When war broke out Thorson had enlisted with the Canadian Army and, following the British occupation of Iceland, quickly found himself posted there as an interpreter. He had initially served with the British military police, then with the Americans when they took over the defence of the country. Born in Canada to Icelandic parents, he spoke the language fluently and was employed as a liaison officer between the occupying force and the Icelandic police. Although Thorson had never worked as a detective, he had taken a keen interest in the investigations right from the start, and he and Flóvent had come to collaborate on all the more serious cases involving servicemen and local civilians. The two men got on well and both preferred to solve cases with a minimum of red tape, sidestepping, where possible, the inevitable delays that would result from using the labyrinthine official channels.
When the report came in that a body had been found, Flóvent had been alone in the offices of Reykjavík’s fledgling Criminal Investigation Department, which was housed in the large building at number 11 Fríkirkjuvegur. This property, which stood near the small lake in the centre of town and resembled an Italianate villa with its ornamental columns and balconies, had once belonged to the wealthiest family in Iceland. Before the war it had passed into the hands of the Temperance Movement, who now rented out office space to the Criminal Investigation Department, among others. Flóvent enjoyed working there, though the rest of the small plain-clothes team had been seconded to other assignments as part of the war effort, and detective work had been largely suspended.
When the phone rang he had just returned to the office after a conversation with his father and had been intending to dedicate a few hours to the fingerprint archive. Their conversation had revolved once again around the plot in the cemetery on Sudurgata. His father wanted him to look into the possibility of locating and disinterring the remains of his mother and sister, and moving them to a new plot where father and son could also be buried in due course, but Flóvent was less than enthusiastic. He felt it would be better to leave well alone, but in the end he had half promised to find out who else shared the mass grave with his mother and sister and look into the possibility of opening it up. The grave had been dug at the height of the Spanish flu epidemic in 1918.
Flóvent strode briskly along Lækjargata in the blisteringly cold north wind, past the statue of the old poet laureate, Jónas Hallgrímsson. There was hardly anyone about. He had got into the habit of greeting Jónas whenever he walked by. Over time this had developed into a superstitious compulsion to raise a hand to him or silently recite a line of his verse, for fear it would call down bad luck if he neglected the ritual. ‘No one mourns an Icelander / Lying in his lonely grave …’
A small knot of people had gathered by the National Theatre: the woman who had discovered the body, a couple of passers-by and the sentries who had now ventured out from behind their barricade of sandbags.
Thorson was over at the US naval air station at Nauthólsvík Cove when he belatedly received the summons. He jumped into the military jeep at his disposal and tore into town, reaching the theatre just as they were about to remove the body. After greeting Flóvent, he knelt down beside the girl.
‘Injuries to the neck?’ he asked.
‘Yes, she appears to have been strangled.’
Judging by her clothes, the young woman must have been killed elsewhere, then dumped in the doorway. She could hardly have been outside wearing a flimsy dress and nothing else in that weather. It appeared that someone had tried to conceal her body under pieces of cardboard and other rubbish.
‘Not a very good hiding place,’ remarked Thorson, looking up at the gloomy building.
‘No, indeed.’
‘There are sentries out front.’
Flóvent shrugged. ‘You can drive a vehicle right up to the back of the building. It would’ve taken next to no time to dispose of the body.’
‘But why here, why the National Theatre?’
‘Good question.’
‘Perhaps the murderer was making a dramatic gesture,’ said Thorson. ‘By leaving her here.’
‘What about the soldiers manning the depot?’ asked Flóvent. ‘Could she have been inside? Did she know someone here?’
‘How come the witness is so sure the man she saw was American?’ asked Thorson, glancing over at the older woman who had found the body. She was standing a little way off with two uniformed policemen, complaining that she didn’t have time for all this and needed to be getting home.
‘She’s positive.’
‘There are still some British troops around. Canadians too. And Norwegians.’
‘She recognised the young woman with him as well.’
‘Oh?’
‘Says she used to teach her at Reykjavík College.’
‘It’s not exactly a tough job,’ said Thorson, wrapping his greatcoat more tightly around himself.
‘What isn’t?’
‘Being a cop in Reykjavík.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Flóvent. ‘Right, I’m going to get a photographer out here. We need pictures of the scene.’
Ingiborg looked mortified as she sat hunched in the chair, her thoughts focused on her father waiting out in the hall. Both men sensed they would have to go easy on her if they didn’t want her to break down.
‘You’re not the only girl meeting soldiers in secret, miss,’ said Thorson in a friendly voice. ‘Not the first and you won’t be the last either.’
She tried to smile.
‘What’s his name, miss?’ asked Flóvent. ‘The soldier you were with.’
‘Please, there’s no need to call me “miss”.’
‘All right,’ said Flóvent.
‘Frank,’ she replied. ‘His name’s Frank. Have you spoken to him?’
‘No. Frank what – do you know his surname?’ asked Thorson.
‘Of course I do. Frank Carroll. He’s a sergeant. How did you know I was there? Did somebody see me?’
‘It’s a small town,’ said Thorson drily.
‘You were spotted by a woman who recognised you,’ Flóvent elaborated. ‘It doesn’t matter who she is, but she saw you with a soldier, an American, and assumed you two must have hurt the girl, then made a run for it. Was she right?’
‘No!’ exclaimed Ingiborg vehemently. ‘I’ve never seen the girl before. Never in my life. Frank and I were … we only went there to … you know …’
‘Neck?’ suggested Thorson.
‘Daddy doesn’t want me seeing him. You heard what he said. He’s forbidden me to meet him. There are so few places we can go. I don’t like being around the other soldiers, and I don’t want to ask my friends to lend us their rooms, so really all we can do is meet out of doors. We’ve been there once before.’
‘What is he? Infantry? Artillery?’
‘All I know is that he’s a sergeant. We don’t talk much about the army. He hates it and he’s afraid of being sent to Europe.’
‘Where did you two meet?’
‘At Hótel Borg. Last autumn. He’s ever such a nice man. So polite and considerate.’
‘So you mainly meet at dances?’
‘Yes. He’s … he’s a terrific dancer.’
‘You like the jitterbug?’ asked Thorson, trying to lighten the atmosphere a little.
‘Yes.’
‘What else do you know about Frank?’
‘He’s from Illinois. He’s five years older than me. He’s going to start a car dealership when he gets out of the army. Everyone owns a car in America. He likes going to the movies, but I haven’t dared go with him since Daddy banned me from meeting him. He has two brothers and lives with his mother. His father’s dead.’
‘Did he strangle the girl in the doorway of the theatre?’ asked Flóvent with sudden brutality.
Ingiborg recoiled in shock. ‘No! He didn’t lay a finger on her. I don’t know who the girl was. Oh my goodness, you mustn’t say things like that. Was she strangled?’
‘Did you watch him do it?’
<
br /> ‘Me? No, I … no, how could you say such a terrible thing?’
‘Afterwards did you take her and dump her behind the theatre like a worthless piece of rubbish?’
‘My goodness … how can you talk like that …?’ She began to whimper.
‘Then why did you two run away?’
‘Because he insisted. Frank did. He thought it was the most sensible thing to do. Said it was none of our business. And … he was right. We had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. It’s terrible. Absolutely terrible. Of course, I know we shouldn’t have run off but …’
‘Is Frank aware of your father’s position at the ministry?’
‘No.’
‘That he’s chief adviser to the government on the inauguration of the republic this summer?’
Ingiborg looked at Flóvent. ‘All Frank knows about Daddy is that Daddy despises him and won’t have anything to do with him.’
‘Have you seen the girl before?’
‘No, never. I’ve never seen her before and I don’t have a clue who she is. Do you know who she is?’
‘Why did Frank say that running off and leaving her was the most sensible thing to do?’ asked Thorson, ignoring her question.
‘Because it was none of our business,’ said Ingiborg. ‘And it’s true. We only found her. We didn’t do anything to harm her. Honestly. We never touched her.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘What?’
‘That it was none of your business?’
‘Because I don’t know who she is. I’ve never seen her before.’
‘What about your boyfriend, Frank?’
‘What about him?’
‘Had he seen her before?’
‘Frank? No.’
‘How can you be so sure of that?’
‘Because … I just know. Why are you saying that? Why would you think he knew her?’
‘Because he fled the scene,’ said Thorson. ‘That might be why he ran away. Because he knew her.’
Ingiborg stared at him aghast as she realised what he was insinuating.
‘But she was a complete stranger to him,’ she said, with less conviction this time, because now she stopped to think about it, she didn’t really know much at all about Sergeant Frank Carroll from Illinois.
‘All right, Ingiborg, I think that’ll do for now,’ said Flóvent.
‘Are you going to arrest me?’
‘No,’ said Flóvent. ‘We’re not going to arrest you. But we may need to speak to you again, possibly even tomorrow. I hope that’ll be convenient.’
She nodded.
‘Perhaps you should fetch her parents now,’ Flóvent said, turning to Thorson. He noticed a fresh look of dismay cross the young woman’s features.
The following afternoon, once Thorson had combed through the lists of all the US servicemen in Iceland, made a few phone calls to confirm his suspicions, and also checked the lists of other nationals, he rang Flóvent at the Fríkirkjuvegur offices.
‘She’s lying to us,’ he said, when Flóvent picked up.
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘We can’t trace that sergeant of hers.’
‘You can’t find Frank?’
‘We can’t find any sergeant by the name of Frank Carroll stationed here. He doesn’t exist.’
‘Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Yup. The guy doesn’t exist.’
‘Then what are the odds he’s not from Illinois either?’
‘I’m willing to bet that’s a lie too,’ said Thorson.
7
Marta was in the middle of trying to do ten things at once when Konrád dropped in to see her at the CID offices. He rarely went in now that he was retired, and he paid little attention to what was going on there, except for what he heard on the news.
‘I wanted to ask if you could use any help with the murder inquiry into the old man’s death,’ he said when Marta had a momentary break between calls. They were sitting in her office, surrounded by piles of documents, folders, newspapers and other junk that Marta had accumulated over the years, much of it unrelated to work. Amid the clutter was a handsome sword that had belonged to a Danish lieutenant around the turn of the twentieth century. She had picked it up in an antiques shop, and now it lay in its scabbard atop a tide of paper on the windowsill. Konrád had never asked why she’d bought it but vaguely remembered hearing that her grandfather had been an officer in the Icelandic Coast Guard.
‘You what?’ said Marta.
‘Aren’t you permanently short-staffed?’
‘I thought you’d retired.’
‘Yes, and you can rest assured that I have absolutely no intention of coming back. But I’d like to help out with the case, if you’d let me.’
‘Why?’
‘Boredom, simple as that. You wouldn’t even need to tell anyone. I’d report my findings to you and if I uncovered anything significant I’d let you know at once.’
‘Konrád … I … you’re supposed to be retired,’ said Marta. ‘Shouldn’t we just keep things the way they are? You can’t start trying to make private deals with me. It’s out of the question. Honestly, what are you like?’
‘Fair enough, you’re the boss,’ said Konrád.
‘Yes, I am, and don’t you forget it.’
‘Fine.’
‘Right, we’ll be in touch.’ Marta picked up her mobile phone.
‘It’s just that …’
‘What?’
‘I grew up in that neighbourhood,’ he said. ‘In the Shadow District. I remember hearing about the girl you mentioned, back when I lived there, so …’
‘You’re interested?’
‘I want to know why the old man kept cuttings about her. I don’t believe the case was ever solved.’
‘Konrád −’
‘You’d be doing me a big favour, Marta. All I need is access to his flat. I can take it from there. Anyway, you can hardly stop me gathering information about a seventy-year-old murder. And Forensics have already been over the place. It’s not like I’d be compromising any evidence.’
‘We can always use more hands,’ Marta admitted, after a long pause. ‘Are you seriously intending to look into that old case anyway?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’ll have to promise me something.’
‘What?’
‘The second you discover anything, you’ll get on the phone to me. The very second.’
Two days later Konrád received the green light to enter the dead man’s flat. Since Forensics had already conducted a thorough examination of the crime scene, there was no need for a seal on the door. Konrád opened it with the key he had picked up from Marta’s office and closed it carefully behind him.
Exactly what he was looking for he didn’t know. He had brought along photocopies of the three newspaper cuttings that Marta had handed over with the key. He’d read them in the car. According to Marta, they’d been found inside a book on the man’s desk. The cuttings contained three separate reports about the girl whose body had turned up in a doorway behind the National Theatre. They were undated but all appeared to have come from the same paper, Tíminn. The first reported that a young woman had been found murdered; she was thought to have been strangled, and then moved to the spot behind the theatre. The detective leading the inquiry, a man called Flóvent, was quoted as saying that it was a heinous crime, a deliberate act intentionally concealed. The second story reported that the inquiry was making good progress. A post-mortem had revealed death by asphyxiation; pressure had been applied to the victim’s neck until she died and the injuries indicated that the killer had strangled her with his bare hands. But the motive was unknown and the girl had yet to be identified, so anyone who could provide information about the case, however insignificant, was urged to contact the police. The third article reported that the police were searching for an American soldier calling himself Frank Carroll and claiming to be a sergeant in the US Army, though the occupying force ha
d no record of anyone by that name. It was further stated that the soldier had been in the vicinity of the National Theatre with his Icelandic girlfriend, the daughter of a senior civil servant. The young lady in question had provided the police with her full cooperation and did not appear to be otherwise implicated in the crime.
Konrád wandered around the flat, taking his time, wondering why the dead man had hung on to cuttings about a murder committed a lifetime ago. From what he saw in the flat, he tried to form a picture of the pensioner’s solitary existence. The last meal the man had cooked himself was porridge. That was easy – he hadn’t washed up the pan. And he had eaten liver sausage with the porridge. The other half of the sausage was in the fridge, and the bowl in the sink contained traces of this meal. Judging by the contents of the fridge, he had subsisted largely on traditional Icelandic fare. The bread bin contained flatbread and a loaf of rye that was going mouldy. There wasn’t much in the kitchen cupboards, just a few plates and cups. The radio on the table was tuned to the National Broadcasting Service.
In the bedroom was the old single bed where the man had been lying when he was found. On the small bedside table Konrád saw a lamp and a novel in English, The Grapes of Wrath. The wardrobe contained everyday clothes – trousers, shirts – and a lone black suit that scarcely seemed to have been worn. There was a small washing machine in the bathroom, a basket of dirty laundry, and a toothbrush in a glass.
The sitting room was neat and tidy. There were shelves of books, both Icelandic and foreign, none published recently. Several proved to be about the construction of bridges. A TV in one corner. Two cheap prints on the wall. An old sofa and two chairs grouped around a small coffee table, and a desk that turned out to contain various bills in the dead man’s name.
The Shadow District Page 3
