The Shadow Killer

by Arnaldur Indridason

  Flóvent took the capsule out, placed it on his palm and was just wondering what it could be when Thorson emerged from the kitchen with a telephone directory in his hands, saying that he couldn’t find a Rudolf Lunden listed. Seeing that Flóvent was deep in thought, Thorson realised he hadn’t heard a word he said. Moving closer, Thorson spotted the pill in his hand.

  ‘Say, where did you find the cyanide capsule?’ he asked.

  9

  Flóvent sat in his car outside the house, mentally rehearsing the visit, wondering how best to convey the necessary facts and elicit the information he was after. He hadn’t been taught any special interviewing techniques when he became a detective, as there wasn’t much call for them in the simple inquiries that tended to come his way. He usually relied on common sense, and it hadn’t let him down so far.

  Thorson had taken the cyanide pill for analysis by experts in military intelligence. One element of his training had been to recognise capsules of this type for the purpose of locating and removing them from German prisoners. He thought it was almost certainly German and could well be linked to espionage. The agents of the Third Reich were advised to carry such capsules at all times and use them rather than surrender and risk interrogation. It was all new to Flóvent. He had never come across anything like a cyanide pill before, to say nothing of Nazi spies.

  ‘Of course, there’d be plenty to occupy them in Iceland,’ he commented when Thorson had explained what he thought the capsule was. ‘It’s the largest Allied base in the North Atlantic.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Thorson. ‘Military intelligence has a detachment here to keep an eye on any unusual activity. And also on individuals with longstanding connections to Germany, German nationals, any Icelanders who have ever studied in the country, that kind of thing.’

  ‘So Felix Lunden’s name is bound to have cropped up?’

  ‘I’ll make enquiries,’ said Thorson. ‘Do you mind if I take the pill and hand it over to our people for analysis?’

  ‘No, you do that. Good idea. We’ll see what they make of it. It looks to me as if this case concerns your people as much as ours.’ He sensed a hesitation on Thorson’s part. ‘You don’t agree?’

  ‘Yes, it’s just…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Maybe you should get someone else to work with you,’ said Thorson. ‘I … I don’t have a clue what I’m doing when it comes to this kind of investigation. I’ll be straight with you. Before we go any further, I want you to know that I’ve never been involved in anything like this before.’

  ‘To be honest, I’m in the same position,’ said Flóvent. ‘But maybe you’re not so keen on this kind of work? I can understand that.’

  ‘I’m worried about getting in your way,’ said Thorson.

  Flóvent wasn’t used to such candour. ‘You recognised the cyanide pill straight away,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s see how it goes,’ said Flóvent. ‘It may actually be an advantage – to approach a case like this without any experience.’

  Twilight hung over the town; the weather was bleak, with low cloud threatening rain. Flóvent peered at the house in the grey light. It hadn’t taken him long to discover where the doctor lived. The picture he was forming of him, based on what little information Baldur could offer, was still very sketchy. Rudolf had been born in Schleswig-Holstein, moved to Iceland in around 1910 and married an Icelandic woman with whom he had one child. Baldur thought the wife had died during the Spanish flu epidemic.

  Flóvent and Thorson had agreed that Felix Lunden was the most obvious suspect, given that the body wasn’t his. They were working on the assumption that he had fled and was now in hiding, perhaps even trying to leave the country. The police were going to issue an appeal on the radio and in the newspapers, and launch a nationwide search for him.

  The dead man’s identity remained a mystery. No one seemed to be missing a man in his twenties, who had ended his life in Felix Lunden’s flat, shot in the head with a service pistol.

  One thing puzzled Flóvent. The man had seemingly opened the door to Felix’s flat using the key that he had been clutching in his hand when he was shot. Felix had mentioned to Ólafía that he had mislaid his own key, and she had lent him her only spare. So somehow the dead man must have acquired a key to Felix’s flat. The logical conclusion was that their paths must have crossed recently and that the unidentified man had entered the basement flat without permission.

  Unable to put off the evil hour any longer, Flóvent got out of the car and walked up to the house. It was an austere, single-storey building, clad in sombre pebble-dash and surrounded by a small garden. Carved in relief above the front door was the name of the house: Skuggabjörg, Shadow Crags. The door was opened by a maid, who wore a white apron over a black dress. Flóvent introduced himself and asked to speak to the owner of the house. She showed him in and requested that he wait in the hall. As the minutes ticked by without any sign of her returning, Flóvent began to edge his way further inside, examining the paintings on the walls and trying to read the spines on the crowded bookshelves. Then he just stood there listening to the silence. Order appeared to be highly prized in this house: the floors gleamed and there wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen on the furniture, books or paintings. At long last the maid returned.

  ‘He says he wasn’t expecting you, sir,’ she said apologetically. ‘He’ll be ready to see you in a few minutes. In the meantime, he asked me to show you into his study, if you would be so kind as to wait for him there.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Flóvent and followed the girl into the study, where she left him. There he found still more bookcases, containing, as far as he could tell, German literature, academic works and medical texts. He noticed an edition of On the Origin of Species, in the original English, but he didn’t recognise many of the other titles as he didn’t know German. At the far end of the room was a large desk with papers, writing materials and piles of books neatly arranged on top. There was a pair of crutches propped against one of the bookcases.

  ‘Do you see anything on the shelves that interests you?’ a deep, German-accented voice asked behind him. Startled, he spun round to see a man in his sixties sitting in a wheelchair, observing him from the doorway with colourless eyes. Flóvent didn’t know how long the man had been there but felt instinctively that he had been watching him for a while.

  ‘It’s a handsome library,’ he replied, for the sake of saying something.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the man in the wheelchair as he propelled himself into the room. He had white hair, a thin face, and his eyes behind the round spectacles with their heavy black frames were severe, angry almost, as if he were a teacher faced with a class of recalcitrant pupils. He was wearing a dark jacket over a knitted jumper, and had a woollen blanket spread over his knees. ‘I try to surround myself with a decent library,’ he said in his carefully enunciated Icelandic. ‘I understand you are from the police?’

  ‘Yes, please excuse the intrusion,’ said Flóvent, swiftly recovering his composure. ‘Are you Rudolf Lunden, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘My name’s Flóvent, and I’m a detective with Reykjavík’s Criminal Investigation Department. I’ve come to see you about rather an unusual matter. Am I right in thinking that you have a son called Felix?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to know where I might find him?’

  ‘Find him? What for?’

  ‘I –’

  ‘What do the police want with him?’ the man interrupted sharply.

  ‘I wondered if I’d find him here with you.’

  ‘Apparently you did not hear what I said: what do the police want with him? Would you be so good as to answer my question?’

  ‘Of course. I –’

  ‘Would you get on with it then,’ the man interrupted again in a louder voice, his German accent becoming more pronounced. ‘Please do not waste my time.’

  Flóvent was thrown by
the man’s rudeness. Before knocking on the door he had sat in his car for a long while, trying to think of ways to mitigate the pain his visit was bound to cause. Now it seemed that he had been wasting his time.

  ‘Sir, I came to see you in connection with a violent crime that was committed at your son’s address,’ he said. ‘A man was murdered in his flat. Shot in the head. We thought at first that the victim was Felix himself – that he was the dead man. But it turned out to be somebody else. We’re now looking for your son in connection with the murder. We believe he may be involved in some way.’

  The man in the wheelchair regarded Flóvent as if he had never heard anything so preposterous in his life. ‘Involved in a murder…?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Rudolf, and Flóvent saw that he had succeeded in unsettling him. But only for a moment. ‘What are you talking about?’ Rudolf went on angrily. ‘I have never heard such … such a pack of nonsense!’

  ‘Nevertheless, that is how the matter appears to us,’ said Flóvent. ‘The facts –’

  ‘How could you allow such an absurd idea to enter your head?’

  ‘I’m afraid those are the facts. I can understand that you’re shocked. Naturally, it’s not very pleasant news. Could you tell me where Felix is now, sir?’

  ‘A murder, in Felix’s flat?’ Rudolf sounded stunned.

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes. Do you know where your son is?’

  ‘How the devil…?’

  ‘Do you know where he was yesterday evening, sir?’

  ‘Who was the man?’ Rudolf asked, ignoring Flóvent’s questions as if he hadn’t even heard them. ‘Who was the man found in his flat?’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ said Flóvent. ‘We haven’t managed to identify the body. But it’s only a matter of time before we do, and then we’ll be able to establish how the victim was connected to your son. I repeat, do you know where your son is?’

  Rudolf was staring blankly, as if he had just been struck in the face.

  Flóvent repeated his question. ‘Do you know where your son is?’

  The man in the wheelchair didn’t answer.

  ‘Do you think he could be on the run from the police?’ Flóvent asked. ‘Could he have gone into hiding?’

  Evidently Rudolf had had enough of the visit. ‘Was there anything else?’ he snapped.

  ‘Else?’

  ‘That you have to say to me?’

  ‘I think you misunderstand the situation, sir,’ said Flóvent. ‘I’m here on behalf of the police to seek information from you. Not the other way round.’

  ‘Yes, well, I have nothing to say to you,’ said Rudolf. ‘Would you please leave me alone now.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s –’

  ‘I am asking you to leave,’ said the man, raising his voice again. ‘I have nothing more to say to you.’

  ‘Do you have any idea of your son’s whereabouts?’ Flóvent persisted. ‘Can you help us track him down? We need to speak to him urgently.’

  ‘I insist that you leave my property!’ Rudolf was shouting now.

  ‘Is he here with you?’ Flóvent went on doggedly. ‘Is Felix here in your house?’

  ‘You fool of an Icelander. You know nothing. Nothing! Get out of my house.’

  ‘No, it –’

  ‘Out of my house!’ yelled Rudolf, rolling his chair menacingly towards Flóvent. ‘Get out! Be off with you! I have nothing further to say to you. Out! Get out!’

  Flóvent stood firm. The maid appeared at the door of the study. She had heard her employer shouting and was looking questioningly at Flóvent. When Rudolf became aware of her presence, he wheeled his chair round and ordered her to escort the policeman to the door: their meeting was over. He waved her away irritably when she tried to assist him, then propelled himself out of the room. Flóvent and the maid were left standing in awkward silence.

  ‘I imagine he’s not the easiest of people to work for,’ Flóvent remarked after a moment.

  The meeting hadn’t gone at all as planned. He couldn’t understand what had happened – whether it was his fault, or Rudolf’s, or both. But it was clear that he would have to work out a different way of handling the doctor at their next meeting, and that this meeting needed to take place as soon as possible.

  ‘He can be … He’s had a trying time recently,’ the girl said apologetically. She stood there in the doorway, large and sturdily built, her hair neatly tied back, waiting for Flóvent to leave. He guessed she was in her twenties and suspected that she had been hired not least for her strong arms. Rudolf would presumably require help with every aspect of his daily routine and, from the look of her, she would have no trouble providing it.

  ‘Has he been in a wheelchair long?’ Flóvent tried to appear outwardly calm as he recovered from the extraordinarily hostile encounter.

  ‘I don’t know … I don’t like discussing my employer behind his back. Rudolf isn’t a bad man, sir. He’s always treated me with respect. I’d like to do the same for him.’

  ‘Could you tell me something about his son, Felix, then?’ Flóvent tried instead. ‘Have you met him?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask my employer about him, sir,’ said the maid in a low voice, then asked him to accompany her out to the hall. ‘I’ve had no contact with his son.’

  ‘Do you know where he could be staying, miss, if he’s not at home?’

  ‘No, it … You’ll have to ask my employer,’ she repeated.

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll try again later. Has Felix been here recently? In the last few days? Is he here now?’

  ‘No,’ said the girl firmly. ‘He hasn’t been here for a while.’

  ‘Do he and his father have a good relationship?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask them.’

  ‘I see that Rudolf keeps a pair of crutches in his study,’ said Flóvent, venturing a quick look back into the room where the crutches were propped against the bookshelves. ‘Is he … can he…?’

  ‘He can get around on them, but it’s very difficult for him.’

  ‘Look, if there’s anything you can tell me about Felix, I’d be very grateful. It needn’t go any further. It’s vital that we find him.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the girl.

  ‘However trivial it might seem.’

  ‘Yes, I understand, but I can’t help you.’

  ‘Have you noticed any unusual guests lately? Any strange phone calls?’

  She shook her head, then escorted him to the front door and opened it. Flóvent emerged onto the step, thanked her and shook her hand in parting, and either because she felt she hadn’t been sufficiently helpful or perhaps out of a desire to excuse her employer’s rudeness, she didn’t immediately release his hand.

  ‘You must forgive him, sir. Rudolf … he isn’t normally like that. He hasn’t been himself lately. Not since his brother-in-law came round the other day. They had a row.’

  ‘His brother-in-law?’

  ‘The headmaster,’ she whispered, her eyes anxious, as if she were afraid of being overheard. ‘His late wife’s brother. I heard them quarrelling and he sounded upset.’

  ‘What were they quarrelling about?’

  ‘I don’t know … some boys, I don’t know,’ the maid whispered, then slipped back inside and quietly closed the door.

  As Flóvent was retracing his steps to the car, he happened to glance back at the house and spotted a middle-aged woman watching him from the drawing-room window, her face stern. Even as he watched, she pulled the curtain and vanished from view.

  10

  US counter-intelligence had been given temporary quarters in one wing of the old Leper Hospital on Laugarnes Point. They shared it with their British colleagues who had requisitioned the hospital building shortly after the occupation. The few remaining patients had been sent to a sanatorium in Kópavogur, the settlement to the south of Reykjavík.

  Although the United States was officially still neutral, within a few months Ame
rican troops were scheduled to relieve the British garrison and take over responsibility for the defence of Iceland. First to arrive had been the Marine Corps and 5th Defense Battalion on 7 July with their anti-aircraft units, followed by the first land army contingent on 6 August, and more reinforcements were expected any day now to swell their ranks – thousands of armed men who had never even heard of Iceland before, let alone known where to find it on a map. In no time at all Reykjavík had become a seething mass of British troops preparing to withdraw, reinforcements from America, incomers from the Icelandic countryside – seeking a better life in the suddenly prosperous city – and the citizens of Reykjavík themselves, young and old, who had yet to come to terms with the transformation their town had undergone in the last year.

  As Thorson drove up to the imposing edifice of the old Leper Hospital on the northern side of Laugarnes, he found himself thinking about prejudice and ostracism, thoughts which were no strangers to him. Naturally the location was no coincidence: the patients had been segregated, kept at a safe distance from the town, or rather, more importantly, the townspeople had been kept at a safe distance from them. A second hospital, the Kleppur Asylum, stood down by the sea a little to the east, even further removed from the town. The Leper Hospital was the most impressive wooden building in the country. It consisted of two floors and an attic, with rows of windows the length of the building and two gables projecting from the front, one at each end. As he admired it, Thorson thought about all the disruption the military occupation had brought to this sparsely populated island and its simple society. On a calm spring day in 1940, the war had come knocking on Reykjavík’s door, and transformed the lives of its inhabitants. Thorson, together with a handful of other Canadian volunteers, had been among the first to come ashore with the British invasion force, as a private in the Second Royal Marine Battalion. They had marched under arms to the country’s main government offices and witnessed first-hand the look of bewilderment on the faces of the townspeople, who must have feared that life in Iceland would never be the same again.