The Shadow District

35

Jónatan hadn’t slept a wink during his night in the cells. The guards heard him muttering to himself and sobbing quietly. When breakfast was delivered to his cell, he asked after the two policemen who had brought him there. He wanted to get a message to them that he mustn’t miss his classes; he should already have been in a lecture by now and was hoping he would be released as soon as possible. The gravity of his situation still seemed to elude him. He had little appetite and hardly touched his breakfast of porridge served with two slices of liver sausage and a glass of milk.

When Flóvent and Thorson arrived at the prison towards midday, he had finally fallen asleep but started awake when the key was turned in the lock and his cell door opened. Sitting up on the bed, he stared blearily at the two policemen in the doorway.

‘I must have dropped off.’

‘Would you come with us?’ said Flóvent. ‘There’s a room where we can talk.’

‘Are you going to let me go?’ asked Jónatan, standing up.

‘We’re going to have a little chat,’ said Flóvent. ‘We need to ask you a few questions concerning the two girls. After that we’ll see.’

‘I explained to these men that I haven’t got time for this; I’ve already missed some of my lectures.’

Nevertheless, he accompanied them down the corridor and into a small room next to the guards’ coffee room. It contained a table and three chairs, and they all sat down. Flóvent asked if they could have some coffee but Jónatan declined his. He seemed calm and composed; brief as it had been, his rest had done him good. Flóvent reached into his pocket for the composition about the cormorant that he had found in Jónatan’s room and handed it to him.

‘Informative stuff,’ he said. ‘Have you always been interested in birds?’

‘Yes, actually. Ornithology’s a hobby of mine. I’ve always been fascinated by nature, birds especially.’

‘By the cormorant in particular?’

‘No, by seabirds generally. The cormorant is... I like watching it in flight, its elongated neck, the way it plummets into the sea. It’s a wonderful bird.’

‘Did Hrund share your interest in ornithology?’

‘Hrund?’ said Jónatan. ‘I wouldn’t know. I don’t think so.’

‘Tell us again how you knew Hrund,’ said Flóvent.

‘I didn’t touch her,’ said Jónatan. ‘I hope you don’t think I harmed her. Because I didn’t.’

‘Did you talk about birds? You told us yesterday she knew a lot about nature, about birds and plants and so on.’

‘Well, maybe we did. But I can’t really remember.’

Flóvent nodded understandingly. Thorson sat silently at his side. Facing them across the table, Jónatan embarked again on the tale of how he had met the young girl who often used to hang around the petrol station. His account was largely consistent with the one he had provided the day before: they would chat from time to time; she had asked a lot of questions about Akureyri and wanted to move south to Reykjavík, and she was open to the idea that the hidden people really existed.

‘And the subject came up because she knew of your interest in such things?’ said Flóvent, once Jónatan had finished.

‘Yes. She knew I was going to university. I told her I wanted to read Icelandic and history.’

‘Did you regard her as a subject for your research?’ asked Thorson.

‘A subject for my research? No.’

‘Well, she told you her ideas about the huldufólk, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Which were?’

‘All the usual stuff about enchanted mounds and elf rocks. She knew lots of stories too. Nothing out of the ordinary, though.’

‘Had she had any encounters with supernatural beings herself?’

‘She didn’t say.’

‘She didn’t discuss it with you?’

‘She never mentioned it, no.’

‘She’d never been molested in any way by a supernatural being?’ asked Flóvent.

‘You asked me that before. I’ve no idea.’

‘She didn’t tell you?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Yes. Anyway, I don’t believe in that sort of thing. If she had, it would have been a figment of her imagination.’

‘Oh, that’s right, you don’t believe in the existence of such creatures. They belong purely to the world of fairy stories.’

‘Yes. Of course. Not that I’m familiar with the type of malevolence you’re referring to in tales of the huldufólk. After all, they’re mostly told by women, passed down from mother to daughter. That’s essentially how they’ve survived. And because they’ve been kept alive by women, they reflect a female view of the world, feature concerns close to their hearts. They tend to be stories about faithless lovers, childbearing, the exposure of infants.’

‘Exposure of infants?’ queried Flóvent.

‘Some things don’t change much.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Thorson.

Jónatan looked from one of them to the other, seeking to make himself understood. ‘The stories often describe the harsh lot of women. Such as giving birth to a child out of wedlock and being forced to dispose of it. Exposure of infants was the abortion of its day. Naturally it would have been a harrowing experience and the huldufólk stories were a way of glossing over the harsh reality and easing the mental anguish. They offered an alternative world in which women have children with handsome, gentle men of the hidden race, who are the antithesis of their brutish human counterparts. The infants are left out in the open for their fathers to find, and grow up, cherished, among their father’s people, and may even return one day to the human world. In other words, the stories serve to alleviate a distressing experience.’

‘Handsome, gentle men?’ repeated Thorson.

‘Like the Yanks,’ said Jónatan.

‘Are they the new huldufólk?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘How do you feel about that?’ asked Thorson.

‘Me? I don’t have an opinion.’

‘Are you involved with any women yourself?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything? Why are you asking me that?’

‘Maybe everything we’re asking is relevant; maybe none of it is,’ said Flóvent. ‘We’d appreciate it if you simply gave a straight answer to the question.’

‘I’ve never had a girlfriend,’ said Jónatan.

‘What about Hrund?’

‘What about her?’

‘Did you have a crush on her?’

‘No,’ said Jónatan. ‘I hardly knew her.’

‘Did she go running after the soldiers up north?’

‘Not that I could see.’

‘Did you assault Hrund?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Did she turn you down?’

‘Turn me down?’

‘We mentioned Rósamunda yesterday,’ said Thorson.

‘Yes.’

‘You claim you didn’t know her.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘And you had no idea where she worked?’

‘No.’

‘Tell me, what do you do if your clothes need mending?’

Jónatan was confused by the question. ‘I... what do I do?’

‘If you tore a hole in your trousers, for example. Or needed to get the elbows of your jumpers patched. Are you good with a needle and thread yourself?’

Jónatan looked wonderingly from Flóvent to Thorson and back. ‘Why... why are you asking me that?’

‘You’re not much cop at sewing, are you?’ said Flóvent.

‘No.’

‘Rósamunda worked for a dressmaker’s in Reykjavík. The shop also offers a mending service. It’s called The Stitch. Does that jog your memory?’

‘I took my trousers to be mended once,’ Jónatan faltered.

‘Did you take them to that company, to The Stitch?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘Possible?’

‘Yes.’

‘Perhaps this will refresh your memory.’

Flóvent took out the invoice they had found in Jónatan’s digs and placed it on the table in front of him. It bore the stamp of The Stitch and listed a fee for repairs made to one pair of trousers. Jónatan reached for the invoice, but Thorson was quicker off the mark and, snatching the piece of paper, held it up to him.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Were you aware that Rósamunda worked for this company?’

‘I don’t know any Rósamunda. I don’t understand why you’re holding me here. I’ve done nothing wrong. All I want is for this to be over.’

‘It might be advisable for you to get yourself a lawyer at this stage,’ said Flóvent.

‘I don’t want a lawyer. I don’t know any lawyers. I want to go home. I haven’t got time for this. You have to understand — I’m innocent. I haven’t done anything. You’ve got to believe me.’ Jónatan stood up. ‘You can’t keep me here. You’ve no right to hold me. I’m leaving.’

By now Flóvent and Thorson were also on their feet. Jónatan walked to the door, which was unlocked. He opened it and was about to step out into the corridor when Thorson grabbed his arm.

‘Let me go.’

‘I’m afraid you can’t leave yet,’ said Flóvent.

For an instant it looked as if Jónatan was going to try to make a break for it. Then, conscious that he was outnumbered, he seemed to wilt.

‘Don’t do this to me,’ he begged. ‘Let me go.’

‘I’m sorry, son,’ said Flóvent. ‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of murdering Rósamunda. We have no alternative. I advise you to cooperate and also strongly recommend that you get yourself a lawyer.’

An hour later Flóvent was back in his office on Fríkirkjuvegur, poring over the notes he had found in Jónatan’s room. They consisted of an account the student had scribbled down over five sides of paper. The handwriting was barely legible yet Flóvent thought he could make out the gist. Pulling over the desk lamp, he shone it on the pages. They were unnumbered, so it took him a while to figure out what order to read them in. The style was familiar from the old court records he had occasionally consulted, and before long he had worked out that the pages described a nineteenth-century rape case. The more Flóvent was able to decipher, the more convinced he became that he had the right man in custody.