Thorson’s thoughts returned to the task in hand. Analysis of the cyanide capsule found in Felix Lunden’s flat had confirmed his suspicions: it was a so-called suicide pill, manufactured in Germany. If the user bit down on the capsule, or ampoule, the potassium cyanide it contained would theoretically kill him in a matter of seconds, though in practice it could take as long as fifteen minutes, causing indescribable suffering. It was the first time a capsule of this kind had turned up in Reykjavík, and the intelligence officer was demanding to know how it had come into the hands of the Icelandic police. He was a major, fiftyish, aggressive and gruff, with a pockmarked face and a black glove on one hand. It looked to Thorson as though he was missing two fingers. His name was Major Graham and he had served in the US Military Intelligence Division for many years. With him was his opposite number from British intelligence, who had been consulting the records for any mention of Rudolf Lunden in the period immediately after the invasion. He was somewhat younger than Major Graham and disfigured by a burn that extended from his neck up one side of his face, leaving only a stump of an ear. He had transferred to intelligence after sustaining serious injuries when his plane came down. His name was Ballantine – like the whisky, he said as he introduced himself, adding that he was no relation. The smile that accompanied this remark was more like a grimace. Thorson got the impression that the joke had grown rather stale.
‘Why would an Icelander be carrying a suicide pill?’ asked Major Graham. ‘Hidden in a suitcase, you said?’
‘Yes, we believe the owner of the case to be a travelling salesman, sir,’ said Thorson. ‘So the pill would be on hand whenever he was away from home.’
‘Actually, that’s not an uncommon cover,’ said Ballantine, who also held the rank of major. ‘And it’s not a bad idea in this country. It would allow a man to travel wherever he liked without attracting any undue attention. And he could hide any equipment connected to his espionage activities in his suitcase. You did say you found samples of his wares in the case?’
‘Yes, that’s right, sir,’ said Thorson. He had provided a brief report when he handed over the capsule for analysis. ‘Are you confident that he’s been spying for the Germans?’
‘I wouldn’t say we’re confident,’ said Major Graham, ‘but this pill is a strong indication that he has been involved with the Germans in some way. After all, he’s from a German family, if I understand right.’
‘With the greatest respect, sir, that’s not necessarily significant. We can hardly suspect all civilians with German roots of being spies.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ retorted Graham.
‘His father, Rudolf Lunden, was arrested two days after the invasion,’ said Ballantine, opening a file that he had brought along to the meeting, ‘along with other individuals who were on our list of people known to have close ties to Germany. He was detained for several days and interrogated at length. The plan was to deport him to Britain for internment along with thirty other German nationals, but nothing came of it, and in the end he was released. We have no information at all on his son Felix. He wasn’t among those arrested.’
‘Do you have any idea why Rudolf Lunden wasn’t sent to Britain, sir?’
‘The officer in charge is no longer in the country,’ said Ballantine, ‘so I’m not acquainted with the details. They must have concluded that he was harmless following his interrogation. His house was searched but nothing suspicious came to light. Besides, the man’s confined to a wheelchair, which limits his activities. We kept his house under surveillance for a while, but he stayed at home for the most part and received few visitors.’
‘He must have known he was being watched?’
‘I don’t believe he can have failed to notice.’
‘Did any information about Felix emerge from the interviews?’
‘No, he didn’t mention his son, and it seems he was never asked about him. The interviews focused on trying to establish the nature of his relationship with the German consul, Dr Werner Gerlach. Apparently they were quite good friends. They used to meet regularly, according to Lunden, but mostly, if he’s to be believed, because they were compatriots.’
‘Was Felix a member of the Icelandic Nazi movement – the Nationalist Party?’ asked Thorson. ‘Do you have any information about that, sir?’
‘No, nothing at all on Felix Lunden, as I said,’ replied Ballantine. ‘On the other hand, his father was listed as a member, and we confiscated the minutes of meetings, which we found at his house, together with a list of members dating from three years ago.’
‘Hasn’t the party been disbanded?’ asked Thorson.
‘It’s ceased its activities, yes,’ said Ballantine. ‘Though that doesn’t necessarily mean the party members have abandoned their Nazi sympathies. We keep an eye on a few of them, but the majority seem to have seen the error of their ways.’
‘I assume there’s quite a bit of information the Germans would want to get their hands on here in Iceland,’ said Thorson.
‘Indeed. Espionage flights from Norway aren’t sufficient,’ said Ballantine. ‘They also need men on the ground watching our vessels, tracking our arms shipments and monitoring key positions like the naval base in Hvalfjördur. The Nazis are interested in all our activities in Iceland. If this Felix Lunden is collecting information for them, he must have access to a radio transmitter and possibly a camera as well. A transmitter can be concealed in an ordinary suitcase like the one you found at his flat. It would need to be powerful enough to communicate with the German U-boats that lurk off the coast, picking off our ships and Icelandic vessels too. If so, Felix must have a key to their codes, which would be worth getting hold of. It wouldn’t be at all difficult for him to communicate with U-boats at a particular location – or locations, around the country – at pre-arranged times. These are probably points on the coastline where the U-boats can come in close to shore. We’ve already stepped up our patrols of some of these areas.’
‘Is it possible that Felix could already have been picked up by a German submarine?’ asked Thorson. ‘Or that he might attempt to escape that way?’
‘Yes, it’s quite conceivable,’ said Ballantine.
‘So far we haven’t caught any German agents in Iceland,’ added Graham, scratching his chin. ‘This Felix would be the first. Have you identified the dead man in Felix’s apartment?’
‘No, sir, not yet,’ said Thorson. ‘We don’t have any leads. No one’s asked about him. No one seems to have noticed that he’s gone. At least, the Icelandic police haven’t gotten any reports of a missing person his age.’
‘I probably don’t need to point out, er – Thorson, isn’t it? – how important it is that you keep us informed of the progress of this investigation,’ said Graham. ‘I want you to deliver a verbal report on a daily basis, keeping us up to date with what the Icelanders have discovered. You’d better talk directly to me. The British are in the process of withdrawing and Ballantine here is no exception.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to discuss that with my commanding officer, sir,’ said Thorson, careful to keep his tone courteous. ‘Colonel Franklin Webster. I’m under orders to keep him informed about the inquiry. If he wants to make any changes to that arrangement, I’m sure he’ll let me know.’
‘Wouldn’t it make more sense for us to take over the inquiry?’ Graham asked, his eyes on Ballantine. ‘Can we do that? Surely there’s a risk the Icelanders will screw it up? Are they capable of dealing with an espionage case?’
‘With respect, sir, we don’t know for sure that the man’s death is connected to spying,’ Thorson pointed out. ‘The detective in charge of the case seems reliable and he’s very meticulous.’
‘You’re an Icelander yourself, aren’t you? Do you speak the lingo?’
‘Icelandic-Canadian, sir.’ Thorson corrected him. ‘I don’t really know if I’m Canadian or Icelandic. Both, I guess. I don’t believe the Icelanders need any –’
‘Yes, well, regardless of
that, if they don’t come up with some results soon, we’ll have to step in,’ said Graham brusquely. ‘That’s the only way we’ll get anything done. The bullet comes from an American weapon. That’s enough for me. It’s our business.’
‘It would be problematic for us to interfere in the affairs of the Icelandic police, at least at this stage,’ said Ballantine calmly. ‘I’d advise holding back for the time being and keeping a close eye on them. I imagine that’s your role,’ he added, looking at Thorson. ‘Do we have incontrovertible proof that the suitcase containing the cyanide pill belonged to Felix Lunden?’
‘Who else could it belong to?’ asked Graham.
‘The dead man, for example,’ said Ballantine.
They both looked at Thorson as if they expected him to have the answer, but he didn’t, and neither did Flóvent. They had agreed that there was a strong chance the suitcase belonged to Felix, but Flóvent felt they shouldn’t entirely rule out the alternative: that the unidentified victim had brought it with him to the flat. If Ólafía was to be believed, her tenant had sold various items of the type that had been found in the case, but that still didn’t amount to proof that it was his.
‘The police are analysing the fingerprints on the suitcase,’ said Thorson. ‘They may provide some more clues, but the odds are pretty good that it belongs to Felix.’
‘This is our territory,’ Graham repeated, scowling. ‘We’ll take over sooner or later. It’s only a question of when.’
Shortly after this the meeting broke up, and Thorson headed back to his jeep. As he passed along the hospital corridors he caught glimpses of the old wards that had now been converted into offices for military personnel, and unconsciously he slowed his pace, his thoughts returning to the sick and the shunned, whose history still lingered in this building. He pictured the patients who had once occupied these rooms, afflicted by sores that couldn’t be concealed, but also by other, invisible wounds, eating away at their minds: the wounds of the outcast. He felt a deep sense of kinship with the building’s former residents. He was aware of his own inclinations, though he didn’t fully understand them, and knew that they were no less reviled by society than the leprosy which people had held in such dread that they had built this handsome hospital to contain it. These were feelings that he tried to avoid thinking about and refused to admit even to himself, yet they persisted and he was finding it increasingly hard to control them, though he didn’t dare breathe a word of them to anyone else for fear of exposure. He did his best to be on his guard, but sometimes he forgot himself, like yesterday when he’d narrowly avoided rousing the suspicions of the drunken singer.
Why are you staring at me like that?
11
Rudolf Lunden objected in the strongest possible terms to being brought in for questioning at the prison on Skólavördustígur. Two police officers had been dispatched to his home the morning after Flóvent’s visit. Before bringing him in, they had carried out a thorough search of the premises in case Felix was hiding there, ignoring Rudolf’s curses and threats that they wouldn’t keep their jobs for long. He was still furious two hours later when Flóvent arrived at the prison to take his statement. Flóvent had been at a meeting with Thorson, who had brought him up to date with the results of his trip to the Leper Hospital. The wait had not improved the doctor’s temper.
‘Have you any idea how humiliating it is to be picked up by the police from one’s home in this manner?’ he hissed at Flóvent.
They were sitting in the small interview room to which Rudolf had been escorted when he arrived at the prison. There he had been left to stew – without explanation, without anyone deigning to speak to him or offer him water or coffee to drink – seething with rage all the while.
‘You left me no choice, sir.’
‘A police car outside my house!’
‘You’ve shown absolutely no willingness to cooperate, sir,’ said Flóvent. He had known that his heavy-handed methods would do nothing to mollify the German. ‘You refused to answer my questions when I visited you at home, so I had no alternative but to bring you in. I assure you, sir, that I would much rather it hadn’t come to this.’
‘You are a fool!’ shouted Rudolf. ‘A damned, bloody fool!’
‘I wish I could say the same to you, sir, but I’m afraid I don’t know you well enough,’ said Flóvent. ‘All I know is that you’re not making life any easier for yourself by shouting at me and refusing to answer my questions and throwing me out of your house. You can hardly have been so naive as to believe that this would deter the police. There is every indication that your son has committed a murder. I would have thought you’d want to find out the truth of the matter – find out what actually happened. We don’t know where he is. If you’re protecting him that would make you an accessory to the crime, and I have to say that your conduct, both to me last night and to the police officers who had to bring you here by force, suggests that you have something to hide. For your own sake, I hope that’s not true, but I have to find out.’
Rudolf listened to this speech with a sober expression and for once didn’t rudely interrupt. Flóvent thought briefly that he might have succeeded in pacifying him and persuading him to face facts. But as the rancorous pause grew longer, Flóvent began to wonder if Rudolf intended to protest by refusing to speak at all. He cast around for a new way of getting through to the doctor, though it galled him to have to humour the man.
‘You’re not under arrest, sir,’ Flóvent said. ‘Let me stress that. You’ve only been brought in for an interview. How we proceed now is entirely up to you – whether you’re obliged to remain here longer or allowed to go home.’
‘I regard that as a threat,’ said Rudolf. ‘You had better not try to threaten me.’
‘It was no threat,’ said Flóvent. ‘But you have every right to know what your position is.’
Rudolf didn’t bother to respond to this.
‘I know that you’re a widower,’ said Flóvent. ‘I’m told you lost your wife in the autumn of 1918. It occurs to me that it might have been during the Spanish flu epidemic. Am I right?’
‘I fail to see what possible concern that is of yours.’
‘I only ask because I lost my mother and sister to the Spanish flu.’
Rudolf didn’t react.
‘It does a child no good to watch his loved ones suffer and die. I suppose Felix had to go through something similar?’
‘Felix does not remember his mother.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘I demand to speak to your superiors,’ said Rudolf. ‘You are clearly not up to the job. You are making a serious mistake, and I wish to be sure that they are aware of the fact. Aware of how I am being treated. Of your disgraceful behaviour towards a man who … a man who has difficulty … a man who is handicapped.’
‘I assume you’re referring to Reykjavík’s police commissioner,’ said Flóvent. ‘Would you like me to fetch him for you? There’s nobody else. I’m the only detective in the Criminal Investigation Department at present. My head of department and my colleagues were assigned to other tasks following the occupation. Would you like me to call in the commissioner? I’m willing to do so.’
Rudolf vacillated, as though he couldn’t tell whether Flóvent was in earnest or merely calling his bluff. He seemed unsure whether he should summon the highest authority in the police at this stage or if it was better to deal with the underling facing him for the time being.
‘She gave birth to him shortly before she succumbed to the flu,’ Rudolf said at last, grudgingly. ‘There was little that could be done. Felix was … We do not discuss it.’
‘My mother and sister are buried in one of the two mass graves in the cemetery on Sudurgata,’ said Flóvent. ‘I often visit them there. My father’s keen to have them exhumed so we can rebury them in a family plot.’
‘Why are you…? Of what possible interest is that to me?’ said Rudolf. ‘I do not know why you are telling me this.’
‘I’m
finding it hard to understand your hostility,’ said Flóvent. ‘Is it directed at the police? At the Icelanders? The war? The occupying army? Or are you being obstructive in an attempt to protect your son?’
Rudolf shook his head. It was clear that he had no patience with Flóvent. The tiny chink that had opened in his armour had snapped shut again.
‘I have been inside this building before,’ Rudolf said through gritted teeth. ‘You people do not frighten me. I have nothing to say to you. Nothing.’
‘I wanted to ask you about that,’ said Flóvent. ‘Why did the British arrest you?’
‘Because they are fools.’
‘Wasn’t it actually because you were a close friend of the German consul, Werner Gerlach?’
‘It was outrageous how they treated him. Outrageous.’
‘Were the British under the impression that you worked for him? Was that why they arrested you?’
‘I refuse to answer that,’ said Rudolf. ‘I am no spy. I never have been. I … I object to the insinuation.’
‘What was your relationship with Gerlach?’
‘I do not see what concern that is of yours.’
‘Did you have regular meetings with him?’
‘We were close acquaintances.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘That is none of your business.’
‘About your son, Felix, perhaps?’
‘Felix? No. Why should we have talked about him?’
‘Did he accompany you to these meetings?’
‘No, he did not. Why should he have done? What kind of questions are these?’
‘I’m only trying to gather information about Felix,’ said Flóvent. ‘To find out who he is. Where he is. What sort of relationship you have with him. Whether you’re protecting him. I hope you appreciate that it would be best if he turned himself in. If not, it could make your position very difficult – if you know where he’s hiding, that is.’
The Shadow Killer Page 5
