Konrád from the State Prosecutor’s office coughed. ‘I suggest we keep going. The man’ll be here any minute and it’s absolutely vital we talk to the girl as soon as possible. May I remind you that a murder has been committed and she’s the only witness?’
‘Her name’s Margrét.’ The nurse’s voice came out sounding unusually gruff. She’d been attending call-outs at the Children’s House ever since it had been set up seventeen years earlier, during which time she’d had to witness such appalling tragedies that Freyja was worried it was beginning to get to her. She rarely smiled and had a short fuse when annoyed. Like now. ‘You could at least get that right.’
‘And you could at least appreciate that we’re under no obligation to question the girl here. The judge who recommended it only suggested we try this solution. But it looks to me as if we should stick to our original plan and interview her down at the station.’ Konrád’s face had turned crimson, clashing with his garish tie.
Jóhann from the child protection services gave Freyja a discreet kick under the table. She didn’t need him to spell it out; she was perfectly aware that they were making a mess of things. As a representative of the government agency, he was in a sense her superior. She tried to de-escalate the tension by keeping her voice level. ‘Let’s just stay calm. We all know how important Margrét’s disclosure is. Please don’t forget that we’re experts in this area and know when it’s right to suspend an interview with a child. May I also remind you that it’s not our fault how things have turned out. Where’s the police officer who was supposed to supply the questions? We know next to nothing about the case. We were simply told to turn up here at ten o’clock, which we did, like Margrét and her grandfather. It’s your man who’s let everyone down, Konrád, not us.’ Freyja hoped he wouldn’t start grumbling that he was from the State Prosecutor’s office and had no authority over the police. As far as she was concerned they amounted to the same thing.
Konrád took out his phone, his hectic colour fading a little, and hurriedly selected a number. He waited impatiently for an answer, then bawled out the person unlucky enough to pick up. In doing so he broke one of the few rules that had been laid down at the beginning of the interview. The glass was not completely soundproof, so it was always impressed on the observers that they should speak quietly when there was a child on the other side. A loud noise near the microphone could also fluster the interviewer, or even damage her ear.
‘Keep your voice down.’ Freyja waved furiously at Konrád, who turned away and continued his tirade.
Freyja noticed Margrét glance up at the mirror. Silja did too, with a grimace. She was understandably annoyed as it was her job to keep Margrét calm. She threw up her hands and Freyja thought she could read her lips: ‘What’s going on?’
A faint sound of weeping began to cut through Konrád’s ranting. It increased in volume until the room was echoing with a loud sobbing. Even Konrád shut up, lowered his phone and stared at the girl who was on her feet now, her thin body trembling.
Before Silja had a chance to comfort her, the girl’s lips began to form words and the intercom conveyed the half-whispered question: ‘Is the black man there? Is he behind the mirror?’ Margrét cowered, averting her eyes from the glass.
‘No, Margrét. It’s only people who want the best for you. Who’s the black man?’ Warily, Silja placed her hands on the little girl’s shoulders and tried to steer her gently back to the sofa. She resisted.
‘He hurt my mummy.’ The pain in the small voice cut the listeners to the quick.
‘Did you see this man, Margrét?’
‘Yes. He was black.’
Silja shot a glance at the mirror. Freyja bent to the microphone and urged her to continue. Silja gave an almost imperceptible nod. Then she spoke again, her tone calm and composed: ‘Now I need you to think carefully, Margrét. Was he black because it was dark in the room or because he was a black man?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Was his skin dark?’
‘Yes.’
Silja licked her lips and continued cautiously: ‘Did you see his hands?’
Margrét shook her head. She sniffed and rubbed her cheeks clumsily to dry her tears. ‘His head. I saw his head.’
‘Did you see his face, Margrét?’
‘No. Not his face. Just the back of his black head. He had a very big head.’ Margrét turned her back to the mirror. ‘I want my grandpa. I’m not saying any more. I don’t want to talk about it any more. Ever.’
Silja tried to talk her round but couldn’t coax another word out of her. The interview was over, just when it had appeared to be taking a turn for the better. All in all, it had been a dismal failure, the exact opposite of what the team had been aiming for. Silja sat down with a sigh.
At that moment the policeman finally put in an appearance. He turned bright red when he saw Freyja. Her mouth dropped open, and she momentarily forgot the collapsing situation. It was none other than Jónas the carpenter from Egilsstadir. Their eyes met; hers stormy, his stunned. Then he looked away and addressed the others: ‘I’m Huldar, from the Police Commissioner’s office. Sorry I’m so late. Something came up.’
Chapter 5
As a policeman, Huldar was used to all kinds of receptions. He was seldom a welcome guest; people usually only spoke to him when forced to, eyeing him all the while as though he smelt funny. It was clear from their expressions that most of those he dealt with blamed their predicament on him – and possibly on whichever police officer happened to be standing at his side. Not that he cared; since joining the force he hadn’t given a damn what people thought. The spitting, the abuse, the dirty looks, he remained untouched by it all. As the only boy and youngest child, he’d been forced to develop a thick skin – his five elder sisters had seen to that. Though even their treatment had never quite plumbed the depths of your average citizen when he’d downed a few drinks.
So he had been disconcerted to find himself blushing when he entered the little meeting room. There were six people gathered there, the sexes equally represented, split down the middle by the smartly polished table. His apology was met with a silent stare but that wasn’t what brought the blood rushing to his cheeks. He cursed himself for not having had the forethought to check who would be there. Freyja’s name would have set off alarm bells and given him time to prepare. He could have phoned her beforehand, asked her to forget their previous encounter for as long as it took to interview the child. Instead, he was doomed either to suffer her black looks or to discuss their private affairs in front of the others. Well, that was out of the question. He debated asking her to step outside with him for a moment but thought better of it. Her expression, from what he could see out of the corner of his eye, suggested she was unlikely to cooperate.
‘What the hell do you mean by turning up so late?’ barked a man in a suit that appeared to have shrunk in the wash. The snug fit was probably in fashion; young men strutted out of law firms and banks dressed like that. And the tie, too – so dazzling it was almost fluorescent. Achingly trendy. Like the man’s hair, which was too styled for the casual effect he was no doubt aiming at. Between the garish tie and sleek coiffure was one of those nondescript faces that were impossible to recall afterwards; the sort of face criminals dream of possessing. Neither ugly nor handsome, neither coarse- nor fine-featured. No distinguishing marks, no scars or freckles. Only eyes, nose and mouth, all neatly set in the appropriate places. It took Huldar a moment to figure out that he’d seen the guy before. He had a feeling his name was Konrád. A prosecutor. So it was unfortunate their relationship should have got off on such a bad footing.
Still, Huldar was glad the man had shouted at him; it gave him an excuse not to have to speak to Freyja. He knew why the prosecutor had raised his voice; few methods were as effective as threats and reprimands. Recently the senior officers in CID had attended a management course on how to offer praise and incentives, but their subsequent attempts to employ this technique had merely
proved how ineffectual it was. Personally he couldn’t imagine praise galvanising him the way a good bollocking did. But unfortunately this trendy lawyer was unlikely to respond well to being bawled out in return, and the others certainly wouldn’t appreciate it. It was time for the kid-glove approach.
‘Like I said, something came up.’ Huldar refrained from explaining that his useless boss, Egill, had been unable until the last minute to make up his mind who to send. Huldar hadn’t for a moment expected it to be him; he was used to being overlooked when positions of responsibility were doled out. They were usually assigned to older, more experienced men, as long as they weren’t so old that they were on their way out. As a result he had given up hope of ascending the ranks. He wasn’t like his colleagues; he had a different mindset and didn’t offer unquestioning obedience, which meant he had few supporters among the top brass. So while his colleagues were speculating over who was likely to lead the investigation, he had been quietly sipping his coffee, not dreaming that he could be in with a chance. He wasn’t the only one taken aback by his boss’s belated announcement that he had just been promoted.
The silence around the table was broken by an older man. His hair and clothes looked dishevelled, his big hands rested on the table with fingers clasped as though in prayer. ‘I’ve had enough of this. Margrét and I are leaving.’
Huldar guessed this was the girl’s grandfather, who had been given temporary custody until her father could take over. The father had returned from America that morning, been met at the airport by the police and taken straight to the station for questioning. As far as Huldar knew, the interview was still going on. If only Egill had got his act together sooner, Huldar could have directed it himself. Now he would have to make do with the transcript.
Through the glass, Huldar saw that the little girl Margrét was crying and a young, dark-haired woman in a yellow dress was trying to comfort her. The quiet sobbing was relayed over the intercom in the middle of the table, together with the woman’s soothing words. Having witnessed the scene at the girl’s house, he wasn’t surprised she was crying. He’d gathered that a judge had recommended the girl should be interviewed at the Children’s House after it proved impossible to persuade her to set foot in the police station.
Faced with her inconsolable grief, Huldar felt profoundly relieved by the arrangement. He couldn’t picture himself in the role of the woman who was now drying Margrét’s tears. Especially not in the spartan interview room at the station. It seemed he wasn’t the only one affected by the sobbing, because Freyja suddenly reached over and switched off the intercom.
A strained silence ensued and the group’s attention shifted from Huldar to Margrét and the woman in the yellow dress, as though they were watching a huge flat-screen TV with the volume turned down.
No one said a word but they were probably all thinking the same thing. What had the girl seen or heard? It was still unclear how long she had been under the bed and how she had come to be there in the first place. But since it seemed unlikely she had hidden there after the murder had taken place, the logical conclusion was that she must be in possession of crucial information about the night’s events. Her brothers, who had been found wandering around outside the house, hadn’t been aware of anything, so there was nothing to be gained from them. Their interviews had already been satisfactorily completed. The boys’ statements were consistent and in spite of their youth they had been able to give coherent accounts of what had happened. They had woken up in the morning to find their bedroom door locked, and after banging and shouting in vain, they had climbed out of the window. The woman next door had spotted them in the street. She claimed she had slept like a log that night but her husband said he’d been woken a couple of times by a noise he couldn’t identify. Huldar and his colleagues thought Elísa had probably managed to scream more than once while the murderer was preparing her slow, grisly demise. Only a few metres separated the master bedrooms of the two houses, so her cries could conceivably have carried in through the neighbours’ open window. The police had interviewed the other neighbours but none had noticed any comings or goings in the night or anything else out of the ordinary.
All the indications were that Margrét was the only witness. It had proved impossible to lure her out from under the bed and in the end Huldar had resorted to dragging her out by force. He had managed, with some difficulty, to carry her out of the room without letting her see her mother’s body or the ghastly thing that had been done to her head. They hadn’t been able to get a word out of the girl at the time. She had refused to look at him and kept straining her head away, covering her ears and screwing her eyes shut. After Huldar had made several unsuccessful attempts to question her, the pathologist had intervened, ordered him to stop, and phoned for an ambulance. He had been extremely concerned about the girl’s mental state. After the children had been examined at the hospital, social services had placed them with their paternal grandparents until their father came home. No one said as much but everyone involved in the investigation knew it would be best to complete Margrét’s interview before father and daughter were reunited. The man was more likely to create difficulties than the grandparents. He was bound to be in shock and might also have something to hide. In the majority of cases where women were murdered in their own homes, a husband or lover was responsible. They had not yet been able to verify that he had left the country before his wife was killed, though all the evidence suggested that he had. Even so, that wouldn’t necessarily clear him. If their marriage had been on the rocks, for example, it wasn’t out of the question that he could have hired somebody else to do the job.
All of which reminded Huldar how urgent it was to complete the girl’s interview. Yet it seemed to have broken down irretrievably. The child’s grandfather was on his feet and judging from his expression he would not take kindly to a request for more time. Before Huldar could even broach the subject, the older man spoke again: ‘This is an absolute disgrace. I’m not sitting through a moment more of this farce. How do I get in there?’ He was watching his granddaughter as though prepared to break the glass to reach her.
‘I’ll take you.’ A woman Huldar didn’t recognise showed him to the door. Her face was grim, though the smile lines round her eyes and bracketing her mouth hinted that this harshness didn’t come naturally to her. She bestowed such a glare on Huldar as she walked past that he half expected to be jabbed by an elbow. From the badge on her breast, she appeared to be a nurse.
‘What the hell do we do now?’ The prosecutor Konrád was torn between exasperation and despair.
‘Did you get any information out of her?’ Huldar affected to be cool and unruffled. He had long ago learnt the trick of not letting other people’s agitation disconcert him. His five sisters had made sure of that. It was how he had emerged victorious from the majority of their quarrels. As an adult he had tried to apply the technique to his private life, but it had backfired badly in the few serious relationships he’d had. For some reason the method that worked so well on other occasions proved disastrous in quarrels with girlfriends. Before he knew what was happening the situation would have been turned on its head; suddenly he was in the wrong, and he invariably ended up saying something he regretted. Little by little the relationships would fall apart, however hard he tried to undo the damage. He suspected that the conversation he would sooner or later be forced to have with Freyja would end the same way. If she spoke to him at all, that is. His decision to abandon the search for a permanent relationship and concentrate on one-night stands instead had cost him dear. First there was all the crap he had gone through with Ríkhardur’s wife Karlotta, and now this. Still, coming unexpectedly face to face with Freyja was nothing compared to the nightmare that had followed his and Karlotta’s brief interlude last autumn. A shudder ran down his spine at the thought.
‘Of course we didn’t manage to ask her anything. You were supposed to supply the questions.’ Freyja sounded just like his ex-girlfriends at their most pissed
off.
Deciding, in the light of experience, that it was better to ignore this, Huldar addressed the prosecutor instead. ‘You must be as well informed about the case as I am, Konrád, if not better. Couldn’t you have started the ball rolling while you were waiting for me?’ He avoided Freyja’s eye as he talked. Her withering look threw him; his sisters could have learnt a lot from her. He was assailed by a sudden craving for nicotine gum. ‘You could have asked some simple, obvious questions without me. The whole thing’s recorded, isn’t it? I could have listened to the answers afterwards.’
At this point a woman, who Huldar recognised as a doctor associated with the Children’s House, decided to weigh in. He had heard her testifying in sexual abuse trials and her mechanical delivery had seemed appropriate in the courtroom, but now she sounded rather more heated. ‘Or you could have had the courtesy to turn up on time.’
‘Yes, granted.’ Huldar didn’t bother to explain. It would do no good to say he’d come as fast as he could. He’d rather take the blame than try to shift it on to someone else.
‘The only thing we could get out of her before she retreated into her shell was that the murderer is probably black.’ Konrád shook his head. ‘Though I wouldn’t put any faith in that. There was no chance to question her further.’
‘Black?’ Huldar made an effort to hide his relief for fear of being misunderstood. It had nothing to do with race; only that if the girl was right, it shouldn’t be difficult to track down the killer. There weren’t many black people in Iceland, and those who did live there must be the peace-loving type as Huldar couldn’t off the top of his head remember a single violent incident involving a black person. Though it was bound to happen sooner or later.
‘And he’s got a very big head, don’t forget that.’ Freyja addressed this to Konrád, as if Huldar wasn’t present.
The Legacy Page 6
