Why Did You Lie?

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  ‘I’m sure it isn’t the only weapon here.’ Helgi realises he doesn’t actually know this for certain, not having checked their supplies or sneaked a look inside his companions’ bags. ‘At least I’m assuming there must be something sharp among the tools they brought along. Or among your stuff, for that matter.’ He can’t resist needling her a little. He’s the only one who has brought nothing with him that could cause injury. At a pinch he could bludgeon someone with the camera. But he would never do that.

  ‘I don’t have anything like that with me.’ Heida doesn’t seem to have taken what he said personally. She clearly thinks he agrees with her about Ívar being the one to fear. Unless she’s inventing her suspicions to fool him? If so, she’s succeeding brilliantly, but he doubts she’s acting: the conversation is too boring to be deliberately manufactured. ‘And you saw his face when we found the note. I’m convinced the paper’s his. He must have dropped it when he was dragging Tóti’s body out of the sleeping bag, and he knows his fingerprints are on it. Are you sure it’s still in there?’

  Helgi hopes Ívar will come back soon. He’s tired of whispering. ‘We were all shocked, remember? Not just him, though he was the only one who went nuts. And of course the note’s still there.’ Nevertheless, Helgi opens the bag with a pen and checks inside. ‘Yes, there it is.’ He settles back in the same place as before. ‘The cops’ll get to the bottom of it. Forensics are so advanced these days that they’re bound to find traces of DNA on the paper or in the bag.’ He pulls his own sleeping bag up over his thighs. ‘But if I’d stabbed somebody in such an isolated place, I’d begin by disposing of the weapon. That’s logical, isn’t it? I wouldn’t want it on me when the police arrived. Let’s hope he’s a bit slow and hasn’t worked that out yet. If not, he could be getting rid of the knife right now. And it would never be found.’

  At that moment the door is flung open. An awkward silence falls, as it so often does when the person who’s being talked about comes in.

  ‘Don’t all speak at once.’

  Helgi can feel the cold radiating from the man and decides not to go outside himself. It can wait. He sees that Heida is gazing at Ívar as if mesmerised, apparently unable to tear her eyes from the sheath hanging at his belt. It is empty.

  Chapter 24

  25 January 2014

  The estate agent had left with the potential buyers; a young couple with a toddler whose nose they kept having to wipe when they weren’t intervening to stop it fiddling with the dishwasher controls. It was impossible to interpret the parents’ expressions; they’d exchanged glances from time to time and nodded as cupboard doors were opened or taps turned on. He had seemed more satisfied with the garage than his wife, who had grimaced and picked up the child.

  The whole time they were in the garage the estate agent had tapped his pen on his folder, as if counting the seconds. Perhaps he had worked out the minimum amount of time he would have to linger in there so as not to rouse the couple’s suspicions. It was obvious that he hadn’t told them about Thröstur, and he kept catching Nína’s eye as if afraid she would blurt it out.

  He and Nína both breathed more easily once they re-emerged into the open air, and she could have sworn that the woman relaxed her hold on the child. Nína had originally intended to start with the garage and end with the flat, to ensure that potential buyers wouldn’t leave with a bad taste in their mouths, but in the event she didn’t have a chance to inform the estate agent of this plan because the couple were standing right next to them.

  In parting the estate agent had said he would be in touch, but gave no hint of whether the couple were likely to make an offer. Then he herded the family into his car and they drove away, slightly faster than they had come.

  The doorbell announced Berglind’s arrival, echoing in the empty hall as Nína went to let her in. The flat’s contents had gone, either to the dump or to her sister’s garage. Her brother-in-law’s expression had been far from thrilled when it sank in that he would no longer be able to put his car away, and Nína knew she would have to find herself another flat as soon as possible. It would be hard to explain to him why she couldn’t use her own garage until the flat was sold, but to be fair to him he hadn’t asked or even seemed to have thought about it. But inevitably he would the next time he had to wake up early in order to scrape the ice off his car.

  Berglind stood beaming on the doorstep. She had a cake box in her arms, held carelessly at an angle so the cake was almost certainly squashed inside. ‘Have you sold it? I bought this to celebrate.’ Typical Berglind, always so positive. Ever since she was small she had been unable to buy a lottery ticket without planning how she was going to spend the jackpot. Which she never actually won.

  ‘I’ll faint with shock if they put in an offer.’ Nína stepped aside to let Berglind pass and took the cake from her. A sweet smell of marzipan filled the hall. ‘But they were the first to view it. It would be expecting too much to think they’ll go for it. Let’s just celebrate the fact that someone wanted to look at it straight away. That must be a good sign.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have emptied the flat. It makes you seem desperate. People will make lower offers.’

  ‘I don’t care. If someone puts in an offer I’ll buy another flat the same day and never look back.’

  ‘Where are you going to sleep … when, you know, Thröstur is … you know …?’ One could hardly expect Berglind of all people to find upbeat words for death, the ultimate downer. ‘Our spare room’s waiting for you, of course, when you can’t stay at the hospital any longer.’

  ‘Thanks. We’ll see. Worst-case scenario, I could sleep here on a mattress. I don’t know what the estate agent would think but I could always hide it when he was showing people round.’ Nína put the box on the kitchen worktop and opened it. As she had suspected, the fancy cake was squashed into one corner. She tried to repair it with her fingers but only succeeded in making matters worse.

  ‘You’re staying with us. I won’t hear of anything else. I’d hate to think of you here in the empty flat, surrounded by bare walls. You’ll be much more comfortable at my place.’ Berglind peered into the cake box and frowned. ‘You’d think they’d pack it better.’

  ‘You would, wouldn’t you?’ Nína was so relieved at the change of subject that she refrained from pointing out that Berglind was responsible for the damage herself. ‘But I’m sure it’ll taste the same.’ She fetched two paper plates left over from when they had ordered pizza while packing up the contents of the flat, and a knife and two forks from a small cardboard box of essentials which also contained a jar of instant coffee, two cups, three plates, cutlery, scissors, soap and a corkscrew. A corkscrew? It wasn’t as if there was much to celebrate in this house.

  Berglind lifted out a piece of cake that looked as if the baker had sat on it. Her face brightened when she tasted it. ‘Have you taken a look at Thröstur’s work papers yet?’

  ‘No. I haven’t had time.’ She was lying; while waiting for the estate agent she could easily have gone through every last scrap of paper in the box.

  ‘Nonsense.’ Berglind stood up. ‘I’m going to do it myself. I can tell you’ll never get round to it.’

  Nína opened her mouth but didn’t try to stop her sister. It would have meant having to explain why she had failed to do it and she wasn’t sure she could. For one thing, she didn’t really understand it herself; for another, she couldn’t face telling anyone else what she was afraid might – or might not – emerge from the box. She couldn’t make up her mind what would be worse. If it turned out to contain papers showing that Thröstur had been having a hard time at work, she would feel ashamed that she hadn’t guessed and offered him the support he needed. But if it contained nothing of interest the blame would be focused back on their relationship – which obviously hadn’t provided him with enough reason to live. Neither explanation was desirable, so it would be better simply to avoid going through the box. The trail she was following in relation to his childhood wa
s more appealing. There was no way she could be blamed for what had happened back then.

  Berglind banged down the box on the counter by the sink. She cut herself another piece of cake, ate a forkful, and then opened the box. ‘There you go. Nothing to be scared of – just paper and pens.’ She fished out a sheaf of papers and Nína heard pens rattling in the bottom. Suddenly she lost all appetite for the cake and pushed her plate away. She watched Berglind intently, trying to interpret every change of expression as she read, and was relieved when her sister laid down the first pages, saying they were of no interest. But trepidation flooded her again as Berglind picked up the next batch and began to read. ‘These seem to be copies of documents relating to his article. The one you told me about – historical child abuse. Ugh, I’m not sure I want to read any more.’

  Nína took the bundle of papers from her without thinking. The case Thröstur had been researching was just one of many that had already been splashed all over the media. There was unlikely to be anything here she hadn’t already seen; the names and faces changed, but all were variations on the same disturbing theme. Was it any wonder that Berglind didn’t want to think about this stuff? She wouldn’t last a day as a cop – ugliness had never had any place in her world.

  Nína skimmed the pages and saw that they contained a draft of the first article Thröstur had written on the subject. The story had dominated the news for two weeks, with every media outlet vying to outdo the others with their exposés. There had been no shortage of cases to choose from.

  The articles dealt with the abuse of children and teenagers going back decades, from the time when people had thought it better to sweep everything under the carpet in order to spare the victims the shame. As a result, there was quite a backlog of these cases and now that the victims were adults they had started coming forward in droves. Nína remembered being struck by their stoicism and lack of anger, by how quietly they had suffered while their abusers repeatedly violated their innocence. It was extraordinary how successfully these human vermin had used threats to silence the children, and how their victims had managed to lock these vile secrets away in the back of their minds.

  Three factors apparently accounted for their silence: the threat of retaliation if they told tales; repeated reminders from the paedophile that if it came to their word against his or hers, a child would not be believed over an adult; and, rather more indirectly, a deep-seated sense of shame that arose from the children’s mistaken belief that they were somehow responsible for these horrendous acts. It was repulsive. Nína’s skin prickled. It had been far too long since she had felt pity for anyone but herself, and the realisation made her feel disgusted with herself, too.

  Clearing her throat, she turned her face away so that Berglind wouldn’t be able to read her expression. It was impossible not to wonder if Thröstur had been one of those children. If he had suffered this type of trauma in his youth it might explain why he had lied to the police. It might also explain why he had tried to kill himself as an adult: perhaps dredging up these events and brooding over the harrowing details had proved too much for him. Nína gnawed at her lip. The salty taste of blood brought her up short: in her distress she hadn’t realised how hard she was biting. She pushed the thoughts away. This was neither the time nor place to break down. There would be plenty of opportunity for that later, in private.

  Towards the bottom of the stack of papers were the original sources for Thröstur’s investigation: printouts of e-mails containing the testimonies of named individuals or arrangements for them to meet Thröstur to tell him their stories. She recognised some of their names from the news coverage.

  Although Nína was used to such things from her own work, she found them uncomfortable reading, perhaps because the e-mails weren’t intended for her eyes. People had written to Thröstur in good faith, trusting that he would keep what they were telling him confidential. But her guilt was mitigated by the knowledge that most had later published their stories in the press. Even so, this material should never have been passed on to her. She knew Thröstur’s employers had been in a hurry to clear his desk for his replacement – the man who delivered the box to her had explained as much. He was too young to realise she might be hurt by the news that Thröstur’s shoes had been filled so quickly.

  Berglind rummaged around in the box in search of something interesting. ‘Here’s more for you.’ She held out a thick sheaf of papers that Nína took care not to muddle up with the documents she was still perusing. Berglind took out another batch and leafed through them with ever diminishing interest. Perhaps she had been hoping to find a suicide note from Thröstur, an expression of his love for Nína so lyrical and passionate that it would make everything all right again. ‘Look. Isn’t this your flat?’ She handed Nína an old photo of a house. The colours had faded to sepia. It appeared to have been taken many years, if not decades, ago. On the back was a series of letters and numbers: SEF-235-85. Nothing else.

  ‘Yes, it is. Well, I never.’ Nína studied the picture that could have been one of any number of properties built at the time: boxy, with a sloping roof and small balconies; clad in pebbledash. But there was no question that it was their building. Taken a long time ago, judging by the size of the trees in the garden. ‘It’s our flat all right.’ She put the photo down after checking the back for an explanation. ‘What else have you got there?’

  ‘A picture of a man.’ Berglind handed Nína a photo, which also appeared to be fairly old, though with only the man’s haircut to go by Nína couldn’t date it with any certainty. His perm suggested it had been taken at the beginning of the eighties. ‘Do you know who it is?’

  Nína shook her head. ‘Though I’m guessing from the other contents of this box that he was no choirboy.’ She held the photo up to the light. It was also faded and a little blurred. All its sharpness seemed to have vanished as the colours had broken down. ‘Though it could just as well be one of the victims. Someone who was going to testify about the crimes committed against him and wanted this picture to accompany the story.’ She studied the man’s screwed-up eyes and felt there was something repugnant about him. Of course it was only her imagination but it had an effect on her nonetheless. The man appeared to be in his thirties, so on second thoughts he was unlikely to be one of the victims. Clearly the picture had not been taken by a professional and the man’s expression suggested that he had been caught unawares. It showed his face and the upper half of his body and had been taken outdoors. Behind him was a street that could have been anywhere, since all that was visible was part of a house. Nína turned the picture over but there was nothing written on the back. She laid it face down.

  Berglind passed her more papers. All had the appearance of being quite old. Some were typed, others handwritten, clearly not by Thröstur. They all bore the same serial number as the photo of the house: SEF-235-85, which conveyed nothing to Nína or her sister. ‘Where did he get all this old stuff from?’ Berglind asked. ‘These aren’t notes taken during interviews. But they seem to be connected to child abuse. Oh, God, I can’t read this.’

  Nína took the last of the papers from her. ‘They must come from the newspaper archives. At least they seem to go back decades. Perhaps the number relates to an old archiving system. Whatever SEF-235-85 might mean.’

  ‘Isn’t 85 a year, like 1985?’ Berglind stared meditatively into space. ‘But what could the rest stand for? “Suspect Evidence File”?’ She sighed. ‘I’d be a hopeless police officer.’

  ‘If it refers to a working title it could mean anything. Or nothing. Perhaps they’re the initials of the journalist the files belonged to. That’s not unlikely.’

  ‘It should be easy enough to find out.’ Berglind picked up her phone and started tapping. ‘No. Nothing comes up. I need more.’

  ‘Trying putting in “Stefán Fridriksson journalist”. I don’t know if he had a middle name.’ Nína tried to disguise how odd she was feeling. It didn’t help when Berglind gave a triumphant whoop.

&
nbsp; ‘Bingo! Stefán Egill Fridriksson. He was a journalist on the same paper as Thröstur. She fell silent a moment and when she spoke again she sounded rather more subdued. ‘He died in 1985. In April.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You know? What do you mean?’

  ‘He was the guy who lived here in this flat and hanged himself in the garage like Thröstur. Remember?’ Why hadn’t she thought to ask Thorbjörg which paper Stefán had worked for? Perhaps because she hadn’t been able to believe that there could be any further coincidences.

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘Quite.’ Nína stared at the papers littering the kitchen counter. She picked up an old document at random but couldn’t concentrate. The similarities between Thröstur’s and Stefán’s cases wouldn’t leave her alone. On top of everything else, it looked as if both men had been working on articles about child abuse. The old notes and memos seemed mostly to relate to a paedophile. Stefán hadn’t collected as much incriminating evidence as Thröstur, but no doubt that was to do with the era. Few people had spoken openly about such things in 1985. The paedophile’s name didn’t appear anywhere but she would have to go through the papers again to be certain. She meant to read every single letter of every single document, if only to find out why Thröstur had retrieved this material from the archives and why Stefán had thought a photo of the house he lived in was relevant to a child-abuse story. Perhaps the other photo was of him.

  She spotted a piece of paper that had definitely belonged to Thröstur. It was covered in familiar doodles of the kind he used to draw while talking on the phone. Countless circles and drawings of flowers, boxes and tornadoes, along with some phone numbers he had jotted down. In the midst of what looked like choppy waves on an ancient Greek urn he had written: Lalli? Lárus – Lárus Jónmundsson? The name rang a bell. Without taking her eyes off the paper she asked Berglind to Google it.