‘Did you ever hear Stefán talk about the Rósamunda case?’ he asked.
‘No, never. Why should … Were they acquainted?’
‘Do you know what Stefán did during the war?’
‘Not really. Only that he was stationed in Reykjavík.’
‘Apparently he was in the US Military Police,’ said Konrád. ‘Rósamunda’s death was one of the cases he investigated. He never told you?’
Birgitta had been completely unaware of Stefán’s stint in the police. He’d never referred to it; in fact he’d spoken very little about the war years. ‘I had no idea,’ she said. Do the police think … Do you think there might be a connection between the case and the way he died?’
‘Naturally, I can’t talk about the investigation, except to say that the police are exploring all avenues, considering various factors. Including, for example, the way he was found.’
‘In bed?’
‘Lying flat on his back like that, looking almost peaceful.’
‘Wasn’t he smothered?’ asked Birgitta.
‘All the evidence certainly points that way,’ said Konrád. ‘One of the possibilities we’re considering – one of the factors I mentioned – is his state of mind immediately prior to his death. Another is his great age. Then there’s the question of what he was up to shortly before he died. And his views on death. Were you familiar with them, by any chance? Did he ever talk about how he’d like to make his exit?’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘Well, for example, do you know if he wanted to be cremated or buried?’
‘He never spoke about it,’ said Birgitta. ‘At least not to me.’
‘We can’t find a will in his flat. Do you know if he made one?’
‘No, I’ve no idea.’
‘Did you two ever discuss issues like assisted suicide?’
Birgitta didn’t answer straight away. ‘Why do you ask?’ she said at last.
‘Did you?’
‘Do you have any reason to think so?’
‘No, none. But we know you’re not opposed to the idea in principle,’ said Konrád. ‘We heard that you are, or were, in favour of assisted suicide. As a nurse you must have encountered terminally ill patients who were suffering terribly. You wanted them to have the option of a dignified exit.’
‘I support the legalisation of assisted suicide, you’re right about that,’ said Birgitta. ‘Like in the Netherlands and a number of other countries. There’s nothing sinister about it.’
‘And you −’
‘I haven’t helped anyone take their own life,’ said Birgitta, ‘if that’s what you’re insinuating. There’s a big difference.’
‘I’m not suggesting you did.’
‘Then why are you asking me about assisted suicide?’
‘How close were you and Stefán?’
‘Close?’
‘When he died. What was the nature of your relationship? Or when your husband Eyjólfur was alive, for that matter?’
Birgitta got up from her chair. ‘I think you’d better leave.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve nothing more to say to you.’
Konrád sat tight. He had been prepared for a reaction like this. ‘Forgive me, I really didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just one of the angles the police are exploring and I wanted you to know.’
‘You can’t just walk in here and accuse me of something like that,’ said Birgitta. ‘Assisted suicide! I didn’t do anything to Stefán. Perish the thought. He wasn’t even ill.’
‘Was he in favour of the idea?’
‘In favour?’
‘Of assisted suicide.’
‘I don’t think he was opposed to it. But it never came up.’
‘You lost your husband −’
‘Why are you dragging him into this?’
‘I −’
‘You’re not implying I killed him too?’
‘No. Honestly, I didn’t mean to upset you.’
He recalled that the first time he met Birgitta she had mentioned that her husband Eyjólfur had been on friendly terms with Stefán, and that after her husband died she and Stefán had seen quite a bit of each other. But she hadn’t gone into any details about the nature of their relationship. They had lived opposite each other for years and there had been quite a bit of coming and going between their flats. One of the police officers who found the body had quoted her as saying that Stefán must be glad to be at peace.
‘Were you and Stefán more than just neighbours?’
Birgitta nodded. ‘He was very private. It wasn’t until after my Eyjólfur died that … I mean, he very rarely talked to us about himself. After I was widowed, I got to know him a bit better. He began coming round more often and somehow we ended up …’ She glanced at Konrád. ‘You’re not under the impression …?’
‘I’m simply trying to get my head round your relationship.’
‘It wasn’t like you think.’
‘What sort of relationship did you have after your husband died?’
‘We were friends.’
‘No more than that?’
‘No.’
‘Sure?’
‘What do you mean? Of course I’m sure. Stefán wasn’t that way inclined.’
‘That way inclined?’
Birgitta glared at him. ‘You asked me about his friends,’ she said after a moment. ‘I expect you saw the photo he kept in the drawer by his bed.’
‘Yes.’
‘That was his friend.’
Konrád pictured the elegant man in the photo. ‘And?’
‘His very dear friend.’
‘You mean Stefán was …?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that’s his lover in the photo?’
‘Yes. So I hope you understand that there could never have been anything other than friendship between me and Stefán.’
‘What happened to the man? To his friend?’
‘He died of heart failure after they’d known each other a few years. Of course they kept their relationship completely secret, as people did in those days. Shortly after his friend died, Stefán upped sticks and moved to Hveragerdi. From then on he lived alone and kept a low profile, isolating himself from people, making few friends.’
‘That figures. He kept the photo in a drawer rather than on display.’
‘Yes. I expect that was an old habit from when you had to keep that kind of thing secret.’
‘Your relationship must have been very close for him to have confided in you.’
‘We … we became very fond of each other in the last few years and I miss him a lot, but I never had an affair while Eyjólfur was alive, let alone with Stefán, if that’s what you’re implying. And the idea that I played some part in Stefán’s death is utterly absurd. Preposterous.’
‘Did he have any relatives – the man in the photo, I mean? Anyone I could meet? Anyone Stefán stayed in touch with?’
‘Apparently he had a brother. But he’s dead. I don’t know of anyone else.’
‘So Stefán never told you he’d been a policeman here in Reykjavík during the war?.’
‘He never mentioned it, no. He didn’t like talking about those days.’
‘Any idea why?’
‘No, I just sensed that he didn’t like dwelling on the war years. And I never heard him mention any Rósamunda.’
‘What was he up to in the weeks and months before he died? Did he mention how he passed his time?’ asked Konrád.
‘Haven’t we been over that already?’ asked Birgitta wearily. Konrád’s visit was proving to be a strain, and he could tell she was keen to get shot of him and all his questions, his prying into her private life.
Deciding to call it a day, Konrád stood up. But it seemed Birgitta hadn’t finished.
‘You were asking about visits or people he met,’ she said. ‘When I thought about it afterwards I remembered him saying to me shortly before he d
ied that he’d met a woman who had told him something, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He said it was all so long ago now … I don’t know if it could have any bearing on the case you mentioned.’
‘Who was the woman?’
‘She gave him some information about an old dressmaking shop.’
‘A dressmaking shop?’
‘That’s right. He said it didn’t exist any longer. The shop, I mean. Its heyday was during the war.’
‘Any idea what the information was?’
‘He didn’t explain, just said it was probably too late.’
‘Do you know who the woman was?’
‘No, I don’t. Though, come to think of it, I believe there were two of them, and one was called Geirlaug or some unusual name like that.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘Oh, about three weeks, I should think.’
‘And you have no idea what it was about?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
Konrád spent the evening searching for information about old dressmaking companies. There had been several shops offering mending services and tailoring in Reykjavík during the war and for a number of years afterwards, from what he could discover. At the time seamstresses had been part of everyday life since there weren’t that many off-the-peg clothes available in the shops. People used to buy material and have it made up into dresses and coats or bedclothes and curtains The larger stores ran their own tailoring and dressmaking services, using material offered on their shop floor, an arrangement which had long since gone out of fashion.
As Konrád knocked back the Dead Arm, he felt his mood mellowing and let his thoughts stray back to his father and the spirit world, to human remains that were reinterred at the behest of psychics and to bones that were never found.
Finishing the bottle, he reflected on Birgitta’s revelation about Thorson and his lover, remembered the small stains on the photograph of the young man in the drawer. He had assumed something had spilled on it, but now he felt sure the marks were from Thorson’s tears.
28
Since Geirlaug wasn’t that common a name, Konrád decided his best bet was to ring all the Geirlaugs listed in the online telephone directory and ask whether by any chance they had a connection to an old dressmaker’s in Reykjavík, had heard of a man called Thorson and, if so, had met him shortly before he died. He couldn’t find any Geirlaug listed with ‘seamstress’ as an occupation, and assumed that the term had gone out of use long ago anyway. If the woman he was looking for turned out to be ex-directory, he would simply have to track her down by other, more circuitous means.
He started systematically working through the list of Geirlaugs at lunchtime the next day. Unusually, he had overslept. He had gone to bed late, been unable to get to sleep in spite of all the wine, and lain awake for hours, brooding over the fate of the elderly Thorson. He thought about Thorson’s lover and how, ever since losing him, the engineer appeared to have lived alone, withdrawn from the world. From there his mind turned to Thorson’s relationship with Birgitta, and he asked himself whether there was any chance, despite her categorical denial, that she could have helped him on his way as an act of mercy.
Having woken in the grip of a hangover, he drank several cups of coffee, gulping down water in between, but found he had little appetite. He sat staring into space until finally he summoned up the energy to start phoning Geirlaugs. There were landlines and mobiles listed for most of them, so if they didn’t answer at home, he tried their mobiles. He posed as an acquaintance of Stefán’s – avoiding any mention of ‘Thorson’ – and explained that he needed to get in touch with a woman called Geirlaug who had been in contact with him recently. Most of the women answered his call. One, who hadn’t been able to take it at the time, rang him back and asked if he had been trying to reach her. None of them knew Stefán Thórdarson, though two had a vague recollection of hearing the name in the news. The conversations were brief and the women generally showed little interest in who Konrád was. ‘You must have got the wrong number,’ was the most common response. Only one or two of the older-sounding women were curious to know more about him, but he didn’t waste time explaining. When they turned out not to know Stefán, he quickly brought the call to a close.
The task took him most of the afternoon. In between calls he listened to the radio or flipped through the papers, or wasted time surfing the Internet. Late in the afternoon his phone rang.
‘Yes, hello,’ he answered.
‘Was someone from this number trying to get hold of me?’ asked an elderly sounding female voice.
‘It’s possible,’ said Konrád. ‘Is your name Geirlaug?’
‘Yes, who is this, please?’
‘My name’s Konrád. Sorry to bother you like this but I knew Stefán Thórdarson. He died recently.’
‘Oh?’
‘You may have seen it on the news. He appears to have been murdered in his own home. I gather you spoke to him not long before he died.’
‘Yes, I did, I did speak to him,’ said the woman. ‘He rang me. Just like you.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes, I’ve no idea how he dug up my name. He didn’t explain, just said he’d heard I knew a woman he was trying to get hold of.’
‘So you two didn’t meet?’
‘Oh no, we only talked on the phone.’
‘What exactly did he ask you?’
‘Who did you say you were again?’
‘My name’s Konrád and I knew Stefán. I’m helping the police with the inquiry into his death.’
‘Have you found out what happened?’
‘No, not yet. Could you tell me why he wanted to speak to you?’
‘He was trying to trace an old friend of mine,’ said Geirlaug. ‘It took me ages to work out what it was he actually wanted but we got to the bottom of it in the end. He’d heard I might be able to put him in touch with her. He didn’t even know her name.’
‘And what is her name?’
‘My friend? She’s called Petra. It was about her mother, Petra told me afterwards. He was asking questions about her.’ Geirlaug lapsed into silence, as if she had finished what she had to say.
‘What about her mother?’ prompted Konrád.
‘Petra’s mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘She ran a mending and dressmaking business during the war and Stefán was very interested in it for some reason.’
‘In the dressmaking business?’
‘Yes, specifically in a girl who used to work there, called Rósa-something, I think Petra said. She rang me after they’d talked. Knew I’d passed on her name to him.’
‘Could the name have been Rósamunda?’
‘Yes, Rósamunda, that sounds right.’
‘What about her?’
‘She was found murdered behind the National Theatre during the war. Does that sound familiar?’
‘Yes, it does, actually,’ said Konrád. ‘Why was Stefán so interested in her?’
‘I don’t know, but he asked lots of questions about her. Maybe you should talk to Petra yourself. Would you like her number? I’ve got it here somewhere. Just a minute …’
29
Petra clearly hadn’t followed in her mother’s footsteps: she was neither a dressmaker nor did she run her own business. In fact, judging by her outfit, she was completely indifferent to fashion. And, looking around her home, Konrád couldn’t see any needlework, or any hint of enthusiasm for handicrafts. It was almost as if, despite being well past middle age, she was still rebelling against everything her mother had stood for. It turned out that she was a few years older than he was and had got herself an education, as they used to call it when people stayed on at college to take their matriculation exams, though she hadn’t continued on to university. Instead she had taken the boat to Europe and gone travelling, before coming home and taking an admin job at the National Hospital, where she had worked for most of her career up until the banking collapse. At that point
she had been made redundant as a result of cuts in the health service. She was, in addition, a divorcee with four children and what she described as heaps of adorable grandchildren.
As Konrád soon discovered, she never wearied of talking about herself, but he was reluctant to interrupt the flow. She lived in a block of flats in the east end, where she had wound up following her divorce, having been forced to part with the large detached family home in the smart suburb of Gardabær. Apparently she and her husband had quickly grown bored of each other once their children had flown the nest.
When Konrád finally managed to get a word in edgeways, Petra proved extremely interested in Stefán’s death and asked a lot of questions. He did his best to field them without giving away any details that might compromise the inquiry, saying only that the circumstances of Stefán’s death had been highly unusual and the police investigation was making good progress. He himself wasn’t directly involved, but he had been asked to look into one aspect of the case. Petra proved no less inquisitive about Konrád himself and bombarded him with questions. He tried to reply to them as best he could, feeling that it was only fair for him to be a little forthcoming, given that he had come here to extract information from her.
At long last he managed to steer the conversation round to Stefán’s visit. He had come to see her, Petra reckoned, about two weeks before she read of his death in the papers. She had recognised him immediately when his picture was splashed all over the media, but it hadn’t even crossed her mind that she might be able to help the police with their enquiries.
Her mother had run a dressmaking business until the mid sixties when she sold it. By then cheap imported clothing was fairly common; there were many more shops, and large firms offering mending and tailoring were closing down right, left and centre. Petra’s mother had died in 1980, her father sometime later.
The Shadow District Page 15
