The Legacy

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  ‘Ástrós?’ At long last the voice at the other end betrayed a hint of interest. In the background Karl could hear a crescendo of noise and excited voices as if something was happening at the police station. The man paused, then asked Karl to wait a moment. The noise cut out. Karl closed his eyes and tipped his head back. He should never have called the cops. It would take a much cleverer person than him to explain the situation in a way that would make them take it seriously. Perhaps he should have hired a PR person. The man came back on the phone. ‘Where are you, Karl?’

  ‘Where? At home.’ The man read out his address and asked if the information was correct. Karl said it was, then heard the man put his hand over the receiver again. ‘Is something wrong?’

  The hand was removed and a sound of rustling and quickened breathing followed. ‘No, not at all. Carry on. You were talking about ID numbers.’

  ‘It’s not just ID numbers. It’s messages too, in a code that I’ve managed to break.’ He couldn’t keep the note of pride out of his voice. There weren’t many who could boast of having solved such a puzzle.

  Karl’s pleasure proved short lived, however. When the police officer spoke again it was in a patronising voice, as though he were talking to a child. ‘You’re good at that, are you? At solving puzzles, I mean?’

  Aware he was making a complete mess of this, Karl felt a rising tide of panic. Not that he’d ever had the upper hand in the conversation. ‘No, I’m not good at them. It was a coincidence. I’m studying chemistry and that’s how I worked it out. It was the periodic table.’

  ‘Right, I see. So you used chemistry to break the code. That was clever.’

  ‘You don’t believe a word I’m saying, do you?’

  ‘What I believe is irrelevant. My job is to write down what you say and try to understand it. There’s no rush, just take your time and if you feel I’ve misunderstood, tell me.’

  Karl sat up and rubbed his eyes. It occurred to him to tell the man the whole thing had been a big mistake. Or a prank. Would that make them wipe it from their records or would he be prosecuted for obstructing a murder inquiry? He could share a cell with Halli when he was sentenced. The pizza was sitting like a stone in his stomach and he couldn’t rid his nostrils of the stench from outside. ‘I’m trying to explain how it happened.’ He opened his eyes and stared at Börkur. ‘Anyway, I wasn’t the only one to hear it. My friend was with me on two occasions. He can confirm that it really happened.’

  At last he seemed to have wrong-footed the man. He wasn’t as quick to reply this time. ‘I see. May I ask if you were under the influence of alcohol or drugs when this happened?’

  ‘No, we weren’t.’ No way was he going to admit that they’d shared a spliff. That had nothing to do with it; he had often listened to the broadcasts while his head was clear. Börkur hadn’t, though. His anxiety increased again. Would Börkur tell them the truth if he was questioned? The thought wasn’t encouraging. Börkur would begin well but soon unravel under interrogation. But did they interrogate ordinary witnesses? Surely not. It wasn’t as if either of them was suspected of criminal activity. He corrected himself. Börkur wouldn’t be suspected, only him. ‘Do you want us to come down to the station? Both of us? It would be easier to explain face to face.’

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary at this stage. Just continue with your explanation, then we can make a decision about how to proceed. It’s not up to me to invite you in for questioning. Others will take that decision, if necessary.’

  The conversation continued along the same lines, with Karl explaining and the man querying every sentence. Karl got the discomfiting impression that the man was deliberately spinning out the call, as though he had been given orders to speak to him for a certain length of time. But why? Perhaps the call was being used for training purposes. But the man sounded too authoritative to be a new recruit.

  By the time the doorbell rang, his phone was bleeping to warn that the battery was low.

  ‘I’ve got to go. My phone’s nearly out of juice and there’s someone at the door. I don’t think I have anything more to say anyway.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll see about that.’

  Karl was disconcerted by the sudden note of mockery in the hitherto dispassionate voice. But before he could respond, the man had hung up.

  ‘God, that was …’

  Leaving Börkur groping for the right word, Karl went to the door. He never got a chance to hear what his friend was going to say. The men standing outside shoved some form of ID at him that he couldn’t see to read.

  ‘Karl Pétursson, we’re arresting you on suspicion of being involved in the murders of Elísa Bjarnadóttir and Ástrós Einarsdóttir—’

  ‘What?’ Karl stumbled backwards and the men barged in after him holding their ID badges aloft like Catholic priests brandishing crucifixes against the possessed. This couldn’t be happening.

  To make matters worse he had developed a crippling headache.

  Chapter 31

  Thursday

  The atmosphere at the station was like in an American cop show. All that was needed to complete the picture was a couple of hookers in handcuffs.

  Unable to contain their euphoria, members of the investigation team were sitting around on their colleagues’ desks with mugs of coffee, loudly swapping stories about their own part in solving the case. Some of their claims were true, others exaggerations or outright lies. People slapped one another matily on the shoulder, roared with laughter and knocked back their coffee as if it were beer.

  Huldar surveyed the scene, wondering if the celebratory atmosphere was the same at other workplaces on the successful completion of a major project. Probably, though the situation wasn’t really comparable. In conventional offices people could be unrestrainedly jubilant in the happy knowledge that their future was assured, payment was secure, the hard work lay behind them. But in a murder inquiry, the apprehension of the culprit didn’t put the world to rights again. While the affair would gradually fade from the memories of the investigation team, the witnesses and lawyers, life would never be the same for the victim’s next of kin or the perpetrator’s family – and least of all for the perpetrator. Huldar felt no desire to join in with the general rejoicing.

  He watched Ríkhardur and Erla talking to a young man who had taken part in the search of the area around Freyja’s building. They were both smiling. It was a long time since he had seen Ríkhardur look genuinely happy. He hoped it wasn’t only due to the outcome of the inquiry but a sign that he was also coming to terms with his divorce and would now be able to move on. But Huldar knew he was being over-optimistic; the guy was simply enjoying the moment.

  After all, he was the hero of the hour.

  While Huldar and the others had been engaged in a wild-goose chase in the streets and gardens around Grandi, there had been a breakthrough in the case. Elísa’s phone had been switched on and they had managed to trace it. Ríkhardur, overhearing the discussion in the background, had realised that the location tallied with the address of the man he was talking to on the phone. With typical efficiency, he had already noted down the speaker’s details. When the man mentioned not only Ástrós, whose name had yet to be released to the press, but a secret code as well, Ríkhardur had put two and two together, and successfully kept the guy talking while he alerted his colleagues. The suspect had still been standing there, phone in hand, when the arresting officers knocked on his door.

  There was no nicotine left in his gum. Huldar spat it into a green bin. One lump more or less would hardly derail the recycling process. He headed over to Ríkhardur and Erla; it was essential to show the team that he wasn’t resentful or disappointed that the honour of solving the case hadn’t been his.

  Although he had been informed at once that Elísa’s phone had been traced, he hadn’t reached the scene until after Karl Pétursson’s arrest. By then the suspect was sitting open-mouthed in the back of a police car, his friend Börkur Thórdarson in another. Huldar’s first task had
been to order the officers to move one of the cars so the two men couldn’t communicate by sign language through the closed windows. In the event, their statements had proved so inconsistent that it was clear they couldn’t have agreed on a story. Huldar had taken charge at this point, discovered the mutilated body in the outhouse, then organised a systematic search of the property, which had been completed early this morning.

  In contrast to the meticulous care with which Karl had covered his tracks during the murders of Elísa and Ástrós, he had accumulated a hoard of compromising evidence in his house, which appeared to eliminate all doubt that he was the culprit. It was remarkable to find such a treasure trove of rock-solid evidence; so remarkable, in fact, that it bothered Huldar. He reminded himself that the young man had obviously been in the middle of emptying his home of incriminating material; he had already removed most of the loose furnishings, though it wasn’t at all clear why he thought this necessary, especially in view of what he had failed to throw away. Perhaps he was one of those killers who delighted in taking trophies from his victims. His motives would no doubt become clearer when he and his friend Börkur were questioned.

  They had both been left to kick their heels in the cells overnight and Huldar’s first action that morning had been to check on them.

  Karl had been sitting rigidly staring at the door, in such a state of shock that he neither rose to his feet nor showed any other reaction when their eyes met through the hatch. He had been clutching at his head like a man in agony, as if his brain were about to explode.

  His friend Börkur had been lying down, apparently asleep.

  Huldar decided that as soon as he got a chance he would ask Freyja which behaviour was the more indicative of a clean conscience. It would give him the excuse he needed to call her, though he didn’t really require anyone to tell him that the sleeping man more obviously demonstrated the calm of innocence.

  ‘So. Did you two sleep well?’ Huldar himself had only managed to grab three hours. He had crashed out the moment his head hit the pillow and enjoyed a dreamless sleep. It wasn’t enough to make a dent in the accumulated exhaustion of the last week, but in spite of that he felt like a new man.

  ‘Hell, yeah.’ Erla turned to him. ‘Any more news? What did the search of the property throw up?’

  ‘What didn’t it throw up? We found the phone, a bracelet that has been identified as belonging to Ástrós, rough drafts of the cryptic messages, remnants of the papers he’d cut the letters out of, a pair of Elísa’s knickers, a black motorcycle helmet, a pair of gloves we believe were used for both murders, and several rolls of duct tape. Unused. Which might indicate that he was planning more attacks.’

  The tape, helmet and gloves had all been found beside the body in the outhouse. The newspapers had been lying in the dustbin, though the bin appeared to have been emptied in the time since the notes were found at the victims’ homes. This was a little odd, given that one would have expected the suspect to have disposed of the incriminating papers as soon as possible. But then what constituted normal or rational behaviour for a man like that? The bracelet and pages containing the rough drafts of the messages had been found in the basement, and the knickers in his bedroom along with a roll of kitchen towels, several of which had been used. Clearly the man had masturbated over them. So it seemed that the murders had been sexually motivated after all. In a grossly perverted way.

  ‘What about the body in the shed?’ Erla made a face. ‘Is it true the victim was killed with a soldering iron?’

  Three hours’ sleep had not given Huldar the energy to elaborate on the gruesome details. He still had a bad taste in his mouth from the stench of urine, excrement and fried brains in the hot, enclosed outhouse. The smell had been noticeable even before they opened the door, but once they went inside it had been almost unbearable. ‘Yes, it’s true.’ He left it at that, making it clear that he had nothing further to say on the subject.

  ‘Do we know why the fuck he killed the guy? And the two women?’ Erla stole a glance at Ríkhardur that Huldar could have sworn was flirtatious. It all looked very promising but he made an effort not to grin too broadly. He had to be careful not to come across like an idiot; a smile was a singularly inappropriate reaction to the subject under discussion.

  ‘No. Hopefully today’s interviews will shed some light on that. I’d thought of asking you to accompany me, Ríkhardur.’

  Ríkhardur’s smile grew even broader; the man obviously couldn’t care less if he appeared crazy. He looked like his old self again; impeccable, not a hair out of place, the creases in his trousers perfectly straight. With that smile he could have passed for a mannequin in a shop window. ‘Count me in. What time?’

  ‘As soon as the lawyer shows up.’

  Karl had chosen a lawyer from a list that had been shoved under his nose before he was taken to the cells yesterday evening. He had asked no questions, merely pointed to a name at random. He had vomited on his way to the cells. When asked if he had taken some drug he had denied it with a croak and pointed at his head. He had vomited again in his cell when they took a blood sample. Again he had gestured to his head. The nurse had shrugged and said his temperature and blood pressure were normal; it was probably just stress.

  ‘Did he pick a good one?’ For once Erla didn’t seem affronted that Ríkhardur had been favoured. He had earned it, so there was no reason for resentment.

  ‘Yes, for what it’s worth. Frankly, his problems are so insurmountable that it doesn’t really matter who his counsel is.’

  Huldar told Ríkhardur that he would give him a nudge when it was time to head downstairs, and returned to his office. This brief exchange would have to do as a sign to his team that there were no sour grapes on his part.

  Before they began interrogating Karl, he had two calls to make: one to Freyja, one to Karlotta. The latter would be difficult, but if he was to put the past behind him, as Ríkhardur seemed to be doing, he had to get it over with. And never look back. He’d learnt his lesson. Never again, however wasted he was, would he mess around with a married woman, let alone the wife of a colleague.

  His old chair welcomed him into its warm embrace; he’d brought it with him when he left the open-plan office on his promotion. The other furnishings were less familiar: the desk, the new computer and the bare walls on which he hadn’t yet dared to hang any pictures in case he screwed up the investigation. This would be the ideal time to impose his personality on the space, since he was unlikely to be thrown out on his arse now. It was a pity he didn’t know what to put up; a heavy metal poster, maybe?

  Freyja answered on the third ring. Her manner was a lot friendlier than it had been yesterday evening when he’d knocked on her door to say goodbye and inform her that they had made an arrest. He had asked her to keep Margrét for the night, until the picture was clearer. There was no time to make alternative arrangements. The police would continue the hunt for the man Margrét thought she had seen, but Huldar himself had to leave. It seemed highly unlikely that the man in the garden was connected to the murders but two officers would remain on guard duty outside the building just in case.

  She had said goodbye to him at the door with a frozen smile, nodding her head repeatedly like one of those stupid dogs people put on their dashboards. At first he thought she was hiding something behind her back, but then he caught sight of the loose block of parquet and realised what was going on. Obviously she had attempted to repair it herself to prevent him from tinkering with it if he followed through with his threat to stay the night. She must be holding a hammer behind her back. Although she didn’t want his help, clearly she could have done with it: the parquet block looked even looser than before.

  ‘I just wanted to let you know that they’re coming to collect Margrét. You’re off the hook.’

  ‘Has the murderer been caught?’

  ‘It looks like it.’

  ‘Can I tell her?’

  ‘No, I’d wait a bit. We still need to question the suspect s
o you’d better not, just in case he turns out to be innocent.’

  ‘Hasn’t he confessed?’

  ‘No. We haven’t interviewed him yet. But there’s so much evidence stacked up against him that it’s almost a formality.’ Huldar pulled over his mouse and woke up his monitor. ‘Could you do me a favour?’

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘Could you go onto Facebook and open Arnar Pétursson’s page?’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘The suspect’s brother.’ Huldar opened the page himself. ‘Try showing Margrét a picture of him; see if he looks at all familiar to her.’ Freyja didn’t reply, so he continued. ‘I’ll take the blame if it confuses her. Her testimony isn’t as important as it was. We’ve got a pile of evidence, so it may be possible to spare her the necessity of testifying at all. We’ve got some good recordings of her too. If she’s already identified the man, there’s less likelihood that the defence counsel will want to haul her into the witness box. He’ll want to steer clear of her altogether.’

  ‘OK. On your head be it. Though I doubt it’ll harm Margrét.’

  While Freyja was fetching the little girl, he searched for a photo of Karl. The albums that Huldar had examined last night on Karl’s Facebook page were empty. His profile picture was a cartoon character with headphones and a microphone, so that wasn’t much help. His brother’s page wasn’t much more informative, though at least there were a few photos, mainly of himself and his wife. But there was one of both brothers, with Arnar’s wife between them. That was in the album labelled Iceland summer 2014, so the picture was suitably recent. Karl looked the picture of misery. Huldar shook his head. His brother and sister-in-law didn’t look much more cheerful. There was something unsettlingly familiar about the brother but Huldar couldn’t work out where he had seen him before.

  ‘I’m back.’ The rattle of a keyboard. ‘Which photo do you want us to look at?’