The Shadow Killer

6

By the time Flóvent arrived at the mortuary, the doctor who conducted most of the post-mortems at the hospital had finished his examination of Felix Lunden’s body. There were two other bodies covered in white sheets waiting on nearby trolleys. The doctor, Baldur, a native of the Hornstrandir Peninsula in the north-west, lurched a little as he moved, his slight limp the legacy of an old tuberculosis infection in one foot. In front of him was a metal trolley bearing an array of bloodstained instruments — scalpels, forceps and small saws — of the type used to pry into the most secret places of the human body. He went over to the metal sink and started washing his hands.

‘It can’t have been a pretty sight,’ he remarked, drying his hands on a towel. ‘With half his face shot away like that.’

‘No,’ said Flóvent. ‘It wasn’t pretty.’

‘No need to tell you how he died — a single shot to the head.’ Baldur offered Flóvent some coffee from a thermos flask that he kept wrapped in a woollen sock. He poured out a cup of the still-warm liquid, handed it to Flóvent and asked if he’d like a drop of brennivín in it to improve the taste. When Flóvent declined, Baldur fortified his own coffee with a splash from a bottle that he kept in the cupboard under the sink. It was getting on for evening but he still had a lot to do; he’d told Flóvent he would probably be there until midnight. It was cold in the mortuary. Flóvent couldn’t think of a less inviting place to be in the whole of Reykjavík.

‘Did the post-mortem turn up anything interesting?’ he asked.

‘Nothing of real significance with regard to the body. The man wasn’t very fit. He was probably a chain-smoker: you can see that from the tar on his fingers and the state of his lungs. He hadn’t done any manual labour for a long time. His hands are soft, no calluses.’

‘I’m told he was a salesman.’

‘Yes, that would fit. Well, it looks like a professional job to me. A single shot did the trick.’

‘As if it was the work of a soldier? Is that what you’re implying?’

‘Yes, perhaps. Though of course I can’t say for sure.’

‘Am I right in thinking that the killer then smeared blood on his forehead?’ asked Flóvent.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘With a finger?’

‘Yes, he used his finger.’

‘He stuck it in the wound?’

‘Yes, unless he used blood from the floor. I expect there was quite a pool around the body when it was found.’

‘Why would he do a thing like that? Why add insult to injury by smearing blood on the victim’s forehead?’

‘What did you say his name was — Felix Lunden, wasn’t it?’

Flóvent nodded.

‘I’m guessing he might be related to a doctor who once worked here at the hospital,’ said Baldur. ‘There can’t be many people in Iceland with that surname. He had a surgery on Hafnarstræti for many years.’

‘Who was he?’

‘Rudolf, he was called. Rudolf Lunden. From a Danish — German family. He was forced to close his surgery following a riding accident. I don’t think he’s practised medicine since. But I didn’t know him well. He had a reputation for being cantankerous. If I remember right, he was linked to the Icelandic Nazi movement in their heyday before the war.’

‘Could this be his son then?’

‘That would be my guess,’ said Baldur. ‘Given his name. And that mark on his forehead.’

‘Oh? Were you able to decipher it?’

‘Yes, I believe so.’ The doctor took a sip of coffee. ‘I believe the person who did this wanted to send a very specific message when he drew that symbol.’

‘What is... What symbol?’

Just then the door of the mortuary opened to admit a young soldier. Over his uniform he wore an armband that identified him as a member of the US Military Police Corps. The young man looked from one of them to the other.

‘I was told I could find Detective Flóvent of the Reykjavík police here?’ he said diffidently. His Icelandic was fluent.

‘I’m Flóvent.’

‘How do you do, sir?’ the young man said politely, and shook Flóvent’s hand. ‘My name’s Thorson. I was told to offer my services to the Icelandic police in connection with a man’s death. I thought I’d better make contact with you as soon as possible. I hope this isn’t a bad moment?’

‘No, not at all. We were just discussing the post-mortem,’ said Flóvent. ‘You speak very good Icelandic. Are you an Icelander, by any chance? No need to call me “sir”, by the way.’

‘I’m a West Icelander,’ Thorson explained, shaking hands with Baldur as well. ‘From Manitoba in Canada. My parents originally came from Eyjafjördur. Is that the man who was shot in the head?’ Flóvent noticed that he avoided looking directly at the corpse.

‘Yes,’ said Flóvent. ‘Felix Lunden, a travelling salesman, from what we’ve managed to establish so far. Used to peddle hats, belts, a variety of face creams and toothpaste, that sort of thing.’

‘Face creams?’ said Baldur, adding another shot of brennivín to his coffee. ‘Can people really make a living from that?’

‘Apparently. He didn’t have any dependants. Lived alone.’ Noticing that Thorson was looking a little pale, Flóvent turned to him: ‘I don’t suppose you’re used to seeing bodies in this sort of state.’

‘No,’ said Thorson. ‘I... I’ve only served in Iceland. I haven’t seen any action yet and the cases I’ve dealt with so far in the military police haven’t... haven’t been quite like this.’

Flóvent could tell the young soldier was making a great effort to appear professional. He wasn’t doing too bad a job of it either. Indeed, Flóvent thought he detected an air of maturity about the young man despite his boyish appearance. Thorson was in his early twenties, fair, with a guileless face that hinted at a trusting nature. Perhaps too trusting, Flóvent thought. There was a look in his eyes that suggested people had been known to betray that trust.

‘Do you think he was killed by a member of the US forces?’ asked Thorson.

‘You’ve probably heard that we found the bullet and that it comes from a Colt .45?’

‘Couldn’t an Icelander get hold of a weapon like that?’

‘We’re certainly not ruling out the possibility,’ said Flóvent.

‘If a soldier was responsible, and word gets out, my commanding officers are afraid it might lead to — how did they put it? — increased mistrust of the defence force. They’re concerned that public debate about this crime could end up being a little one-sided.’

‘And it’s your role to prevent that?’ asked Baldur. ‘Bit young for politics, aren’t you?’

‘I’m not interested in politics,’ said Thorson. ‘What’s that on his forehead?’ he added, changing the subject. He had obviously plucked up the courage to examine the corpse’s shattered face. ‘Is that a letter?’

‘I was just telling Flóvent when you came in,’ said Baldur. ‘It’s not a letter, no; it’s something else, and quite interesting too. You could say the body’s been deliberately branded.’

‘What with?’ asked Flóvent.

‘As far as I can tell, with the Nazi symbol.’

‘The Nazi symbol? You mean the swastika?’

‘Yes, the swastika,’ said the doctor. He walked heavily over to the body and aimed a lamp at the head. ‘It looks to me as if that’s exactly what this mess on the man’s forehead is meant to represent.’

Flóvent and Thorson stepped closer and examined the mark. The doctor was right. Clumsy and smudged though it was, when viewed under the powerful lamp it was clear that the body had been branded with the distinctive Nazi swastika.