The Quiet Mother

4

While listening to Konrád’s story, Marta scrolled through photographs of the crime scene. This was the day after the discovery of the body, and Konrád had hardly slept a wink since hearing about the murder. His mind turned constantly to Valborg and the sculptures at that quaint art museum, which turned out to have been her refuge at the end of her working day. He tormented himself for not having done anything for her. Over and over, he’d thought of her in the weeks since their meeting, and when he heard of her death and how it occurred, it was like a heavy blow to his chest. The violence and ruthlessness in no way fitted with the quiet, polite woman who had sought him out and borne her grief for so long in silence. Now he wished he’d been more understanding, and more sympathetic to her suffering.

‘So did she have — what did they call it in the old days — a love child?’ asked Marta, completely unmoved by the story, as she placed two photographs on the table in front of him. They were sitting in her office at the Hverfisgata Street station, where Konrád had come to tell her more about his interactions with Valborg, as meagre as they were.

‘She didn’t tell me anything about it. I didn’t get to hear the whole story. I guess she would have told me if I’d been more receptive to her request. Unfortunately, I pushed her away. I regret it now. I should have listened better to her.’

‘Are people contacting you about such matters?’

‘It happens.’

‘But you aren’t particularly obliging?’

‘No.’

‘I see,’ said Marta. ‘Do you find anything strange about these photos?’ she then asked, handing him three photos of the scene.

He looked at them and saw how the thief or thieves had trashed the woman’s flat. He noticed the wallpaper and the paintings still hanging in their places. It gave him a very peculiar feeling, seeing into the woman’s flat like that.

‘I assume she lived alone,’ he said.

‘Yes, sixty-nine years old. Unmarried. Childless. On her own. Her parents died long ago. She doesn’t seem to have had many relatives, and she had few friends. We know of one sister, who’s in a nursing home. And that’s all we know. I’m going to visit her later. Over the last two decades or so, Valborg worked as a secretary at a medical centre on Ármúli Street, but had recently retired. We talked to the staff there, who were stunned by the news, of course. We need to question them more closely. Gather information. Find out who she was, this woman.’

‘Now you know that she gave birth to a child,’ said Konrád. ‘You could try determining that person’s whereabouts.’

‘Yeah, we’ll see what comes of that.’

‘And her neighbours?’

‘They have nice things to say about her. Good with children. Helpful. As far as we can tell, none of them did this. The block is four floors, two flats on each floor at each stairwell. The occupants of two of the flats are travelling, either here in Iceland or abroad. Others weren’t at home or aren’t under suspicion, have never run foul of the law and had no apparent reason to attack the woman, but we may have to go over all of it more closely.’

‘And no one noticed anything?’

‘There was a popular quiz show on TV,’ said Marta.

‘Have you found out who reported it?’ Konrád asked.

‘No. It was someone with an unregistered phone number, a man; otherwise, we know nothing but are working on it. I spoke to Valborg’s GP this morning and he said she’d been diagnosed with advanced pancreatic cancer. It had spread and was untreatable. If the person who attacked the woman knew her well enough to know that...’

‘Then he would only have had to wait for what, a few months, and she would have been dead? Death had already got a grip on her.’

‘Exactly,’ said Marta, before taking her e-cigarette, lighting it, and starting to blow out jets of vapour.

‘They didn’t know each other, you mean?’

‘I think we can say, at least, that they hadn’t been close.’

‘I found her to be quite reticent about herself — at least from the little that we spoke to each other,’ Konrád said. ‘She may not have told anyone about her illness.’

‘The staff at the Ármúli Street medical centre had no idea about it. They didn’t know she was ill and didn’t notice any changes in her the last few days she was there. She just acted normal. Pleasant. Friendly. They said goodbye to her with a cake and flowers.’

‘It’s like he went berserk in the flat,’ Konrád said, flipping through the photos.

‘It’s typical. I’ve seen numerous break-ins and this is no different from the others, apart from the woman’s body,’ said Marta. ‘We don’t know exactly what was stolen; something from her wallet, probably something from the drawers.’

‘And the drugs?’

‘We got a list of the painkillers she took. They’re very strong and much sought-after by addicts, and are sold for a high price. Morphine-related drugs. All prescription stuff. The thief took all of it. The burglars on our repeat-offenders list seek out such stuff. We’re questioning them. They’d drink from the toilet for it. So, yeah, what can I say? Typical squalidness.’

‘And the call?’

‘We don’t get it,’ said Marta, exhaling nicotine vapour. ‘There are no witnesses to the crime except for the perpetrator. It happened at the door to the flat. He must have called it in himself. Why did he want us to find the body right away? Why didn’t he want to leave it there for a few days, until people started wondering about her? What was the rush?’

‘Maybe he didn’t intend to go that far,’ said Konrád, ‘and when he saw that he’d killed her, he was so shocked that he called.’

‘Yeah, he’s a fool, whoever he is.’ Marta sighed. ‘A goddamn fucking fool.’ She slammed the photos on the table and looked at Konrád. ‘Do you know about the plastic bag? I shouldn’t be telling you all this.’

‘What about it?’

‘They found traces of soft drinks and beer on the woman’s face and in her hair, which they believe was from the plastic bag that was used to suffocate her.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s like it was full of empty cans or something.’

‘Good luck figuring that out,’ said Konrád. ‘You need look no further than the entire population.’

‘I heard you were asking for all sorts of printouts from the archive,’ said Marta, a little annoyed by Konrád’s comment. ‘Is having nothing to do getting to you?’

‘I try to keep busy.’

‘Or your dad’s ghost?’

‘I don’t believe in ghosts,’ said Konrád.