykjavik.’

‘Did Alda ever speak to you about a tattoo?’ Thóra asked as she wrote down the name. ‘She had wanted to tell her sister something, and it had to do with a tattoo, all a bit mysterious.’

‘A tattoo?’ asked Dís, looking puzzled. Then her face brightened. ‘Actually, yes,’she said. ‘Recently a young man came in who wanted to know if we could remove one, and I remember that Alda was particularly interested. She spoke to him for a long time, asking where he’d had it done, and it almost seemed as if she was thinking of getting one herself. But she just laughed when I asked her about it. Then she mentioned it to me and our secretary Kata over coffee, asking if we thought people ever got a tattoo in memory of a bad experience. We didn’t know what she was on about.’ Dís reached for one of her desk drawers. ‘Since you’re here, I may as well show you this,’ she said, pulling out several pages that were stapled together, as well as a single sheet. ‘I found these papers among the stuff in Alda’s desk after she died. One of the pages is actually a photocopy of a photograph, and it looks to me as though it’s of a tattoo.’She handed Thóra the single sheet.

‘Does it say “Love Sex” in English?’ asked Thóra, reading from the picture. The image was grainy, and hazy from the photocopier, but the tattoo could be seen quite clearly.

‘Don’t ask me,’ Dís said, peering at the page disdainfully. ‘This isn’t the tattoo the boy wanted to have removed. That was a Chinese word, as I recall. So I don’t have any idea who this came from or why Alda liked it so much. Maybe this man has the tattoo – his photograph was also in her desk drawer. I don’t recognize him at all. Is he your client?’

Thóra took the photo, but didn’t recognize the young man in it. Although he looked severe, he was very handsome.‘No, I don’t know who this is.’ She handed the photograph back to Dís.

Dís took it and handed Thóra the stapled pages. ‘And then there’s this. Who knows, it might be important. At the time I found it I still believed Alda had killed herself, and even thought that this might have been something to do with it.’ She looked at Thóra. ‘It was so strange – Alda was unusually happy the day before all this happened. That didn’t seem to fit in with the idea of suicide, and I’ve been racking my brain trying to understand. Now that it turns out to have been murder, these papers might be irrelevant. I’d be happy for you to look at them, since I have no idea what to do with them.’

‘What are they?’ asked Thóra, looking down at the pages.

‘It’s an autopsy report on an older woman who died six months ago,’ replied Dís.‘I’ve never heard of her, so I don’t know how she’s connected to Alda. I thought she might be a close relative and her death might have sent Alda over the edge.’

Thóra looked at the top page and read the name of the deceased. Valgerdur Bjolfsdottir. She had recently come across this name. But where? ‘May I take a copy of this?’ she asked.