Huldar disagreed. He had attended a number of suicide scenes over the years and some of the deceased had actually dressed up for the occasion. He didn’t once remember having seen anyone in odd shoes. ‘I’m pretty sure this shoe isn’t a size forty-one either. It looks smaller to me.’
Erla, who hated to be proved wrong, persisted in contradicting him. ‘If they were in a total state they could easily have put on different-sized shoes.’
‘Maybe.’ Huldar stood up, frowning and forcing himself to recall the image of the other foot. Then he got out his phone and searched for a picture of a skeleton. He handed it to Erla. ‘See, the thick leg bones face inwards and the thin ones face out. If this was someone wearing odd shoes, the bones should be mirror images of one another. But they’re not. These are both right feet, Erla.’
There was no way to put that down to someone being in a total state.
Erla raked her fingers through her salt-crusted hair and sighed. Then she turned to the representative of the Coast Guard and told him that she wanted to extend the search. Unfortunately for Huldar, the request didn’t meet with any opposition when the man heard her reasons. If there were two bodies on the seabed, it was almost impossible that they were dealing with a suicide. Of course, this didn’t rule out an accident, but there was a very real chance that the bodies had ended up there through the actions of a third party. If that was the case, their priority was to find as many bones or other remains as possible. What they’d found so far wouldn’t be nearly enough to establish the cause of death.
The Coast Guard representative announced that the return to shore would be postponed for as long as could be considered safe. Meanwhile, the search submarine would be relaunched to continue scouring the seabed.
Anyone would have thought the sea was delighted at the chance to toy with them for a little while longer. The boat immediately started rocking and pitching more than ever and Huldar took himself smartly back to the opposite rail.
Chapter 4
Monday
Freyja Styrmisdóttir stretched her shirt under the hand dryer in the ladies’ and waited for the dark patch to dry. She had been trying to wash off the stain that she’d spotted in the mirror at the most inconvenient moment. She was about to be late for a meeting and had nipped into the ladies’ in the lobby of the building to touch up her appearance, fluff up her hair, check her mascara and practise smiling at the mirror. But there had been no time for any of that.
She had been in the firing line that morning as she tried to force porridge down her little niece, Saga, who was staying with her while her mother was off sunning herself in Bali with a new boyfriend, and her father, Freyja’s brother Baldur, was guiding a group of tourists on a ten-day trip around Iceland. He had only recently got out of the Vernd halfway house and Freyja didn’t like to think what sort of guide he might turn out to be. He wasn’t particularly well informed about Iceland’s geography or history, as far as she was aware, let alone an enthusiast for outdoor pursuits like riding or hiking. But he looked good in a traditional lopapeysa jumper and would no doubt make a convincing impression on the tourists. At least this job was on the right side of the law too – as far as she knew – though where Baldur was concerned, you could never take anything for granted.
When he was assigned the tour, Freyja had happily agreed to look after her little niece, even though her summer holiday hadn’t yet begun. Things were quiet at the Children’s House, the centre for the investigation of crimes involving children, where she worked as a psychologist, and the only other people around were unlikely to comment if she spent fewer hours at the office for a week or two. After all, they hadn’t raised any objections when she was seconded to work on the special project that today’s meeting was about, although it would mean temporarily neglecting her duties at the Children’s House. Sometimes, she reflected, there were advantages to not being indispensable.
Saga had recently started at nursery school, which meant that Freyja would just have to get up that little bit earlier and leave work earlier in the afternoon. Nothing too complicated about that. She was well aware, however, that her role as auntie wouldn’t consist solely of trips to the ice-cream parlour or to feed the ducks on Tjörnin, the little lake in the centre of Reykjavík. She knew exactly what she was letting herself in for. Her niece wasn’t like other children, but that didn’t make her any harder to deal with, just different.
That morning Freyja had made porridge for Saga. Since this had appealed to the child about as much as a bowl of worms would have done, Freyja had resorted to putting jam on it. Saga had clumsily scraped off and eaten the jam, then started energetically hurling porridge around the room. One splat had obviously landed on Freyja without her noticing, but then she’d had her hands full trying to limit the damage at the time.
The hot air switched off automatically and Freyja set it going again. The wet patch was fading but still visible. She sighed. She simply didn’t have time to wait for it to dry properly. The choice was between arriving late or arriving punctually with a big wet patch on her front. Oh well. She could always keep her coat zipped up to the neck throughout the meeting, as if it were being held outdoors at the North Pole. If only she’d worn a thinner jacket, but the unusually cold, wet summer had made that impossible.
The dryer cut out again. Freyja tucked her shirt into her trousers, reminding herself that not everything had to be perfect. Not always. This was part of her ongoing campaign to sort out her life, which involved a thirty-day sex ban and three ground rules: one, enjoy what every day has to offer; two, don’t set your goals too high; and three, take a break from the search for a partner. The last of these had proved the hardest to stick to and she kept having to remind herself that she wasn’t alone, even if she wasn’t in a relationship. She had her brother Baldur, and little Saga too. And the dog, Molly, whom she looked after for her brother when required.
Not to mention the snake that went with her flat.
She shuddered at the thought of this ‘pet’, which belonged to the flat’s owner, who was currently doing time for crimes unspecified. Since moving in she’d had trouble sleeping, knowing that the python was in the flat, even though it was safely locked away. Every night when she closed her eyes she pictured the snake coiling its way across the floor towards the bedroom. The worst nights were the ones when Saga was staying. When she first moved in, Freyja had splashed out on a sweet little child’s bed for her niece, but Saga still hadn’t spent the whole night in it because Freyja invariably ended up fetching the sleeping child and putting her in her own bed. Only with the little girl safely in her arms could she relax, telling herself that if, by some unlucky miracle, the python escaped, she would be able to save her niece.
This was by no means a given, however. There was every chance the python would get the better of her.
On her way up in the lift, Freyja examined her shirt in the mirror. It was still wet. Clearly, unless some pop singer armed with a wind machine suddenly materialised in the lift with her, the stain would be glaringly obvious at the meeting.
But her first sight of the man she’d come to meet instantly put Freyja at her ease. He had a huge ink stain under his shirt pocket. Since the offending pen was still there, he presumably wasn’t aware of the accident. Freyja carefully averted her gaze.
He was a thin man, fiftyish, with tired eyes and a notable absence of smile lines. His handshake, when he greeted her, was firm and purposeful, his palm smooth and uncallused, as befitted a true office worker. Freyja returned his greeting with her own equally soft hand, wearing a confident smile. He introduced himself as Yngvi, which was unnecessary since they already knew each other slightly through work. He was employed by the Child Protection Agency, she by the Children’s House, which came under its aegis. Their paths had crossed a few times, at crowded meetings, workshops, Christmas drinks and annual parties.
Freyja wasn’t disconcerted when Yngvi didn’t return her smile. The little she had seen of him had suggested that he was
n’t exactly a ray of sunlight. Even at the annual children’s services knees-up she’d seen him sitting on his own, apparently wringing his hands over the state of the world. Since Freyja had been there to enjoy herself, she had quickly gone into reverse and sought out more entertaining company.
‘Thanks for coming along at such short notice. We’re really up against it at the moment as so many people are on their summer holidays. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t been willing. The case can’t wait until the autumn.’ Yngvi’s eyes strayed from Freyja’s face to the corridor containing the offices. It was clear that he wanted to get the meeting over with as soon as possible, so he could attend to other matters. It was no secret how much pressure the Child Protection Agency was under. ‘If you’d like to follow me, we can get started. There’s no reason to hang about.’
Freyja followed him into a meeting room which boasted little more than a table, some chairs and a projector screen drooping crookedly from the ceiling. She doubted it would be required on this particular occasion.
It had emerged that an employee of Reykjavík children’s services, one Bergur Alvarsson, was being investigated by the police, suspected of inflicting sexual abuse on children – children in his care; children he was supposed to be nurturing and protecting. To make matters worse, the police had neglected to report the allegations against him, with the result that the man had continued working for a further three months. The matter only reached the ears of the Child Protection Agency when one of his alleged victims gave an anonymous interview in the press. Unsurprisingly, this had caused an outcry. It was a PR disaster for the police, the city council and the Child Protection Agency. Never mind that the man had been employed by the City of Reykjavík and was therefore unconnected to the agency. In the eyes of the public, however unfairly, the agency was held jointly responsible whenever anything went wrong.
Freyja wasn’t offered any coffee. Instead, they got straight down to business. She and Yngvi took seats facing each other across the table. Freyja removed her coat and hung it over the back of her chair, repeating to herself the mantra: not everything has to be perfect. Yngvi’s eyes were immediately drawn to the stain but he quickly lowered them when he realised he was staring. Freyja merely smiled and allowed herself a moment of schadenfreude when she imagined him going to the gents later and spotting the ink blot on his own shirt. She wished she could be a fly on the wall at that moment.
‘Is it just the two of us?’
Yngvi nodded. Freyja had been hoping there would be others present but, then again, if it was just the two of them, she could focus on their conversation instead of feeling self-conscious about her wet shirt.
‘My assistant’s pulling together the files for you. They cover everything relating to the children in our care, from when they were first sent to the home in question, and include material handed over by the city council. You’ll get them on a memory stick – we’re trying to go paperless and we’re discouraged from printing things out unless it’s unavoidable.’
‘No problem. I’ve got a printer at the Children’s House.’ Seeing his face tighten with disapproval, Freyja added hastily: ‘I’ll go through most of it on screen but I might have to print the odd page. We’re being encouraged to cut costs too.’ Her workplace came under the agency and was therefore subject to the same measures, which almost invariably involved cost-cutting.
Yngvi reminded her that she would have to follow standard procedure and, for reasons of confidentiality, destroy any documents she printed out. He also warned her not to make copies of the files. As far as she was concerned, this was basic stuff, but instead of pointing this out, she just nodded. ‘You’ll also be granted access to the shared files on our system about the young people concerned. It’ll be either tomorrow or the day after. The IT department is understaffed because of the holidays, so I’m afraid it hasn’t been sorted out yet.’
The new data privacy laws required more stringent control of documents relating to the agency’s wards. Previously, staff in her position had enjoyed almost unfettered access to the material, but now it was secured behind digital lock and key. Freyja nodded and Yngvi continued.
‘Right, as I told you on the phone, the police have asked us to provide a child psychologist to sit in on their interviews with any witnesses who are under eighteen. Since Bergur has been running the home for thirteen years, many of his former charges are now older than that, so you won’t need to attend every single interview. But I understand that they’re planning to start with the kids who stayed there recently, all of whom are juveniles. If anything emerges from these interviews to back up the abuse claims, they’ll carry on down the list of names.’
‘I see.’
He went on: ‘The arrangement requires that the psychologist in question should not have had any previous contact with the juveniles, either before, during or after their time at the home, since – understandably in the circumstances – neither the young people themselves nor their guardians have much faith in the professionals who have been handling their cases up to now. You fulfil that condition. And you aren’t on holiday. Am I right in assuming that you’re not about to take your annual leave in the next couple of weeks?’
‘That’s right, I’m not.’ Freyja still hadn’t decided when she would take her holiday, but it certainly wouldn’t be any time soon. As she had no plans to go abroad, she had decided to wait until the weather improved here at home, but there was no sign of that happening yet. The forecast showed solid rain for the foreseeable future. If it went on like this, she would be left with a double allowance of leave this time next year.
Yngvi resumed: ‘The job also involves checking to see if there’s been any cock-up by us or by Reykjavík children’s services. Obviously, they blundered by appointing Bergur in the first place, but it’s hard to see how that could have been avoided. He had a clean record and there was nothing to suggest that he was struggling with paedophile urges. But we need to find out if the children in his care raised the alarm and were ignored, or if the social workers failed to take appropriate action. If so, the hole in the system needs to be plugged to avoid similar incidents in future. On no account must this be allowed to happen again; once is bad enough.’
He paused but didn’t seem to be waiting for a response from Freyja so she remained silent. After sighing heavily, he went on.
‘As you know, Bergur ran a temporary placement home for juveniles in the care of Reykjavík children’s services. His charges were mainly adolescents, a number of whom had issues with drugs. They were placed with him for varying periods, some for longer than can strictly be regarded as a temporary placement, which doesn’t usually exceed three months. Some only stayed with him once, others more often, when their home circumstances continued to deteriorate. As I said, he ran the home for thirteen years, right up until he was removed from the post last week. Naturally, they got rid of him the moment the news broke.’
You don’t say, Freyja thought, but all she said aloud was: ‘What about the staff who worked for him? He can’t have run the place alone.’
‘No, there were other staff there as well. There were always two people on duty morning and evening, but only one during school hours and at night. The city council has spoken to the staff currently working there and they claim not to have been aware of anything untoward. In fact, they speak well of Bergur. The police have started calling them in for interview, as well as any staff who’ve retired or moved on.’
‘Did Bergur take the night shifts himself?’
It was clear from Yngvi’s expression that he knew what she was implying. ‘Yes, he did. About as regularly as the others.’
Freyja nodded. ‘And in all those thirteen years there’s never been a blot on his record, as far as we know?’
‘Apparently not. I spoke to his manager at Reykjavík city council and she told me his record was almost perfect. Of course, like anyone working in the profession, he’s been the subject of the odd complaint over the years,
but never in connection with inappropriate behaviour or sexual abuse. Just complaints from children or parents who were unhappy about their situation in general. That’s nothing new.’
‘What about his private life? Is he a family man?’
‘No. He’s single. He was married but got divorced more than a decade ago. The marriage was childless.’
Freyja opened her mouth to ask another question but Yngvi interrupted. ‘Let me save you the effort. There’s nothing in the man’s background or behaviour to give the slightest suspicion of wrongdoing. His boss described him as a model employee who never had a day’s illness. The only leave of absence he’s taken in the last thirteen years was when he went into rehab about ten years ago to get his drinking under control. He informed his employers and requested some time off, making no secret of the reason for it, and took it out of his summer holiday allowance, like many other people. But, according to her, he wasn’t a daytime drinker or anything like that. She reckoned he was one of those rare individuals who recognise in time that they’ve got a problem and take action before it’s too late. So you can imagine how surprised and shocked his colleagues are over these accusations.’
‘Is he still in custody?’ Freyja didn’t remember hearing that he’d been released, but her attention had been taken up with other aspects of the story.
‘Yes, he is. For now. But that’s irrelevant for our purposes because you’re not expected to attend interviews with him. Your role is to be available to the police when required, and also to comb through the files on the juveniles who spent time in his care, not just from the periods when they lived with him but also to check if anything significant cropped up after they were moved to alternative accommodation or sent back to their families. You never know when they might have disclosed what happened. If they ever did.’
The Doll Page 4
