The Legacy

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  When Ástrós regained consciousness she was sitting more or less upright. She couldn’t open her eyes. Her hands fumbled for her face. She felt it was going to burst, as if her head had been clamped in a vice. But her trembling fingers could only feel some sort of smooth, cold texture covering half her face, from the middle of her nose up to her forehead. She ran her hands over her head but could find no way of loosening it; she scrabbled with her fingernails at the bands that had obviously been wound round and round. Clawing at it was futile; it only made her forehead and cheeks sting. It felt as if a mask had been glued to her face.

  Just then her right hand was wrenched from her head and she felt a familiar object being forced into her fist. It was a pencil. Her hand was roughly shoved into position over a sheet of paper on a table in front of her. She was in the kitchen, she realised. She could tell by the familiar feel of the chair and the faint smell of curry from yesterday’s leftovers that she had heated up for supper.

  ‘Do the maths.’

  ‘What?’ Her voice cracked, but to Ástrós’s surprise she sounded more astonished than afraid. What on earth was happening? Her neck was agony and she remembered receiving a blow. In fact her whole body was aching, so the man must have dragged her violently to the kitchen.

  ‘Do the maths. You’re so fucking good at it, aren’t you?’ It was a man’s voice, oddly indistinct, as though he had something over his mouth, but perhaps that was because of whatever was covering her ears. Ástrós didn’t recognise the voice but could tell that the man was beside himself with rage; his voice was quivering with hatred. The pressure in her head increased and Ástrós sensed she was losing consciousness again. All she could think was that this was bound to end badly. The only question was how quickly? How long would be quick enough? Twenty minutes? Ten? Five?

  Ástrós sniffed and steeled herself. If she didn’t make an effort, it was sure to turn out even worse. ‘Maths? What maths?’ How could she do any calculations if she couldn’t see? Should she ask the man to uncover her eyes? No, it was probably better not to see his face. This kindled a tiny spark of hope: the fact he had blindfolded her suggested he didn’t intend to finish her off completely. ‘I’ll do any maths you like. Just tell me what.’

  ‘Probability. Calculate the probability for me.’

  Ástrós felt faint. What was the man on about? Probability? Perhaps he’d got the wrong house. ‘I’m no mathematician. Or statistician either. I’m a biology teacher. Retired.’ Her mouth was so dry it hurt but begging for water would probably be futile.

  ‘I said, calculate the probability.’

  ‘Of what?’ Ástrós felt her eyelids stinging with unshed tears underneath the horrible wrappings. ‘I can’t just calculate probability at random.’

  ‘You’re so clever. Show me how it is that if there are two possibilities, you should only focus on the probability of one of them happening. Just ignore the other. I bet you find that easy, don’t you?’

  Her heart and lungs seemed to constrict. She grew short of breath, was close to blacking out. What did the man want her to calculate? The thing he wanted her to prove made no sense. ‘I can’t calculate that. It’s not a proper equation. I don’t know what it is.’ The pencil moved and she hoped he wouldn’t see the line that must now run across the page as an unforgivable blunder.

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  Ástrós was silent. She didn’t dare speak for fear of provoking him further.

  ‘Go on, do the maths.’

  Her fingers trembled and she almost dropped the pencil as she began to scrawl figures. She tried to visualise the paper and symbols. She didn’t want to write them on top of one another and risk another blow. 1/10 + 9/10 = 1. It was all she could think of. Giving up the attempt, she licked her dry lips. What she wouldn’t give to be able to see. The uncertainty about where he was, what he was doing and whether he was about to strike her again was unbearable. She made herself as small as possible, bracing herself to prepare for the blows that were bound to fall.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Instead of hitting her, the man violently grabbed hold of her upper arm.

  ‘The probability of mutually exclusive events with odds of one in ten plus nine in ten is one hundred per cent.’ The pain in her throat flared up with every word. She hoped she had made herself understood.

  ‘Mutually exclusive? What the hell are you talking about? I asked you to demonstrate why you should only focus on one of two possibilities when you’re calculating probability. I’d have thought you knew all about that.’

  This rang a faint bell. Had he come to the right place after all? But how could this nonsense ring any bells? ‘No.’ Her nose was leaking. She realised she was weeping, though her tears had nowhere to go. ‘I’m not familiar with anything like that. It’s a false assertion.’

  ‘Let’s say the probability of a negative outcome is one in four. Doesn’t that mean that the probability against it happening is three in four? So which is the more probable? The negative or the positive outcome? One in four. Three in four.’ The man fell silent. Ástrós sensed him beside her, then heard him move round behind her to the other side. So it didn’t come as a shock when he whispered in her other ear: ‘Or one in ten. Nine in ten.’ She was taken aback by how cold he felt when his head touched the bare skin on her forehead. No breath, either hot or cold, had accompanied his whisper. The last dregs of rational thought abandoned her at the idea that the man might be dead. What else could explain the ice-cold flesh and lack of breath? She felt him moving away. What she heard next made her blood run cold: the familiar squeaking of drawers and rattle of steel kitchen utensils. The drawers were full of knives, scissors, tongs and other implements that could be used to inflict pain.

  The clatter of steel grew louder, as though the man was rooting around in the drawer in search of the right instrument. A pathetic whimper escaped her, taking with it her last reserves of courage. She was helpless, powerless to resist the whims of this deranged man. How ridiculous that she should have clung to the hope that this might turn out well. The man slammed down a bunch of utensils on the table. Ástrós tried not to think about which ones he thought he needed and what he intended to do with them. Instead she wondered in desperation what his crazy statement about probability could mean.

  ‘Do the maths.’

  Ástrós flinched.

  ‘Demonstrate for me how you work it out. That the probability of a positive outcome is lower than that of a negative one. You’re the expert at that.’

  While she desperately scribbled arbitrary numbers on the page, a memory began to stir. Was it possible? Could there really be a connection? She stopped writing. If she was right, she might be able to talk the man round. It was worth trying. Trembling, she put the pencil carefully down. Her voice shook, her throat hurt and her mouth was dry. ‘One in four is a lower percentage than three in four. One in ten is lower than one in nine. But it doesn’t follow that one in four or one in ten is equal to zero. It depends on the context whether the number is considered large or small. Sometimes one in four is considered a very high probability. One in ten too.’

  The man let out a roar and Ástrós quailed. She had no way of avoiding the blow that now fell, making her head ring. Then everything went quiet. His footsteps receded and, straining her ears, she heard him fiddling with the light switches in the sitting room. Unable to see, she couldn’t remember how she had left the room, so she wasn’t sure if he was switching the lights on or off. The volume of the television was suddenly turned up. Ástrós felt her pulse quickening. This must be intended to drown out other sounds; to muffle her screams. But could it have been a mistake on his part? Wasn’t there a chance that the downstairs neighbours would come charging up to complain about the noise?

  A faint ray of hope cut through the pain, darkness and terror. The neighbours. If she could only escape from the flat they would be able to save her. She wouldn’t have to go far to alert them. All she had to do was make it outside. Having
lived here for decades, she could find her way blindfold.

  Leaning on the tabletop, Ástrós pushed herself up on to her feet. She began to grope her way along the table towards the kitchen door.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going, maths genius? Self-appointed probabilatist.’

  Ástrós gasped and turned her head, though she knew she wouldn’t be able to see anything. She felt a pedantic impulse to point out that there was no such word as ‘probabilatist’ but didn’t get a chance. She was flung back into the chair and her head was dragged back as far as it would go. Leather-clad fingers forced her jaws apart until she thought they would break.

  She tasted metal. A hard object was forced into her mouth and down her throat. Right down her throat. She was aware of a chemical smell as she struggled not to gag, then the man started winding something round her jaws and mouth. It was sticky tape. Strong adhesive tape, intended to hold the metal object in place.

  The man released her and as she fought for air she heard a clunk. He was plugging something in. Then he came closer and she heard the click of a button as he whispered in her ear: ‘Serves you right.’ He paused, then added: ‘Soon be over.’

  But he was lying.

  Chapter 15

  Monday

  The bags under Huldar’s eyes were more pronounced than ever; he thought if he squinted down he would be able to see them. Ríkhardur was sitting opposite him in the seldom-used visitors’ chair. He avoided meeting Huldar’s gaze, as though he’d rather not be faced with such a seedy vision first thing in the morning. He himself was neatly turned out as ever, emitting a faint smell of toothpaste mingled with aftershave. Huldar couldn’t help feeling a momentary stab of satisfaction when he spotted a small patch of stubble on Ríkhardur’s cheek that he had missed while shaving.

  This was the second time lately that he’d noticed a flaw in his appearance. It was so out of character. Perhaps he’d left the patch deliberately, like architects in past centuries including minor defects in their buildings so as not to offend God, for He alone was perfect.

  But of course the truth was that with all that was going on at work and in his private life, Ríkhardur didn’t have time to be as impeccably turned out as before. Huldar found it depressing to see these outward signs of his suffering, though he took care not to let it show. It didn’t help that he himself may have been partly to blame for the failure of his colleague’s marriage. His schadenfreude over the patch of stubble was replaced by anxiety; what if Ríkhardur cracked under the strain, as the HR manager had warned he might? They couldn’t cope without him on the investigation team.

  ‘You haven’t considered taking a few days’ leave?’ Huldar blurted out the words without stopping to think. Ríkhardur was clearly taken aback.

  ‘Leave? Now?’ It sounded like a curse.

  ‘Just a suggestion. You know you’re entitled to some. I was sent a summary of departmental holiday allowance and you’ve got a ridiculous amount left. We don’t want you coming down with flu or collapsing from overwork. It would be better if you took a few days off now rather than end up taking several weeks if you get ill.’

  Perhaps the HR manager had been wrong, though. Wouldn’t it be better for Ríkhardur to immerse himself in work than sit at home, brooding over what he had lost? It must be a strange feeling to rattle around alone in the house he had until recently shared with Karlotta. Lately even Huldar had caught himself reflecting that he was fed up with waking alone. Though admittedly not this morning. Any woman would have packed her bags after waking up with a guy who looked this rough. His thoughts strayed back to Freyja and how he had screwed up. Why hadn’t he simply told her the truth? It wouldn’t have mattered what they talked about that evening – the noise in the bar had drowned out every other word so she probably wouldn’t even have grasped what he did for a living. But no. Instead of waking up beside her and admitting the truth – blaming the drink perhaps – he had slunk out like an idiot. It would be a hell of a lot harder to slink back into her good graces.

  Ríkhardur’s face twisted into a grimace. ‘No thanks. I have no intention of taking any time off.’

  ‘Good. I’d rather not lose your talents but I’m obliged to draw your attention to all this bloody leave you’ve accumulated.’

  Ríkhardur nodded and made a gesture as though he’d like to hurl his leave out of the window into the wide expanse of Faxaflói Bay. ‘I’ve hit a brick wall,’ he said. ‘Whatever angle I take, I draw a blank. If anything, the solution seems even more remote than it did in the beginning. Neither Elísa nor her husband had any dirty secrets, as far as I can discover, or trod on anyone’s toes or were involved in any feuds – this is according to her friends, neighbours and work colleagues. I’m coming round to the idea that either she was selected at random or the murderer got the wrong person. Which doesn’t look good for the next victim. If there is another.’

  They lapsed into silence. Huldar had an acid feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had tried to dismiss the thought that he might not catch the killer, but it was becoming ever more insistent. Every time it reared its ugly head, the idea seemed to have gained strength and become harder to deny. Added to that was the worry that the next murder might be just around the corner, with Huldar and his team powerless to prevent it. Every time the phone rang he felt a constriction in his chest, which only eased when it turned out not to be someone reporting the discovery of a second body. His most fervent wish right now was for the girl to be proved wrong.

  To cap it all, he had run out of nicotine gum. It took a superhuman effort to remain calm as his subordinates sought his advice on various aspects of the inquiry. Only once did he blow his top and that was when the internet suddenly went down and it turned out that IT had forgotten to inform them about a systems upgrade. At that moment he would almost certainly have lapsed and started smoking again had there been a shop on the premises. But no such luck, so he had resorted to snapping several pencils and yelling obscenities at the ceiling panels.

  ‘What about the girl? Can they extract any more information from her? The description of the black man with the huge head isn’t helping much.’ Ríkhardur caught himself hunching and sat up straighter.

  ‘I just don’t know. The bugger is that she’s our only hope right now. If we didn’t have her, we’d be even worse off.’ Acid curdled in Huldar’s stomach again. ‘She should come in very handy if we nail the guy. There’s a chance she saw his face outside her house – assuming she wasn’t just imagining things, as her father seems to think.’

  Ríkhardur frowned, either over the father or the thought of the murderer in the garden. ‘Erla mentioned something about that. Let’s hope we get a chance to verify her statement. We could really do with a lead.’

  ‘You’re telling me.’ Huldar suppressed a groan. The evidence wasn’t exactly piling up. The duct tape hadn’t provided any clues, though there was more than enough of the stuff, and they had learnt nothing from the biological samples. On the plus side, the CCTV footage from the cashpoint had shown the approach road to Elísa’s neighbourhood and countless cars driving past, but no licence plates were legible and Ríkhardur hadn’t spotted anything useful when he skimmed through the film for the period when they assumed the murderer must have been coming or going. As for the coded message, it looked as if it was going to remain a closed book; they’d heard nothing from Interpol about possible ways to decipher it – assuming it was a code, of course.

  ‘Isn’t it time to interview Margrét in the usual way?’ Hitherto Ríkhardur had refrained from expressing an opinion about the involvement of the Children’s House, unlike the rest of the department who were split into two camps, for and against. Those for were in the minority. Among those who made no attempt to hide their disapproval was Erla. Her observation of the second interview had done nothing to win her round.

  ‘No. I want to stick with it. I’m afraid the girl will go to pieces if we put any more pressure on her. Best give it another shot.’ The office wa
s too small for two grown men to share for any length of time. Huldar opened the window. Fresh air poured in, dispelling the stuffiness and reviving him a little. He turned back to Ríkhardur, feeling more positive. ‘They’re considering taking the girl into care for the duration of the inquiry.’

  Ríkhardur shook his head. ‘What?’

  ‘Indeed. We’ll see what comes of it. Actually I think it’s a good idea. One of the papers has got wind of her involvement. They want to run the story to be sure of getting a scoop. By some miracle we managed to secure a reprieve and the article’s being withheld for now, but I doubt that’ll last long. The rest of the media’s bound to sniff it out sooner or later.’

  ‘Who spilt the beans?’

  Huldar shrugged. ‘Search me. Far too many people know about it. Here in CID, at the Children’s House, among her extended family, the hospital pathology department, the Child Protection Agency. Really it’s amazing it didn’t leak out straight away. I don’t need to tell you how hard it is to keep secrets in a small society like this, but we’ll see what happens. Anyway, like I was saying, they’re considering taking her into care and I was told in no uncertain terms that there would be no need for such drastic measures if the inquiry was making better progress.’ Huldar gave a mirthless smile. ‘Let’s just pray for a breakthrough before they make the final decision.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up.’

  Huldar felt suddenly overwhelmed with anger and frustration. He tried to disguise the fact but the strained silence finally galvanised Ríkhardur to make a move. He had no sooner left than the next person appeared.

  ‘Here are all the messages, e-mails, photos and Facebook stuff I can find going back six months. I filtered out anything obviously irrelevant. If you like, I can go back further.’ Almar handed Huldar a memory stick. His gaze flickered to the broken pencils and away again. ‘There’s a massive amount of data.’