The Shadow District

20

Konrád pulled up in front of an imposing detached house in the west end. It consisted of two storeys and a basement flat and had been built shortly after the war when the prosperity brought by the changing times had started to make its presence felt. It was clad in pebble-dash, like so many buildings of that era, and had a large back garden, bordered with tall rowan trees and a handsome sycamore.

Ingiborg had given him directions over the phone. The house belonged to her son, she told him, and she lived in a small flat in the basement that he had fitted out especially for her. She was alone there at the moment because her son had taken his family to Europe on holiday. She hadn’t felt up to going with them; she was too old and tired for travelling.

She greeted him at the door and invited him in, explaining that she’d been listening to an audiobook as these days it was difficult for her to read. She indicated the large reading lamp on the kitchen table with a magnifying glass and newspaper lying beneath it. Her hair was white and she moved slowly with the aid of a stick, stooping slightly as she walked. There was a Zimmer frame in the hall. When she asked if he’d like a coffee, he accepted gratefully. It was stiflingly hot in the flat. The sitting-room window looked out over the garden.

‘I was so astonished when you rang,’ she said. ‘When you said you were with the police. I haven’t received a visit from the police since I was young, and that was in connection with the very same case you were asking about. The strangled girl.’

‘It can’t have been much fun for you, being caught up in an inquiry like that.’

‘The worst part was stumbling on the poor girl’s body. That was an unpleasant experience, believe you me.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘I did completely the wrong thing: ran away like an idiot, let myself be taken in. But I learnt my lesson. You have to learn from your mistakes or what would be the point of them?’

Ingiborg put down her stick to free up her hands for the coffee jug.

‘Can I help you at all?’ asked Konrád.

‘No, thank you,’ said Ingiborg. ‘I can still make coffee.’

Konrád was careful not to charge straight in and took his time with the old lady, chatting to her about the weather and politics and her favourite TV programmes. Ingiborg said she watched a great deal of television; she was particularly fond of daytime soaps. She struck him as talkative and sunny by nature, well informed about current affairs and pleased to receive a visitor who showed an interest in everything she had to say. Nevertheless, he sensed an underlying tension and wariness. Her past was catching up with her, and she was understandably cautious. When he spoke to her on the phone it had quickly become apparent that she was indeed the girl referred to in the newspaper article, the civil servant’s daughter who had found the body by the theatre.

‘Do you remember it well?’ asked Konrád, when he had finished his first cup of coffee and she was urging him to have a second.

‘I’ve never been able to go to a play at the National without thinking about it,’ Ingiborg said. ‘For as long as I live I’ll never forget the moment we found her. Of course that sort of thing stays with you always. The way she was lying on the ground with her eyes open. The biting cold. But what’s prompted you to ask about her now, after all these years?’

‘As I mentioned on the phone, I’m looking into the case in connection with a recent murder,’ said Konrád. ‘You may have read about it in the papers, about a man a little older than yourself who was found dead in his home.’

‘Yes, that sounds familiar.’

‘When we examined his flat it turned out he’d kept some old newspaper cuttings about the murdered girl, and he seems to have been looking for information about her just before he died. I wanted to know why. Your name cropped up in an old police report—’

‘I’m sure it did.’

‘Do you know if they ever solved the case?’ Konrád asked. ‘If they ever caught her killer?’

‘I’d have thought you would know that.’

‘Unfortunately there’s nothing in our archives. We can hardly find a scrap of paper relating to the case. It’s as if it never went to court.’

‘No, I didn’t ever try to find out what happened. Shortly afterwards, only a few weeks later, I was... I moved to another part of the country and stayed away for a couple of years. Then I came home and got engaged to my husband.’

Ingiborg smiled at Konrád. She had been thrown by his phone call, having never expected to hear Rósamunda’s name again. Konrád had been very polite, though, and his manner had reminded her of those other policemen, Flóvent and Thorson, who had come round to her house long ago and been so kind and understanding once their initial suspicions had been allayed. She only hoped he wouldn’t expect her to go into details, or she would be forced to reveal to him, a complete stranger, why her father Ísleifur had taken the decision to pack her off to the countryside after her relationship with Frank Ruddy. No amount of persuasion, tears or curses had succeeded in changing his mind. Even her mother had been powerless in the face of his tyranny. He had got it into his head that she would recover best with her relatives in the East Fjords, and that it would minimise the gossip if she simply vanished. His brother was a wealthy farmer out east, so although it was in the middle of nowhere, she would at least be tolerably comfortable. By the time she came back to Reykjavík the occupation was over and most of the soldiers had left. Her father, who had acted in the belief that he was averting disaster, made it up to her by introducing her to a highly promising young man who had worked with him on the independence celebrations. The young man in question had influential backers within the civil service who had secured him a valuable import licence and access to credit, and his wholesale business in American goods was really starting to take off. ‘A secure future,’ her father had said. ‘At least consider it, dear.’

‘He built this house,’ Ingiborg told Konrád. ‘My husband. He died several years ago. He was a wholesaler.’

‘It’s quite a house,’ said Konrád, for the sake of saying something.

‘Yes, far too big for the three of us to rattle around in. My husband and I only had the one child. My son takes very good care of me down here, so I really can’t complain. I lack for nothing. Never have lacked for any of the things that are supposed to matter in life.’

Konrád sensed a certain underlying bitterness, as if her words held a deeper, quite different meaning. He wondered how happy her life had actually been since that fateful day when she chanced upon the body.

‘You weren’t alone?’ he said. ‘When you found the girl?’

For the first time Ingiborg didn’t answer.

‘Obviously, it must be painful to talk about after all this time,’ Konrád added after a pause.

‘I was... no, it’s not very nice having to talk about it.’

A silence developed, which Konrád refrained from breaking.

‘He was a soldier,’ Ingiborg said all of a sudden.

‘Who?’

‘You’re right, I wasn’t alone when I found her. He said his name was Frank Carroll but that was a lie, like everything else he told me. His real name was Frank Ruddy — the American soldier I was friendly with for a while — and he wasn’t a very admirable character. A real cad, in fact. He lied to me. Not just about his name. He turned out to have a wife back in America. And children. He was even two-timing me with another girl here in Reykjavík.’

The words came in spurts, she almost spat them out, and again Konrád sensed bitterness mingled with an old anger.

‘An absolute snake,’ Ingiborg continued. ‘It was the police who told me what sort of person he was. Lovely men, both of them. They knew I’d been taken for a...’ She broke off, then continued apologetically: ‘I wasn’t going to tell you any of this. When you rang and wanted to dredge the whole thing up. I wasn’t going to talk about it at all.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Konrád. ‘You can say as much or as little as you like. It’s up to you.’

‘I was... I was dreadfully upset when I learnt the truth about Frank, what sort of person he was. Flóvent, the detective, came to see me specially to tell me everything. Please excuse me but I... I don’t feel comfortable digging all this up. Perhaps it would be best if you left now. I don’t think I can help you any further.’

‘All right,’ said Konrád. ‘Of course. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

Ingiborg stood up with some difficulty to see him out.

‘What can you tell me about Flóvent?’ asked Konrád, rising to his feet as well. He remembered the name from one of Stefán’s newspaper cuttings. ‘Was he in charge of the investigation?’

‘Yes, he led the inquiry into the girl’s death. There was another policeman too, representing the army. Thorson, his name was. An unusually nice, charming young man.’

‘Thorson?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you say Thorson?’ Konrád couldn’t hide his astonishment.

‘Yes. Thorson.’

‘Was he investigating the girl’s death as well?’

‘Yes. There were two of them. Flóvent and Thorson.’

‘Do you have any idea what became of him?’

‘No. He was from Canada. I expect he went back there after the war.’

‘He was a policeman here?’

‘Yes, with the military police.’

‘And he investigated Rósamunda’s death?’

‘Yes.’

It took Konrád a while to digest what Ingiborg had told him.

Finally she lost patience. ‘Why are you so astonished?’

‘You mean you don’t know?’

‘Know what?’

‘Thorson died a couple of weeks ago. He was the pensioner found murdered in his flat. He went by the name of Stefán Thórdarson in later life. He was the man who kept the cuttings about the girl and had recently started asking questions about her, after all this time.’

It was Ingiborg’s turn to be stunned. ‘You mean that was Thorson?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who on earth would have wanted to harm him?’

‘We don’t know. I thought you might be able to help us answer that.’

The old woman sank back into her chair.

‘Can you tell me anything about him?’ asked Konrád, copying her example and sitting down again.

‘I shouldn’t... my son... I can hardly tell you — a complete stranger.’

‘It needn’t go any further.’

‘No, it’s probably best if you leave now. I... I’ve had enough. I’m tired. Would you please go?’

‘All right.’ But Konrád showed no signs of moving. He could see that the old lady was troubled and sensed that in spite of what she said, she hadn’t finished.

‘It’s... it’s one of those things that happens, and then you’re left facing it all alone, powerless,’ she said. ‘And it never leaves you, however many years go by. It stays with you for ever.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to know how Thorson died,’ said Konrád. ‘He was suffocated. At home in his bed. His pillow was held over his face and —’

‘Please, spare me the details.’

‘Tell me something: did you ever hear about another girl who suffered the same or a similar fate to Rósamunda?’

‘Another girl?’

‘There’s a chance Thorson was asking questions about her before he died. Another girl from those days. A girl who disappeared. I gather they never found her remains.’

‘And she was supposed to have suffered the same fate?’

‘Yes, does that ring any bells?’

‘No,’ said Ingiborg pensively. ‘Thorson told me the girl from the theatre had mentioned the huldufólk, but I can’t remember exactly what it was she had said.’

‘Really? The huldufólk?’

‘Yes, just like the woman I went to see. Mind you... I didn’t know whether to take it seriously or if it had any bearing...’

‘What?’

Ingiborg heaved a sigh of resignation. ‘If I tell you, it’s only for Thorson’s sake, in case it helps you find out the truth about his death. He was so very kind to me.’ She fell silent. ‘Maybe I should... I’ve never told anyone else.’

‘What?’

‘I told Thorson about her and what she did, and I know he and Flóvent went to see her. Thorson believed Rósamunda had gone to her for the same reason. To the woman on the hill. It’s an experience I’ll... I’ll never forget as long as I live...’