‘No, only the fellow with the cigar. Said he was a wholesaler. I haven’t seen anyone else.’
‘What about the woman who used to live with him? Vera, wasn’t it? Have you seen her at all recently?’
‘Oh, no, I haven’t seen Vera for a while.’
‘Do you know anything about her?’
‘No more than anyone else who lives here. Poor old Eyvindur was at his wits’ end … asking all the other tenants in the building about her, if we’d noticed when she moved out. He was a bit … a bit down in the dumps about it, as you might expect. She knew – the woman who lives above me, that is. She told him. Saw the whole thing … saw a black car outside late at night. Vera threw her belongings inside and then she was gone. Without a word to anyone.’
‘You don’t happen to know where she went? You, or any of your neighbours?’
‘No, well … no, not really … but…’
‘Yes?’
‘I thought maybe poor Eyvindur had gone to the camps to look for her. That was my first thought.’
‘The camps? You mean the military camps? Why would he have done that?’
‘I thought maybe she’d left him on account of those soldiers who’ve been prowling around here … around the house,’ said the man. ‘I didn’t tell Eyvindur about that. Didn’t think … didn’t think it was any of my business. I reckon they were visiting her, though. I assumed they must be. Saw them … saw them mooning up at her window.’
‘What did they want from her?’ asked Flóvent.
‘A good time, I expect,’ said the man. ‘You used to hear gramophone music.’
‘Were they British? American?’
‘The ones I saw? One was British.’ The man sounded sure of himself. ‘A British soldier but … but there were others as well … I don’t know any more about it, you understand. Only, she told us – the woman who saw Vera sneaking out like a thief … like a thief in the night – that the man who picked her up was British. A Tommy. Obviously one of her soldier friends. Some soldier she’d bagged herself.’
* * *
When Flóvent finally got home around midnight he found his father asleep on the sofa in the living room. Flóvent tried not to wake him but, sensing his presence, his father opened his eyes, sat up and asked wryly if he was trying to work himself to death. They ate the reheated meal at the kitchen table and chatted quietly for a while before going to bed. Flóvent shared the details of the case with his father because he trusted him to keep a secret and knew that the old man liked to hear about the more complex investigations that came his way. He had often proved a helpful listener, though he worried at times that his son pushed himself too hard. He knew how conscientious Flóvent was and how he took much of the ugliness he saw in his job to heart – but never spoke of it, a habit he had learnt as a boy during the harrowing days of the Spanish flu.
‘Travelling salesmen?’ he said, after listening to his son’s account.
‘Yes, travelling salesmen.’
‘Could they have fallen out, this Felix and what was his name … Eyvindur?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘And the upshot was that this Felix shot the other man in the head?’
‘Maybe. We simply don’t know.’
‘What did they quarrel about? Their turf?’
‘It has to have been something more important than that,’ said Flóvent. ‘Something that really mattered.’
‘What really matters?’ asked his father.
‘Well, women, I suppose.’
‘Yes, can’t deny that.’
‘We’re told that the woman who was living with Eyvindur was no better than she ought to be. Her neighbour mentioned that she’d been hanging around with soldiers. That she was seen leaving in a car with one.’
‘Is she mixed up in the Situation, then?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘Her boyfriend can’t have been too happy about that.’
‘No, I don’t suppose he was,’ said Flóvent, picturing the body of the salesman in the the mortuary. ‘I don’t suppose he was.’
‘What about you?’
‘Me?’
‘Are you looking around at all?’
The question was tactfully phrased, prompted not by a desire to pry but by the loneliness the old man had endured ever since his wife had died, a loneliness he wouldn’t wish on his son.
‘No time for that.’ Flóvent smiled.
‘I hope you’re not worried about me. I can look after myself. You know that.’
‘Of course.’
‘I wouldn’t want to get in your way.’
‘You’re not.’
‘The woman from the shop that you … are you still interested in her?’
‘I’d rather not discuss it.’
‘All right, son.’
19
Eyvindur’s neighbours spoke well of him. He was a quiet, sober tenant who kept himself to himself, polite but unsociable, and they were deeply shocked to hear that he was the man who had been murdered. To be sure, he had been away a fair amount because of his job and hadn’t lived there very long, but they had only good things to say about him. It was a different story with Vera. They didn’t know where she was now, but they had noticed some funny goings-on during Eyvindur’s absences: visitors who came and went under cover of darkness, stones thrown at windows, muffled voices in the early hours, doors slamming and quick footsteps retreating along the pavement outside. She could be touchy too, that Vera, and had a sharp tongue, so no one had dared to speak to her about it. None of them had breathed a word to Eyvindur about the night visitors until after she’d gone.
The woman from upstairs claimed that the couple had had a violent row just before Eyvindur left for his last trip, and Vera had walked out on him. The woman had witnessed the incident, seen Eyvindur leaving the flat, his face scarlet. He had managed a flustered greeting, then hurried off, carrying his two suitcases, in the direction of the harbour. Although she didn’t know what the quarrel had been about, she suspected it might have had something to do with the guests who came round while he was away. Vera had done most of the shouting; there had only been the odd peep out of Eyvindur – then he was off.
‘They weren’t even married,’ the neighbour said, tutting. ‘She’s no better than a slut, that girl.’
‘So you don’t approve of her, ma’am?’ said Flóvent.
‘She’s such a little madam,’ said the woman, her voice thick with disgust. ‘Like she thinks she’s better than other people, that … that soldier’s whore.’
‘You say you saw him leave, ma’am?’ said Flóvent. ‘Were you in the hall outside their flat at the time?’
The woman hesitated just long enough for Flóvent to suspect that she had been listening with her ear to their door. She looked as if nothing that happened in the house, night or day, got past her. Nosy. Censorious.
‘I … happened to be passing,’ she said after a pause.
‘Did you hear what they were arguing about?’
‘No, that is … how was I supposed to do that? I was on my way upstairs to my flat. I couldn’t hear anything. Not a thing. Just the noise she was making. But I couldn’t make out a word.’
‘So you didn’t hear them mention the name Felix?’
‘No, didn’t I just tell you that all I heard was shouting? Not what it was about.’
‘I understand Vera entertained guests, soldiers perhaps, while Eyvindur was away,’ said Thorson. He had accompanied Flóvent on this second visit to the flat, and heard all about the wholesaler’s identification of Eyvindur’s body and about Flóvent’s visit the previous evening.
‘You can say that again.’
‘It wasn’t always the same men?’
‘No, it wasn’t always the same men that I saw. I told her – told her I wouldn’t put up with sordid goings-on like that in this house.’
‘Sordid goings-on?’
‘It was obvious,’ the woman said, her face tightening oddly.
/>
‘What was?’
‘Well, you can see for yourself – the girl was working as a whore! She had the barefaced cheek to turn these premises into a soldiers’ brothel. Why else would they have come round to see her? To drink tea? Do you think she was hosting little tea parties?’
‘You believe she was working as a prostitute?’
‘Yes, what else would she have been up to? She’s sex mad, that girl, and she finally found a way to make some money out of it.’
Flóvent and Thorson exchanged discreet glances. The woman had worked herself up into quite a state and made no attempt to disguise the violent antipathy she felt towards her former neighbour. Flóvent had shown Thorson the small brown envelope he had found under the sofa. Thorson wasn’t surprised that one of these should have turned up if it was true that Vera was providing services for soldiers.
‘What did she say when you accused her of this?’ asked Flóvent.
‘Accused her? Do you think I’m lying?’
‘No,’ said Flóvent. ‘Of course not. But didn’t she protest? Or…?’
‘She didn’t say a word. Apart from telling me to shut my face – that it was none of my business what she chose to do in her own home. I said I’d see to it that her den of vice was closed down. Next thing I knew she’d moved out – in the dead of night.’
‘Can you describe the man who came to pick her up?’ asked Thorson. ‘We understand that you saw her go out to the vehicle.’
‘No, it was dark, but I could tell he was in the army,’ said the woman. ‘I reckon he could have been British but he never got out of the car, so I didn’t get a proper look at him. He didn’t lift a finger to help her.’
‘And she was carrying clothes and other belongings from the flat that she loaded into the car?’
‘Yes, that’s right, made two or three trips, then took off with him.’
‘Did you see what kind of vehicle it was? The model? Or licence plate?’
‘No. I know nothing about cars. It was black.’
‘Not a military vehicle, then?’
‘No, I don’t think so. But I wouldn’t know. I hear she’s started doing their washing for them. The soldiers, I mean. Opened a laundry.’
The woman told them how several days ago Eyvindur had returned home only to discover that Vera had moved out. He had taken it very hard and gone round asking everyone in the house about Vera’s movements. Well, he’d learnt from her what his girlfriend had been up to, though of course she’d tried to break it to him gently – it wasn’t her job to interfere in their private life. It wasn’t easy having to tell him about Vera’s visitors. Eyvindur hadn’t believed her. He’d called her a liar and sworn that Vera wasn’t like that. Then he’d locked himself away and wouldn’t speak to anyone else in the building. And to make matters worse, the landlord, his uncle, had come round and told him, out there in the hallway where everyone could hear, that he would have to move out.
‘Apparently he owed him several months’ rent,’ said the woman. Her tone made it clear that her sympathies lay with Eyvindur. ‘He was always having some kind of money trouble. Never had a króna to his name.’
‘When did you last see him, ma’am?’ asked Flóvent.
‘It must have been when the landlord was giving him a piece of his mind,’ said the woman, counting up the days that had passed. Flóvent guessed this must have been the day before Eyvindur’s body was found.
They thanked her for her assistance and returned to Eyvindur’s flat. There on the floor, in plain sight, was the answer to one of the many questions that had been troubling them since the discovery of the body: two suitcases, labelled with Eyvindur Ragnarsson’s name. They turned out, on closer inspection, to contain samples of the wholesaler’s wares: shoe polish, Poliflor, and a dinner service, but nothing untoward. No pills hidden in the lining. Both cases were battered, one of them held together only by two pieces of string.
‘So the suitcase you found in the other flat definitely belonged to Felix?’ said Thorson.
‘Yes, I think we can safely assume that,’ said Flóvent. ‘Which means the capsule’s his as well.’
After they had searched the flat thoroughly for any clues that might explain why Eyvindur had been murdered, Flóvent turned his attention to some papers that Thorson had dragged out of a small store cupboard next to the kitchen. The papers were brown and brittle with age, tied together with string. The cupboard was full of all kinds of other junk, including two pairs of skis and a trunk, which proved to be unlocked. When Thorson opened it, he found old clothes and books, including two dog-eared hymnbooks, and a photograph. Thorson picked up the photograph carefully. It was an old studio portrait of an elderly couple in their Sunday best, the man sporting a full beard. They stared back at Thorson from the depths of time, solemn and a little mistrustful. Underneath the photograph was an anniversary publication from Ebeneser’s school, a four-page pamphlet containing two photographs. One was taken outdoors and showed four adolescent boys with two men and a woman standing a little behind them. Three of the boys were rather shabbily dressed and two of them were wearing caps pulled down over their eyes. The men wore dark suits and one of them had a hat on. The woman stood out because she was wearing the uniform of her profession, a nurse’s costume with a starched white cap on her head and a cape over her shoulders.
Thorson could have sworn he knew one of the men, though he looked considerably younger in the picture. He was the one without a hat, and his features were instantly recognisable. Thorson peered at the boys’ faces, trying to see if any of them could be Eyvindur, but the picture wasn’t very clear, and his only point of comparison was the badly disfigured face in the mortuary.
‘What have you got there?’ asked Flóvent, sticking his head into the cubbyhole.
Thorson handed him the photograph and the pamphlet. Flóvent studied the picture of the old couple, who stared solemnly into the lens as if the camera were some incomprehensible magic box. Then he examined the photo of the boys with the adults standing behind them.
‘Recognise him?’ asked Thorson.
‘Isn’t that the headmaster?’ said Flóvent. ‘Isn’t that Ebeneser, who we met yesterday?’
‘Looks like it to me,’ said Thorson. ‘A little younger, of course. Could the picture have been taken at the school? You can only see the corner of a building, but it certainly looks pretty large.’
Flóvent didn’t seem to have heard. He was staring at the picture.
‘Could it be her…?’ he muttered to himself.
‘Who? Do you know the other people in the photo?’ asked Thorson. ‘And the old couple?’
‘I could have sworn I’d seen that woman before,’ said Flóvent, pointing at the nurse. ‘I’m sure it’s her.’
‘Who is she?’ asked Thorson.
‘I wonder,’ Flóvent muttered. ‘I only saw her for a second but…’
‘Who? Who is she?’
‘I saw her at Rudolf’s house. She was watching me from the drawing-room window but quickly pulled the curtain. It’s definitely the same woman. I don’t know her name but she was at Rudolf Lunden’s house.’ Flóvent studied the photograph again. ‘I’m positive it’s the same woman.’
He peered at the boys’ faces. ‘Do you suppose one of them’s Eyvindur?’
‘He must have had some reason for hanging on to the leaflet,’ said Thorson.
‘She might have a better idea of what Ebeneser and Rudolf were quarrelling about,’ said Flóvent, brushing his finger over the woman’s face.
‘When they were arguing about the boys?’
‘Yes. When they were arguing about the boys. Perhaps she could shed some light on that.’
They both got the shock of their lives when the door of the flat suddenly opened with a bang and a man appeared in the doorway. On catching sight of two men in the living room, he stormed towards them with a face like thunder.
‘What the hell are you doing in here?’ he demanded, glowering at Thorson. ‘I
won’t have any soldiers in this house. Did Vera send you? Are you looking for her? Is it that slut you’re after?’
20
For a moment they didn’t know what had hit them. Then Flóvent set about trying to placate the man, explaining repeatedly that they were policemen investigating Eyvindur’s murder, and that Thorson was there on behalf of the military police. The man turned out to be Eyvindur’s uncle, the landlord. He wanted to rent the flat out again immediately. ‘No reason to wait,’ he said, a little shamefaced. He had only just learnt of his nephew’s death and all he seemed to care about was finding a new tenant. The demand for housing in the city was growing by the day, he explained apologetically, and he didn’t want to waste any time – although of course it was shocking news about his nephew. ‘But life goes on. What can I say? There’s no point letting the place stand empty – as long as you don’t object? The police, I mean.’
Flóvent told him they saw no reason why he shouldn’t rent out the flat again as soon as he liked. The uncle explained that he was going to put Eyvindur’s possessions in storage and perhaps try to sell some of them to make up for the rent he had owed.
‘Eyvindur always had trouble keeping up with his payments,’ the uncle said. He was a tall man in his fifties, with a deep voice and a no-nonsense manner, who knew his own mind and clearly didn’t suffer fools gladly. His name was Sigfús. ‘If it had been anyone but my boy Eyvindur, I’d have thrown him out long ago,’ he added, as if to show belatedly that he had cared a little for his nephew.
Flóvent told him that the police had tried to contact Eyvindur’s next-of-kin but despite their best efforts to track down his family, they hadn’t managed to find any other relatives. The uncle confirmed that there weren’t any. Eyvindur had no children and that wretched woman had walked out on him. He didn’t have any brothers or sisters either, and his parents had both passed away.
‘Are you any closer to finding out who killed him?’ asked Sigfús, adding that he had been stunned when he’d heard that his nephew had been murdered. Eyvindur was the last person he would have expected to suffer such a violent fate. ‘A harmless lad. I wasn’t aware that he had an enemy in the world,’ he said.
The Shadow Killer Page 10
