‘There must be some misunderstanding,’ said Ebeneser. ‘We weren’t talking about any boys. Would you mind telling me if you heard that from Rudolf himself? Not that I understand why he would have said such a thing. Where did you get your information?’
‘What did you quarrel about then?’ asked Flóvent, his patience wearing thin. ‘Your mutual enthusiasm for Nazism? I don’t suppose there was much to argue about there. The party meetings you attended?’
Ebeneser looked affronted, as if such questions were unworthy of an answer. Flóvent contemplated hauling him in for questioning at the prison on Skólavördustígur if he remained obdurate, but abandoned the idea. He was probably making a mountain out of a molehill, and anyway it would attract unwelcome attention if news got out that a headmaster and former member of the Icelandic Nazi party was being held by the police in connection with Felix Lunden’s disappearance. Something more substantial than a refusal to cooperate would be required before he could justify resorting to such measures. Still, he decided to test the headmaster’s patience a little further and pulled the school anniversary publication out of his pocket.
‘Are these the boys you were quarrelling about?’ he asked, pointing to the photograph.
Ebeneser took the pamphlet from him, his face impassive. He studied the people in the picture for a while before eventually asking where they had come across it. Flóvent explained that it had turned up in a trunk belonging to one of the boys in the photograph. He had recently died in a tragic incident. He was the man who was found dead in Felix Lunden’s flat – shot in the head. ‘It was Eyvindur,’ he said.
‘Eyvindur?’ whispered the headmaster.
‘Yes.’
‘Was it him? He was the man found dead at Felix’s place?’
‘We finally managed to identify the body,’ said Flóvent.
‘But … Felix? Where is he?’
‘We were hoping you might be able to help us answer that.’
‘Was it Felix who shot him?’ asked the headmaster.
‘We have no other suspects at present,’ said Flóvent.
Ebeneser continued to stare at the photograph. He appeared to be casting around in vain for the right words, and Flóvent sensed that he was growing increasingly flustered.
‘Do you think something might have happened to Felix too?’ Ebeneser asked, finding his voice at last.
‘There’s no evidence of that. Do you mean has he been murdered as well?’
‘No, I’m not … I know nothing about Felix,’ said Ebeneser, ‘if you came here to ask me about him. I’ve no idea where he is. I have to say I find it unlikely that he would have committed a crime like that, but how would I know? Felix and I haven’t had any contact for … for a long time and I don’t know what he’s been up to in recent years. You should ask Rudolf about that. I really don’t think I have anything to add.’
‘About the photograph…’
‘I’d rather be alone now, if you don’t mind. This isn’t … this is bad news … terrible news for us. For our family, you understand. I’m … naturally I’m very upset about this. If what you say is true, if it’s true that Felix is … guilty of an appalling crime like that, it’s a dreadful shock for those of us closest to him.’
‘We understand that,’ said Flóvent. ‘Could you tell us when the picture was taken? We need the names of the other people in the photo. And to know what the occasion was. If you could –’
‘Do you think he’s made a run for it? Felix, I mean?’
‘Yes, it looks like it. At least we don’t know any better. About the picture…’
‘I’m afraid I can’t be of much help,’ said Ebeneser.
‘Isn’t that the school building we can see in the background?’ prompted Thorson.
‘Yes, it looks to me as if the photo was taken in the grounds here, for the anniversary publication,’ said Ebeneser. ‘Are you absolutely sure that Felix killed Eyvindur?’
‘All the evidence points that way,’ said Flóvent. ‘Clearly they were at school together,’ he said, taking the leaflet back from the headmaster. ‘Do you know if they were friends?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘We have reason to believe that they were close at one time, whatever may have happened later.’
‘Yes, it’s possible. I simply don’t know.’
‘Could you tell us the names of the people in the picture?’ Flóvent asked, holding it up to Ebeneser’s face.
‘Well, that’s me, obviously, and that’s Felix in front of me. Next to him is Eyvindur. Then there’s the school nurse … and a teacher, who died several years ago. I don’t recall the other two boys. I remember Eyvindur because he was … well, we had so many problems on account of his background. He was badly bullied. He couldn’t stand up for himself in the playground. Are you absolutely sure it was him you found in Felix’s flat?’
Flóvent nodded and supplied the additional detail that Eyvindur had been killed with the kind of pistol used by the American military, though the trail didn’t seem to lead in that direction at present. He wasn’t sure if he should mention the swastika drawn in blood. Few were aware of this detail as yet. But in the end he decided he might as well chance it. Ebeneser listened to what he had to say in horrified amazement, then replied that he couldn’t imagine Felix doing such a thing. Or anyone else, for that matter.
‘Do you think it’s because they knew each other as boys?’ Ebeneser asked tentatively, as if afraid of the answer. ‘If it was Felix who shot him?’
‘It’s possible,’ said Flóvent. ‘Can you think why he would have done it? Were they good friends when they were young? They’re standing side by side in this picture. They must have been fairly friendly.’
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t say.’
‘What can you tell me about the nurse?’ asked Flóvent, pointing at the picture again. ‘Did she work at the school for long?’
‘She worked here for several years, yes, and at other schools too.’ Ebeneser fell silent.
‘You must remember her well,’ said Flóvent, ‘but maybe you know her better from another context.’
Ebeneser coughed. ‘I do, actually. She’s been working for Rudolf Lunden for the last few years.’
‘Quite,’ said Flóvent. ‘What exactly does she do?’
‘Everything really,’ said Ebeneser. ‘She nurses him. Takes care of him. She’s his housekeeper.’
‘Does she live in?’
‘Yes.’
‘But they’re not married or anything?’
‘No, they’re not married.’
‘But they have a close relationship?’
‘You’d have to ask them about that. Was it her who told you about the meeting? About my meeting with Rudolf?’
‘No,’ said Flóvent. ‘By the way, I don’t even know her name. Could you enlighten me?’
‘Brynhildur,’ said the headmaster. ‘Her name’s Brynhildur Hólm.’
23
The bandleader announced that they would be taking a twenty-minute break after the next tune, then launched into a jazz number with a lively trumpet line and an increasingly manic drumbeat that drove the dancers wild. When it ended, they poured off the dance floor, back to their tables. There was a new crush at the bar – soldiers mostly, shouting to each other, barging through the crowd, drinks held high, through the heat, the cigarette smoke, the roars of laughter.
The dance floor at Hótel Ísland was so packed that the doormen were turning newcomers away, Thorson among them. He had to resort to showing his police ID before they would let him in, along with two Icelandic girls who had been waiting ages to get in. He saw no sign of the Morality Committee. Thorson let himself be swept along by the press of people to the bar, and because he wanted a drink and was in no particular hurry, he stood there patiently, waiting for a bartender to notice him. The staff couldn’t keep up.
He saw young women – their hair done up in elaborate victory rolls – in the company of soldiers, glimpsed red lip
s emitting infectious peals of laughter, sensed happy excitement shining from beneath tinted eyelashes. Thorson scanned the room but couldn’t see his friend anywhere. She had told him she was from the sticks, from Keflavík, on the other side of the bay. When she was growing up she used to gaze across at Reykjavík casting its glow into the night sky, and tell herself that all life’s adventures awaited her there, under that sea of lights. As soon as she was old enough, she left home, sailed across the bay and never looked back.
Thorson finished his drink and left. He bumped into a few acquaintances on his way out and they dragged him back to their table and tried to pour more booze down his neck, but he made his excuses, explaining that he was working, kind of. Someone pushed a glass of rum towards him. ‘Come on, be a man, drink up!’ He slipped away as the band started up again with a popular number. As everyone streamed back onto the dance floor, he disappeared outside into the darkness.
He headed for the net shed down by the harbour. It was at Hótel Ísland that their paths had first crossed. She had confided in him that Reykjavík hadn’t turned out to be quite the fairy tale she had imagined. She was disenchanted. Yes, there were nicer shops, bigger buildings, more cars and more going on, but it still had the same suffocating small-town atmosphere as Keflavík. She had arrived during the Depression and taken a job as a maid for a large family, slaving away for demanding employers and earning a pittance. After two years she left her position and worked sporadically at fish-processing factories or doing odd jobs that she picked up here and there, working from dawn to dusk whenever she got the chance. She didn’t mind the long hours. What mattered was that she was her own mistress, didn’t have to answer to anyone. She moved in with a divorced bar owner but their relationship was on the rocks by the time the invasion force landed and the town filled with cheerily singing soldiers. Before long she started getting friendly with the British troops, one thing led to another, and she found herself earning money from these encounters. Her new friends paid for her nights out and her drinks as well. She wasn’t ashamed of that. She was down-to-earth and honest. Thorson ventured to ask why she did it. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, let alone judge her; he just wanted to know what was going through her mind. His friend merely smiled, her expression strangely faraway and empty, as though she had never quite managed to catch hold of that tantalising new world that she had glimpsed in the city lights across the bay.
Thorson knew that plenty of women were the exact opposite. He was acquainted with a girl who worked at Hótel Borg, and even though he came from an Icelandic family and spoke the language fluently, he had found it hard to get to know her. His uniform was the problem. She wanted nothing to do with him or any other serviceman. Recently he had run into her outside the Ísafold printworks and stopped for a chat, only to notice that she seemed on edge and kept glancing around almost fearfully at the passers-by, before abruptly breaking off the conversation and scurrying away. Thorson knew it was because she didn’t want to be seen talking to a soldier in the street, however briefly, and risk tarnishing her family’s reputation. Gossip spread like wildfire in this town, none of it charitable.
Thorson reached the shed and peered in through a dirty windowpane but couldn’t see anything. The door was locked. He was just turning away when he heard a rustle behind him.
‘Want to try again, darling?’
Looking round, he saw that his friend had stolen up behind him. She blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke. Usually she was well groomed. Now the lipstick on her upper lip was smudged and her mascara had run down to mingle with her rouge. She was wearing nylon stockings and a flimsy dress, a khaki military jacket slung over her shoulders and a white sailor’s cap on her head.
‘No,’ he said with an embarrassed smile.
‘What are you doing here then?’
‘I wanted to talk to you,’ said Thorson. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Waiting,’ she said.
She burst out laughing and he realised she wasn’t her usual self. He had never seen her in this state before. Never seen her so drunk.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Don’t worry about me, darling,’ she said. ‘Why are you here? What do you want? To talk to me? I can’t help you. You know that. You aren’t that way inclined.’
‘I’m looking for a woman,’ said Thorson, anxious not to be reminded of their last encounter. ‘I thought you might know her. Her name’s Vera. I wanted to ask if you recognised the name.’
‘What made you think I’d know her?’
‘Because you’re both … She may be involved with soldiers…’
‘Do you find it difficult to say? You can say it. I am what I am. I’ve never tried to hide it.’
‘Yes, well, she … she’s said to be on friendly terms with soldiers.’
‘On friendly terms with soldiers. What a polite way of putting it. And that’s why you think I might know her?’
‘I thought of asking you. In case you recognised the name.’
‘Vera?’
‘Yes. She left her boyfriend. Used to entertain guests at night when he was out of town. Soldiers.’
‘I don’t know her.’
‘Maybe you could ask around about her? Ask your friends? It looks like she’s taking in laundry for the troops. We’re making enquiries, but that sort of thing takes time because there are so many women offering that kind of service.’
‘Maybe you should talk to the ladies at Landakot Hospital.’
‘Ladies…?’
‘The French nuns. We all end up there sooner or later.’
Thorson stared at her blankly.
‘You’ve never had the clap, have you, darling?’
Just then, three US Marines appeared round the corner and headed in their direction. They were carrying beer and bottles of vodka and one of them had a carton of cigarettes.
‘Were you waiting for them?’ asked Thorson.
‘They told me about a Nissen hut over at Melar that’s kind of like a nightclub.’
The men greeted Thorson, and he replied in English. Since he wasn’t in uniform, they reacted with surprise, saying they’d taken him for a local. They laughed. One of them put his arm round Thorson’s friend and started pawing at her. Thorson had never seen them before. They were enlisted men, a little younger than him, not yet twenty, and exceptionally foul-mouthed. They lit up and swigged from their bottles. Thorson heard one mention Chicago. Maybe that’s where they were from. His friend was also listening to their conversation, but he suspected she hardly understood a word.
‘Were you fucking her?’ one of them asked bluntly.
‘There’s no need to be crude,’ said Thorson.
‘Well, excuse me. I didn’t mean to be crude. I just wanted to know if you were done so you could get lost and leave us to it. Capeesh?’
His friends broke into ugly, jeering laughter.
‘I don’t think she wants to go anywhere,’ said Thorson. ‘She was just saying she didn’t feel like hanging around with you. Maybe because you’re such pimply little jerks.’
The three men exchanged glances. The one who had his arm round his friend let her go, and they all squared up to Thorson. He considered taking out his police ID but wanted to keep that as a last resort. Besides, he didn’t know if it would have any effect on the men at this stage. His friend looked on without making any move to intervene.
‘So you’re a wise guy,’ said the marine.
‘I don’t want any trouble,’ said Thorson. ‘Just back off and leave her alone.’
‘You think you’re going to stop her coming with us? What’s it to you? Are you her pimp?’
‘No, I’m not her pimp.’
‘Then can’t she decide for herself?’
‘What are they saying?’ asked his friend. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Well, it’s your choice, of course, but maybe you shouldn’t go with them,’ Thorson said to her. ‘Maybe it’s not such a good idea.’
‘Don’t
be silly,’ she said. ‘They’re nice boys.’
‘They’re not talking about you very respectfully.’
‘I don’t know anyone who does, darling. Except you, maybe.’
‘What are you two jabbering about?’ said the marine, eyeing Thorson. ‘You understand that gobbledegook?’
Thorson was going to ignore them and carry on trying to talk his friend round, when one of the men stepped forward menacingly. His friend, sensing that he had put himself in danger and wouldn’t stand a chance against the three of them, slipped between them, took the marine by the arm and pulled him away with her. The other two backed off and Thorson watched the group disappear round the corner.
He wished he hadn’t met her under those circumstances. Tried not to think about what went on in the Nissen hut over at Melar that they’d said was kind of like a nightclub.
24
The wholesaler who had employed Felix Lunden was none too pleased to receive a visit from Flóvent so late in the evening. He was getting on in years, set in his ways and very protective of his reputation. And quite unused to visits at this hour of the night, as he told Flóvent after he had finally relented and invited him in. The wholesaler lived alone; his wife was dead and his three sons had left home years ago. One of them worked alongside him and was gradually taking over the reins.
Flóvent explained the reason for his visit, telling him about the murder committed in Felix’s flat, which he had no doubt heard about in the news. The wholesaler acknowledged that he was aware of the case. But he hadn’t heard from Felix for a while and had no idea where he might be. It was about six months ago that Felix had approached him about a job. He had been so keen that when the wholesaler told him he wasn’t hiring at present, Felix had offered to work for free to begin with, until he had proved himself. It was an unusual offer, to say the least, one that was too good to refuse.
Felix had made an excellent impression on him. The young man radiated self-confidence and was extremely polite and cultivated. A born salesman. Shortly afterwards he had set off on his first trip and the results had exceeded all expectations. Once he joined the company, sales had taken a big leap and the goods flew out of the warehouse. Everything from protective clothing to overcoats, as well as a range of cosmetics for the ladies. Felix had a certain quality that people trusted: it was there in his smile, his firm handshake, his infectious laugh. He knew how to take advantage of the various situations a commercial traveller might find himself in, and, perhaps most valuable of all, he knew how to talk to people on their level.
The Shadow Killer Page 12
