The Shadow District

by Arnaldur Indridason

  ‘I can’t cope with being locked up,’ he began in a strained voice, and they sensed his mounting desperation. He looked imploringly from one to the other.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s not a lot we can do about that,’ said Flóvent. ‘You can speak to a chaplain – I expect they’ve already offered you the opportunity.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to say to a chaplain. You’re in charge. You’re the ones deciding my fate.’

  ‘You haven’t exactly been cooperative,’ Flóvent pointed out.

  ‘What am I supposed to do when you don’t believe a word I say?’

  ‘Was that it?’ asked Flóvent.

  ‘I …’ Jónatan broke off.

  ‘Why did you call us back?’ asked Thorson.

  The student didn’t answer.

  ‘We’ll continue our conversation tomorrow, Jónatan,’ said Flóvent. ‘I haven’t got time for this now.’

  He opened the door and called the guard.

  ‘Don’t go!’ cried Jónatan.

  They didn’t answer. The guard took him by the arm, raised him from the chair and led him out into the corridor and back towards the cells. His keys jingled as he opened the cell door. But when he tried to steer Jónatan inside, the prisoner dug in his heels.

  ‘I can’t spend another night here,’ he whispered, so quietly it was almost inaudible.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I’ll show them,’ Jónatan whispered.

  The guard hesitated. ‘What did you say? I didn’t catch that.’

  ‘I’ll take them there.’

  The guard turned and shouted after Flóvent and Thorson, who were just passing through the door at the end of the corridor. They paused when they saw him waving.

  ‘What now?’ called Thorson.

  ‘He’s got something to tell you,’ the guard called back.

  Jónatan took a deep breath. ‘I’ll show you where I met her in … in the Shadow District.’

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Flóvent, retracing his steps with Thorson on his heels.

  ‘I’ll show you the place,’ said Jónatan more loudly.

  ‘In the Shadow District?’ said Flóvent. ‘Is that where you met Rósamunda?’

  Jónatan nodded. ‘I’ll show you where.’

  ‘Now?’ said Thorson.

  ‘Yes, right now. I’ll take you there and show you where we met.’

  ‘All right,’ said Flóvent. ‘If that’s the way you want it, we can go now. Does that mean you’re prepared to tell us what happened?’

  ‘First I’ll go with you to the Shadow District, then I’ll talk to you. I’ll need my jacket, though. Isn’t it cold out?’

  ‘What made you change your mind?’ asked Thorson.

  ‘Do you want me to do this or not?’ retorted Jónatan angrily. There was no sign of hesitation now.

  ‘Of course we do,’ said Flóvent.

  ‘You can ask me all the questions you like afterwards.’

  ‘All right. Are you going to confess to having killed Rósamunda?’

  ‘Do you want me to take you there or not?’ Jónatan asked, glaring stubbornly at Flóvent.

  ‘Fetch his coat,’ Flóvent said to the guard. ‘We’ll wait here.’

  The guard hurried away down the corridor. The door to the cell was still wide open and Jónatan looked inside with a shudder.

  ‘I can’t bear being shut in,’ he murmured in a voice barely above a whisper.

  They stood in silence while they waited for the guard to return with the jacket. Flóvent felt sorry for the young man. He wondered if he ought to cuff him, but the handcuffs were in the car, so he decided it could wait until they were seated in the vehicle. He didn’t anticipate any trouble now that Jónatan seemed ready to give in and work with them. Flóvent was keen to meet him halfway. If Jónatan wanted to take them to the scene this late in the day as a means of postponing the evil hour when he was locked up again, that was his affair. He seemed to have undergone a change of heart and decided to cooperate, and that was all that mattered.

  Once the guard had finally returned with Jónatan’s coat, they left with the prisoner between them, Thorson holding his arm. The car was parked only a few yards from the jail. Thorson opened the rear door for Jónatan and was about to usher him inside when, quick as a flash, the young man tore himself loose and broke into a run.

  ‘Damn!’ exclaimed Thorson, taking off after him. Flóvent, who was halfway behind the wheel, sprang out of the car after them.

  Jónatan fled round the corner of the prison and followed the wall down Vegamótastígur towards Laugavegur, with Thorson pounding along a few yards behind him. Flóvent was further back still, slowed down by his shoes. The streets were treacherous and, with no grips on his soles, he was in serious danger of falling flat on his face. Thorson gained on Jónatan as the student sprinted down the narrow side street and, without looking, shot out into Laugavegur, where an army jeep, hurtling down the street at breakneck speed, hit him head on.

  Thorson watched as Jónatan was thrown in the air then slammed down onto the bonnet of the jeep. He bounced off, landing head first on the icy paving stones. The driver lost control of the vehicle, swerved up onto the pavement and crashed into a wall, narrowly missing a pedestrian, who just managed to dodge out of the way. Both the soldiers in the jeep were flung against the windscreen, which shattered, cutting their faces. One crawled groggily out of the wreckage and collapsed in the street. The other, trapped inside, screamed in agony. He had cracked his ribs when he hit the steering wheel and his shin had snapped clean in two; the bone was protruding through his trouser leg.

  Thorson raced over to Jónatan and crouched down beside him. Blood was welling out of his head, forming a large pool beneath him. His eyes were staring emptily at the sky. Thorson imagined he must have died the instant he hit the ground.

  Flóvent knelt down beside them. A light mist of snow was still falling and the tiny flakes settled on Jónatan’s eyes, melting into them like tears.

  41

  Konrád drove back to Reykjavík deep in thought. Night was falling but he hardly noticed. Even the violent gusts of wind that caused the car to swerve in the notorious black spot at the foot of Mount Hafnarfjall failed to rouse him from his reverie. Nor did he realise that he had shot past a speed camera in the Melasveit area. His mind was entirely preoccupied with his visit to Magnús in Borgarnes. They had discussed Rósamunda’s murder exhaustively, but Magnús either didn’t know anything about it or was pretending not to.

  ‘The fact that the girl refused to make a delivery to our house doesn’t prove anything,’ Magnús had argued. ‘Doesn’t prove anything at all.’

  ‘No, maybe not,’ Konrád conceded. ‘Nevertheless, it may be relevant to the bigger picture.’

  ‘The bigger picture,’ echoed Magnús. ‘You sound like a politician.’ He said it as if he had little time for the breed.

  ‘Am I right in thinking that your father was a member of parliament?’

  ‘Yes, he was involved in politics.’

  ‘And you were one of five children – your parents had four sons and one daughter?’

  ‘I’m not sure I appreciate all these questions about my family,’ said Magnús. ‘Just what are you insinuating?’

  ‘Did you have any domestic staff? Did anyone else live in the house?’

  ‘What are you driving at?’ asked Magnús.

  ‘I’m wondering who the girl was so keen to avoid. I suppose it could have been your mother or sister. Do you think that might have been the case?’

  Magnús looked at Konrád for a moment. ‘My mother had quite a temper,’ he replied at last. ‘But my sister was sweetness personified. Is that what you wanted to hear?’

  ‘What about you and your brothers?’

  ‘What about us?’

  ‘Did any of you know Rósamunda?’

  ‘No,’ said Magnús. ‘I don’t recall any of us associating with a seamstress.’

  ‘But you remember Rósamunda�
�s murder?’ persisted Konrád, ignoring the contempt implicit in Magnús’s reply.

  ‘Vaguely, as I said before.’

  ‘Do you remember talking about it at home? And, if so, how your family felt about it?’

  ‘No, though obviously we’d have regarded it as a shocking crime. Just as any other family would. We were no different from other people. Are you trying to implicate us somehow in the girl’s death? Isn’t that absurdly far-fetched, more than half a century later?’

  ‘I’m not trying to implicate anyone in her death, I’m simply attempting to discover why she refused to set foot in your house shortly before she was found murdered. I hope you don’t find that unreasonable?’

  Magnús had no reply to this.

  ‘Is it conceivable that your father could have applied political pressure to ensure that the investigation went no further?’

  ‘Political pressure?’

  ‘I don’t know how else to put it,’ said Konrád. ‘I can understand if this has come as a bit of a shock to you, but I can’t find any record of the case. Of course, those were unsettled times and the paperwork may have gone astray or never been completed, but the fact remains that I can hardly find a single sheet of paper relating to the Rósamunda inquiry. No police reports. Hardly anything in the newspapers beyond reports of her body being found. Nothing in the court records. It’s as if the whole affair was swept under the carpet. So, not unnaturally, it occurred to me that your father, as an influential figure at the time, might have had a hand in suppressing the matter.

  Magnús listened, his face giving nothing away. ‘I don’t understand what you’re implying,’ he said when Konrád had finished. ‘As far as I’m aware, my father never abused his position in that way. Naturally, he fought for his constituency and did people favours here and there, but that sort of behaviour was taken for granted in those days. He may not even have known about the case.’

  ‘One of your brothers is still alive,’ said Konrád.

  Magnús nodded.

  ‘Do you know if he received a visit from Thorson? The man I asked you about?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to my brother or his family for many years.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, and I have no intention of discussing the matter with a stranger. Look, I’ve had enough of this. It’s time you were leaving.’

  ‘All right,’ said Konrád. ‘Thanks again for agreeing to have a chat. Just one final question: do you, or rather did you, know a girl, or young woman, during the war, whose name was Hrund?’

  Magnús shook his head.

  ‘It’s possible she and Rósamunda had similar experiences, but the facts are a bit hazy.’

  ‘During the war?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No. Not unless …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I once heard about a girl who was supposed to have thrown herself into Dettifoss. She was from the Öxarfjördur area. Now you come to mention it, I’m pretty sure her name was Hrund.’

  ‘Where did you hear about her?’

  ‘From my father originally, I expect. He was travelling up there when it happened.’

  ‘Your father was in the area?’

  ‘Yes. The name stuck in my memory. Whenever I visited the waterfall I would think of her sad end. We’ve got relatives up there, and my father used to visit them. In the summers mainly.’

  ‘Do you know what happened?’

  ‘It was such a long time ago that I’ve forgotten the details,’ said Magnús. ‘But some people said she wasn’t right in the head. Or maybe it was a broken heart. Apparently she used to see things. She believed in the supernatural and supposedly had some kind of encounter with the huldufólk before she died.’

  ‘You couldn’t elaborate?’

  ‘No, sorry, the story was very muddled. But then delusions like that usually are.’

  ‘And she was never found?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. Her body never turned up.’

  Magnús rose to his feet, eager to end the visit. ‘I need to go for my rest now,’ he said. ‘Would you excuse me?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to tire you.’ Konrád stood up as well.

  ‘We fell out over the will,’ Magnús volunteered suddenly, as they made their way to the front door. ‘My brother and I. I felt Hólmbert grabbed the lot in his typical domineering manner. Things never got really acrimonious – I didn’t take him to court – but the upshot is that we haven’t spoken for years. So it’s perfectly possible that this man, this Thorson, went to see him. But if so, I wouldn’t have heard about it.’

  ‘Right, I see,’ said Konrád.

  ‘Not that there would have been much point.’

  ‘For Thorson? Why not?’

  ‘It would be a waste of time asking my brother if he’d received a visit.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘And it’s too late for me to try and bring about a reconciliation.’ Magnús fell silent. Then he added: ‘I gather the illness is in its final stages.’

  ‘He’s ill?’

  ‘Hólmbert has Alzheimer’s and, from what I’ve heard, he’s gone downhill very rapidly,’ said Magnús. ‘Apparently he’s in a world of his own these days.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a grim fate,’ said Magnús, opening the front door. ‘Apart from that I believe he’s always been healthy. Never known a day’s illness in his life. But that makes no difference when you’re dealing with a degenerative disease like Alzheimer’s.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ said Konrád. ‘So there’s no point my going to talk to him?’

  ‘No, you can forget about that,’ said Magnús, giving him a firm handshake.

  Konrád was forced to slow down when he ran into congestion near the suburb of Grafarvogur. All the way back his mind had been grappling with the implications of what he’d learnt from Magnús, about Hrund and the waterfall, Rósamunda and the theatre. He racked his brain, trying to think of anything that might connect the two girls. Thorson had gone to see Vigga in his search for answers about Rósamunda. Did she tell him about another girl called Hrund? Or had he already been familiar with Hrund’s story from his time in the police? Konrád considered the newest piece of the puzzle: that the MP, Magnús’s father, had been visiting the Öxarfjördur area when talk of Hrund’s disappearance would have been on everyone’s lips. Later, Rósamunda had refused to enter his house. Was that the connection? Did Magnús know more than he was prepared to let on?

  Konrád sat in the traffic jam thinking about the former MP and his connections to both cases, however tenuous. He reflected on the fact that the two girls had mentioned the huldufólk and remembered what he had been taught about coincidences when he was just starting out as a detective.

  Never, under any circumstances, believe in them.

  42

  It was very late before Flóvent and Thorson were able to return to the Fríkirkjuvegur offices. By then, Jónatan’s body had been taken to the mortuary, the soldiers injured in the crash were being tended to in hospital, and their jeep had been towed away to the base in Skerjafjördur. Flóvent and Thorson had given the Reykjavík police a preliminary account. A more detailed report would have to wait until the following morning.

  They still didn’t know who they should inform of Jónatan’s death. Their investigation into his background had only just got under way; they hadn’t yet identified his next of kin, and Jónatan himself had stubbornly refused to reveal any information about his personal life.

  They sat in silence. The only illumination came from Flóvent’s desk lamp. Outside the snow had thickened and was now coming down heavily over the town. Their guilt felt as oppressive as the enshrouding darkness. Both men were haunted by the same thought: a young man in their care had lost his life. For as long as he was in their custody, they were responsible for him, and they had failed him. His death was their fault, though they had only meant to be kind. Their momentary lapse of conce
ntration had cost him his life.

  ‘Do you think he was really going to take us there?’ asked Thorson, finally breaking the silence. ‘Or was that just a ploy?’

  Flóvent didn’t seem to hear. Recalling Jónatan’s extreme distress at being locked up, he wondered if they should have foreseen what might happen; if they had ignored the danger signs. He should have been handcuffed to one of them when they left the prison. They should have read the situation better, guarded him more closely.

  ‘Flóvent?’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Was he using the Shadow District as a ploy? Did he really plan on taking us there?’

  ‘You mean in order to escape?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Flóvent. ‘Impossible to say. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know the answer to that. For God’s sake, why didn’t we handcuff him? We were so careless.’

  ‘I didn’t see it coming,’ said Thorson. ‘Neither did you. We didn’t forget. It was a gesture of goodwill. We were trying to create an atmosphere of trust. That was important. Then he gets hit by a car. We would have caught him. I was only a few yards behind when he ran in front of that jeep. It was a crazy attempt. And look how it ended.’

  Flóvent nodded distractedly.

  ‘There’s no way we could have predicted that he would make a run for it,’ continued Thorson. ‘He was being cooperative … OK, he was upset at being in jail – we knew that. But wasn’t that because he’d been caught? Because he didn’t want to confess his guilt?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Flóvent. ‘But it’s also possible that we had the wrong man. He didn’t say anything to you?’

  ‘No. I believe he died instantly. I don’t think he even knew what hit him.’

  The soldiers had been driving well over the speed limit, from what Thorson could remember, and he assumed there would be consequences. He had spoken to the man who had been sitting on the pavement, covered in blood, beside the wrecked vehicle. ‘There was nothing we could do,’ the soldier had said, distraught. ‘We didn’t even see him till he landed on the hood.’ He had been informed that Jónatan was dead.