The Legacy

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then how do you explain that Elísa’s neighbours saw your car driving past?’ The man corrected himself. ‘No, you were parked outside.’ He blew out, looking concerned. ‘It just doesn’t sound plausible that you and your friends decided to see where she lived after the business with the ID numbers.’

  ‘Börkur. Börkur can back me up.’

  ‘Börkur, yes. He’d better have his story straight because you’re relying on him to back you up on rather a lot of things.’ The lawyer attempted to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Still, could be worse. Sometimes people have no one at all to back them up. Though I have to say I’ve never come across such a bizarre case. It makes everything I previously thought odd look positively normal in comparison.’

  Karl behaved as if he hadn’t heard. Idle comments like this were a waste of time.

  The man didn’t seem to mind Karl’s lack of response. ‘We haven’t discussed whether you’ve ever suffered from delusions.’ He fixed Karl with a stare and waited.

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Nothing in your childhood or maybe even recently that you might not have realised was a delusion – just thought was a bit strange?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing in connection with drugs that you didn’t want to mention in front of the police?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No one’s interested in nailing you for drugs – this is far more serious than a trivial offence like that.’ He gave Karl a searching look but Karl’s expression didn’t change. Any movement was beyond him now. The lawyer shrugged. ‘What about your family history? Has anyone in your family suffered from delusions or paranoia? That could be to our advantage.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Nothing you remember?’

  ‘I’m adopted. I’ve never met any of my relatives.’

  The lawyer’s eyes gleamed for the first time. ‘What?!’

  Karl didn’t bother to repeat it; he needed to save his words for what mattered.

  ‘So it’s quite possible that someone in your family has suffered from hallucinations or violent behaviour associated with a mental illness? What about abuse or bad treatment you might have suffered as a child?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘I’ll have to find out.’ The man’s pleased expression vanished when he saw Karl’s lack of enthusiasm for this plan. ‘Can I tell you something, son?’ He continued without waiting for an answer. ‘People generally get sixteen years for murder in Iceland. For one murder. Conventional murder. But there’s nothing to say they can’t receive longer sentences – the penal code allows for the possibility of a life sentence. It’s never happened – there’s only been one instance of a harsher sentence than sixteen years and that was twenty. But the person who killed these three people could set a new precedent and receive the longest sentence in Icelandic history: life imprisonment.’ He paused and looked Karl straight in the eye. ‘Let’s say we don’t manage to prove your innocence. You’re twenty-three. Icelandic men have a life expectancy just short of eighty. If you get life you could sit inside for more than half a century. That’s more than twice the amount of time you’ve already lived. Whereas if you receive a conventional sentence you’ll get sixteen years. You’d be out in ten and a half. That’s forty years’ difference. Forty years. Anything that could possibly generate sympathy for you would help – in the event you’re found guilty.’

  ‘I’m innocent.’

  The lawyer ignored this. ‘You’re going to have to let me examine your family history. Do you know the names of your biological parents? It could save you forty years in prison.’

  This argument was good enough for Karl. ‘Gudrún María Gudjónsdóttir and Helgi Jónsson.’ He had been thinking about his parents while he sat or lay in his cell, unable to sleep. Would they regret having put him up for adoption? Especially if they heard about the predicament he was in? He had begun to feel disappointed that he hadn’t made the effort to find out more about his background and contact them. There was no knowing when he’d next have access to a computer, and now that everything seemed to be falling apart around him only family members could be expected to stand by him. Though it would have been better to make contact with them before he was arrested; if he rang from prison they almost certainly wouldn’t want anything to do with him.

  He had no one. Absolutely no one at all.

  Arnar would disown him completely, announcing to anybody who would listen that they weren’t blood relations. He was perfectly capable of testifying against Karl. The headache receded briefly when Karl remembered that he had thrown away all the paperwork relating to Arnar’s parents. There was no reason for their names to appear in the official documents. The police would no doubt see from his browsing history that he had searched for people with those names but he would invent some lie. He had plenty of time to come up with something plausible.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll check them out. You never know.’

  ‘Will you tell them I’m innocent if you get hold of them?’

  ‘I’ll do that, yes.’ The lawyer looked thoughtful. ‘Have I understood right that you have no next of kin except the one brother? Apart from distant relatives, that is?’

  ‘Yes.’ Karl gulped. His throat was dry as a bone. ‘He lives abroad and knows nothing about this. You mustn’t speak to him. I forbid you.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s wise. The police are aware of his existence and are bound to contact him. The picture of you they say they showed the girl was on his Facebook page.’

  The pain in Karl’s head suddenly intensified and he stopped speaking until the worst was over. ‘I can’t understand why she says she recognises my picture. I’ve never seen her and she hasn’t seen me. Definitely not in her garden or inside her house, like they claimed.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that. You heard how vague they were. I’m pretty sure that means the girl couldn’t give a positive identification. If she had, they’d have been more confident instead of contenting themselves with dropping hints.’

  Karl nodded listlessly. ‘I still don’t want you talking to Arnar.’

  The lawyer, who gave the impression that he’d seen it all, asked no further questions on this point. Lowering his eyes, he continued to read his notes. ‘Getting back to the main issue. Did you understand their references to dogs?’

  ‘No.’ He had been bewildered by the questions. The police had wanted to know if he’d attacked two dogs, one in Grafarvogur, the other out on Grandi. He had also been grilled about how he had known where the girl Margrét was staying and how he had tracked down Freyja’s name and address. In fact, he had been relieved by the questions because they were so absurd that they were bound to help establish that he wasn’t the man they were after. ‘I know nothing about any dogs.’

  ‘No. I thought they reacted a bit oddly when you couldn’t answer, as if they doubted their own theory. But that’s not saying much. Perhaps we should concentrate on the most important issues. Can you remember anything that would provide you with a proper alibi for the Thursday night when Elísa was murdered? Did you ring anyone or receive any phone calls? Were you up when the papers were delivered unusually early? Anything. If you were online it would be possible to trace the fact on your computer. Anything at all. The same applies to the evening Ástrós was killed. You heard what they said – the time of death was probably shortly after you claim to have dropped off your friends. That doesn’t look good.’

  Karl felt as if his mouth was full of cotton wool. ‘I was asleep when Elísa was killed.’ What was so difficult to understand about that? A sleeping person wouldn’t go online or talk to paper boys or use the phone. Karl coughed and thought his head would split. Then the acute pain retreated again, leaving behind a peculiarly hot, nagging ache. He tried to ignore it. ‘I went home after dropping off my mates the evening Ástrós was killed. I went to bed. I didn’t go online.’

  ‘I see. Can you try and remember in more detail?’ The lawyer sounde
d discouraged. ‘It didn’t sound too good when you said you’d driven past Ástrós’s house the evening she was murdered. Let alone the business of the scream you claim to have heard. They didn’t believe you. It would be better if you ran that sort of thing past me before saying anything to them. That’s what you should have done when they presented you with those numbers. Not help to decipher them. They’re almost certainly connected to the murders and there was no need to show them you understood that peculiar code.’

  They both glanced inadvertently at the sheet of paper on which he had deciphered the messages for the police once they had provided him with a copy of the periodic table. Their expressions as he slowly worked his way through the sequences had registered first astonishment, then eagerness, like the faces of children in a sweet shop.

  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

  I, S · I, Th–H · Be, Tc–C, Tb–B, Er · Tc–C, O · Sg–S, I, V, Eu–U · Th, Ac–C, N · Tc–C, O · Re, Ce, I, V, Eu–U

  Is it better to give than to receive?

  39, 8, 92 · 5, 3–53, 8, 8, 66 · 83, 43, 1

  Y, O, U · B, Li–I, O, O, Dy · Bi, Tc, H

  You bloody bitch.

  39, 8, 92 · 75 · 10, X, 65–5

  Y, O, U · Re · Ne, X, Tb–B

  You’re next.

  66–39, 8 · 90, 63–92 · 42–8, 85, 108

  Dy–Y, O · Th, Eu–U · Mo–O, At, Hs

  Do the maths.

  22, 90–1 · 9, 8, 86–7 · 73, 90–1

  Ti, Th–H · F, O, Rn–N · Ta, Th–H

  Tit for tat.

  Karl looked up. ‘I understood the messages because of the shortwave broadcasts. Same code.’

  ‘Maybe you did. But you’re a chemistry student and the key to the code is connected to chemistry, which means one thing to them: you wrote the code.’

  ‘No.’ Karl had nothing to add. What could he say? Wasn’t the truth enough?

  ‘They seem convinced that the scraps of paper with numbers on them that they found in your basement are messages you intended to use for the next murders.’

  ‘Those were the numbers read out on the radio station. I wrote them down after I’d worked out the code. To find out what they said.’ Karl couldn’t understand the point of endlessly repeating himself. Perhaps it would be best to stay silent.

  His defence counsel raised his brows sceptically, then sighed. ‘I don’t think you should have told them you can’t stand blood or violence either. They seem to have some theory that the killer has a phobia about blood. Or finds it disgusting.’

  ‘Was I supposed to lie?’

  ‘No. You should have asked for permission to confer with me in private. As I keep telling you. But never mind.’ The man had almost finished going through his notes. He rapped his knuckles on the final page, then closed the pad. ‘We’ll have plenty of time to go through all this later. They’ll be back any minute. If you turn out to be ill, it may be possible to start the interview afresh. If you were delirious, for example …’ The lawyer regarded Karl hopefully.

  ‘I’ve got a headache.’ Karl reached for the glass in the hope that the water would relieve the hot ache that was spreading through his head. But he missed the glass. His hand moved in a completely different direction from what he had intended. He tried again, with no more success. Karl realised he could only see out of one eye. Perhaps that was the reason, but when he tried to tell the lawyer about this sudden blindness, he produced a stream of gibberish. The pain in his head redoubled. Everything else seemed to have stopped working, as if his body was no longer connected to his head.

  In the very moment that Karl toppled off his chair the door opened and the two policemen re-entered. With his one good eye he registered their horrified expressions – even the smartly dressed one. They both opened their mouths and seemed to be exclaiming but Karl couldn’t hear a thing. A woman who had been standing behind them pushed them aside and rushed over to Karl. She touched his face but he couldn’t feel her fingers. Or anything else.

  He closed the eye that could still see.

  Chapter 33

  A week later

  Huldar hadn’t yet got round to hanging the picture in his office. He had put off buying it, convinced he would be demoted after Karl Pétursson collapsed during questioning. The incident was being described as one of the worst blunders in Icelandic police history and Huldar had started surreptitiously looking for situations vacant in the state sector.

  The matter had not been clarified until two days later and during that time he had felt like a leper: no one in the office dared so much as look at him. Even Erla had been avoiding him for fear of being infected by his notoriety.

  Worse still was that Ríkhardur had shared his fate. Although he hadn’t borne the same responsibility for the suspect’s welfare as Huldar, he had nevertheless taken part in the interrogation, and this made him complicit in everyone’s eyes.

  Having entered the interview room as the hero of the hour, Ríkhardur had left it in disgrace. His fall had been dramatic but he weathered it with his habitual stoicism, apparently indifferent to being cold-shouldered by his colleagues. That wasn’t to say he took the incident lightly, though; Huldar had no one else to talk to at the station and couldn’t fail to notice the impact Karl’s fate had had on Ríkhardur.

  The frame was scuffed where the picture had fallen over. He had propped it against the wall too close to the door, which had banged into it when opened. The damage wasn’t too conspicuous but he would have to hurry up and find a hammer and nail before worse befell it.

  The picture was nothing special; he had bought it at a tourist shop in the centre of town on his way home from watching a match at a pub with his mates at the weekend once things had calmed down. It was a photograph of sunrise over the Reynisdrangar sea stacks, which filled him with optimism and at the same time with dread. It didn’t require much insight to work out why: the sun with its promise of a new day sparked a hope of better times, while the sheer, black pillars of rock rearing out of the sea were a reminder that life wasn’t all plain sailing.

  Before him lay a report on items that had gone missing from the police property office. Today’s task was to go through it, now that the murder case was as good as solved. He wasn’t a hundred per cent satisfied on that count but had to accept that Karl was no longer capable of giving his side of the story; he was in intensive care and every day could be his last.

  There was sufficient evidence to implicate Karl, so Huldar would just have to accept that some aspects would never be fully explained. A series of experts had listened to the recording of his interview and come up with the theory that Karl had used the various appliances to murder his victims in order to avoid having to stab or wound them. All he’d had to do was press a button, which saved him from having to dirty his own hands. Huldar had raised his eyebrows when he read that. How was it possible to conclude that the murders merely involved pressing a button? Plenty of violence had occurred in the lead-up to the actual killings.

  Karl’s physique also gave him pause. He was a complete runt; it was hard to imagine how he was supposed to have overpowered his much bigger, stronger friend. Why, even Elísa had looked tougher than him. Only Ástrós was unlikely to have been able to take on a man so much younger than her. Admittedly, rage and hatred could lend people strength, but the problem with this was that it was impossible to see what could have inspired Karl with such hatred towards two women he didn’t even know. He had taken the explanation with him into his coma. A further mystery was how he had found out that Margrét was with Freyja and that Freyja wasn’t living in Grafarvogur as indicated by the phone book and other official records. According to his computer, Karl hadn’t googled her name in search of the information. It was possible he could have done so from a public terminal at the university but, if so, they hadn’t managed to locate it yet. Nevertheless, it was believed that he had found
the Grafarvogur address and attacked the dog there to get it out of the way, unaware that it wasn’t actually Freyja’s dog. Then he seemed to have realised his mistake and attacked the right dog close to the right address. How he had managed this and how he even knew of Freyja’s existence and the fact she had a dog was unexplained. Perhaps it always would be.

  If he hadn’t suffered a stroke, Karl was bound to have confessed in the end – they all did. Especially after his friend Börkur had disintegrated under questioning and there was no one left to back up Karl’s account of mysterious numbers stations and other such nonsense.

  Huldar tried to remember whether Arnar Pétursson, Karl’s brother, was leaving the country today or tomorrow. A strange individual, he had proved far more informative about his brother than the experts who had studied the recording, which was hardly surprising as he had known him all his life. But Arnar was unable to explain how, in the years since he had moved abroad, his brother had changed from a very ordinary boy with few friends and an obsession with amateur radio into a ruthless killer.

  Arnar’s theory was that Karl had suffered a nervous breakdown when their adoptive mother flatly refused to tell the brothers about their biological parents. At first Huldar had suppressed a smile at this odd idea, but as the man elaborated, he found it more plausible. If Arnar’s own desperation for information about his birth family was anything to go by, it might well be correct that the disappointment had tipped his brother over the edge.

  In fact, Huldar was a little taken aback by Arnar’s burning obsession with uncovering the identity of his own parents. Their adoptive mother had wanted to shield Karl from the knowledge that his mother had a genetic predisposition to stroke. She’d had him young after a casual encounter with a roadworker, and had fallen ill shortly after giving birth. By the time Karl was two she had no longer been well enough to look after him. The authorities had approached his father but he hadn’t felt capable of bringing up a small child, so Karl had been put up for adoption.