Huldar turned back to the two rocks rearing out of the lava-field, the fissure like a gash between them, and watched his colleagues scratching their heads over the best way to get the man down. The rope was tied round the plank and it was clear that any attempt to cut it would send the body plummeting to the ground, with the additional risk that it would be bashed against the sharp rocks on the way. It went without saying that they would rather get the man down in one piece. Erla was standing directly below the suspended figure, gesturing upwards as she called out to the officers who had scaled the rock formations on either side. They were making valiant attempts to follow her orders but it was one thing to issue commands when you were standing on level ground, another to put them into action while clinging precariously to a ledge. Any minute now, Erla’s patience would run out and she would start climbing up there herself to show them how to do it. After which pointless exercise she would no doubt be even more exasperated than she was already.
The plank creaked and groaned alarmingly as an officer began to worm along it on his stomach. It wasn’t clear what he meant to achieve: it would have required superhuman strength to haul the body up, then crawl back to safety, dragging it behind him. But the protests from the plank soon changed his mind and he beat a hasty retreat. Erla, unable to hide her frustration, sighed explosively. It must have been her suggestion.
‘Wouldn’t it be better to borrow a net from the fire brigade? You know, the kind they use to catch people when they jump out of burning buildings? If we spread it out underneath, that should stop the body getting damaged.’
Huldar had to suppress a smile before turning his head. The voice belonged to Lína, the young woman on work experience from the University of Akureyri. She was the first of the crop of students taking the new degree in policing to do an internship in CID, and although no one said so aloud, the team were mostly sceptical. Their prejudice stemmed in part from an unspoken fear about what would happen when every other new recruit arrived brandishing a degree certificate. Would the rest of them be put back in uniform, relegated to pounding the streets among the tourist hordes, answering callouts to deal with rowdy parties or issuing fines for petty offences?
Huldar couldn’t care less. If he suffered another demotion at work, he had his carpentry to fall back on. Besides, the intern was a constant source of entertainment, especially when it came to her talent for rubbing people up the wrong way.
She was forever pointing out that they weren’t doing things by the book, or correcting their terminology or quoting the contents of textbooks and academic studies at them. Every time this happened near Erla, you could practically see the smoke coming out of her ears. Huldar could barely contain his glee on these occasions, or when he saw Gudlaugur’s nose put out of joint by one of her tactless remarks.
‘There’s no time to borrow a net now, Lína. Good idea, though.’ Huldar watched her smile in response to his praise. She was small, reaching no higher than his chest, with red hair and a complexion of such ivory whiteness that you could barely make out the brief gleam of her teeth against her skin. Then, her face serious again, she turned her attention back to the proceedings.
Huldar suspected Erla of having base motives for bringing Lína along. Officially, it was to teach her about crime-scene procedure, but no doubt Erla had been secretly hoping to shock the young woman into losing her breakfast. Lína was made of sterner stuff, though. She had elbowed her way to the front and stood there, studying the dangling body with no more emotion than if it had been a light-fitting. When she had finally lowered her eyes, she had frowned and wondered aloud why Erla hadn’t given orders to cordon off the area. Erla’s gruff retort that there was no time for that now had done nothing to shut Lína up, and in the end Huldar had pulled her aside and explained that this was the exception that must surely have been mentioned in her textbooks: a situation in which standard procedure had to be abandoned in favour of speed. He had been rewarded with a grimace: Lína clearly didn’t regard the present circumstances as sufficiently urgent to warrant a deviation from the rules.
She was alone in that opinion. The rest of the team were well aware of the need for a quick turnaround. It wasn’t every day that they got a call from the Icelandic president’s staff at Bessastadir to report a dead body. Normally, two officers would have been sent to deal with the incident, accompanied by a forensic technician, but on this occasion the place was crawling with police. In the panic following the notification, almost every available officer had been ordered to the scene and several more had had their weekend leave cancelled. No doubt the logic had been that this would speed up the process of removing the body, but in practice it was having the opposite effect. Most of the officers were just milling around with nothing to do, getting underfoot.
Erla’s phone rang and Huldar watched her answer it. She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead as she listened to what appeared to be a scolding from on high. It was hardly surprising if the top brass were seriously rattled. They wouldn’t want to be exposed as incompetent in front of the security team of a foreign superpower. Huldar smiled at the thought, but his grin faded when Erla shot a glance in his direction, ended the call and shoved the phone back in her pocket.
‘Time’s up! Cut the rope!’ she bellowed at the men on the rocks. ‘The motorcade has set off and is due at Bessastadir in half an hour. We need to be out of here by then. The body will just have to get a bit knocked about. I don’t suppose the dead man will care either way.’
Huldar saw Lína open her mouth, her disapproval all too plain. Presumably the section in her textbook about gathering material at the scene had omitted anything about visits by foreign dignitaries. Laying a hand on her shoulder, he whispered into the delicate white ear: ‘I wouldn’t say a word if I were you. It won’t do any good.’
Lína clamped her lips in a tight line. Although inexperienced, she was no fool. She knew the background, having heard Erla’s briefing before they set off. She looked across the bay to Bessastadir, a dissatisfied frown on her face. Huldar would bet that the president wouldn’t get her vote next time, though he’d had nothing to do with the incident. His only sin had been to arrange a reception to mark the start of the official visit by the Chinese foreign minister. Personnel from the minister’s security team, who had turned up in advance to carry out a safety check, had spotted the corpse hanging from the rocks on the other side of Lambhúsatjörn Bay. Its presence had been completely overlooked by the Bessastadir staff, since earlier that morning the area had been obscured by a thick blanket of fog.
Unsurprisingly, the discovery of the body had created pandemonium at the Foreign Ministry, where staff had the unenviable task of trying to dissuade the Chinese embassy and security team from turning the minister’s plane around. In the end, they had managed to convince the visitors that it wasn’t a protest staged by Falun Gong, merely an incredibly unfortunate coincidence. As a result, the day’s programme was to go ahead as planned – on condition, naturally, that the dead man was spirited away before the minister’s arrival.
But the staff of the Foreign Ministry had underestimated how long it would take the police to deal with the situation. By the time the Police Commissioner’s office had handed the matter over to Erla, the Chinese minister’s plane was already preparing to land at Keflavík. Erla’s orders were that all signs of the dead man and the police presence were to be gone from Álftanes by the time the motorcade drove past, even though the site wasn’t actually visible from the road. The point was that it could be seen from the residence at Bessastadir. On no account must the president be put in the embarrassing position of having to explain what the crowd of police officers were up to on the other side of the bay. After this fiasco it was doubtful that Iceland would ever be offered the loan of a giant panda, but there was still hope that the visit might result in enhanced trade links.
Huldar and Lína watched the activities of their colleagues with interest. The men had split into two groups, one on each steep rock, and we
re now struggling to extend a pair of clippers far enough across the gap to cut the rope. It was an impossible feat, as it turned out. Erla checked the time on her phone, then called out to them to dislodge the plank, noose, body and all.
Through a concerted effort at either end, the men succeeded in heaving up the plank, then letting the whole lot fall.
While this was going on, Huldar nudged the pale, silent Gudlaugur and they went to fetch the stretcher lying beside the sheep path leading to the rocks. They got back just as the dead man hit the ground, and went over to the body, which was now lying in a heap with the massive plank on top. Their colleagues, having scrambled down from the rocks, helped them to cut the rope and shift the heavy wood. Then Gudlaugur turned over the body, assisted by another man, and more officers lined up on either side, ready to lift it onto the stretcher. Huldar discreetly withdrew at this point. He had no desire to see the man’s grotesque death mask up close.
‘Stop!’ Lína’s voice rang out with a note of authority, like someone used to being obeyed. Which was a joke, considering how young and inexperienced she was. Huldar had cast an eye over her CV when they heard she was joining the department, so he knew that she had done the usual selection of summer jobs: in the Akureyri parks department, on the till at a supermarket, in a fish factory and at a cinema. It was hard to guess which of these jobs could have lent her such an air of command. Perhaps she had developed it while haranguing cinemagoers to switch off their phones before the film.
‘You don’t give the orders round here.’ Erla’s face was black with fury at this interference. Waving her arms at the group standing around the body, she snapped at them to get on with loading it onto the stretcher.
‘But—’ Lína was undeterred.
‘But fucking what? Don’t you understand a fucking order?’ Erla was seriously stressed and, as usual, this was reflected in her language.
Huldar shot Lína a warning look. Ignoring him, she persisted: ‘Can’t you see? There, on his chest.’ She pointed at the body.
Although it was guaranteed to bring down Erla’s wrath on their heads, few of the officers could resist the impulse to follow Lína’s pointing finger. One by one they lowered their eyes to the dead man’s chest, where a tiny metal plate could be seen poking out. Their faces puzzled, they moved closer. But Huldar knew exactly what he was looking at: the head of a nail. A four-inch one, probably. Under it was a torn scrap of paper, as if it had been used to pin a note to the man’s chest.
Erla had clearly grasped the situation. She emitted a heartfelt groan.
This could hardly be a suicide. Few people would have the determination to drive a socking great nail into their own flesh like that. This was almost certainly a murder scene, and the police had approached it like a bunch of amateurs. In all the panic, it hadn’t even occurred to anyone to call out the pathologist.
For the first time since she had begun her work experience, Lína’s expression of disapproval was entirely justified.
‘Stand back.’ Erla sounded calm, though she was surely anything but. ‘Cover him up so he can’t be seen from Bessastadir. Not even with binoculars. Camouflage him under some grass or something – anything that’ll help him blend in.’ She closed her eyes and rubbed them irritably. ‘Then let’s get the hell out of here and wait until their bloody snobfest’s over.’
Chapter 3
Baldur sat down at the table again, reeking of smoke. He’d nipped out for a cigarette, though they’d only just got here. Not that Freyja was surprised. He’d recently been released from prison and was still getting used to having the freedom to do as he liked – within limits. For the moment he was staying at Vernd, the halfway house, and apart from having to spend the night on the premises and fulfil his work requirement, his time was his own. So it was hardly any wonder he grew as fidgety as a little boy every time there was a quiet moment.
He ruffled the hair of his daughter Saga, who was sitting in a high chair between them. Ignoring him, the little girl went on chewing the rasher of bacon he’d given her after she’d turned her nose up at the slices of fruit. Father and daughter got on well, despite being so different. He was the happy, outgoing type, but Saga was the most serious child Freyja had ever met. Where he was fair and never stopped talking, Saga was dark and withdrawn, her face set in a perma-scowl. He liked nice clothes, whereas Freyja could hardly persuade Saga into anything but boots, leggings and a top, though Fanney, her mother, somehow succeeded in forcing her into girly dresses and cutesy shoes. Once in a blue moon Fanney even managed to put a slide in her daughter’s hair, but only when Saga was wearing mittens. The moment she got them off, the slide would be sent flying.
Baldur winked at his daughter and she blinked back, still too young to close one eye at a time. Then he turned back to Freyja, his face alight with pleasure: ‘Have you ever seen a cuter kid?’
Freyja squeezed out an answering smile. She had stood in for her brother, taking care of his parental duties while he was behind bars. But however much she loved her niece, cute was not the word she’d have chosen to describe her. Still, Freyja couldn’t help but be pleased at her brother’s delight in his daughter, especially as he’d had so little contact with her up to now. That didn’t seem to affect their ability to bond, though. It had just happened, with no particular effort. Perhaps it helped that they were both a bit eccentric, each in their own way.
‘Hey! I forgot the big news.’ Baldur pushed his food away almost untouched and pulled over his coffee cup. ‘I meant to tell you in the car.’
‘What?’ Freyja wasn’t expecting any news. Baldur was keeping his nose clean at the moment, so as not to jeopardise the prospect of his imminent release on probation.
‘I’ve sorted out a flat for you.’ Baldur passed Saga another rasher of bacon. The first fell unheeded to the floor as she reached for the next. Out popped her little pink tongue and she started licking the bacon like a lolly.
Freyja dropped her fork on her plate and the scrambled egg she had just loaded on it tumbled off. ‘What?’ She really hoped her brother wasn’t pulling her leg. He knew how much sleep she’d been losing over the problem of finding somewhere to live. For now, she was still in his flat, but that arrangement couldn’t last much longer. There was no way she was sharing it with him once he got out of the halfway house. She had no intention of sleeping on the battered sofa in the living room while he and that week’s girlfriend got down to business in the bedroom next door. And the thought of sharing the sofa with a boyfriend while Baldur was in the flat was no more appealing. To date, though, all her attempts to find a flat had failed. Those on the market were either too expensive or their owners were looking for a different kind of tenant. She’d seriously begun to consider moving to the countryside or even abroad. ‘Please don’t tease me.’
‘Tease you? I’m not.’ Baldur picked up Saga’s glass and held it to her lips in the hope of persuading her to take a sip of orange juice, but she twisted stubbornly away until he gave up.
‘How could you find me a flat? I’ve been trying for over a year without any luck.’ This was typical of Baldur. People bent over backwards for him. If he went to view a property, you could bet your life the landlord would rustle up a contract on the spot. But Baldur could hardly have been looking at flats: he’d only just got out of jail.
‘You know Tobbi?’
‘Tobbi?’ The name sounded familiar but Freyja couldn’t put a face to it.
‘Yeah. My mate Tobbi. Don’t you remember him?’
‘Vaguely.’ Baldur had so many friends, each more disreputable than the last. It didn’t help that he made no distinction between friends and acquaintances. Everyone he knew fell into one of two groups: friends or wankers. The first group was much larger, as Baldur was oblivious to the fact that not everyone who laughed at his jokes was his friend. Wankers were those who, one way or another, got in the way of his enjoying life to the full. As his closest family member – an honour she now shared with Saga – Freyja belonged to
neither category.
‘Well, anyway, Tobbi’s got a flat he’s willing to rent you.’ Baldur wiped the crumbs fastidiously off the table before resting his arm on it. His hair had just been cut and his new outfit couldn’t have been cheap. Where the money had come from was a mystery to Freyja, but she didn’t dare ask. It was better not to know.
‘Me? Why me?’ Her initial excitement at the news was rapidly fading. The offer bore all the signs of being trouble, since when it came to trouble, Baldur was a past master.
‘Because I told him you needed somewhere to live. He was just complaining that he couldn’t find a good tenant, and as soon as I mentioned you he jumped at the idea.’
Freyja frowned and noticed that Saga immediately copied her. ‘Baldur, no one has trouble finding a good tenant in Reykjavík. All you have to do is stick a sign the size of a postage stamp with “To let” on it in your window and before you know it people will be queuing round the block. The flat’s not miles out of town, is it?’
‘No. It’s in Reykjavík. More or less.’
‘More or less? What does that mean?’
Baldur rolled his eyes. ‘It’s on Seltjarnarnes, all right? In a classy modern block.’
Freyja sighed. She’d known there had to be a catch: Seltjarnarnes was the upmarket suburb on the peninsula at the westernmost tip of Reykjavík. ‘I can’t afford a high rent, Baldur. You know that.’
‘The rent’s not high. It’s very reasonable.’ The figure he mentioned sounded as if it was for a garage rather than a flat.
‘How big is it? You’re not talking about a garden shed, are you?’
‘No. God, you’re being negative. I thought you’d be pleased.’ Baldur had stopped smiling and his mood was in imminent danger of tipping over into a sulk.
Gallows Rock - Freyja and Huldar Series 04 (2020) Page 2
