The Shadow Killer

by Arnaldur Indridason

  ‘Do you think Jósep could have written the letter?’

  ‘Felix believes it was Eyvindur.’

  Flóvent gathered up the papers on the table. He had decided to draw the interview to a close for now.

  ‘You say you want to help him. Well, if Felix is in danger, as he claims, we could help him.’

  Brynhildur remained silent.

  ‘Think about Felix. About the danger he believes he’s in. You don’t have much choice. You must see that. Besides, you yourself are mixed up in this affair, and it could improve your own position if you’re straight with us. You ought to –’

  ‘He worshipped his uncle,’ said Brynhildur suddenly. ‘Felix is a fanatical Nazi. He’d have gone to Germany and joined the army if Hans hadn’t persuaded him that he could be of more use here at home.’

  ‘Be more specific. Of more use how?’

  ‘When the Germans invaded. But when that didn’t happen…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s possible that Felix is in fact a German agent – thanks to Hans – and that Eyvindur blundered into the firing line by accident.’

  ‘All right. Let’s go back to Hans Lunden. What exactly does he do?’

  ‘He came over shortly before the war, full of the plans he had for Iceland following the German occupation. Hans wanted his brother to run an anthropological research programme based on his earlier work, but Rudolf had turned his back on Nazism by then and they fell out over the matter. Hans was furious and left without even saying goodbye to Rudolf. I don’t think they’ve been in contact since. Hans believed that the Nazis should take Iceland as a model, since it was home to a uniquely pure, ancient Nordic stock that was superior to other races.’

  Brynhildur took another sip of water, then explained that Hans was an admirer of the sagas with their descriptions of warriors and feats of great prowess and daring. He had immersed himself in the country’s medieval texts, including the Eddic poems, with their Norse myths and tales of the ancient Germanic past. To him, the heroic forebears of the Icelanders were supermen by modern standards, and he dreamt of recreating them. He conducted anthropological research into Nordic racial superiority at an institute set up by Himmler in Berlin, as part of the Ahnenerbe, or Ancestral Heritage Group. That was why he had come to Iceland in ’39. Hans had been confident that when war broke out, the Germans would occupy Iceland and then it would be possible to embark on serious genetic and anthropological studies of the Icelandic population, of their ancient Germanic heritage and Viking blood – the very origins of the Icelanders. Hans had intended to direct the project himself: Rudolf was to be his right-hand man.

  ‘But then the German invasion didn’t happen,’ said Flóvent.

  ‘Which must have been a great disappointment to Hans.’

  Rudolf had ultimately drawn the conclusion that the ideas Hans and other Nazi intellectuals had about Iceland were based on a misconception. Werner Gerlach had told Hans the same during their meetings at the consulate. In their view, modern Icelanders were no better than peasants and had nothing in common with their warlike Viking ancestors. There had been a great deal of interracial mixing on the island ever since the earliest settlement in the ninth century. In support of this argument, Rudolf referred to the observations he had made in the course of his study, suggesting that his findings could, instead, provide the basis for further research into the degeneration of the pure Nordic stock. They demonstrated that the descendants of the Vikings were anything but noble Aryans. But Hans Lunden wouldn’t listen. It ended in a bitter quarrel. Then the British occupied the island and their plans came to nothing.

  ‘Do you have any idea where Hans Lunden is now?’ asked Flóvent.

  ‘The last Rudolf heard was that he had abandoned the Nordic project and started conducting genetic studies on prisoners. On criminals.’

  ‘So, what you’re saying is that all this happened long after he and Rudolf had collaborated on their secret study at the school?’ said Flóvent, indicating the documents. ‘And that these papers date from much earlier.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Brynhildur. ‘The school study was quite different in its aims, but it was instrumental in awakening Hans Lunden’s interest in Iceland.’

  ‘And you believe that Hans set Felix up as a German agent?’

  ‘Yes, and that Eyvindur was shot instead of Felix.’

  40

  Thorson spent the night at the RAF barracks in Selfoss. He had reached the village long after midnight and didn’t dare continue to Reykjavík, exhausted as he was from the drive, the dog attack and from trawling from farm to farm in search of information. He had tried to speak to Vera’s former fiancé but learnt that he was away travelling in the north of the country. Twice Thorson had nodded off at the wheel, and he was afraid of tackling the mountain road over Hellisheidi in the dark, without any sleep. He decided to ask if they’d let him bunk down at the British camp. The officer in charge was still awake, sitting up smoking in front of his hut, and was happy to oblige. They conversed in low voices; then the officer showed Thorson to an empty bed. He fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

  The following morning he breakfasted with the airmen, thanked them for their hospitality, then went on his way, reaching Reykjavík around noon. He immediately set about discreetly gathering information on Billy Wiggins. After making a few phone calls he discovered that the previous week Wiggins had been involved in a punch-up with a private from a British artillery regiment. Apparently he was so drunk he had been compelled to sleep it off in the detention camp at Kirkjusandur. The fight had not been considered serious enough for any charges to be brought, however, and the cause of the altercation was not recorded in the military police incident book.

  Thorson was on the point of heading over to speak to the private involved when the phone rang and he was informed that Major Graham wanted to see him immediately at the Leper Hospital. Thorson was conscious that he had failed to keep Graham briefed about the inquiry, in defiance of his orders. He had twice provided his own commanding officer, Colonel Webster, with a telephone report on the progress of the investigation and the possible link between the murder in Felix Lunden’s flat and enemy espionage. Colonel Webster had taken the information seriously and ordered him to contact counter-intelligence, but Thorson had been dragging his feet out of a personal dislike for Major Graham.

  After a few more phone calls he managed to track down Flóvent at the prison. Flóvent brought him up to date with the interrogation of Brynhildur Hólm and his growing conviction that Felix had been spying on military operations in Iceland at the instigation of his uncle, Hans Lunden. Thorson, in turn, gave him a brief account of his journey east to the rural farming community where Vera had grown up, of the stories circulating about her among her former neighbours, of the farmer she had seduced and the violence that had ensued.

  ‘Are you saying she did it purely in order to break off her engagement?’ Flóvent asked when Thorson had finished. ‘To get back at her fiancé?’

  ‘It looks like it.’

  ‘She set the two men at each other’s throats?’

  ‘And wasn’t really interested in either of them.’

  ‘So, on this basis, you believe she may have taken measures to get rid of Eyvindur once and for all?’

  ‘It’s possible. I’m going to check out Billy Wiggins. Take a closer look at their relationship. I’ll let you know what I find out.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Flóvent. ‘We should meet. I need to fill you in properly on what Brynhildur confessed to me about the experiments she and Rudolf were conducting – and their impact. I’ll see you shortly.’

  There was no sign of Major Ballantine when Graham received Thorson in his office at the old hospital and immediately began by reprimanding him for failing to report back. Thorson tried to excuse himself on the grounds that he had been rushed off his feet with the investigation, and had been out of town following up a lead, but Graham was fuming and didn’t calm d
own until Thorson reminded him that his commanding officer was Colonel Franklin Webster and that if Graham had any complaints about him, he should raise them with the colonel.

  ‘Are we dealing with spies?’ asked Graham irritably. ‘Can you tell me that?’

  ‘We still can’t say for sure whether the murder’s directly related to espionage. But we have found evidence to suggest that Felix Lunden, who rented the flat where the body was found, has been working as an enemy agent. We believe he’s been travelling to places of strategic importance in the guise of a salesman. Although we still have no confirmation of that. His uncle, a doctor who lives in Germany, recruited him as a spy, if the testimony of a family friend can be trusted.’

  ‘And this Felix is still at large?’

  ‘He was hiding out at his father’s old doctor’s office. The Icelandic detective I’m working with tracked him down there, but Felix managed to give him the slip. We’ll catch him soon. I’m convinced of that. He doesn’t really have anywhere to turn.’

  ‘Well, I don’t care what you’re convinced of,’ said Graham. ‘As far as I can see, the Icelandic police haven’t achieved a thing. My opinion, as I said, is that we should take this out of their hands if they can’t even solve a straightforward case like this one.’

  ‘It may not be that easy, sir. The victim was an Icelander and –’

  ‘Yes, well, I don’t give a damn about that,’ said Graham. ‘Have you found any papers belonging to this … this Felix? Do you know where he’s been? Who his contacts are? His collaborators? Have you found out anything useful about the man? Such as how he gets the information out of the country? Or exactly what information he’s been gathering?’

  ‘We’ve found out quite a lot,’ said Thorson, ‘but it doesn’t relate directly to his activities here as an agent, rather to his family affairs and –’

  ‘Right, in other words you’ve made no progress,’ said Graham with a heavy sigh, and Thorson was at a loss as to why he seemed so irritated about their collaboration with Flóvent. ‘I’ll recommend to Colonel Webster that Intelligence take over the case. You’ll be hearing from us. That’s all. Good day.’

  ‘But there’s no call –’

  ‘Good day!’

  * * *

  The soldier who had got into a punch-up with Billy Wiggins was one Private Burns. He was on guard duty with two other men at a small searchlight station on the tip of the Seltjarnarnes Peninsula to the west of Reykjavík. There was a fine view over the great sweep of Faxaflói Bay, from Keflavík and the lighthouse at Gardskagi on the Reykjanes Peninsula in the south, to Hvalfjördur in the north, and the mountainous Snæfellsnes Peninsula in the north-west. When Thorson introduced himself and asked to speak to Private Burns, a lanky, fair-haired boy of barely twenty stepped forward, his face a picture of bewilderment at this visit by a US military police officer.

  Thorson took him aside and explained that he wanted to know more about his fight with Billy Wiggins, and if it was really true that he didn’t want to press charges. Burns nodded. He had a rifle over one shoulder and a large pair of binoculars hanging from a strap around his neck, for spotting enemy vessels. That was right, he said, it had only been a minor scuffle. Wiggins outranked him, and Burns was keen to let the matter drop. In fact, he’d all but forgotten about it when Thorson appeared and insisted on bringing the whole thing up again.

  ‘What exactly happened?’ asked Thorson.

  ‘I managed to offend him somehow, sir. I don’t really know what I did,’ said the young private. ‘Mind you, apparently he’s always flying off the handle. And he’s crazy with jealousy. But I didn’t know that at the time.’

  ‘Jealousy?’

  ‘Over that woman who takes in washing,’ said Burns, who had brought out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter.

  ‘Which woman?’

  ‘The one with the laundry up by Camp Knox. She works for the garrison. I don’t remember her name … but the boys told me Billy Wiggins helped her get set up and pulled a few strings so she had plenty of work. He’s her boyfriend.’

  ‘Is her name Vera, this woman?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What about her? What happened?’

  ‘It was no big deal. I didn’t know she was Wiggins’s girl. He just went for me and started beating the living daylights out of me. Me and my mates, we’d been talking about the Yanks – how they’re overrunning the place and swaggering around like they own it … Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, private. I’m Canadian.’

  ‘Oh, anyway, we bumped into Wiggins outside Hótel Ísland. He was drunk and in a nasty mood. He knew a couple of blokes from Camp Tripoli who were there with us. We were having a laugh, saying were worried the local birds were much keener on the Yanks than us. Just messing about, you know, but it’s true. Since they arrived … you know … well, they’re a lot more popular.’

  ‘What happened? Wiggins didn’t like hearing that?’

  ‘No. He went for me because I said that blonde woman who runs the laundry near Camp Knox had been quick to bag herself a Yank. We talk about her sometimes, me and my mates. She’s quite a … a looker. I had no idea Wiggins was mixed up with her or I’d never have said it.’

  ‘The blonde woman who runs the laundry? Quick to bag herself a Yank?’

  ‘Yes. Anyway, he immediately loses his rag and starts asking what I mean by that and I blurt out that I’ve seen her with a GI. Then he goes completely berserk, starts calling me a liar, and before I know it I’m lying in the road and the bastard’s giving me a right belting.’

  ‘You saw Vera with a GI?’

  ‘Yes. We sometimes pass her place on our way out here and one morning this Yank was all over her. It was obvious he was just leaving. I didn’t dare tell Wiggins that or he’d have murdered me. So I tried to say it was an honest mistake but by then the police had arrived and he went nuts and ended up trying to take them on and all. He went completely berserk, poor sod, so they took him away.’

  ‘Are you sure it was her?’ asked Thorson. ‘That it was Vera?’

  ‘I’m positive. We’d been talking about it. About what a looker she was. But I had no idea about her and Wiggins. The boys from Camp Tripoli told me he was crazy about her, always tied to her apron strings, doing whatever she told him to. Helping her with her laundry. Sorting all kinds of stuff for her.’

  ‘But you saw her with a GI?’

  The soldier lit a cigarette and nodded. ‘He was a lot flashier than Billy Wiggins, that’s for sure.’

  41

  Jósep had come to the attention of the police for a series of minor offences including vagrancy, drunk and disorderly behaviour, shoplifting, egg theft and the illegal hunting of eider ducks. Flóvent didn’t know how often he had been picked up, since such minor offences weren’t always recorded. There were two brief police reports under his name and in one of them, which was fairly recent, Flóvent saw that Jósep had given his sister’s name when asked for his current address. Flóvent drove over there, only to discover that Jósep had never lived with her; in fact, they very rarely saw each other, though the sister, whose name was Albína, was able to tell him that Jósep sometimes stayed at the Citadel, a hostel run by the Salvation Army. Curious to know what the police wanted with her brother, she was politely insistent that Flóvent come in, and before he knew it he had accepted her invitation to coffee. Although it was late in the day, her husband wasn’t home yet. He worked in the offices of Eimskip, the Icelandic Steamship Company, and lived in a state of constant anxiety about the fate of the company’s vessels in these dangerous times.

  ‘What’s Jósep done?’ Albína asked with a worried frown. Flóvent had explained who he was straight away, and she was quite unused to receiving visits from the police.

  ‘Nothing, as far as I know,’ Flóvent reassured her. ‘I think he may be able to help me. You see, I’m trying to trace a man he may know, or may have known at one time. It might sound rather an odd question, ma�
�am, but does he ever talk about his schooldays?’

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t have much contact, and we were never close. Never really knew each other, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘You didn’t grow up together?’

  ‘No, we didn’t. I’m five years older than Jósep, and I was fostered by a couple from Akureyri when I was three. Later they adopted me.’

  ‘Do you mind my asking why you were fostered?’

  ‘It’s never been a secret.’

  Albína had a decided manner. She wasn’t embarrassed about discussing her family. She had been taken away from her parents because they were judged unfit to look after her: they were both drunks, and she only had the haziest memories of them. When she was older, her adoptive parents had talked to her about them: they didn’t hide anything from her. But they never had any contact with her parents in Reykjavík. It wasn’t considered wise, they told her. Best to cut all ties. So she hadn’t learnt of her brother’s existence until she moved south with her husband, a few years before the war. She had decided to look up her birth parents, only to discover that they were both dead. Jósep was their only child, apart from her. He’d had a tough upbringing, to put it mildly.

  ‘I was an adult when I met him for the first time,’ she said. ‘I looked him up, and it was heartbreaking to see the state he was in. He’d succumbed to drink. Our parents lived in a slum.’ After a brief pause, she added: ‘I suppose I was lucky. He’s had a wretched life. I’ve no idea whether he brought it on himself to an extent, but I can’t imagine he got much support from our parents. And he ended up treading the same path as them. Isn’t that often the way?’

  ‘I daresay,’ said Flóvent.

  ‘You mentioned that you were looking for some school friends of his,’ said Albína. ‘Have they done something wrong?’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ said Flóvent, anxious to be honest with her. ‘He was at school with a boy called Eyvindur, who was recently murdered here in town. Maybe you heard about it?’