‘Can you tell me about the fight outside Hótel Ísland?’ Thorson went on, unperturbed. ‘I gather you didn’t care for a remark some soldiers made about Vera. Can you tell me what they said?’
‘I’m leaving,’ said Wiggins angrily. ‘I haven’t got time for this bollocks.’
He stood up and waited for Thorson to say something or try to stop him. Thorson sat tight, watching him. Wiggins shook his head in disgust and made for the door.
‘Wasn’t it something about her hanging around with a GI?’ said Thorson. ‘I understand you weren’t too pleased to hear that.’
Wiggins halted by the door and swung round.
‘That’s a lie,’ he said. ‘A bloody lie.’
‘If it’s a lie, I expect you heard the truth from her,’ said Thorson. ‘That must have been a relief for you. Unless she … no, surely she wouldn’t lie to you? Why wouldn’t you trust Vera? Are you sure you don’t want to know how she ended it with her fiancé?’
Wiggins hesitated by the door, as if unsure what to do. Thorson, aware that he was the jealous type, had set out to needle him, and reckoned it was working. Finally Wiggins came back, put his hands on the table and bent over him.
‘There was no Yank,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘I know exactly what you’re doing. There was no Yank. Do you hear me?’
‘Her boyfriend was killed with an American pistol, a Colt .45. It’s standard issue in the US Army,’ said Thorson, trying not to show how unnerved he was by the British sergeant’s threatening proximity. ‘Do you think she asked someone else for help? Someone she’d met recently? A GI, maybe?’
Wiggins glared down at Thorson, his face dark red. ‘There is no Yank,’ he snarled.
‘I suppose it would be pretty easy for you to lay your hands on a weapon like that? Maybe you even have one yourself.’ Thorson said. ‘Why don’t you take a seat?’
‘I haven’t got a Colt .45,’ said Wiggins.
‘You mean you couldn’t get hold of one if you wanted to? I know the defence force has a pretty robust black market.’
‘What would I have shot the bloke for?’ reasoned Wiggins. ‘She’d left him. He didn’t matter. Why the hell would I have risked my life for something so pointless? You tell me that.’
‘Maybe she told you Eyvindur would never leave her alone. That she’d never be truly free. You tracked him down, followed him. You thought he lived in the basement flat because he opened the door with a key, so you took your chance. You shoved him inside, made him kneel on the floor and shot him. Only he didn’t live there: he was visiting an old friend. Of course, there’s no way you could have known that, but it came in handy when the murder was pinned on his friend and it looked like you’d got away with it.’
Wiggins dropped back into his chair. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he said. ‘I didn’t touch the bloke. I didn’t do it. She only got together with him because she needed somewhere to live when she first came to town. That was the only reason. She wasn’t in love with him. She said as much herself. Then one thing led to another, and she moved out. They weren’t in love. It wasn’t like that.’
‘Of course you didn’t necessarily do the dirty work yourself, so even if you have an alibi – and we’re checking where you were at the time – that doesn’t really tell us much.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘Maybe you’re friendly with a few GIs. Knew someone who might be willing to do you a favour. For money, maybe. Or maybe one of your British pals owes you a favour. The possibilities are endless.’
‘I can’t understand why you won’t leave us alone. We haven’t done a thing.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ said Thorson.
‘We haven’t got any secrets from each other. It’s the real thing. Our relationship’s got nothing to do with “the Situation” or anything like that. It’s real and I don’t like the way you talk about her. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t have any secrets?’ asked Thorson.
‘I know all about her fiancé,’ said Wiggins. ‘She told me herself. I don’t need you to tell me. I know why she left him. She had every right.’
‘Oh?’
‘He treated her badly,’ said Wiggins. ‘Used to knock her about. Was always putting her down, followed her everywhere. She did her best to please him, but he only got worse, so in the end she left him and moved to Reykjavík. She told me the whole story. We haven’t got any secrets. So don’t try and run her down. Because it won’t work, you hear?’
‘Why do you think we suspect she was involved in Eyvindur’s death? Why do you think we brought you all the way back from Hvalfjördur?’
‘Because you’re making a mistake.’
‘She was engaged and cheated on her fiancé, then suggested that her lover go out fishing with him and come back alone. See why we’re interested in you two? See why we’re interested in her?’
‘But that was understandable,’ said Wiggins. ‘Can’t you see that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She was asking for help. It was a cry for help. And I’m not surprised, considering how the bloke treated her. Not a bit surprised. I understand her. I’d have done exactly the same in her shoes.’
46
The Pólar was a slum on the outskirts of the town, just to the south of Snorrabraut. The buildings had been hastily erected during the Great War to house families in need, but now more than two hundred people lived there in squalor and poverty. Although the wooden buildings had recently been supplied with electricity, there was no mains water and the houses were flimsy, badly insulated and freezing cold in winter. The slum consisted of four rows of tenements enclosing a small courtyard, which had originally contained latrines. Flóvent had often visited the Pólar in his time on the beat, since things could get pretty rough there at night and at the weekends, with all the drinking and brawling that went on. This was where Jósep and Rikki had grown up and, as far as Jósep knew, Rikki’s mother still lived.
In the courtyard a man directed Flóvent to a woman sitting outside her front door, in a cloud of feathers, plucking a chicken. She paid no attention to Flóvent as he stood watching the deft efficiency with which she worked. Only when he decided to interrupt and ask her name, did she glance up from her task. She was a plump woman of about fifty, dressed in a threadbare housecoat, wearing rubber-soled shoes and woollen socks, with a headscarf knotted under her chin. The evening sun was behind Flóvent so she couldn’t see him properly. Squinting up at him, she asked who wanted to know. Her face was wizened and she had wide gaps between her teeth. She returned to plucking her chicken.
‘I see you’re busy, ma’am,’ he said. ‘I won’t take up too much of your time. I was just –’
‘Eh? Oh, no, that’s all right,’ the woman said. ‘I’m going to boil this ruddy thing,’ she added, as if to explain what she was doing. ‘Dússi gave it to me. His chickens won’t stop breeding. Do you know Dússi? He keeps a big flock of hens over Nauthólsvík way, and sells the eggs to the British. Makes a packet out of them.’
Flóvent said he wasn’t acquainted with Dússi, but he had just been talking to a man called Jósep, who used to be at school with her son. Did she remember him?
‘Jósep? I should think so,’ she said. ‘I sometimes see him wandering around town, the poor lad.’
‘I’m told he knew your son Ríkhardur. He was known as Rikki, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, him and my Rikki used to be mates,’ said the woman, brushing some of the feathers off her lap. Then she turned the chicken over and continued with her task, unconcerned by the presence of this stranger, looming against the evening sun. ‘He was looking rough the last time I saw him,’ she said. ‘Hit the skids, hasn’t he? Used to be such a clever boy too.’
‘We were talking about Rikki,’ said Flóvent. ‘About their school. And Rikki’s friends from the old days.’
‘Oh, were you now?’
‘He told me what happened to yo
ur son. In his last year at school.’
The woman paused in her plucking. ‘Why was he telling you about my Rikki? What for?’
Flóvent explained that he had come to see her because another boy who was at school with Ríkhardur had been found dead in a basement flat in town, shot in the head. His name was Eyvindur, and Flóvent was investigating his murder on behalf of the police. He had spoken to various people who had known Eyvindur at different times, including during his school days.
‘A policeman?’ she said. ‘Come to see me?’
Flóvent nodded. ‘Do you happen to remember Eyvindur?’
‘No, I can’t say I do. The man who was shot – was he at school with my Rikki? All I know is what I heard on the news, like everybody else. Has it got something … something to do with my Rikki? I don’t understand how that could be possible.’
‘No, we don’t know for sure,’ said Flóvent.
‘What did Jósep say?’ asked the woman. ‘The poor boy’s in a wretched state, isn’t he? I know only too well what drink can do to a person, how it can drag you into the gutter. I reckon the lad’s in a hell of a mess. He didn’t look at all good the last time I saw him. No better than a tramp. He’s a lovely boy, though, Jósep. Always says hello and stops for a chat, never tries to beg for money.’ The woman sat pensively for a while, her hands busy with the chicken again. ‘Yes, my poor Rikki,’ she said at last.
‘It must have been hard for you. Losing him.’
The woman didn’t answer, just carried on with her task, her mind far away. The air quickly turned chilly as the sun went down, but she didn’t seem to notice. Flóvent buttoned up his coat.
‘Of course the Pólar kids were always picked on,’ she said. ‘Teased for being poor and dressing in rags that stank of mildew, and for having parents like us. The dregs of society. All the kids from here ended up in the dunces’ class. Of course I realise we … I don’t remember ever making him a packed lunch. It’s terrible to think of. And I don’t suppose his clothes were up to much. If there was any money in the house, it all went on booze. His sister took more care of him than I did. It was … it wasn’t a happy home and Rikki was a terribly sensitive boy. He had ever such a tender heart, my Rikki. Do you have kids yourself, mister?’
‘No,’ said Flóvent, ‘I don’t have any children.’
‘His dad was a bloody waster. A thief and a bum. Stole from Dússi and plenty of other people too. Broke into summer houses around here. Was mixed up in smuggling, and used to hit the bottle hard. Did time. Kept bad company.’ The woman ceased her plucking. ‘Not that I was any better. I was … I was on the booze too in those days. It’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest. It wasn’t until Rikki died that I gave up the drink. Haven’t touched a drop since. Not a drop.’
‘Could you tell me what happened? Jósep remembered parts of the story, but he suggested I talk to you.’
‘Rikki suddenly stopped turning up at school. I knew nothing about it. He didn’t tell me. He still left home every day. Always at the same time, heading towards the school. Then one day … I was standing out here one morning, where you’re standing now, when a man appeared. He’d been sent by the school to ask where Rikki was. He hadn’t been going to his lessons for several weeks. It turned out he’d just been wandering around town during school hours, playing on the beach, trying to kill time, and hadn’t told anyone. He was never happy at school, especially not that last year, so he just decided to stop showing up.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘It was that boy … that doctor’s son my Rikki used to go about with. That’s what they told me – Jósep and his friends – so I went round to his house, to “the German house”, as the boys used to call it. I wanted to speak to the boy, ask if it was true what they said, that he’d turned against my son. Ask him why he’d done those things. Why it had happened. After a lot of pleading I managed to speak to his father. He claimed not to know anything. By then the boy was in Denmark – he spent the summers there, he told me, and wasn’t due home any time soon.’
‘Did you tell his father what you’d heard?’
‘Yes, I did, I repeated the whole thing. He came across all surprised and of course he tried to make excuses for his son, but I could tell he knew exactly what I was talking about. Knew how cruel his boy was. Didn’t need me to tell him. But by then it was too late. My Rikki was gone.’
‘Jósep told me he fell off a roof at a building site on Eskihlíd.’
‘That’s right.’
‘He says the doctor’s son persuaded Rikki to jump.’
‘They said he thought he could fly. That boy was with him at the time. And Jósep, and another boy who was there too, they said they’d heard him egging Rikki on. Daring him to jump off. Goading him. He’d been bullying him unmercifully all winter, never left him alone, called him such ugly names that in the end Rikki didn’t dare go to school any more. Disgraceful behaviour – you can’t call it anything else. I don’t know why he hated Rikki so much. Maybe Rikki was an easy target because he came from the Pólar and couldn’t stand up for himself. The other kids sometimes used to call him a dunce. And then there was the smell of mould and the poverty and his ragged clothes. Maybe Rikki thought it would never end. The police said it was an accident – just boys mucking about. They wouldn’t listen to me. Wouldn’t lift a finger.’
The woman sat without speaking, the dead chicken abandoned on her lap, as if she couldn’t face dealing with it any more. The sun had gone down and a cold wind came creeping through the Pólar.
‘But I soon came to my senses,’ she said. ‘I was in no position to moan about other people’s behaviour. Who was I to start blaming anyone else? I knew I hadn’t a leg to stand on. We weren’t there when he needed us, you see. He never got any support from us. I was pissed when I heard the news, didn’t know what was going on. That was all the support he got from us. What a pathetic cow I was. All he got from us … My poor, sweet boy.’
Flóvent saw that the woman was finding it increasingly hard to choke back her tears, her impotent rage. She stood up in her distress and the half-plucked bird fell to the ground. She took no notice. Instead she scowled at Flóvent, her eyes full of accusation, and he regretted that he had upset her so much. He should have thought out what he was going to say, taken a different approach perhaps, been more considerate.
‘What do you care about my Rikki?’ she said angrily. ‘No one cared about him while he was alive. Why are you asking about him now? Why did you have to rake the whole thing up?’
Flóvent wanted to express his sympathy, to explain, but she waved him away and told him to get lost, she had nothing more to say to him. So he left her there in the cold wind with her unbearable grief and a world of misfortune in her tired eyes.
47
Flóvent learnt about the broken window later that evening, when he phoned the police station on Pósthússtræti to check whether they’d had any reports of unusual goings-on in town. They told him that the policeman who responded to the incident had concluded it was nothing serious. Someone had thrown a stone through the window, but it could hardly be described as a break-in. It wasn’t the first time a window had been smashed there. Two months ago a similar report had come in. Probably just kids messing about. That’s what happened when properties stood vacant for long periods. Sooner or later the little blighters would start chucking stones at the windows. The police wouldn’t have bothered to investigate if it hadn’t involved this particular house.
A quick phone call to the hospital established that Rudolf had been discharged and taken home in an ambulance. He had insisted on it, and the doctors had seen no reason to keep him there under the circumstances. Flóvent gathered from the nurse he talked to that Rudolf had been helped by his maid, who was going to make sure that he didn’t lack for anything. Flóvent assumed this must be the girl he had spoken to at the house.
Flóvent also put through a call to the prison on Skólavördustígur. Brynhildur Hólm had received two
visits since he last saw her, from the same lawyer in both cases. She had taken his advice about hiring one.
It was late, and Flóvent was alone in the Fríkirkjuvegur offices, thinking about the broken window, when he heard a sound outside in the corridor. He stood up and was about to step out to investigate when a man appeared in the doorway. It was Arnfinnur, his old colleague. As they shook hands, Flóvent was privately astonished by the visit. Arnfinnur had never come to CID before. He was a tall, lean man, with a face tanned by the summer sun, and a firm handshake.
‘I saw a light in your window,’ he said, ‘and thought I’d look in.’
Flóvent recognised this at once for a lie but didn’t call him out on it. Lying didn’t come easily to an honest man like Arnfinnur, and Flóvent wondered why he didn’t simply tell the truth: that his business was of the sort that required a clandestine meeting after hours. He suspected that it was connected with Winston Churchill’s possible visit. Arnfinnur could have rung but obviously regarded it as risky to discuss such matters over the phone.
‘Are you making any headway with your investigation?’ Arnfinnur asked, taking a seat and surveying the office.
‘We’re following up various leads,’ said Flóvent. ‘And gradually making progress.’
‘I heard a rumour that this man you’re looking for – this Felix Lunden – may be a spy. Is there any truth in that?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘What, so he’s been supplying the Germans with information about the defence force? About the construction of the base in Hvalfjördur? About Icelandic shipping?’
‘We can’t rule it out. We haven’t found a radio transmitter yet, but it’s possible he’s been passing on messages to German U-boats off the coast. It’s all part of the investigation. But tell me about Churchill. Is he coming here?’
The Shadow Killer Page 25
