Ashes To Dust

Chapter Thirty-seven

Thóra held Sóley’s hand so tightly that her daughter winced. She relaxed her grip, but not enough for the girl’s little palm to slip from her grasp. The crowd was so dense that Thóra feared if they were separated for just a second she would never find Sóley again. Naturally, she should not have agreed to join the queue at the booth selling festival souvenirs, but it was difficult to say no to Sóley. The girl had been staring enthralled at all the people with flashing sunglasses, masks, hats, necklaces, flags or everything at once, so when she set eyes on the blessed booth Sóley thought she’d hit the jackpot. Thóra adjusted Orri on her hip. He was holding just as tightly to his grandmother as she was to Sóley, and Thóra reassured herself it would take at least four determined festival-goers to tear the three of them apart.

‘I want a rubber nose,’ said Sóley, as she stood on tiptoe to see what was for sale. ‘And one of those flashing hairbands.’

After purchasing these essential festival accoutrements they pushed their way back past the queue. Thóra had grown tired of carrying Orri, who was just over a year old and large for his age. She headed towards an empty space below the Islanders’ white party tents, standing side by side at one end of the festival grounds, away from the campsite provided for visitors. They took a seat on a little grassy slope, where Sóley removed the decorations from their wrappings and put them on. ‘Do I look good?’ she said, smiling broadly. Thóra smiled back and nodded while Orri stretched a chubby finger in the direction of the red clown’s nose. Sóley darted away nimbly and started teasing Orri by pushing the nose towards him, then pulling her face back when he tried to touch it.

The weather was glorious, and Thóra still hadn’t seen anyone who looked drunk. The festival had really surprised her and she could only assume that everyone was having too good a time to spoil it by pouring gallons of alcohol down their necks.

She hoped this also applied to Gylfi and Sigga, but she hadn’t seen them since they arrived at the festival ground in Herjolfsdalur Valley, on the covered back of one of the trucks used to transport festival-goers to and fro. There the young couple had met their friends and gone off with them to the concerts, while Thóra stayed behind with the younger generation. She had gone in search of Markus and Leifur’s tent, and after threading her way through dense rows of tents that all looked the same, she finally found it.

Thóra enjoyed a hero’s welcome in the packed tent, where she was plied with smoked puffin and red wine. Sóley and Orri got as many biscuits as they could eat and as much chocolate milk as they could drink. Thóra’s fears that Leifur and Maria might bear her a grudge were clearly unfounded, and Markus had urged her to drop by. Klara was elsewhere, thankfully – Thóra was fairly certain she would not have shown her the same hospitality. The huge tent was decorated according to local tradition, a semi-living room having been set up inside. It was incredibly well furnished, with three sofas, a refrigerator, a large table, and even pictures hanging from the canvas walls.

Maria’s eyes were watery as she hugged Thóra across the wide table, coming very close to falling across it. Darling, it’s so nice of you to come. It was more of a surprise to see the brothers drinking. Neither was actually drunk, but both were red-cheeked and spoke louder than usual. Leifur was very generous with the bottle, repeatedly offering to refill the glasses of all the other guests in the tent, whom Thóra did not recognize at all. There was plenty of wine to go around, nonetheless. Leifur had been positioned in the very middle of the tent, but he clambered through the group to plonk himself down on the arm of the sofa where she sat. ‘You did a good job,’ he whispered in her ear, grinning foolishly at her. Before Thóra could ask what he meant, he bent down to her again. ‘Markus is happy, and this was all for the best. Here in the Islands everyone understands what happened, and I don’t think I’ve ever been asked by so many people to give their regards to Father.’ Thóra nodded and muttered that it was her pleasure.‘Here’s to the lawyer!’ thundered Leifur over the crowd, who lifted their glasses simultaneously.

Markus joined in energetically and grinned at Thóra as widely as his older brother. His travel ban would soon expire, and there was no imminent prospect of it being renewed. He flung his arm around the person sitting next to him and hugged him tight. This was a young man who appeared to be dressed as a garden gnome – the only one inside the packed tent wearing a costume, although these had been a common sight in the throng outside where the crowd was younger. He was wearing a red conical hat, which stood at least half a metre high, a fake white beard and a white wig. It was Hjalti, Markus’s son. Unlike the others in the tent he did not seem to be enjoying himself much. Thóra could feel him staring at her from under his bizarre hat, but he looked away when their eyes met. She thought perhaps he was embarrassed by his emotional reunion with his father the day that Markus was released from custody, which Thóra had witnessed. Out of respect for this, she avoided looking too much in his direction. This was easier said than done, since Markus was constantly shouting out to her. One of the things he needed to tell her was that he had now signed off on an apartment in the Islands for his son. A shout was raised for a toast to Hjalti, who looked positively queasy throughout. Finally Thóra herself felt unwell, and she decided to take the kids outside for a while. It was still quite bright outside, and despite the crowds in the tent Leifur had happily offered to store Thóra’s covered pushchair. The ground in Herjolfsdalur was far too soft to use it.

Thóra stood and picked Orri back up. He spread out his arms, leaned into her and laid his chin on her shoulder. He was so affectionate that it occasionally worried Thóra, who feared he would have to spend his whole life comforting others. She pushed these thoughts away and tried to attain the carefree joy that seemed to characterize everything and everyone in the valley. Thóra didn’t know why she felt so out of sorts, and hoped it wasn’t because of the phone call from Bella that morning. The secretary had dreamt about Thóra and found herself compelled to call and tell her boss about the dream. In it Thóra was surrounded by ash, which came out of her ears and mouth, and according to the dream analysis website Bella swore by, ash always symbolized bad luck. It could be an omen of a lawsuit, trouble or adversity. Thóra had a sneaking feeling that if the dream had been given a positive interpretation, Bella would not have called.

She said goodbye to her secretary after telling her she didn’t believe in that nonsense, and that Bella shouldn’t either. Afterwards, however, Thóra didn’t feel that convinced. She blamed it on a nagging feeling she had had ever since Markus’s case was closed. Alda’s murderer was still on the loose, and Thóra hated unsolved cases. She had followed the media closely, but according to them the investigation appeared to have run aground.

Thóra found it odd to think that in her pursuit of leads for Markus, she had probably met the murderer. In her mind many people were suspects, some more likely than others. Highest on her list were Adolf, Halldora Dogg and the plastic surgeon Dís. She hadn’t met Dís’s colleague Agúst, so couldn’t gauge the likelihood of his involvement.

But this was a festival; people were supposed to enjoy themselves, not wonder about things they couldn’t change. Thóra forced a smile.

‘Shall we go for a wander?’ she asked her daughter. ‘You should show off your nose a bit.’

‘I want to visit a tent, like before,’ said Sóley. The hair- band, which was much too large, had slipped down over her forehead. ‘They’re so cool.’

‘We can’t just drop in anywhere, but we’ll walk around and have a look at them,’ said Thóra.‘There are so many of them and we’ve seen only a small part of the grounds.’ They walked in the direction of the furthest row of tents facing the slope. ‘Maybe we’ll see Gylfi and Sigga,’Thóra said, as she looked hopelessly over the crowd of people on the hillside.

They had come to the tent right at the end. No sound came from it, neither talking nor singing, unlike the other tents.‘Can I look in, Mum?’ implored Sóley. ‘Just a peek?’

Thóra nodded, since she couldn’t see that it would do any harm. People appeared to be wandering around and peering into tents without anyone thinking it the least bit unnatural. Most of these people were residents of the Islands or had moved away, and were looking for friends or acquaintances. Sóley pulled the white canvas flap wide open, forgetting she had promised ‘just a peek’. This tent was much smaller than Markus and Leifur’s, which had been two tents joined together. Nor was it as richly furnished: it had one lopsided sofa and two kitchen stools. On one of them sat Alda’s sister Jóhanna, with a heaped platter of flatbread and smoked lamb in front of her. Cling film still covered everything. Jóhanna stared at Sóley then looked past her at Thóra, whom she recognized immediately. ‘Oh, come in,’ she said, looking pleased. She stood up and beckoned them in. ‘I’ve got plenty of everything.’ The last sentence sounded even more desperate than the first. Thóra accepted the offer.

‘It’s really nice to see you,’ said Jóhanna, as she removed the cling film from the flatbread. ‘What would the kids like?’ she asked, and started to rattle off all the different types of food in the tent.

After Sóley got her Prince Polo chocolate and a glass of fizzy orange, Thóra accepted a piece of flatbread, even though she was far from hungry. She gave Orri another piece to nibble at, though the child had also had enough to eat. She couldn’t let the woman go home with her platter of food untouched. ‘Has anything happened in Alda’s case?’ asked Thóra after swallowing, more to break the ice than to satisfy her own curiosity. She knew nothing about Jóhanna, and this was the only thing they had in common.

‘Well, I don’t know what to tell you,’ said Jóhanna. ‘A lot of leads turned up, but none of them seems to point to her murderer.’

Thóra nodded and took another bite.‘I know one of the doctors Alda worked with came forward with information that I had hoped would help.’ Thóra hadn’t tried to persuade Bragi to tell her what it was about, though she had often been on the verge of doing so.

Jóhanna held the plate out to Sóley in case she wanted some flatbread to go with her other snacks.‘Yes, yes,’ she replied, putting it down when the girl declined a slice. ‘That woman handed over the drug, you know, the Botox, which had been used to…’ Jóhanna stopped and looked at Sóley. ‘… well, you know. She had taken it from Alda’s bedside table when she found her… you know… I understand that she hadn’t wanted her office to become involved in the case, and she thought that Alda had committed… you know.’

‘Was it possible to trace where the Botox came from, and perhaps find some fingerprints on the bottle?’ asked Thóra, managing to phrase her question without saying you know.

‘They only found Alda’s fingerprints. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, because the one who… you know… could have used gloves. They found traces of latex powder, I understand,’ said Jóhanna, furrowing her brow slightly. ‘However, they were able to trace where the Botox came from. The other doctor, Agúst is his name, had bought it. I’m not sure whether they’re telling the truth. Alda isn’t here any longer to defend herself, and it would be easy for them to make up anything. He says he and Alda had a kind of agreement: she got an unlimited supply of the substance and could do with it whatever she wanted. In return, she used her position at the A &E to put him in touch with patients.’

‘What?’ asked Thóra.‘I’m not sure I understand you.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Jóhanna. ‘As I was saying, we’ve only got Agúst’s word on this. He says that Alda sifted out the patients with facial injuries, or who had been wounded or scarred in some other way that might require a plastic surgeon’s help. She was supposed to recommend that they have their scars – or nose, or whatever part it was – fixed, and then give them Agúst’s business card. Many of the patients would have been drunk or in shock, and thought that they were being ordered to go to another doctor – that this was a follow-up treatment after the initial examination in the A &E. So they flocked to Agúst’s office.’

‘And was it not possible to check out this story?’ asked Thóra. The police would hardly let such a vague report go uninvestigated.

‘Yes, Alda and Agúst did in fact exchange a number of email messages. Dís passed them on to the police, along with the Botox. The messages proved this was going on. Apparently there was also a rumour about it going round the A &E, but as everyone knows it’s not that hard to forge an email, and workplace gossip has never been considered a trustworthy source.’

Thóra nodded, even though she had no idea how to send a fake email. Nor did it seem likely that Dís would be able to do so. The A &E gossip mentioned by Jóhanna must have been what Hannes had hinted at but refused to discuss. ‘Why did Alda need Botox?’ asked Thóra.‘Couldn’t she get them to give her injections for free?’

‘She supposedly invited friends and acquaintances home and gave them injections for a fee, but much lower than at the plastic surgeon’s, and naturally it was far less trouble for people,’ said Jóhanna, and she shook her head.‘They’re saying Alda was getting a fair bit of extra income from this.’

‘Is that right? Do you believe she did this?’

‘No, I can’t imagine it. It’s one thing to tell your sister she can come and get Botox, and quite another for every old bag in town to be queuing up at her door.’

There was no need to discuss this any further. Jóhanna had thought that she was the only one receiving this service, and the same probably went for all the other women. ‘Has anyone come up with an explanation for why one of the men in the basement was… you know…’ Thóra looked out of the corner of her eye at Sóley, who was intently folding up the wrapper of her chocolate bar. She drew her index finger across her throat.

Jóhanna shook her head.‘DNA tests have shown that Adolf is not the son of the man whose head was cut off,’ she said. ‘His father was one of the men in the basement who was… whole.’ Thóra grimaced. Had Alda dismembered the wrong man? She dared not speak her thoughts aloud for fear Jóhanna would clam up. She would never accept that Alda had had anything to do with it.‘He’s put in a claim for Alda’s estate, and Mother and I have been told that it will probably be approved. So it won’t fall to us,’ said Jóhanna, who appeared completely unperturbed. ‘The worst of it is that he doesn’t want to talk to us, won’t even meet us. He didn’t even go to his mother’s funeral.’

‘I’m sure that will improve over time,’ said Thóra, without much conviction. It was unlikely that Adolf would mend his ways. ‘Alda’s story is just so tragic.’

‘Yes, but this does explain some things,’ said Jóhanna. ‘Now I appreciate why she and her husband divorced. He was a wonderful man, but from what I understand now she’d never actually been able to have sex after the rape. She had recently started seeing a sex therapist, but to my knowledge the treatment hadn’t produced any results. At least, Alda had never been with any men.’ Orri’s head had sunk to his chest, along with the untouched flatbread. He was fast asleep in Thóra’s arms. ‘Is he yours?’ asked Jóhanna.

‘Not exactly,’ said Thóra.‘He’s my grandson.’ She adjusted the boy in her lap.

‘Did you know that Alda was a grandmother?’ asked the other woman sadly. Thóra shook her head.‘She never knew it, but Adolf has a daughter. She’s very ill, unfortunately. Mum has gone to visit her in hospital. She was with her this morning.’

‘How is your mother?’ asked Thóra. is she any better?‘

Jóhanna smiled unhappily.‘She’s not very well. She’s very unhappy with how slowly the investigation of Alda’s murder is going.’ She looked at her watch.‘She promised to drop by, but I don’t know if she’ll make it. She’s been absolutely impossible this afternoon, ever since she returned from her hospital visit. She had some sort of VISA receipt and needed desperately to find out who it belonged to. It was impossible to read the signature clearly but I went into the bank system from my home computer and I managed to dig it up. Hjalti Markusson. She calmed down after that. God knows why. I’m worried about her; I think she’s obsessed with Leifur and Markus’s family.’ Jóhanna looked around the empty tent. ‘Mother and I are more or less invisible these days. She takes it very much to heart, even though she doesn’t say so. Leifur and Markus seem to have come out of this as some sort of heroes, along with their father, but it’s as if people aren’t sure how they should act towards us. I don’t get it.’

Thóra thought she knew what was going on. People were unsure of the state of the relationship between these two families after everything that had happened. Markus had been locked up, but Jóhanna’s mother had neglected to tell the authorities that he wasn’t involved at all in the old case. So it was safer to be on the side of the fishing mogul than of the widow and her daughter, the bank clerk. ‘Well,’ said Thóra, ‘I guess I should start making my way back home.’ She stood up, trying to ignore Jóhanna’s mournful look. She couldn’t do it. ‘Will you be here tomorrow?’ she asked.‘We’ll be around, and we’d be happy to drop by.’ The smile on Jóhanna’s face said everything that needed to be said.

It looked as though all the guests in Leifur and Markus’s tent had left in a rush, and if Thóra had come just a few minutes later she might have found the place empty. ‘We’re heading over for the singing,’ said Markus, even more garrulous than when Thóra had left their tent earlier. ‘A good spot has been reserved for us and I’m sure we can make some room for you.’

Thóra declined. ‘No, thank you, I’ve got to get home. I just came to fetch the pushchair,’ she said.

‘Bring her the pushchair, Hjalti,’ said Leifur, his speech even more slurred than Markus’s.

The boy stood up without looking at her. He had removed his fake beard but was still wearing the red hat. He seemed very ill at ease, and Thóra was starting to find it peculiar. Maybe he was one of those who couldn’t hold his liquor – or perhaps he was ashamed of his father when he drank. He lifted the pushchair and heaved it clumsily across the tent. Thóra could not grab it because of the child in her arms, but Maria reached for it and after a short struggle managed to open it and set it up for Thóra. Thóra hardly dared to lay Orri in it for fear that it would collapse on him. The woman stood unsteadily next to Thóra, and nearly lost her balance when the tent flaps opened.

Thóra could tell from the look on Leifur’s face that the visitor was not particularly welcome. The corners of Markus’s mouth had also drooped a little, but otherwise his face was impassive. Thóra had her back to the entrance, but looked around to see who it was. Alda’s mother had arrived. She still looked as devastated as when Thóra had seen her after the funeral, but now there was a kind of grim determination in her face. ‘Perhaps my Geiri and your father were friends,’ said the old woman, at first hesitantly, but growing bolder with every word. ‘But I have never really known much about Magnus. Destiny favoured him more than most, at least in the beginning. He took a risk and continued his fishing operation, and caught more fish than ever before. He took the blame for Dadi, but because of the eruption the case was forgotten. You, his sons, have lived off your father your entire lives. People tiptoe around you both – especially you, Leifur.’

‘Shouldn’t we talk after the festival?’ said Leifur, who seemed to have sobered up in an instant.‘I understand there’s a lot on your mind, but now is neither the time nor the place.’

‘No, Leifur,’ replied the old woman. ‘You don’t get to decide now. I have something to tell you and I doubt you’ll be in much of a festive mood afterwards.’

‘I’ll get back into a festive mood as soon as you clear off,’ mumbled Maria. ‘What’s all this about, anyway?’ She was clearly not used to people speaking down to her husband. Leifur grabbed her by the shoulder and she stopped talking.

‘I was in Reykjavik today, visiting a poor, sick girl,’ said the old woman. ‘My great-granddaughter,’ she added proudly. ‘I listened to her, and I was the first adult to do that in a long time.’

Thóra was so unnerved by the atmosphere in the tent that she instinctively moved the pushchair closer to Sóley, who was yawning on one of the sofas. ‘What did she say?’ she asked, when no one else seemed willing to say anything.

The old woman glared at Hjalti. ‘Where were you when my Alda was murdered?’ She spat out the final word.

Thóra tried unsuccessfully to understand what she was seeing. Markus’s son stood gaping at the woman, then grabbed his father’s upper arm, a look of terror on his face.‘What does that matter?’ asked Markus, his face bright red.‘Are you suggesting that my son had something to do with Alda’s death?’

‘Yes, Markus, I am,’ replied the woman, as if she were speaking to a child. ‘Hjalti was seen going into Alda’s house while she was still alive, thencoming out again after she was dead. He and his car were seen there – though he was careful to park it some distance from her house.’

‘What rubbish,’ said Markus, putting an arm around his son’s shoulders. The boy appeared completely bewildered. ‘I should remind you that such testimony isn’t admissible. Just recently a witness said he’d seen me go past Alda’s house, or into it. His testimony was so vague that he couldn’t even remember whether I was coming or going when he supposedly saw me.’

‘We’ve got more than just a witness,’ said the old woman. She stared fiercely at Hjalti. ‘I should kill you, boy. It’s what you deserve. I’ve sat at home and thought about what would be the best way to do it. I’d make sure you’d endure the same agony you put my daughter through, but I’m too old.’

‘I think that’s quite enough,’ interrupted Thóra. Until now she’d been too surprised to intervene, and everyone else appeared to be struck dumb.‘Wouldn’t it be best for you to speak to the police if you think you have information about this crime? This is not the proper place for it.’

‘I’ve already done that,’said the old woman, with a thin smile. ‘Gudni is on his way. At first he wanted to wait until tomorrow, but he soon changed his mind when he heard what I knew.’

‘What do you know?’ shrieked Hjalti. ‘You can’t know anything.’

‘You should clean out your car better,’ said the old woman, still glaring at him murderously.

The boy flinched. ‘What do you mean, my car?’ he asked.

‘You opened your car door as you were leaving, and a credit card receipt blew out. It got caught in a bush and the girl who was watching you went and got it. I had Jóhanna look on the bank system to see who the card belonged to.’

Hjalti moaned something and his father tried to calm him down. ‘Don’t worry about this, this is bullshit.’

‘Do something, Leifur,’ pleaded Maria tremulously. ‘You can’t let her stand here and say these things.’

‘I’ll pay you well for that receipt,’ said Leifur levelly. ‘Neither you or your daughter would ever need to worry about money again.’

Thóra was about to protest, but Alda’s mother cut in: ‘What makes you think I’d want your dirty money? Not everything can be bought. The receipt is not for sale.’

‘Give me the receipt, or I promise you’ll regret it,’ hissed Markus, advancing towards her. He had trouble pushing between the sofa and the dining table, not least because his son was still hanging off him. The boy appeared to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Orri had slept soundly throughout, but Sóley was taking everything in, wide-eyed.

‘I couldn’t give you the receipt even if I wanted to,’ said the old woman happily. ‘I’ve handed it over to the police.’

Markus’s son started whining over and over again: Dad, Dad, you’ve got to help me, Dad, Dad. Markus stared desperately at Alda’s mother. Thóra felt terribly sorry for him; it was perfectly clear that he loved his son, but he had also loved Alda. He was truly stuck between a rock and a hard place.

The tent flaps swung open again. This time Gudni stood in the doorway, along with another police officer.‘Hello,’ he said to the group, but he was looking at Hjalti.‘Hjalti Markusson,’ he said calmly, ‘will you come with us?’

The boy continued to whimper the same words as he held onto his father. Markus looked down at him, seemed about to say something, but then loosened the boy’s grip on his arm. ‘My son didn’t kill Alda, Gudni,’ he said. ‘I did.’

Thóra groaned. What now? Did Markus think he could take the blame for his son, as his father had done for Dadi years ago? She wouldn’t be surprised if he were hoping for an eruption that very night.