The Legacy

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  She focused on the house. It didn’t seem to have been altered inside as so many had nowadays. The ceiling was clad in dark yellow panels that had no doubt originally been much lighter. The ceiling-lights were also from a bygone age: large, domed spotlights, set into the panelling. It was obvious from the texture of the walls that the wallpaper had been painted over. If it dated from the time the house was built it was a pity it had been covered up: bold patterns were back in fashion.

  Huldar turned and opened his mouth but Freyja deliberately interrupted before he could speak, asking the first thing that entered her head. ‘Were they well off?’

  The furnishings gave the impression that Elísa and her husband had been comfortably provided for, though nothing looked expensive. There was a crumpled blanket on the sofa in front of the TV, a large picture book, a child’s sock and a remote control. The other sock lay among the Cheerios spilt all over the coffee table, along with a folded newspaper, a bowl containing some crumbs of popcorn and a half-empty glass of water. Lego bricks were strewn over the floor. Freyja suspected that Elísa would have taken five minutes to tidy up if she’d known what was coming. It was all too clear that she had been caught on the hop. Perhaps that was why Freyja liked to have everything tidy around her: she wouldn’t want strangers entering her home if it was a mess. It occurred to her that she had better not die while she was living in her brother’s flat. She still hadn’t found the willpower to give the place a real blitz, though she’d cleaned the living room enough to be able to receive guests without embarrassment.

  ‘They were doing OK, I believe. Their bank statements indicate that they usually paid off their bills every month, though they didn’t have any big savings. The murder is very unlikely to have been about money.’ Huldar looked back over his shoulder as he entered the bedroom hallway, apparently relieved to find a neutral subject to talk about. ‘The woman doesn’t appear to have had life insurance, which pretty much rules out murder for her inheritance. The husband would hardly have resorted to killing her for her share of the house. It’s mortgaged to the hilt anyway.’ He stopped at the first door. The floor in front of it was covered in a fine powder that could also be seen on the doorknob.

  ‘Did you find any fingerprints?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, but probably not. Most things in here are covered in the family’s prints, and all the indications are that the man was wearing gloves. At least, the most recent prints on the children’s bedroom door-handles were theirs or Elísa’s. If the murderer had had bare hands, we’d have found an extra set of prints. He locked the boys in their room. Luckily, because it spared them the horror of finding their mother’s body.’ Huldar suppressed a yawn. ‘The door to Margrét’s room was locked too but, as you know, she wasn’t inside. There were some stuffed toys under the duvet, which may have misled the murderer if he peered in before locking it. In the dark it would have looked as if a child was lying there.’ His eyes met Freyja’s, their whites covered in a network of red veins. ‘Would you lock your children in at night?’

  ‘I haven’t got any children.’

  He seemed pleased by her answer. ‘No, neither have I.’ He smiled. ‘As far as I know.’

  Freyja didn’t return his smile. Was he trying to come across as some kind of stud? ‘Well, I know I don’t have any. I couldn’t have failed to notice.’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ He didn’t seem to register her sarcasm. Too tired, probably. ‘But if you did have kids, would you lock them in at night? What if there was a fire?’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose I would.’

  ‘Exactly. So it’s highly unlikely Elísa did, and her husband agrees. They weren’t in the habit of doing that.’

  The doors were original, like the rest of the fittings. Freyja stared, puzzled, at the keyhole. ‘How did the boys get out if it was locked from the outside? Did they have a key?’

  ‘No, apparently the older boy crawled out of the window and persuaded the younger one to follow him.’

  ‘Where’s the key now?’

  ‘At the station. We only found one. It was in the boys’ door. The same key works for all the internal doors. The rest have probably been lost. Sigvaldi says he can’t remember how many there were as they hardly ever used them. So it’s possible that the murderer took one or two with him. Though I can’t imagine why.’

  ‘How did he get in?’

  ‘Either the outside door was unlocked or he had a key, because there are no signs of a break-in.’ He opened a bedroom door. ‘Here you are. You can touch anything. We’ve been over it repeatedly.’

  The contents of the room were covered in more of the same fine powder. It was like being the first to enter a tomb that had been closed for centuries; a tomb that also served as a playroom. The place was a shambles of toys and children’s clothes, but Freyja noticed that some of the garments were still folded. She assumed the chaos had been caused by the police. The room couldn’t have looked like this before. Seeing the empty wardrobe with its door hanging open, she guessed that the neatly folded clothes had been piled on the shelves inside before the police swept them out on to the floor.

  ‘Am I supposed to pull clothes out of this heap?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Huldar leant against the door jamb, watching her as she turned in a circle, hunting for the least dusty garments. She regretted having worn such tight trousers; a long, full skirt would have been more suitable. The idea that he might think she’d dressed like this to impress him was intolerable. Feeling self-conscious under his gaze, she wished she could ask him to leave the room. But before she could summon up the nerve, she’d lost her chance.

  ‘There are some clothes in the laundry room as well but they’re not much better. And they’re dirty too.’ He smiled, the weariness leaving his face for a moment.

  ‘Right.’ Freyja shook the fingerprint powder off two pairs of trousers and shirts, leaning backwards to avoid the resulting cloud of dust. She rooted around in the mess again until she had extracted some underpants and socks, then left it at that. She could always come back another time. ‘This’ll do. Next room, please.’

  Huldar escorted her down the hallway to Margrét’s room. The trail of chaos left by the police was no less obvious here but as the room was a little larger the mess didn’t seem as overwhelming. The clothes were different too: there were girly dresses among the jeans, and the T-shirts were mostly decorated with cats or other cute animals. No dinosaurs or crocodiles here. Freyja got straight down to work; the dust had begun to irritate her nose and eyes and she longed to be out of here. Once she had tracked down the girl’s school bag and some clothes, all that remained was to collect the toothbrushes and some scrunchies that had been especially requested.

  Huldar cleared his throat. ‘By the way, my name is Jónas. Huldar Jónas. It wasn’t a total lie. And I was born and raised in Egilsstadir.’

  Freyja stiffened where she was stooping over a pile of clothes. She had been hoping to find the girl’s school things underneath. Straightening up again, she smiled mockingly at Huldar. ‘Good for you. Don’t tell me you’re a carpenter on the side as well?’

  Huldar looked stung. ‘No. But the rest was true. More or less.’

  Freyja turned back to the pile. ‘You know what, I really couldn’t give a toss. And I’d be grateful if you didn’t refer to the incident again.’ She was glad he couldn’t see her hot cheeks. If only one could delete unwanted memories like old computer files. ‘I’d rather forget about it. It wasn’t that memorable, anyway, which makes it easier. I hope you feel the same.’

  ‘I just wanted to apologise and explain.’

  ‘Thanks but no thanks. No need for apologies.’ With an effort she stopped her voice from giving her away. The truth was that she was still smarting from the stupid affair; it had been like a scene from a bad movie. Waking up and reaching out an arm only to encounter a cold, empty bed where her lover should have been. No aroma of coffee from the kitchen, no sizzling of bacon. No note. Nothing. The most humi
liating awakening she had ever experienced. Usually the men she invited to share her bed were in no hurry to knot the sheets together and escape out of the window. She supposed it was some comfort that he’d made do with the stairs.

  ‘The thing is, whenever I tell women what I do for a living—’

  ‘Yeah, right. My heart bleeds for you.’ Freyja picked up a piece of paper that had been concealed under a stripy jumper. It was a drawing, signed ‘Margrét’ in one corner. She examined it, turning it round. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Looks like a drawing by the girl.’ Huldar seemed relieved at the change of subject. ‘Never mind that sort of thing. We’ve taken away everything of significance. The room’s full of the girl’s drawings. The kitchen too.’

  Glancing around, Freyja spotted more pieces of paper. Some showed conventional scenes of the sun setting behind two pointy-peaked mountains but it wasn’t long before she found another like the one she was holding. ‘This is no normal child’s drawing. Nor’s this.’

  ‘Normal? What’s a normal drawing?’ Huldar took the paper from her. ‘It’s just a house and a man. I can’t see anything strange about that.’

  ‘Part of my job is to analyse children’s pictures. This is no normal drawing. You should take them both with you.’ Freyja rose to her feet. ‘I advise you to collect them all up and have them analysed. We can help, if you like.’

  Huldar examined the picture sceptically. Freyja went over to stand next to him. ‘This is her house. The house we’re standing in. You must be able to see that.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And this person here,’ Freyja pointed to the black figure who was depicted far too large in relation to the house. ‘Do you see the way he’s standing, apparently staring at the house? His arms are sticking out as if he’s about to start a fight. The black colour implies that he’s a bad man. There’s every chance she drew something she’d actually witnessed. Perhaps the murderer had been stalking the family, scoping out the territory, or whatever it is that murderers do. She may well have sensed there was something wrong, though she didn’t mention it to her parents. Children have a tendency to repress things, but they can emerge in their drawings. Not always but often. If she saw a man hanging around the house, she might be able to provide a more detailed description of him.’

  Huldar raised his eyes from the sheet of paper. ‘You’re telling me.’ His face hardened. ‘I want her brought in for interview today. You have one hour to arrange it.’ He took the other drawing from her. ‘Starting now.’

  Clearly, Freyja wasn’t going to have time to search for scrunchies, let alone make it to lunch with her girlfriends.

  Chapter 9

  The shortwave receiver stood in its place on the table, tuned in to the Icelandic numbers station. Despite frequent cracklings and static over the amplifier, the broadcast still hadn’t come on air. Karl was growing restless, picturing the glances his friends must be exchanging behind his back. ‘I can’t understand it.’ He had been repeating this for the last hour but however often he told himself to shut up, he couldn’t stop blurting it out at regular intervals. ‘Perhaps it’ll begin at seven.’ It was still ten to.

  Halli yawned behind him. ‘Or not.’

  Karl made a face and took a deep breath. This was a total disaster. Why did nothing ever go right for him? What were the odds that things would go wrong for a person every single time? Remote, surely? He’d have to be one of the luckiest men alive for the next few decades if he was to achieve the average. Not once could he remember things going right for him, yet again and again he fell into the trap of assuming that they would. It never occurred to him to have a back-up plan. If only he’d had the sense to move the TV down to the basement they could have watched a film or played computer games if the broadcast was delayed. What a loser he was. But when he mentally pictured the TV in the sitting room he realised he would never have done it. Although it wasn’t an old CRT set, the flat-screen was almost as clunky, and hardly any bigger than a computer monitor. His mum had gone for the cheapest model, as always. The most expensive stuff in the house was the radio gear he had saved up for himself.

  There was no chance of moving the radio receiver upstairs either because Karl wouldn’t dream of letting his friends loose in those embarrassingly naff surroundings. The furnishings weren’t even the kind that would come back into fashion if you waited long enough. He had herded Halli and Börkur straight down to the basement after letting them hang up their coats in the hall. Above their heads, Che Guevara stared into space looking a little surprised, a relic of his mother’s ill-defined left-wing politics that had mainly consisted of sneering whenever the subject of America came up. Karl was relieved the faded poster hadn’t fallen off the wall while his friends were bumbling around underneath it – the cheap frame was coming apart at two corners. He couldn’t give a damn what happened to the picture but would rather his friends didn’t notice it.

  Why on earth hadn’t he removed the poster, and others like it? Laziness – sheer laziness. If he didn’t like something about the house, it was up to him to change it. To be fair, he had invited an antiques dealer to give him a quote for the contents, but after walking round with a pen and notebook, the man had declined to bid, on the grounds that none of it was worth anything. Apart from Karl’s radio equipment, that is, in which the guy had shown an uncomfortable degree of interest considering it wasn’t for sale.

  Karl could really have used the money. His mother had spent every last króna paying off the mortgage before she died, so he was stuck with the existing contents until he could save up for new ones. He was on a study loan and would be in trouble this spring if he didn’t knuckle down and pass his exams. Though the chances of that happening were now so slim that he was beginning to think of selling the house and buying somewhere smaller; a flat that he could furnish to his own taste, with a bit left over to liven up his dreary existence.

  He just hadn’t got round to it.

  Every time he thought about moving he remembered the trouble he’d had acquiring permission to mount the giant radio antenna on the house. He guessed it would be even more of a hassle to erect one on the roof of a block of flats. Besides, half the house belonged to Arnar, and Karl’s share might not even cover the cost of a small flat. At least he was living here for free. For the moment, anyway. There was no knowing how long his brother would put up with that state of affairs. Probably the only reason he hadn’t yet insisted on dividing up the legacy was that he was too busy; it could hardly have been from any fraternal feeling. They had never been close and since Arnar had moved to America their relationship had been dying a natural death. Even when Arnar was still living at home it had mainly involved nodding to each other over the breakfast table, or asking about some item that had been mislaid. At Christmas and on birthdays they had dutifully thanked each other for the presents their mother had bought on their behalf, and that was pretty much it. When he was younger Karl had tried to penetrate his brother’s shell but had given up in the end. It was futile.

  Perhaps Arnar would simply forget about Karl, the house and what remained of their modest inheritance. Although there had been a slight improvement in their relationship after Arnar had grown up, it was perfectly possible that he would never contact Karl again. He was content with his new wife and his career, and seemed likely to settle on the other side of the pond for good. Their phone calls had become more frequent while their mother was ill, but after she died they had soon petered out again. Arnar had blamed the time difference, which reminded Karl of the way their mother used to blame the age difference for the brothers’ lack of closeness when they were boys. Time difference, age difference. There would always be some source of difference between them.

  Karl glared at the Collins shortwave receiver, as if he could force a sound out of it by willpower. At that even the crackling ceased. He could feel himself growing hot and wanted to howl with impotent rage, but made an effort to breathe calmly and this seemed to work. The situation wa
s out of his control, so there was no point giving in to disappointment. Yet he couldn’t help feeling aggrieved and frustrated. Instead of impressing his friends with the weird Icelandic numbers station, he was boring them to death.

  Eventually, he turned round in his chair. Halli was sound asleep on the ugly little sofa, head lolling back, his shiny black hair touching the wall. Karl gloated at the thought of the stiff neck he would have when he woke up. Serve him right. The least he could do was have the courtesy to stay awake. No doubt the two beers he had downed were partly to blame. Or the dope they’d smoked. Halli emitted a grunting snore and for a moment it looked as if he was about to wake with a jerk from his peaceful slumber, but instead he smacked his lips, closed his mouth and slept on.

  It occurred to Karl that his friend’s hair would leave a dirty mark on the wall. For as long as Karl had known him, Halli had worn his thin, greasy hair in a ponytail, and the collar of the black leather jacket he wore year-round was shiny at the back. The wall was bound to suffer the same fate, but since Karl’s mother was no longer there to be annoyed, he wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it. In the unlikely event that he succumbed to a cleaning frenzy, he had a sink full of washing-up awaiting him upstairs. Followed by the laundry room, the bathroom and almost the entire living area. It was amazing how quickly the place had deteriorated into a pigsty. The basement was the most presentable because he rarely brought food down here for fear of spilling it on his sensitive equipment.

  Börkur shifted his leg, which he had slung over the arm of the faded chair that matched the sofa. He didn’t seem very interested in the dog-eared magazine he was flicking through but at least he wasn’t snoring with his mouth open. ‘If nothing happens at seven, I’m thinking of making tracks.’ He chucked the magazine on the coffee table. ‘Unless you want to catch a movie? I could murder some popcorn.’ Börkur had a unique talent for pursuing his goals by crooked paths: it was perfectly possible to get hold of popcorn without going to the cinema. Halli was no better, with his unrealistic dreams and expectations. Whenever the three of them were together Karl felt as if he were stuck in one of those stupid radio plays his mother used to listen to.