He put down the phone, sat up on the sofa and reached for the newspaper. He had to find something to do this evening, since his friends weren’t answering his calls or texts. This didn’t really surprise him: people with jobs were usually busy on weekdays. He himself had been laid off after his arrest, and had made no effort to find himself another job. He had enough to deal with after the death of his mother. When all this trouble with the court case was over he would apply for a job somewhere else, but it wouldn’t really work right now, as it wouldn’t look good to start a new job and have to ask for time off to go to court. He opened the paper and turned to the cinema listings. If no one wanted to do anything tonight he would go and see a film. He couldn’t imagine sitting at home alone, fighting against his anxiety. Plan B was much more sensible: go to the gym and work out until he was exhausted, then go and take in one of the summer blockbusters that demanded nothing of him except that he stay awake. He wondered whether he should take his daughter along; it would do her good to get out of the house, and he would have someone to talk to during the trailers. Although he was well into his thirties he still felt uncomfortable going to the cinema alone, though it wasn’t quite as unthinkable as it had been when he was a teenager. He might have to reconsider his trip to the gym if he took Tinna along, though, since she hardly had the strength to lift her towel after a shower, much less any weights.
Fuck the gym, he could go there later. He called his daughter and she agreed to go and see a film with him that evening, her choice. There was neither interest nor uninterest in her voice, and he had the impression that she’d agreed to see him out of a sense of duty. It had always been hard for him to understand her. He had only been with her mother for one night and had never had a good relationship with her. So he didn’t know whether it was just he who had difficulty connecting to her emotionally or whether the same went for her other relatives. In truth, he suspected he wasn’t the only one. The poor girl had always had some sort of mental trouble, but it was only recently that she’d started acting so depressed that you couldn’t help but notice it. Thinking about it reminded Adolf that he still hadn’t told his lawyer about Tinna’s illness and this was probably a big mistake. Maybe he could gain the judge’s sympathy if she testified? He had always been pretty good to her, looked after her every other weekend since she was tiny — after the paternity test was performed, of course. Even though he’d more often than not left her with his parents, he’d heard that children benefited from being around their grandparents, and no harm had been done to her even though you’d be hard pushed to find another couple as boring as them.
When his father died two years ago, Adolf had hoped his mother’s condition would improve somewhat, that her mood would brighten and she would somehow change into another person. His parents had always squabbled over stupid little things for as long as he could remember, and had managed to scare all their friends and relatives away. Actually one or two of his relatives had occasionally dropped by out of a sense of familial duty, but they had always been scared off by the oppressive atmosphere in the house. The only words the couple had spoken in the presence of others had been poorly concealed pot-shots at each other or rants against the rest of society. There had been no news topic so mundane that they couldn’t find a way to turn it on its head and complain about it for hours at a time. Adolf shuddered slightly at the memory. He didn’t know whether the root of this behavioural pattern had lain with his mother or his father, since he couldn’t remember them being anything apart from terribly unhappy. If the problem had been his father, then his mother had been so worn down by the time he finally died that her true nature had been erased. She continued to grumble, but now just directed it into thin air. So it hadn’t been a day of great mourning for their only son when she had died recently. Adolf thought this seemed appropriate: they had both chosen their own unhappiness over everything else, including their own child, and didn’t deserve to have anyone grieve for them.
What had that Alda said about them, again? That they had applied for a divorce early in their marriage? If that was true, there was no doubt in his mind that they would have been better off going through with it than ruining what was left of their lives and making each other unhappy. He couldn’t fathom how two such different people came up with the idea of marrying, unless something had happened after the marriage that had changed them so much that they couldn’t change back. He didn’t believe that, but thought they had simply been thoroughly unpleasant people by nature and had raged and ranted at each other in the hope that two negatives would make a positive. Instead they had lived in utter misery and hostility until the end. He did not intend to finish up like that. If he was that negative too, he wasn’t going to make things worse by living with or marrying a female version of himself. Again he thought about the pending court case. Maybe he could also get the judge’s sympathy via the story of his upbringing? Of course he had wanted for nothing in material terms, since his parents had been quite well off, but he had lacked affection. He was so pleased with this idea that he decided to write it down to give to his lawyer. This was bound to work, especially if Tinna could be called upon to testify and persuaded to say that he was her main guardian. No judge with a trace of humanity could sentence him to prison after hearing a testimony like that from a sick child. Adolf was glad she still looked like a child, even though she was now sixteen.
He wondered briefly whether he should phone his lawyer and speak to her — that always made him feel better. She always managed to come up with something to quash any negative thoughts he was having about the case. Sometimes she did this by telling him good news about the other case that she was handling for him, making the hospital in Isafjördur realize that unfortunately they would not be able to wriggle out of paying Adolf compensation for his mother’s death. He smiled just thinking about the sum she’d mentioned. He couldn’t complain about his financial situation; he had inherited his parents’ mortgage-free house and everything that they had managed to scrape together in the course of their lives, for the most part unconditionally, if you didn’t count that wretched inheritance tax. The additional compensation would just be the icing on a delicious cake that had pretty much landed in his lap. Nevertheless, he decided not to call. She would probably start talking about Alda and he didn’t want to hear it right now. He’d gladly never hear her name again, especially right now. He didn’t want to think about what had happened when they’d met. Nor did he want to have to explain to his lawyer that Alda would not be testifying for him as they had been hoping. Not a hope in hell of that, now.
‘Tomorrow,’ replied Thóra, in answer to her daughter’s usual question: When are you coming home? ‘Early, in fact. Probably before lunch.’
‘Good,’ said Sóley, happily. She dropped her voice to a whisper, so Thóra had to strain to hear her. ‘Grandma’s making those disgusting meatballs wrapped in leaves.’
‘Aha,’ said Thóra, smiling to herself. Cabbage-balls hadn’t been her favourite either when she was Sóley’s age. ‘I’ll make you something for lunch. Don’t worry.’ She said goodbye to her daughter, who told her that Gylfi wanted to talk to her. Her son’s husky voice took over.
‘Can you find me a place to stay in the Islands for the festival?’ he said, without saying hello or wasting time on small talk. Ah, the August Bank Holiday festival, thought Thóra. She’d forgotten that was coming up. The Westmann Islands were famous for it. ‘Everything’s fully booked and I can’t stay in a tent with Sigga and Orri,’ he went on.
‘I would have thought the main obstacle to staying in a tent would have been you,’ replied Thóra. Gylfi was hardly an outdoors man. ‘And it’s out of the question that you take the baby to the festival with you. He’s far too little.’ She looked up at the ceiling. ‘In fact, you’re too young yourselves.’ It was extremely unfortunate that the human body matured so early. It had no doubt been a benefit when people died around thirty, but it was absurd for longer lifespans. ‘It’s a bad idea for you to
come here.’
‘I thought maybe you’d come with us,’ said Gylfi quickly. ‘We could rent an apartment for all of us to stay in, including Sóley. Then you could look after Orri if Sigga and I need to go off somewhere, food shopping or whatever.’
At first Thóra was amazed and pleased to hear that Gylfi wanted to have her with them, but then the penny dropped. She was supposed to pay to rent an apartment, do the cooking and cleaning and take care of Orri as well. She had to hand it to Gylfi: she could hardly say he’d been sneaky about it. He’d got straight to the point, at least, which was a definite plus. ‘I’ll see what I can do, but I think it’s pretty much impossible to find an apartment here now,’ said Thóra after thinking for a moment. She could think of far worse things than a little holiday with her children for the Bank Holiday weekend. Mind you, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t have been invited to go with Gylfi and Sigga if they hadn’t had the baby.
‘Awesome,’ said Gylfi. ‘Check on a flight for us too,’ he added, as a parting shot. ‘It looks like they’re all booked too.’
Thóra rolled her eyes and said goodbye. In the wake of this call she made several unsuccessful attempts to find accommodation for the weekend in question. She was in her hotel room, so she started by ringing reception in the hope that two rooms might be free. Her question was actually met with laughter, and the same occurred when she tried other accommodation in the Islands. One woman who ran a guesthouse felt sorry for her and offered to check on whether there were still any apartments open. There were always people willing to rent their apartments that weekend, to families rather than groups of teenagers. She took down Thóra’s number but told her not to get her hopes up. Thóra didn’t feel like checking on flights or sea crossings until it was clear they could get accommodation. It wasn’t much good being able to come to the festival if they’d be out on the street. She was getting ready to go down to meet Bella for something to eat when the phone rang again. It was Matthew. His voice sounded cheerful even though he hadn’t yet decided whether he would take the job in Iceland. Reading between the lines, Thóra thought he was waiting to see if she would make his decision easier: he would come if she encouraged him, but would stay put if she indicated that she would rather he didn’t.
He seemed to have resolved not to discuss his decision, although it made conversation embarrassing and awkward. She wanted him to come, but was nervous about how it would go if their interest in each other started to dwindle over time. She decided to change the subject so that there would be no danger of her giving in and asking him to take the job. ‘Why would you cut someone’s genitals off and stuff them in their mouth?’ was the only thing that she could think of saying. The part of the autopsy report concerned with the head was preoccupying her. It had stated that the mouth of the severed head had contained a man’s reproductive organ, likely from the same person. That was the unexpected element Gudni had hinted at.
There was a long silence at the other end of the phone.
Finally Matthew spoke: ‘I’m just wondering what it is you wanted to say, whether I’ve misunderstood. I can’t come up with anything, so I’m starting to think I didn’t mishear you at all.’
‘No,’ said Thóra. ‘You didn’t mishear me. At the moment I’m working on a case that concerns, among other things, a head in that very same condition.’
‘A head?’ said Matthew, clearly baffled. ‘I see you haven’t yet switched over to divorce cases, like you were thinking of doing. Or is this one of them?’
‘I wish I knew whose head it was,’ replied Thóra sadly, before running through the case swiftly with him. When she had finished she repeated her original question. ‘If I knew what would drive a murderer to do such a thing, perhaps I could narrow down the number of possible suspects.’
‘It sounds to me as if this case is one of those that will never be solved,’ said Matthew, tacitly declining to discuss the mutilation. ‘So much time has passed that I doubt you’ll get anywhere.’
‘That would be bad news for my client,’ said Thóra. ‘He doesn’t want this allegation hanging over his head for the rest of his life, which is what might happen if the truth doesn’t come out.’ She paused before adding: ‘I mean, it’s the best he could hope for in the event that the guilty party isn’t found.
He could very well be charged or sentenced. For the moment there are no other suspects and this investigation has all the makings of a media circus. It’s not the kind of case that brings out the best in the police or the justice system.‘
‘You take on the strangest jobs,’ said Matthew. ‘Is that deliberate?’
‘No, far from it,’ said Thóra emphatically. ‘At least I have to believe it’s not. I didn’t go searching for the man. When I took this case on I expected the worst, but not that heads would roll, literally…’ She exhaled. ‘But you haven’t answered my question about the way this head has been treated. Have you ever heard of such a thing?’
‘Well, I’m no expert,’ replied Matthew, and Thóra could hear his voice taking on a more serious tone. ‘But of course I’ve heard and read about similar cases.’
‘Of course,’ said Thóra. ‘It happens all the time, silly me.’
Matthew sounded insulted. ‘You know what I mean. These things aren’t unheard of in wartime; in fact I wouldn’t be surprised if it happened in prehistoric times. Its purpose is almost certainly to deprive the victim of his masculinity, and at the same time to display the perpetrator’s revulsion towards the individual in question. The Mafia also used to do it to traitors.’
Thóra raised a sarcastic eyebrow, although Matthew couldn’t see her. ‘I doubt the Mafia had anything to do with this. This is a small community dependent on fishing, with little to interest the Mafia.’
‘I imagine there’s a harbour there?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact there is, but I still don’t think this has anything to do with the Mafia,’ said Thóra confidently. She had seen photos of the Westmann Islands taken around the time of the disaster, and cigar-wielding Mafiosi in suits would have fitted into them about as naturally as astronauts in full spacesuits. ‘True, the Cod War between Iceland and Britain was in full swing at the time, but it wasn’t a war in the usual sense, so this is unlikely to be related to any battle.’
‘I think this type of treatment also occurs in hate crimes, when people are killed because of their race, religion or sexual preference. Would that fit?’
‘I don’t know, damn it,’ replied Thóra. ‘The bodies haven’t been identified, which makes the case impossible. Hopefully that will be resolved soon, since I’m sort of stranded here until I know more.’
‘I know this much, Thóra,’ sighed Matthew, ‘what this person has done displays enormous hatred, spite and cruelty. If whoever did it is still alive, I don’t like the look of this. They won’t be too happy about people digging around in the past.’
Thóra tried to lighten the mood. ‘Ah, bless you. The culprit is either six feet under or a senior citizen. I don’t think I’m in any danger.’
Matthew was silent for a moment. ‘You can’t grow out of hatred. Not that kind of hatred, Thóra. You should watch your step.’
After the phone call she sat for a moment, staring into nothing. She tried to imagine herself cutting off a man’s penis and putting it in his mouth, but she couldn’t. She realized that there was a lot of truth in what Matthew had said. This crime showed unbelievable hatred; the kind of hatred only possible in someone who no longer held company with civilized men. But what could cause that?
Chapter Fifteen
Wednesday 18 July2007
There was no one in reception when Thóra came to return the keys. Bella was nowhere to be seen, so she sent her a text message telling her she ought to hurry if they wanted to catch the plane. Thóra had no interest in missing the morning flight and having to wait until evening for another, since there was so much waiting for her at home and at work. She threw her key forcefully onto the table in the hope that the
receptionist would hear her, but in vain. Spying an old-fashioned bell, she rang it loudly. It didn’t take long for the young woman who seemed to be on duty at the reception desk round the clock to appear with a smile on her lips and check Thóra out. However, there was still no sign of Bella. Had she perhaps gone out again last night, and was still asleep next to some random sailor? Looking at her watch Thóra saw that there was no reason to panic yet, so she plonked herself down in an easy chair and grabbed some newspapers. They turned out to be from the day before, but that was good enough for her.
After a while Alda’s sister Jóhanna walked into the hotel lobby and came over. Thóra quickly put down the paper she was reading and greeted her.
‘Oh, good,’ said Jóhanna as she shook Thóra’s hand loosely, trying to catch her breath. ‘I was so sure I’d missed you. You’re taking the morning flight, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ replied Thóra, looking over at the clock again. ‘The girl who’s with me is a bit late. Luckily, because otherwise I’d be at the airport.’ She smiled at Jóhanna. ‘Did you want to talk about something in particular?’
‘I found something last night. After talking to you I started to think about Alda and what you said about the bodies in the basement. If my sister was murdered then I want to help in any way I can.’ She lifted a plastic bag that she’d brought with her and held it out towards Thóra. ‘That’s why I went looking for these. I want you to see them.’
Ashes to Dust Page 14
