The Legacy

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  ‘No. Not that we’re aware. So far, the little we’ve dug up on her suggests she was squeaky clean. She worked for the tax office, looked after her family and did the usual outdoorsy stuff in her free time. Her life looks so blameless that I’d be astonished if we uncovered anything dodgy – and even more so if she was tortured to reveal information of some kind. It would have to have been one hell of a secret or you’d assume she’d have been falling over herself to confess when threatened with a hideous fate like that.’ His eyes strayed inadvertently to her disfigured face. The blue lips were parted to reveal a glimpse of broken front teeth. Overwhelmed by nausea, he dropped his gaze. ‘I doubt there’s any point trying to get our heads round what motivated him. Nothing could justify what he did.’

  ‘Are you positive it was a man? In the absence of semen you could potentially be looking at a woman.’

  Huldar thought. He was no more confident about that than about any other aspect of the case as the investigation had only just got off the ground. ‘No. Not necessarily. But I’m inclined to think it was a man, and that would fit with the girl’s testimony as well. A woman would have had more difficulty pinning Elísa down while she wound the tape round her head and arms. She must have put up a hell of a fight.’

  ‘Indeed. As her injuries suggest.’ Both men contemplated the bruises on the body. ‘Of course there are plenty of strong women out there, but Elísa seems to have been in good physical shape, so her attacker would have had to be unusually tough. Unless she acted in a frenzy. Madness can lend people strength.’

  ‘Some frenzy. How long do you think it would have taken?’ Huldar had seen people go berserk, both sober and under the influence of drugs or drink. That sort of outburst seldom lasted long, though there were always exceptions.

  ‘Hard to say. I’d estimate that the attack lasted around twenty to thirty minutes, but I doubt the post-mortem or any further tests will be able to give us a more precise answer. We can probably establish the actual time of death with more accuracy, but that’s all.’

  Huldar nodded. It was about what he’d guessed. The man must have been in a hurry to finish. He wouldn’t have wanted to be in the house any longer than strictly necessary. ‘Have you any idea about a possible motive?’ The question was a delaying tactic. Huldar needed a little more time to prepare himself mentally and physically before the pathologist embarked on the internal examination. The assistant had reappeared in the doorway, which presumably meant the next stage was about to begin.

  ‘No idea. I’m glad to say that’s your problem, not mine. The post-mortem’s unlikely to provide an explanation. That’s not how it works. But for what it’s worth, my immediate guess would be that she’d exposed someone through her job at the tax office. I’d look into that angle, anyway. People can become completely unhinged at the thought of losing money. Especially if they stand to lose everything.’ The man scratched his chin, his glove leaving a powdery white mark. ‘There’s one thing I forgot to ask. What was in the envelope? Did that shed any light on the matter?’

  During the preliminary investigation of the crime scene they had found an envelope on the fridge. Unlike the rest of the memos and pictures fixed there with decorative magnets, it was stuck on by one corner, using the same silver tape as had been wrapped around Elísa’s head and arms. No fingerprints had been found on the envelope, which turned out to contain a message formed of letters and numbers cut out of newspapers, like a kidnap note in a movie.

  ‘We don’t understand the message, if it is a message. All it said was: “So tell me”, followed by a colon, then a long string of numbers that don’t make any sense. We’ve got people working on it but they haven’t got very far yet.’ That was an understatement: they hadn’t got anywhere at all. ‘I made a photocopy in case you wanted it for your records.’

  The pathologist pushed his glasses a little further down his nose and studied the series of numbers: 53, 16 · 53, 90–1 · 4, 43–6, 65–5, 68 · 43–6, 8 · 106–16, 53, 23, 63–92 · 90, 89–6, 7·43–6, 8 · 75, 58, 53, 23, 63–92.

  ‘What on earth is it supposed to mean?’

  ‘It’s anybody’s guess at this stage. It didn’t ring any bells with the husband and we still haven’t come up with any ideas. The guys who’ve been studying it think it’s a code that could prove impossible to crack. They believe the numbers represent letters and the dots probably mark word breaks, but the dashes are a mystery. And we have no idea if it’s in Icelandic. We’ll continue to work on it, but it may well be the product of a deranged mind, which only makes sense to the person who wrote it.’

  ‘Well, that’s possible.’ The pathologist sounded unconvinced. ‘But don’t forget what I said before about psychotics. It would have required considerable effort to construct this note; to cut out the numbers, arrange them in the right order and glue them to the paper. I myself wouldn’t go to that sort of trouble unless it served a purpose. You get the impression he has an agenda. In fact, it looks like a personal message. Don’t you agree?’ He put down the photocopy and spread a piece of plastic over it to prevent it from being splashed when he got to work with the saw and forceps.

  Huldar tried to distract himself from what was about to happen by concentrating hard on the conversation. ‘Yes, maybe.’ The more he had racked his brains over the words and the series of numbers that followed them, the less sense they had made. Why use a code in the first place? Who was the intended recipient and what could the message mean? It could hardly be for Elísa since the murderer had killed her before she had a chance to open the envelope. So, logically it must have been intended for the police or for her husband Sigvaldi, though he claimed to be completely in the dark about what it could mean. Perhaps they would discover something in Sigvaldi’s past, though he swore he had no enemies. Huldar half hoped they would uncover some terrible crime he’d committed, which would enable the inquiry to get off the ground. They needed a lead if the investigation wasn’t going to be stuck forever. If the post-mortem didn’t throw up anything new, it was hard to see how they were to proceed. He glanced at Elísa’s maimed body and swallowed. Any minute now he would see what she looked like inside. A wave of dizziness hit him and the colour drained from his face.

  The pathologist held out a pot that he had taken from his assistant. ‘Rub some of this under your nose. I can tell you’re not feeling too good, but believe you me, the next bit’s the really tough part. The smell will be pretty overpowering but the cream helps. It doesn’t entirely block it out but it’ll make it more bearable.’ Smiling, he put on the mask that had been hanging round his neck. ‘If you need to vomit, make sure you don’t get any on the body. It’s been known and I never want to have to go through that again. Remember to pull down the mask first as well. I don’t want to have to witness that again either.’

  Huldar nodded and took the pot. The gelatinous cream reeked so strongly of mint or menthol that it made his eyes sting. He had used it before; bad smells went with the territory. He donned the mask, which helped a little but did nothing to diminish his dread. Watching the pathologist prising open every orifice in her body had almost unmanned him. The rest hadn’t been quite as bad, but he’d felt ill the whole time the doctor was probing the dead woman. The worst part was when he examined her face. Although Huldar knew better he had kept expecting to see twitches of pain round Elísa’s eyes and mouth; goodness knows what he would start imagining when he saw the pathologist wielding the saw.

  ‘Ready?’

  Huldar read doubt in the pathologist’s eyes. He nodded with little conviction, and the doctor shrugged.

  ‘You don’t have to be present unless you really want to. Your predecessors set up this arrangement. They thought it was a good idea. I can’t say I see any point in it except to provide us with a bit of company.’ He nodded at his assistant who grinned and snapped on a mask. ‘Perhaps it’ll make you doubly determined to catch the culprit.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ There might be something in what the man said. Huldar already
felt a burning desire to see the killer behind bars and that desire was definitely stronger now than when he had arrived. It would violate his sense of justice if the person responsible for this atrocity got away scot-free. It was unthinkable.

  The pathologist’s gloved hand hovered over the tray of shiny instruments. He seemed unable to decide which should have the honour of starting the job. Huldar watched, trying to predict which one he’d pick. But before he could reach a conclusion, the pathologist turned and looked him in the eye for a moment before saying: ‘Doesn’t it strike you as a bit odd that you were assigned this case?’

  Huldar was riled by the implicit doubt in his abilities, not least because it was precisely what he himself had been wondering. ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘Oh, you know. This is one of the most brutal murders ever to come our way. I’d never have dreamt of asking one of the juniors in my department to perform the post-mortem. Is it possible that you’ve been chosen for other reasons than your competence? As far as I know, CID has plenty of detectives more experienced than you.’

  ‘I’m not the right person to answer that.’ In fact, he could have given a more honest explanation, which was that all the most senior detectives had seriously blotted their copybooks. CID had been having major image problems in the wake of an inquiry into past misconduct, an inquiry that had been launched when it emerged that a special prosecutor, appointed to preside over the investigation into criminal activity related to the banking collapse, had committed gross breaches of the law when collecting evidence. As the majority of the prosecutor’s team had previously served in the police, the decision had been taken to check whether this reflected endemic malpractice in the force. This had opened up a whole can of worms. The list of violations turned out to be a long one: phone-tapping; house and office searches undertaken without a warrant; paperwork fixed after the event; evidence going astray; attempts to suborn witnesses; the use of psychological – and physical – violence. The media storm had lasted for weeks, and the names of all the high-ranking detectives had been dragged through the mud. There had been no firings or demotions, however, and Huldar doubted it would come to that. The most galling part was that the majority of police officers performed their roles with integrity, but as long as the bad apples escaped sanctions, it cast a shadow over the rest. Regrettably, though, it seemed that nothing was going to change; the detectives in question were determined to ride out the storm. Over the years the occasional officer had been exposed for even worse offences without being held to account, and clearly this had set a precedent. The upshot of it all was that those implicated were keen to keep their heads below the parapet until the furore had died down. Whoever led this inquiry would have to hold press conferences and the last thing any of them wanted was to remind the public that they were still holding on to their positions. So the job had fallen to Huldar. He had a clean record at work, even if he wasn’t quite so angelic in his private life.

  ‘Don’t take it personally. I just wanted to warn you. If you were assigned this case for the reasons I suspect, and I think you suspect them too, you can be sure your colleagues won’t want to see you succeed on your own merit. Although they desperately want this case solved they would probably prefer you to trip up along the way. So watch your back. I mean that kindly. If you cock up this investigation, you may not get another break. Certainly not any time soon and most likely never.’

  Huldar was silent. The reek of menthol was suffocating and he snatched a gulp of fresh air under the mask. The pathologist’s eyes crinkled in an invisible smile, then he clapped his hands together as a sign that it was time to start work. He selected a scalpel and aimed it over Elísa’s abdomen. Huldar took up position beside him and closed his eyes as the man cut a long incision down the woman’s sternum.

  Chapter 7

  Sunday

  The newsreader sounded grave, almost sad. Ástrós Einarsdóttir usually liked the woman. When she was reporting something cheerful, like a festival in town or the opening of a new road, there was no disguising her pleasure. Occasionally she overdid it slightly, sounding as though she had some personal stake in the affair, as if she were in charge of the festivities herself or had been waiting impatiently for a new stretch of road to some benighted spot. But she adopted a more sombre tone when she had serious news to impart and slowed her delivery to ensure that every word would get across.

  Like now.

  In this case the slow delivery might also have been intended to spin out the announcement since the report itself was brief and uninformative in the extreme: a woman had died in Reykjavík on Thursday night and the police were not ruling out murder. They were refusing to release any further details at this stage. Given that there seemed to be nothing more to say, she wondered why they had reported the incident at all. Why should people be so desperate to know about a possible murder? Couldn’t they wait until the facts had been established? Personally, Ástrós felt she had gained nothing by hearing the news.

  She stood up to turn down the volume before the sports news, which hurt her ears as badly as the screech of chalk on a blackboard, a sound she had never got used to in all her years of teaching. She had welcomed the advent of board markers and never minded when someone forgot to replace the lid and the ink dried up. Anything was better than the grating noise, dry skin and dust associated with chalk. She switched off the radio and immediately felt better. This was the only positive change to have come about as a result of her husband’s death nearly two years ago. He used to sit glued to the radio while what seemed like every last match result in the world was read out, always with the volume turned up full blast. The arrival of the internet and the ability to check the results in peace and quiet had made no difference. No, he insisted on listening to the scores the old way.

  But she missed the cosy companionship, the love and warmth, so badly that she would gladly have had a radio broadcasting twenty-four-hour sports news grafted to her ear if only it could have brought him back.

  Ástrós’s phone bleeped from the kitchen where it was lying beside the remains of her lunch. She’d prepared the food in a desultory manner, with no sense of anticipation. Since she’d stopped working it had ceased to make any difference if it was a weekday or a weekend. In the past, she would have taken the time to lay the table nicely, leaving a place for the newspapers beside her plate. She would have perused them as she ate, then had a nice cup of coffee. But now there was an endless list of unhealthy foods that the doctor had banned her from eating, which included butter, salt and fat; in other words almost everything that made food worthwhile. As a result there was no point taking trouble over her meals: cottage cheese with cucumber and spelt bread was never going to be particularly exciting, no matter what she did to dress it up.

  The screen of her phone glowed blue and she picked it up curiously. These days few people contacted her on a Sunday. Or any other day, for that matter. And it was even more unusual for her to receive a text. Neither her sister nor her friends used this method of communication. They were as long-sighted as her and had difficulty finding the right buttons to press. She felt a certain smug satisfaction at being the only one who had worked out how to switch off the predictive texting function that was forever trying to pre-empt what she wanted to say.

  Ástrós opened the message. It must be some mistake. Was it possible that autocorrect would suggest numbers too? 39, 8, 92 · 5, 3–53, 8, 8, 66 · 83, 43, 1. It didn’t resemble any sequence she could call to mind; no phone, credit card or lottery number. The sender was anonymous. Perhaps it was some sort of computer virus. Hers was a smartphone, after all.

  Rather than waste any more time wondering, she decided to call the phone company. After a long wait she was put through to a young man who spoke very fast. She explained what had happened and answered his questions, but he seemed unable to grasp that she had all her marbles. She kept having to repeat herself and answer irrelevant questions. The phone bleeped again in the middle of their conversation, which co
nfused her, especially since the young man claimed not to have heard anything. Finally, deciding this was futile, she rang off, still none the wiser about whether her phone had a virus. From what she had understood, she could submit a special request – on a working day – to have the message traced, though it had sounded from the way the young man phrased it as if the process wasn’t that simple. Anyway, she didn’t really care who had sent it, she just wanted to know if her phone needed to be scanned for viruses.

  The bleep had heralded a second text consisting of another string of numbers, no less incomprehensible: 39, 8, 92 · 75 · 10, X, 65–5. This couldn’t be a good sign. Whatever that boy had said, the bloody phone probably had a virus. She considered ringing the telecom company again but couldn’t face it.

  The phone bleeped a third time. Another message from the same unknown sender: 66–39, 8 · 90, 63–92 · 42–8, 85, 108. Ástrós hurriedly closed the message in case the virus spread. Then, to test that her phone was still working properly, she rang a friend. Their conversation had no sooner begun than she regretted her haste. The phone seemed to be working fine but now she was condemned to listen to her friend’s description of the cruise she and her husband were planning. Ástrós couldn’t suppress a twinge of envy, even though the couple weren’t going for another eight months. In the end she managed to cut the conversation short in the middle of a solemn account of how much extra it would cost to book a cabin with a balcony, by lying that there was someone at the door. Ástrós reminded herself not to call this friend again for a while, at least not until she had got over the worst of her excitement.

  The screen went dark after Ástrós had hung up and her phone seemed perfectly normal. Nevertheless, she picked it up and put it on silent. Tomorrow she’d take it to the shop and ask the people there to have a look at it. They would be able to find out what was wrong and sort it out if it did have a virus. She had nothing better to do, after all.