She got out of the car and walked towards the alleyway that led to the hotel apartment. She stopped when she saw a man walking along the other side of the street with someone else beside him.
‘Hæ,’ she called out, but he didn’t hear her. ‘Magnús!’
This time he stopped, exchanged a few words with his companion who carried on his way, and he came over to her.
Salka felt a flush of heat course through her at the sight of him.
‘Hæ,’ he smiled.
‘I thought you were fishing?’
‘That’s the problem with the drug squad. Never a moment’s peace. I was called out on a case that’s actually a long-term investigation. I’ll be going back tomorrow. In any case, I need to get to the tackle shop in the morning.’
‘Is the case dealt with now?’
‘For the moment. We’ve been tracking some big-time dealers and had what was supposed to be a cast-iron tip-off that they’d stashed coke and pills, and had a dope factory behind that restaurant there,’ he said, jerking a thumb along Skipagata. ‘But all we found was frozen meat and chips,’ he added. ‘I tried to call you today.’
‘I saw that. Didn’t answer in time … it’s been busy,’ she said haltingly. ‘Anything important?’
‘Nothing special. Just wanted to hear how things were going. I didn’t see you at the fishing lodge at breakfast time and wanted to ask how you were getting on.’
‘I guess it’s the same as with you. Never a moment’s peace. Pétur called me at stupid o’clock this morning, and now I’m working on a case that’s…’
‘The murder in Grenivík. I heard about that. But I didn’t know you’d been called in,’ he said.
‘Short-staffed,’ she said. ‘Where are you off to?’ she continued, surprised at her own question.
‘I’m on the way home.’
‘It’s been a tough day and I’m going to get myself a glass of red wine. Would you like one as well?’ she asked after a moment’s hesitation.
‘I don’t know,’ Magnús said, glancing at his watch as he thought it over. ‘I have to be up early…’
‘No problem. See you soon, then.’
‘Maybe one glass wouldn’t do any harm,’ he decided with a smile.
‘Coffee?’ Salka asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and holding the mug close to Magnús’s face. She had been up for half an hour, and was showered and dressed.
‘Thanks,’ he said, prising his eyes open as he sat up and took the mug. ‘What’s the time?’
‘Seven-thirty.’
‘Ah. You always sleep late on a Sunday?’
‘Don’t you have to be on your way up to the river?’
‘Yes. You’re right,’ Magnús said, sipping coffee. ‘And I need to stop off at the station before I go.’
Salka was about to reply, when her phone rang.
‘Status meeting at eight,’ a cheerful-sounding Gísli told her. Salka was relieved. She recalled how hard the video recording the day before had hit him. As they parted in the evening, he hadn’t been himself.
‘Fine. I’ll be there before then,’ she said, and ended the call. ‘I need to be on my way,’ she said, about to stand up.
‘Hold on,’ Magnús said, catching hold of her arm. ‘Are you all right?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just … everything that happened. You know.’
They had talked far into the night. The wine bottle had been emptied and after a glass of brandy each, Salka felt her inhibitions slipping away. She wasn’t sure if it was carelessness on her part, or simply that she had allowed her subconscious voice to take control. This was the inner voice she had fought so hard against these last few months, the one she had stifled, the voice that whispered to her it would be fine to let her feelings go. The shock… There was no reason to keep it locked up.
She had sat at Magnús’s side on the sofa, until she suddenly got to her feet. Listening to what the voice told her, she was perfectly aware of the meaningful look she sent Magnús, as she went to the bedroom and began to undress.
Salka luxuriated in his caresses, on the gentle side for her liking. The extended foreplay he seemed to have in mind was already more than she could stand. They had stood in the centre of the living room as his hands touched and stroked every part of her. But his tongue on her earlobe was the last straw. She pulled his shirt off him and hauled his trousers down, then stripped off what remained of her underwear and turned to the wall, her back to him.
She had no idea of the sounds that came from her and didn’t care, and then her hand connected with a picture on the wall that crashed to the floor. They tried to contain their laughter as three heavy blows banged against the wall from the next apartment, and they rolled onto the bed.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, looking into his eyes. ‘And you?’
‘I reckon so. Last night wasn’t exactly what I had in mind … maybe the same goes for you?’ he said and laughed. ‘But if you’re happy, Salka, then so am I.’
He ran his fingers through her soft, damp hair. In the morning brightness making its way past the curtains, it was the colour of syrup.
‘That’s good,’ she said, and stood up.
‘Are you sure you have to be on your way right now?’ he asked, sitting up.
‘Yes, absolutely sure,’ she said, turning away. She took a last gulp of coffee and emptied the rest into the sink. ‘There’s a meeting about to start.’
Magnús stood up, went to the bathroom and set the shower to run.
‘See you,’ she called out.
‘All right,’ he called from the shower.
She paused in the doorway and listened to the voice.
It’s all right, Salka. You’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve every right to let yourself off the leash. You don’t need to…
From force of habit, Salka silenced the voice. She sighed in irritation and left the apartment.
18
Sunday 24th August 2014
‘There’s someone asking for you at the reception desk,’ said an officer in the corridor at the police station, just as she was about to go into the status meeting.
‘Hello, Mum,’ Salka said, taken by surprise when she appeared at the entrance to the building. It wasn’t just that she looked tired, but she also seemed to have shrunk. Probably it was the sloping shoulders that gave this impression. A brightly coloured skirt could be glimpsed under her light overcoat.
‘I was passing. Your phone’s always engaged, so I decided to drop in.’
‘I’d offer you a coffee if I wasn’t on the way into a meeting. Is everything all right?’ Salka asked, giving her mother a kiss on the cheek and tucking back a lock of grey hair that had come adrift.
‘Yes, more or less. Your father is a little poorly. But I’ve been out of sorts.’
‘What’s up?’
‘I had a terrible dream.’
‘Mum, you know you shouldn’t let dreams upset you. When have these dreams ever come true?’
‘I know,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You’re probably right. I shouldn’t be bothering with this. Over the years I’ve dreamed plenty of shit, but never seen any of the money it’s supposed to portend.’
‘Mum!’
‘Yes, I know,’ she laughed. ‘Last night I dreamed that I’d lost all my teeth and there was blood everywhere. You know what that means.’
‘I don’t even want to know what that’s supposed to mean,’ Salka said, hugging her mother and planting a kiss on her cheek. ‘Think things over. And now I have to go. They’re waiting for me.’
Salka stood still, watching her mother walk from the police station and along Thórunnarstræti, until she disappeared from view. She had no belief in dreams and could rarely remember them. On the few occasions she had tried to recall dreams, they had slipped away from her like ice melting in her fingers. Her thoughts remained fixed on this dream of her mother’s. Salka knew perfectly well that the loss of a tooth signified the passing of a loved one
.
‘Is there something about my voice that means you can’t hear what I say?’ Gísli called from where he stood on the steps, a smile on his face.
‘What?’ Salka asked, turning to face him.
‘I’ve called you three times. The meeting’s about to start.’
In the meeting room, Salka offered a ‘good morning’ to those present, and took a seat at the end of the long table. She placed a stack of papers in front of her and went through them. She had started the morning by printing out all the documents she had collected and stored on her computer. She stood up and fixed with magnets three sheets of paper to the white board on one wall.
She had woken up during the night and found herself staring at the ceiling. She slipped as quietly as she could from the bed so as not to disturb Magnús. Part of the night had been spent going through the documents she had received connected to the accusations against Hróbjartur. Then she had switched on her computer and combed through articles and anything else she could find about him online. Only then had she slid back into bed and fallen asleep.
‘I don’t know if you’ve had time to look at the material concerning Hróbjartur that I sent through last night. As you know, he was accused, as were several priests, of sexual assaults against young boys and girls. The charges didn’t result in the convictions that the accusers had hoped to see,’ Salka said, glancing at the group present, Gísli, Valgeir, Óttar and four others she hardly recognised. She pulled a sheet of paper from the stack. ‘What we know about Hróbjartur is that he was born in 1948, and was sixty-six years old when he died. He had been a serving priest since his ordination in 1973. From 1985 to 1990, with some intervals, he was involved in missionary work in Ethiopia and Senegal. He regularly attended YMCA meetings. He came to Akureyri in 1991 to serve as a priest and returned to Reykjavík in 1996. I couldn’t find much about his activities or travels from that period. That’s possibly because that’s when the accusations I mentioned were raised against him. He returned to the north five years ago, 2009, when he became the Grenivík parish priest. According to the documents, one of the victims and one of his accusers lives here in Akureyri. Gísli, did you manage to find out where he lives?’
‘No, that’s been a challenge but I’m working on it. The man is Kristján Rafn. Everyone just calls him Rafn,’ Gísli said, looking around the room, and it was clear from the nods of those present that the name was familiar. ‘He’s a drug user and a dealer, and he’s crossed the police’s path often enough,’ Gísli continued. ‘He has impermanent residence, but I’ve been in touch with the drug squad and they’ll ask around to see if they can track him down.’
‘What about Skúli?’ asked the young female officer Salka had spoken to a couple of times already.
‘I’ve … I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ve been told your name,’ Salka said.
‘Fanney.’
‘I have my doubts about him. All the same, he’s still a person of interest and I suspect he’s sitting on something. Considering the treatment Hróbjartur received, I think it’s likely this is connected to the accusations.’
‘Could the murderer be laying a false trail to take us down that route?’ Fanney asked.
‘Yes, that’s a possibility. If that’s the case, then he’s going to some extreme lengths. You can see the pictures on the board. One shows the newspaper headline accusing the Church of sweeping the abuse claims under the carpet. The killer stuck the headline on the bathroom mirror in Hróbjartur’s summer house. As you can see from the two other pictures, the murderer wrote messages or quotes. The words Face in the mirror, you don’t listen were written under the headline stuck to the mirror. It’s not easy to figure out what that means or represents. At Hróbjartur’s place on Lundargata the murder wrote Thou shalt not… in red. That seems to refer to the Ten Commandments. The writing is poor and almost as if written by a child, and it’s possible that was the intention,’ Salka said, and paused. ‘Of course, I can’t be sure, but it appears that the killer wants to make it plain that this involves children. We need a handwriting expert to examine the script and compare it, for example, against Skúli’s handwriting. When he was brought in for questioning he filled in forms and provided personal information. So how does this work?’ she asked, struggling to connect her computer to the projector unit.
Valgeir offered his help, got to his feet and plugged the cable in. Salka caught his eye as he sat down, giving him a smile and a nod.
‘Next we have the pictures of Hróbjartur taken in the church,’ she said, and hesitated. ‘I’m asking simply because I don’t know you all. You’re all ready to see these pictures? This isn’t for just anyone.’
There was silence in the conference room. Salka caught everyone’s eye in turn, and opened the pictures.
‘The fact that the killer cut off the genitals, placed parts in his palms and a part in his mouth, seems to me a very strong indication that this is linked to abuse Hróbjartur committed. This may sound far-fetched, but the hands could symbolise groping, and the mouth oral sex. Please feel free to suggest other theories.’
Someone tried and failed to stifle a loud cough, then cleared his throat and shifted in his seat as the others glanced in his direction.
Salka looked at Gísli, who leaned forward, his hands together in front of his mouth and nose as if in prayer. She raised a concerned eyebrow, and as if he understood what she meant, he sat up straight and folded his arms. He smiled weakly.
‘Óttar, is there anything you want to add?’
‘Yah. We examined the body very carefully and as you can see from the pictures, the victim was given some brutal treatment. There had to be a tremendous anger behind this. No individual could commit this kind of act without some deep-seated fury and there has to be a back story of some kind to it. Of course, we have examples of insane individuals committing terrible crimes on the spur of the moment, but, considering the circumstances, I don’t believe that’s the case here. There’s a certain amount of consideration that has gone into this and it appears to have been very carefully planned. Meticulously, I would say. There’s practically no forensic evidence. I know it doesn’t sound great, but in my line of business we could say that this is exemplary. In all likelihood, Hróbjartur was murdered in the summer house. The marks on the frame of the bed indicate that he was restrained there. We found blood traces in the bedroom of the summer house which are being analysed now, but apart from that, the place was spick and span. It’s most likely that he was alive when he was castrated, so he would have endured terrible pain,’ Óttar said, leafing through his notes and taking off his reading glasses. ‘There was nothing of significance to be found at his home on Lundargata, apart from the words that had been written above the bed and those videos.’
‘Have all the videos been checked?’ Salka asked, looking around the room.
‘We’re making good progress on it,’ said an officer from the analysis department, a middle-aged man.
‘We completely forgot to introduce ourselves to start with,’ Salka said with a smile. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Thórarinn. Everyone calls me Tóti. There are two of us working through this stuff, me and Andrea,’ he said, nodding at his colleague beside him. ‘I have to say, the contents are … simply revolting.’ He pressed a pen he held in his hand against the tabletop, so that it clicked repeatedly. ‘There were a couple of DVDs that we worked through quickly, and they contain foreign material. These contain child porn with young boys. But the video tapes we’re talking about are recordings of Icelandic boys. This is local. Judging by the picture quality, the clothes, the boys’ hairstyles, and other stuff that we can see, this is all old material.’
‘How old?’
‘Difficult to say with any certainty, but we estimate fifteen years, give or take. There are quite a few lads on these tapes who we’ve…’
‘How many boys?’ Gísli broke in.
‘So far, seven. No, sorry. Eight. Of the videos we have viewed so far, the p
erpetrator, by which I mean the person holding the camera, is never in shot. There’s one recording, or rather, a sequence, that we’re examining carefully as reflections of the faces of two perpetrators are visible.’
‘What do you mean by reflected?’ Valgeir asked.
‘Reflections in a window. The sequence isn’t very clear and we’re sending it to a specialist. We’re hoping he can clean it up and make it clearer.’ To Salka’s relief, he put the pen down. ‘We’re taking screenshots of the faces of all the boys who appear in the videos, and also of any features of the surroundings that could give us any clues. We’re hoping to finish this today.’
‘Thanks, Tóti. Óttar, is there anything more you would like to add?’ Salka asked.
‘No, I don’t think so. It’s worth bearing in mind that the killer seems to have taken both Hróbjartur’s phone and computer. The only phone we have held on to is Skúli’s.’
‘You have that, don’t you, Birna?’ Valgeir said.
‘Yes. We’ve been working on his phone and there’s not a lot there. It’s mostly communications between him and his mother, and other numbers are connected to his work. That means calls from the local authority, the school, the swimming pool, the sports hall, that kind of thing. It’s the same with the text messages. He’s practically absent from social media. We still have to take a look at the records for the home phone.’
‘And Hróbjartur’s call history? Have you taken a look at that?’ Salka asked.
‘We managed to get through that this morning. Or, to be more accurate, during the night,’ Birna said, standing up to pass around sheets of paper to all those present, before sitting down again. ‘There’s quite a number of individuals, organisations and whatnot that Hróbjartur was mostly in touch with, but there are two numbers that crop up regularly that are worth investigating. One is Helgi Alfreðsson, who’s a deacon. He lives here in Akureyri. The other is the Reverend Gunnleifur Kristinsson. He was the parish priest of the Glerá church and is now retired. Finally, we’re working on which masts Hróbjartur’s and Skúli’s phones connected through.’
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