The Shadow Killer

by Arnaldur Indridason

  ‘Good God, no. Quite the opposite. He’s a communist. A damned commie. That’s why I’m worried about him. I keep thinking that he might have heard the rumours about his lady friend and done something stupid.’

  ‘Heard what? What about his lady friend?’

  ‘She’s moved out. Or so I hear. Got herself a soldier, taken to a life of vice. Not that I know anything about it. All I know for sure is that the fellow’s back in town, because I spoke to the crew of the Súd. He always sails with her, so they know him well, and they say he was on board when she came home the other day. But now he’s nowhere to be found.’

  14

  The German consulate stood empty and deserted in the gathering dusk. It was an impressive building with a large, round window in the gable facing onto Túngata. A few doors further up, the nuns of St Joseph’s laboured to care for the sick, while across the road loomed the ungainly form of the Catholic Cathedral with its stumpy grey tower. Here on the hill, above the humble wooden shacks of Grjótathorp, the street was lined with handsome concrete villas, solidly built and blazing with lights, all except for the consulate that stood staring darkly from its single Cyclops eye.

  A stiff northerly wind had sprung up, bringing with it a sharp chill, as Flóvent and Thorson let themselves into the consulate with a key acquired from US counter-intelligence. The Swedish embassy had taken over all consular operations, and now handled the affairs of German nationals in Iceland. The house had stood empty since the May morning the previous year when the consul general had been arrested. Flóvent didn’t know what had happened immediately following his arrest, but a number of German citizens had been interrogated at Midbæjar School and detained there until they could be deported to Britain.

  The light summer nights were drawing in now that it was August, and Flóvent had come armed with a torch. The two men found themselves in a hall with reception rooms opening off it and a staircase ascending steeply on the left-hand side. The building had clearly been vacated in a hurry. Almost everything had been removed, but there were still cupboards, tables and chairs abandoned here and there; and papers, empty boxes, old newspapers, items of clothing, tablecloths and torn curtains were strewn all over the floor. Amidst the mess was a framed photograph of Adolf Hitler, the glass broken as if someone had stamped on it. Two flags, with their black swastika on a red background, lay in tatters among the other rubbish.

  They wandered through the ground-floor rooms in an eerie silence broken only by the odd car making heavy weather of the climb up Túngata. Charred scraps of paper still littered the passageways. Thorson had been allowed to see the documents that had been removed from Gerlach’s residence by the British and subsequently handed over to US intelligence. Many of them had been translated into English, but he had found no references to Felix or Rudolf Lunden among them. Most of the documents concerned the consul’s dealings with the Icelanders, including correspondence with members of the government, in which he complained that the Third Reich was being shown insufficient respect. All pretty inconsequential stuff, Thorson thought. He got the impression that Werner Gerlach’s role had been to unite the German community in Iceland under the Nazi flag and to foment insurrection. None of the papers Thorson was permitted to see were singed or displayed any other sign of having been exposed to the inferno in Gerlach’s bathtub. But they did include countless memos detailing the consul’s views of the Icelanders, which were uncomplimentary, to say the least.

  Entering the consul’s office, Thorson and Flóvent saw two SS uniforms bundled in a heap in one corner and more framed photographs of leading figures in the Third Reich lying on the floor. Flóvent picked up a couple and showed them to Thorson. They were of Heinrich Himmler and Hermann Goering, personally signed with warm regards to the consul.

  ‘I gather he and Gerlach are bosom buddies,’ said Thorson, pointing at Himmler. ‘I don’t know about the other guy.’

  They had come to this gloomy building in search of evidence linking the consul to the Lunden family, possible clues to the provenance of the cyanide capsule, and anything else that might help them with the investigation into Felix’s disappearance. Beforehand, they had sat for hours in Flóvent’s office in the large building at number 11 Fríkirkjuvegur, trying to work out how to proceed. In the end, the best idea they could come up with was to take a look around the German consulate. There was no news of Felix’s whereabouts as yet, and they still didn’t know the identity of the dead man. The most plausible theory was that Felix had shot the man himself and was now on the run, possibly even making arrangements to flee the country. The suicide pill pointed to links with Germany and could conceivably have reached him via the consulate. They had no other leads. Flóvent told Thorson about his trying encounters with Rudolf Lunden and how almost nothing had seemed to rattle the doctor until Flóvent mentioned the swastika on the victim’s forehead. Only then had he been lost for words.

  ‘There’s one thing about Rudolf Lunden that puzzles me,’ said Flóvent, putting the pictures of Himmler and Goering down again. ‘I’ve been wondering why he wasn’t deported with Consul Gerlach and the other German nationals who the British saw urgent reason to arrest. How did he slip through the net? The purges the British carried out were pretty extensive, yet they allowed him to stay.’

  ‘He’s an Icelandic citizen, isn’t he?’ said Thorson. ‘And he’s lived here for thirty years.’ He set off upstairs to the first floor, with Flóvent on his heels, then continued up to the attic. They found themselves in the room with the round window facing the street.

  ‘In addition to which, he’s getting on in years and is confined to a wheelchair,’ said Flóvent.

  ‘Is there any other explanation? The intelligence guys told me they’d made a point of checking out his background and questioning him thoroughly. But they left it at that. They didn’t find any evidence to suggest he was a threat. Nothing to justify internment in Britain.’

  ‘Even though he was friends with Gerlach and an influential member of the Nationalist Party?’ said Flóvent, flashing his torch around the attic. ‘Something doesn’t add up, if you ask me. The way I see it, he should have been deported along with all the rest.’

  ‘This Werner Gerlach’s quite an interesting character,’ said Thorson. ‘They gave me a brief summary of his career at the meeting in the old Leper Hospital, but maybe you’re already familiar with the details?’

  ‘No, actually. I don’t know much about him.’

  ‘He trained as a doctor and was professor of anatomy at the University of Jena,’ said Thorson. ‘He came to this country just before the war broke out, in April of ’39. They believe he was sent to Iceland on the direct orders of Himmler, who, like many Nazis, is particularly interested in this country.’

  ‘Yes, apparently they believe it’s been home to some kind of pure Nordic, Germanic race ever since Viking times.’

  ‘Whereas in reality you’re just a bunch of degenerate weaklings?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Flóvent and smiled.

  ‘Speaking of which, there’s one rather noteworthy fact about the University of Jena. Related to this interest in racial purity.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Flóvent. ‘I’ve never heard of the university before.’

  ‘I’m not familiar with it either,’ said Thorson, ‘but apparently they do research there on eugenics and genetics, including studies of criminals. The university’s top in its field in Germany. The Nazis are obsessed with the idea that criminal traits are hereditary, and they’ve set up major research programmes to prove it. Graham and Ballantine are aware of similar studies being carried out in German concentration camps. They mentioned the camp at a place called … what was it again? Buchenwald, I believe. Apparently the Germans are performing genetic experiments on the prisoners there.’

  ‘Isn’t that a load of nonsense? That criminal traits are hereditary?’

  Thorson shrugged. ‘Well, the Nazis think they’ve found a solution to the problem.’

  ‘
Which is?’

  ‘Castration,’ said Thorson. ‘They know of no simpler or more effective method of preventing criminals from breeding than to geld them.’

  ‘Isn’t that … is there any truth in this?’

  ‘Well, it’s what our friends at the Leper Hospital claim is going on,’ said Thorson, kicking a balled-up newspaper. It fell open to reveal some scraps of paper. Thorson bent down to take a closer look and discovered two charred pages, obviously ripped from a book. There was no sign of the book itself but clearly it must have come into contact with the flames in the consul’s bathtub. The pages, which had been singed top and bottom, appeared to come from a guestbook. Thorson picked them up gingerly and saw a date that looked like 1939. There was handwriting on both sides of the pages and although it was mostly illegible he could discern a few names and other words that the fire hadn’t managed to destroy.

  While Flóvent trained his torch on the fragments, Thorson did his best to decipher them, as he had a smattering of German. He managed to pick out a few of the names. They were German and some were accompanied by greetings or comments like With grateful thanks for your hospitality or Thank you for an enjoyable evening in the company of friends.

  ‘Do they tell us anything useful?’ asked Flóvent, frowning down at them.

  ‘No, probably not,’ said Thorson.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Flóvent, taking hold of one of the pages. ‘What does it say there?’ He drew Thorson’s attention to a signature that was very hard to read. There was no date by the name or any information on the purpose of the visit.

  ‘What’s the surname?’ he asked, staring hard at the writing. ‘Isn’t it Lunden? Doesn’t it say Lunden?’

  Thorson peered at the almost illegible name. The first letter was an H. It was followed by something unreadable, then an n and finally a letter that looked like an s. The surname began with an L. Then there were a couple of unclear letters, then a d and an e, and finally another letter that was impossible to read. H_ns L_de_.

  ‘Could it be Hans or something like that? Hans Lunden?’ said Flóvent. ‘The surname’s definitely Lunden, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it looks like it.’

  ‘Yet another member of the Lunden family?’

  ‘That’s certainly a possibility. Though it could say something different. I’m not very good on German names.’

  ‘If it is Lunden,’ said Flóvent, ‘wouldn’t he be … what? Felix’s brother? I thought he was an only child.’

  ‘Or Rudolf’s brother. Or a cousin, perhaps. Whoever he was, he must have known Werner Gerlach well enough to have been invited here.’

  ‘Felix and Rudolf and now Hans?’

  ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘What’s that in front of his name? More letters?’

  Thorson struggled to decipher the scrawl. ‘Impossible to read. Unless … could that be a capital D?’

  ‘D, and what’s this?’

  ‘Could it be D … r?’

  ‘Doktor Hans Lunden? Yet another doctor,’ said Flóvent thoughtfully, shining his torch into the corner where the fragments had been lying tangled up in the newspaper. Then he directed the beam back at the pages and raised his eyes to Thorson, repeating the words under his breath. ‘Yet another doctor.’

  15

  They watched a man of about sixty collect a bundle of fishing rods from his car, with a calm, unhurried air, then put them away in a shed. Flóvent had decided they should pay a visit to Rudolf’s brother-in-law, the headmaster, just on the off-chance that he had returned from his trip. Spotting the figure with the fishing rods, Flóvent parked in front of the drive, and he and Thorson got out and walked over.

  ‘Ebeneser?’ said Flóvent.

  The man had noticed them parking outside his house but behaved as if it was of no consequence. He was dressed for salmon fishing, and wore a green waterproof over a traditional knitted lopapeysa, and a pair of waders. He looked as if he had come straight from the riverbank.

  ‘Do I know you gentlemen?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you Ebeneser Egilsson, sir?’ asked Flóvent.

  ‘Who’s asking? Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Flóvent and I’m from the Criminal Investigation Department. My partner here is Thorson, from the military police. I don’t know if you’ve heard, sir, but we’re investigating a case involving your nephew, Felix Lunden.’

  ‘Felix? Really?’ The man sounded puzzled. ‘I … I haven’t heard anything about that. Is Felix all right? Is he in some kind of trouble?’

  ‘We’re not sure,’ said Flóvent. ‘But we’re keen to talk to him. Do you have any idea where he might be?’

  ‘Where he might be? Whatever’s going on? I’ve been out of … I’ve been fishing and … I don’t know what this is about. Why are you looking for him?’

  ‘So you haven’t heard from your brother-in-law, Rudolf?’ asked Flóvent.

  ‘Rudolf? No. Is anything the matter with him? Is he all right?’

  ‘Yes, we spoke to him earlier today. I take it you are Ebeneser Egilsson, sir? Headmaster of…?’

  ‘Yes, I am. I’m Ebeneser. Look, what’s this about Felix?’

  ‘We need to speak to him urgently.’

  Flóvent asked if they might step inside as they had a few questions they would like to put to him. Ebeneser objected at first, pleading exhaustion after spending all day driving on bone-shaking roads. But when he saw the determination on Flóvent’s face, he clearly thought it would be better to get it over with, and besides he seemed curious to know what sort of hot water his nephew was in. The house bore all the signs of a cultured home. Tightly packed bookshelves had been fitted in wherever there was space, paintings by some of Iceland’s leading landscape artists graced the walls, and there were magazines and academic journals scattered across the tables. Many of the books were on genealogy. When Flóvent enquired about these, Ebeneser explained that he was an enthusiast and enjoyed tracing people’s family trees.

  Flóvent gave him an account of the case, starting with the moment the police were notified about the body in the basement flat, but was careful not to give too much away. He described the scene but omitted the details about the American firearm and the symbol on the victim’s forehead. He said only that the police had yet to identify the body but that they had spoken to Rudolf.

  Ebeneser reacted with incredulity and seemed to have difficulty taking in what they were telling him. Little by little, though, the shocking news sank in. He kept asking about Felix. Did they think he was dead as well, or in some sort of danger? Who was the man in his flat? Was Felix suspected of murder? But there were no answers to be had from Flóvent and Thorson.

  ‘I presume you were away at the time, sir?’ said Flóvent, who had done most of the talking.

  ‘I’ve been away for a week,’ said Ebeneser. ‘Fishing. My two companions came back to town the day before yesterday. Do you mean … Are you asking me for some sort of … alibi?’

  ‘Just a formality,’ said Flóvent. ‘I’ll need the names of anyone who can back up your statement.’

  Ebeneser provided these, though he added huffily that he wasn’t happy about being required to do so. His word ought to be more than sufficient.

  Flóvent assured him there was no need to worry and repeated that it was a formality. The man was not as aggressive as the brother-in-law, but beneath his aggrieved air Flóvent sensed some of the same reactions Rudolf had shown: defensiveness, unwillingness to cooperate, dissimulation, impatience. From Ebeneser’s unkempt appearance and hoarse voice, he got the impression that the man had been holed up in a hut with a bottle.

  ‘I can’t believe Felix … would be capable of anything like that,’ said Ebeneser. He cleared his throat. ‘He’s bound to come forward sooner or later to provide an explanation. I don’t doubt that for a moment.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see. Have you any idea where he might be?’

  ‘No, none at all. The last I heard, he was working as a travelling sales
man, out of town for longer or shorter periods. Are you sure he isn’t on one of his sales trips?’

  Thorson caught Flóvent’s eye. He’d detected a hint of contempt for Felix in his uncle’s voice, as if being a salesman was an unworthy occupation for a young man of his background. He wondered if Felix had been a disappointment to this family of schoolmasters, doctors and academics. But he kept his thoughts from his face and couldn’t tell if Flóvent had picked up on it as well.

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Flóvent. ‘Do you happen to know if he’s familiar with the German consulate on Túngata?’

  ‘No … The consulate?’

  ‘Was he a frequent guest there?’

  ‘No, I … I wouldn’t know. Why should…?’

  ‘Do you own or have access to a firearm?’ asked Flóvent, keeping up an unrelenting flow of questions.

  ‘No, I don’t own a gun, nor do I have access to one,’ said Ebeneser sharply, as if the questions were getting on his nerves. ‘I sometimes cast a line for salmon. That’s the nearest I come to hunting for sport. I don’t use firearms and, frankly, I find it hard to understand why you should think it necessary to ask me if I own a pistol.’

  ‘These are merely routine enquiries we’re putting to everyone connected to Felix. You shouldn’t read too much into them, sir.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure I appreciate your … your tone or your questions. It’s almost as if you take me for a common criminal.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Flóvent assured him, and ploughed on unperturbed. ‘May I ask if you’re on friendly terms with any American or British servicemen?’

  ‘No, I can’t say I am. Naturally I’ve had dealings with them. They’ve made use of some of the school buildings, for example, but I’m not personally acquainted with any of them.’

  ‘What about Felix? Do you know if he spends much time around members of the occupation force?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware. But I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘How’s his relationship with his father?’ asked Flóvent. ‘Are he and Rudolf on good terms?’