The Shadow District

16

The next day, Flóvent and Thorson went to visit the dressmaker’s where Rósamunda had been learning her trade. The owner said she’d been expecting a visit from the police about what she described as ‘this tragic business with Rósamunda’. She was fortyish, thin and seemed a little flustered, her words coming out in a nervous gabble. She simply couldn’t understand it; Rósamunda had been such a good girl. So clever with her hands too.

‘A really gifted seamstress,’ she went on. ‘Dressmaking came naturally to her. She could mend garments so the repair was invisible. Quite invisible. And she made some absolutely ravishing dresses.’

‘Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm her, ma’am?’ asked Flóvent, glancing around him. ‘Was she involved in any altercations that you’re aware of?’

He was no judge of women’s clothes: of the dresses, skirts, hats and underwear that had been sent to the shop for mending. The rest of the staff had left for the day. Four electric sewing machines were lined up on a row of tables, surrounded by lengths of material, by needles and pins. Opening off the main work floor was a small room containing two old treadle machines. Bolts of cloth, ribbons and other sewing paraphernalia littered the place, along with fashion magazines and dress patterns.

‘No, not with anyone here,’ said the woman.

‘What about the customers?’

‘She was such a sweet girl, I can’t imagine anyone having anything against her.’

‘I assume most of your customers are women?’ said Flóvent.

‘That’s right.’

‘Do you get any soldiers coming in?’ asked Thorson.

‘To my shop? No, no, I can’t say I do.’

‘So they wouldn’t have any reason to come in here?’

‘Well, I’ve seen one or two drop in with Icelandic girls, but they don’t use our services, if that’s what you mean. They just tend to tag along with their girlfriends.’

‘Do you have any regular customers in town?’

‘Do I? Good heavens, yes. Dozens. Some of my ladies have been coming here for years. We offer a first-class service — I’ve always set great store by quality and I can assure you that my company’s the best of its kind here in Reykjavík.’

‘Do you happen to know if Rósamunda was seeing a soldier?’ asked Thorson.

‘No, not that I’m aware.’

‘What about other suitors?’

‘Oh, no, I shouldn’t think so. At least, she never mentioned it. But then I didn’t know much about her private life. She’s worked for me for several years now and has turned out awfully well, I have to say. I’ve got several experienced seamstresses working for me and another girl in training, but she’s not a patch on Rósamunda. She’s — she was — so much more talented. There’s no comparing them.’

Flóvent noted down the other girl’s name. The owner granted them permission to look around in the back room. Apparently Rósamunda had approached the woman about the possibility of working for her; they hadn’t been acquainted beforehand. Another girl had left recently so the woman had decided to take Rósamunda on for a trial period. A fortuitous decision. On her last day at work she had been putting the finishing touches on an evening gown for one of their regular clients, the wife of a bank manager, who used to shop at Magasin du Nord on her visits to Copenhagen before this ghastly war began, and the bank manager’s wife had declared that this shop was in no way inferior to the famous department store.

Is that so? Flóvent thought to himself, noting down the name of the bank manager’s wife.

‘Yes, I try to... well, you could say that my clientele are very discerning people. And I try to keep it that way.’

Flóvent nodded.

‘These days, of course, with everything in such short supply,’ the woman sighed, ‘we’re forced to make the most of what we have, even to make new clothes out of old ones. And everything’s grey or black. I haven’t laid eyes on a roll of silk in a month of Sundays.’

Looking around the room, they couldn’t see any sign that Rósamunda had brought any personal possessions to work. She used to sit at one of the treadle sewing machines, and the evening gown for the bank manager’s wife, a simple design in black, was draped over a hanger next to it.

‘Do you know where she went after work on her last day here?’ asked Flóvent.

‘I assume she went home; she didn’t mention any other plans.’

‘Was that what she usually did?’

‘Yes, or so I believe. Though I don’t encourage that sort of familiarity from my staff — talking about personal matters, I mean. I prefer to keep things on a formal footing. I feel it’s important to be professional, especially these days.’

‘So you don’t know much about her private life?’

‘Very little.’

‘Did she ever mention the National Theatre in your hearing?’ asked Thorson.

‘The National Theatre? No. Why do you ask? You mean because she was found there?’

‘You never heard her talk about it?’

‘No, never.’

‘Do you remember an occasion three months ago when she failed to turn up to work for a couple of days?’ asked Flóvent.

‘No,’ said the woman. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t remember.’

Thorson was also in tow when Flóvent went along that evening to see the other girl who was training to be a seamstress. She was the same age as Rósamunda and knew her much better than the owner did. The girl was slim and pretty, with shoulder-length, raven-black hair and thick dark brows that almost met over her dark brown eyes. Her skin was chalk-white, which only enhanced the obsidian sheen of her hair. She rented a small room in a basement near the centre of town and was busy mending a ladder in a silk stocking when they knocked on the door. She and Rósamunda had been close confidantes, she told them, and she’d had the shock of her life when she heard that her friend had died, and in such horrible circumstances. She added that she’d been about to come to the police herself with some information about Rósamunda.

‘It’s so awful,’ she said. ‘I can’t stop thinking about her. ‘What... what she must have gone through. I can’t stop wondering exactly how she died. Do you know what happened? How could something like that happen?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ said Flóvent in a reassuring tone.

‘Have you talked to the old bag at the shop?’ asked the girl.

Flóvent said yes they had visited the owner.

‘Honestly, the way she forced poor Rósamunda to slave for her, half the night sometimes, without paying her so much as a króna extra.’

‘Is that so?’ said Flóvent. ‘We understand that Rósamunda was very good at her job.’

‘She was. And the old cow knew it. Rósamunda wasn’t planning to stay with her long. She meant to set up her own mending and dressmaking business, and I’m sure the old bag suspected it. She was worried about it. I’m sure she was.’

‘Did this lead to any unpleasantness between them?’

‘No, Rósamunda didn’t breathe a word about it, not so far as I know. Or if she did, it must have been very recently. She dreamt of becoming a couture dressmaker like the lady who runs Haraldarbúd. She even had plans to go abroad after the war to train.’

‘Do you know her parents at all?’ asked Thorson.

‘I met them once — they were like something out of the dark ages. But she always spoke well of them. You know she was adopted?’

‘What do you mean about the dark ages?’

‘Well, I got the feeling they were quite strict with Rósamunda when she was growing up, and they’re spiritualists too, of course.’

‘Spiritualists?’ said Thorson.

‘Yes, that’s what Rósamunda said. That they were into all that spiritualist stuff. Went to seances and had a load of books about ghosts and life after death.’

‘Was Rósamunda interested in that sort of thing?’

‘God, no, not in the slightest. She didn’t believe in it. Thought it was a load of old mumbo jumbo. And when he said that to her... the filthy sod...’

‘What?’

‘Like I said, I was going to come and see you about something that happened to Rósamunda. But she didn’t like talking about it and begged me not to tell anyone.’

‘Oh? What was it?’

‘She refused to tell me who the man was or where it happened. Only that it did and that it was horrible. Disgusting. There was never any question of keeping the baby when she found out she was in the family way. I don’t know...’ The girl faltered, then made herself say it: ‘He raped her. Rósamunda came round here afterwards and stayed with me for two days before she could face going home. She was in a terrible state...’

‘Was this about three months ago?’ asked Flóvent.

The girl nodded.

‘Who raped her?’

‘A “bloody bastard”, she said. She couldn’t go home so she stayed here with me until she’d recovered a bit.’

‘Did she tell you who he was?’ asked Thorson.

‘No. She just said he was completely off his rocker. I found her waiting for me outside when I got home, her clothes all torn. She was a dreadful sight. He told her to blame it on the huldufólk. Told her to say she’d been on Öskjuhlíd hill and one of the hidden people had attacked her. So you can tell he was completely unhinged.’

‘The huldufólk?’

‘I wish she’d reported him. I wish she’d said who he was. She shouldn’t have let him get away with it. She should have shouted his name from the rooftops, told everyone what he did to her, refused to leave him alone.’

‘What’s this about the huldufólk?’ asked Flóvent. ‘Are you sure she wasn’t interested in the supernatural?’

‘No.’

‘Did she believe in stories about the elves?’ asked Thorson.

‘No, of course not.’

‘Then what did she mean?’ asked Flóvent.

‘Search me. She wouldn’t say any more. Only that the man was off his rocker.’

Flóvent and Thorson caught each other’s eye.

‘Do you know if she had any contact with her family up north?’ asked Flóvent.

‘No, very little. Some of her brothers had moved south — two of them, I think. She said something about them working for the army. In Hvalfjördur or somewhere like that.’

‘What did she do in the evenings after work?’ asked Thorson.

‘Just went home, I think. She often worked late — far too often, if you ask me. We sometimes went to the pictures or dancing at Hótel Borg, but mostly she just slaved away for the old bag. Then, after she was raped, she stopped going out altogether.’

‘Do you know if she was acquainted with anyone from the supply depot in the theatre building?’

‘No, I very much doubt it.’

‘Or if she knew a soldier called Frank Carroll?’ asked Flóvent.

‘She never mentioned a Frank.’

‘He might have been calling himself Frank Ruddy.’

The girl shook her head again.

‘She wasn’t in the Situation?’ asked Thorson.

‘No. Definitely not.’

‘Did she have a boyfriend?’ asked Flóvent.

‘No. Unless she met him very recently.’

‘No boys she was interested in?’

‘No. Rósamunda wasn’t really the type.’

‘You say she was determined to get rid of the baby. Do you know who performed the abortion?’

‘She wouldn’t tell me who it was. She was ashamed of what she’d done and didn’t want to discuss it. So I avoided bringing it up.’

‘But you spoke to her afterwards?’

‘Yes. She was so crushed by the whole thing. Was feeling so terrible. Actually, I...’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know who fixes that sort of thing here in town, but my mum knows a woman who makes all kinds of herbal cures. I told Rósamunda about her and I know for a fact she was going to pay her a visit.’

‘And who is this woman?’

‘Her name’s Vigga and she lives in the Shadow District. I’m pretty sure Rósamunda did go and see her.’

Thorson jotted down the name.

‘And she definitely didn’t tell you who raped her?’ asked Flóvent.

‘No,’ said the girl with the raven-black hair, frowning. ‘I don’t know why she protected the bastard. I just couldn’t understand it.’