The Shadow District

47

Konrád drove up to the nursing home. He had called several such institutions in the capital area before finally discovering Hólmbert’s whereabouts. Fortunately, there were no other Hólmberts of a similar age. During his brief phone conversation with one of the staff, Konrád had posed as a friend from the countryside hoping to visit. The woman, who was very chatty, knew a bit about Hólmbert’s circumstances and explained that his condition was getting progressively worse. He had deteriorated, especially in the last few weeks, to the point where he was totally unaware of his surroundings and now required round-the-clock care. All the same, the woman encouraged Konrád to come and see him since visits were always appreciated, even if the patient himself was unaware of them. In most cases the relatives would be grateful. When Konrád asked if Hólmbert received many visitors, the woman said not really; most of his friends were dead and he didn’t have a large family.

Entering the foyer, Konrád approached the reception desk, where he learnt that Hólmbert was on the third floor, and was directed to the lifts. The place reminded him of Vigga’s nursing home. The same combination of bustling staff and shuffling patients; some walking unaided, others reliant on Zimmer frames; some fully clothed, others in their dressing gowns. Inside the rooms the elderly residents lay in bed, asleep, reading or listening to the radio; a few lifted their heads as Konrád walked past.

Hólmbert wasn’t in his room, and when Konrád enquired after him, he was told the old man was in the lounge. He was wheeled there every morning and passed the time staring at the TV. Konrád asked if he was confined to a wheelchair and was told yes, almost entirely these days. In spite of this, he asked if Hólmbert could have left the nursing home at all recently and was assured that he hadn’t gone anywhere for at least two months.

‘I’m afraid his Alzheimer’s is pretty advanced, poor old fellow,’ said the nurse.

Konrád found Hólmbert in the lounge, where he was sitting slumped in his wheelchair, eyes glued to a cartoon. The volume was turned down but he seemed content to watch the flickering screen. He was wearing a warm, blue-checked dressing gown, below which bony, white shins were visible above his slippers. There was a white floss of hair on his head and he had several days’ worth of stubble on his jaw. The eyes in his gaunt face were small and colourless like his hair; his lips invisible around a wrinkled, pursed mouth. He didn’t so much as look round when Konrád drew up a chair beside him.

‘Hólmbert?’ said Konrád.

The man didn’t answer or let this interruption distract him from the screen.

‘Hólmbert?’ Konrád repeated.

Unresponsive, Hólmbert continued to gawp at the cartoon characters.

Konrád had only a superficial understanding of Alzheimer’s, though he had tried to read up on it before coming here. He knew it was a degenerative brain disease that affected the short-term memory but, in its early stages at least, had less impact on the long-term memory. The disease was incurable, despite the development of new drugs that inhibited its progress, and it led slowly but inexorably to utter dependency and loss of the power of speech, culminating in total dementia and death within ten years or so. The disease also had a devastating impact on the next of kin, who were forced to look on, helpless, as their previously fit and healthy loved one fell prey to a pitiless mental and physical decline.

‘I wondered if I could ask you about something that happened a long time ago,’ Konrád said, ‘during the Second World War. It involved two girls, one called Rósamunda, the other Hrund.’

Still no reaction from Hólmbert.

‘Do you remember those names?’

Hólmbert gazed at the television as if he were alone in the room.

‘Hólmbert?’

The old man didn’t answer.

‘Do you remember Rósamunda? Do you remember a girl called Rósamunda who worked at a dressmaker’s?’

As the cartoon finished and another began, Konrád caught a hint of movement through the glass in the door. A man, in his fifties at a guess, was hurrying along the corridor towards the lounge. A slim, handsome figure in a dark suit. Konrád watched his approach, assuming he would turn aside into one of the residents’ rooms, but instead he burst into the lounge and brusquely demanded to know who Konrád was.

‘I heard downstairs that he had a visitor,’ the man said. ‘May I ask who you are?’

‘The name’s Konrád.’ He rose to his feet and held out a hand in greeting. The man shook it briefly.

‘What business do you have with my father? How do you know him?’

‘I don’t actually,’ said Konrád. ‘You are...?’

‘I’m his son. My name’s Benjamín. If you don’t know him, what are you doing here?’

‘I came to ask if he’d had a visitor recently, an old man called Thorson. He may have been using the name Stefán Thórdarson.’

‘Thorson? Stefán Thórdarson?’

‘Yes, but I gather your father won’t be able to help me. My sympathies. It must be a harrowing illness.’

‘Thank you. It is.’

‘Do you know if this Thorson I mentioned came to see him?’

‘Thorson? No, not that I’m aware. Though he may have visited without my knowledge. Dad had a lot of friends... has a lot of friends, and I haven’t met them all.’

‘No, of course not. The thing is, I’m investigating an old criminal case from the war years, and I thought he might be able to help me with some information. But I suppose that’s out of the question.’

‘There’s no point asking him anything. No point even talking to him any more.’

‘May I ask if you’ve heard of the case?’

‘From the Second World War?’

‘Yes. A girl was murdered. Her name was Rósamunda.’

‘My family’s familiar with that case,’ said Benjamín. ‘But I don’t see what it has to do with you.’

‘I used to be a detective, though I’m officially retired now. But CID asked me to dig around for information on this man Thorson, or Stefán. I assume you’ll have seen the news — he was found dead in his flat and the police believe he was deliberately smothered.’

Benjamín nodded. ‘I saw the news.’

‘I’ve established that Thorson made a phone call to your Uncle Magnús in Borgarnes. What he learnt during their conversation would almost certainly have propelled him to visit your father next. This would have been only a couple of weeks ago. I’m almost sure Thorson came here to see him. Were you aware of the fact?’

‘No, I wasn’t.’

‘What about you yourself?’

‘Me?’

‘Did you meet Thorson?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure? Are you calling me a liar?’

Konrád shrugged.

‘May I ask on whose authority you’re here?’ demanded Benjamín.

‘I’m assisting the police. If you’d like confirmation, you can ring CID and ask to speak to an inspector called Marta.’

‘Well, you could try talking to the staff here,’ said Benjamín, in a slightly more conciliatory tone. ‘There’s a chance they might remember the man, though I don’t recall having met him. Magnús hasn’t spoken to my father for decades, so I don’t know how reliable an informant you’ll find him. They broke off relations completely, you know, and I wouldn’t put it past Magnús to blacken my father’s name.’

‘Are you implying that Magnús was lying about your father?’

‘Frankly, I’d rather not discuss my family’s private affairs with a total stranger,’ said Benjamín. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be left in peace with my father.’

‘Of course,’ said Konrád, ‘I’m sorry to intrude. Just one last thing. You knew at once which case I was referring to when I mentioned Rósamunda. May I ask how come?’

‘If I tell you, will you leave us alone?’

‘Of course.’

‘Our immediate family was aware of the girl’s fate, though it didn’t spread much further,’ Benjamín said, making no attempt to hide his impatience. ‘The police were quick to track down her killer. His name was Jónatan and he was a friend of ours. The incident affected my family very badly, as you can imagine. To make matters worse, Jónatan died in police custody. Apparently he escaped and ran in front of a car. The whole business was very unfortunate. Both the fact that he killed the girl, obviously, and also the way he lost his life. My grandfather was an MP at the time and used his influence to hush the matter up. He spoke to the girl’s parents and made them see the unpleasantness it could stir up. After all, the facts weren’t in doubt; the perpetrator had been caught. In my grandfather’s view there was no call for our family to be dragged into the scandal.’

As Konrád listened it became clear to him why there was no record of the case in the archives. The police must have been very confident they’d got the right man for them to have colluded in a cover-up. Either that or the MP had sufficient clout to go over their heads and supress the inquiry.

‘I have reason to believe that Thorson had unearthed some new information about your father,’ said Konrád. ‘He was one of the investigating officers at the time, working with the military police, and could never forget the case, perhaps because he felt it had never been properly resolved. Are you by any chance familiar with the story of a girl called Hrund, who lived in the Öxarfjördur area?’

At that moment they heard a noise from the old man in the wheelchair and turned to look at him.

‘... ósamu...?’

They both stared at Hólmbert. His gaze remained fixed on the television, but it was clear that he was trying to say something. He appeared to be lost in a world of his own, completely oblivious to his son’s presence, let alone Konrád’s.

‘... ós... am... un...?’ he whispered hoarsely at the TV screen.

‘Dad, it’s me Benjamín, your son.’

Hólmbert didn’t react or shift his gaze from the television.

‘Hólmbert?’ tried Konrád. ‘Can you hear me?’

The old man sat motionless as if the two visitors had nothing to do with him.

‘What’s he trying to say?’ asked Konrád.

‘I haven’t the faintest idea. Look, you’d better go.’

‘Didn’t it sound to you like—?’

‘It could’ve been anything,’ interrupted Benjamín, his patience running out. ‘I’m asking you to leave him alone. It’s... I’m asking you to leave us alone.’ He went over and stood by the door. ‘Please, just go.’

Konrád decided to back down. ‘OK, no problem, I’m sorry to inconvenience you. I really didn’t mean to intrude.’ He went out into the corridor and heard the door swing to behind him. As he was leaving the nursing home, he took out his phone and rang Marta.

‘What now?’ she asked.

‘Have you still got those recordings from the CCTV cameras in the vicinity of Stefán Thórdarson’s flat?’

‘Yes, a whole pile of them. All bloody useless.’

‘Why useless?’

‘Because I don’t know what I’m looking for. They just show people coming and going, and I don’t know who any of them are.’

‘Let me have a look at them.’

‘Why? What have you found out?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Konrád. ‘I’d need to check the CCTV footage. But, unlike you, at least I know what I’m looking for.’

‘Hurry up then,’ said Marta. ‘I was just about to head home.’