Once Saga had finally dropped off, Freyja tucked her up in her little bed. She pulled the duvet up to her chubby chin, after removing the favourite cuddly animal from the little girl’s slack grip and putting it at the foot of the bed. It was supposed to be a dinosaur but looked more like a fox with a Toblerone on its back. A grubby, sticky fox, as Saga liked nothing better than to throw it as far as she could – a metre or so – for Molly to fetch.
Freyja cast an eye over the main news sites but found little of interest. The police investigation into the skeletal remains that had been found in Faxaflói Bay dominated the domestic headlines, while nothing of any substance had been added to the articles Freyja had already read on the abuse case. She turned her attention to social media but that turned out to be just as dull. Complaints about the wet weather were interspersed with the occasional sun-drenched photos of friends holidaying abroad. Freyja couldn’t concentrate on any of it and there was nothing remotely tempting on television either. Since the last thing she was in the mood to think about now was the new job and whether she really wanted it, instead she fell to brooding on what she had read about the care home.
She lay back on the sofa, letting her mind wander. She recalled a recent study of adolescents’ sleeping habits, which had concluded that girls had more problems sleeping than boys. Perhaps there was something significant lurking in the files on the girls who had stayed at the care home. Although – assuming Freyja’s theory was right – they would almost certainly have escaped the attentions of the sexual predator, they could have witnessed some odd behaviour in the night. Freyja got up from the sofa, fetched the USB stick and plugged it into her laptop.
It was only when she stood up to fetch a glass of water that she realised two hours had passed and she hadn’t looked up once.
There had been far fewer girls than boys at the home; only seven in total. Most had stayed there for shorter periods as well, and their records were patchier than those of the boys. In the two hours, Freyja had managed to review all the available material on five of the girls and only had a couple left. The information was similar to that in the boys’ files, except that none of the girls had mentioned having trouble waking up or feeling sluggish in the mornings. In contrast to the boys, their level of wellbeing seemed to improve the longer they stayed at the home, which would fit with Freyja’s theory about the man’s interest being restricted to boys. Since she had been extremely careful not to let her theory influence her interpretation of the records, she felt fairly confident that in the girls’ case there was no evidence to suggest they had been abused in any way. She would go over the material again at work tomorrow to be on the safe side, but didn’t expect that to alter her conclusions.
Freyja drank a glass of water, trying not to let the girls’ sad stories get to her. The files had contained only incidental descriptions of how their stay at the home had ended. Mostly she’d had to read between the lines. If she had understood right, three of them had come from dysfunctional homes while the fourth had gone off the rails as a teenager. All had had a tough time in one way or another, and how they’d turned out was influenced by a number of complex factors. Sometimes it seemed that chance alone had decided whether children managed to flourish in spite of being presented with a crap hand in life. Other kids seemed hell-bent on self-destruction, defying all efforts to help them. Yet the authorities had to try, and to go on trying, until the kids were eighteen and became somebody else’s problem.
Freyja wondered if she should get out her yoga mat and do a few exercises before bed. Perhaps she would finally achieve the elusive peace of mind which was supposed to result from putting yourself through all those physical contortions. It wouldn’t hurt to try, since she had no desire to go to bed while still preoccupied with the fate of those poor kids. The snake was bad enough as a disincentive to sleep.
It wasn’t long before Freyja would have to feed the slippery creature again; a weekly event that still made her skin crawl. Between feeding times, she avoided going into its room, only going in once a day to change its water. The python seemed perfectly content with this arrangement and gave no sign of having missed her when she popped in. The flat head would slowly rise, the black eyes watching her through the glass wall of the big tank as she hastily changed its water bowl, then made a sharp exit. The animal showed a fraction more gratitude when she brought it the weekly mouse or hamster. Although the staff at the pet shop must have guessed what was in store for the poor little creatures, as she clearly wasn’t the only person in Iceland feeding an illegal snake, they turned a blind eye. They couldn’t afford to refuse any custom.
Now that she had allowed thoughts of the snake to distract her, any hope of concentrating on yoga was lost. Instead, Freyja sat down with her laptop again and started looking through the files of the two remaining girls. The first had been at the home for less than a week and there was nothing of interest to be learnt from her case. The second, however, had been there more often and for longer periods, adding up to more than a year in total. That was quite a long time, given that she had first been placed with Bergur two years previously. In the three years before that she had been in and out of care. There were far more files on her than on the other girls – or boys, for that matter, though some of them had spent a longer time at the home.
Freyja started reading and didn’t stop until she had finished every last word. Then she closed the laptop, feeling perplexed, not knowing how on earth to interpret what she had read. This girl was unlike any of the other kids at the home, not only in terms of the issues she was wrestling with but also of the answers she had given when questioned. What she did have in common with the others was the lack of specifics on file about her history and the reason she had ended up at the home. From the little information provided on the USB stick, it was clear that the girl’s background was as untypical as she was. Freyja couldn’t wait to get hold of some proper records and learn Rósa’s story.
Chapter 7
Tuesday
Huldar was no longer bored at work. Quite the opposite, in fact. Not only did he have enough to do but he had a sense of purpose as well. He and Gudlaugur had been given a warm welcome by Hafthór, head of the child abuse inquiry, who had quickly found them jobs to do, with the proviso that they were there simply to assist and could forget about initiating their own lines of inquiry. This seemed fair enough to them since they weren’t permanent staff in the Sexual Offences Unit and had next to no experience in that area. As soon as they had been briefed on the investigation, they went their separate ways.
They weren’t required to be present during questioning of the suspect. Not for the moment, anyway. Huldar didn’t mind this at first since he knew how challenging he would find it to have to sit and listen to the man’s warped version of events. The perpetrator’s perspective was always filtered through smoked glass. Huldar was used to this from the cases he dealt with in CID but knew he would find it much harder to listen to twisted descriptions of crimes against children, in which the blame was transferred onto them. Self-control wasn’t exactly his forte and he couldn’t afford any more anger-related incidents on his record.
But when Hafthór told them that the man refused to confess and was insisting on his innocence, Huldar changed his mind. He was quite competent at telling when an interviewee was lying and would have liked a chance to judge for himself. Although he wasn’t infallible, he reckoned his instincts were pretty good.
The most serious consequence of the man’s steadfast denials was that, unless they uncovered rock-solid evidence against him, such as witness statements corroborating the account of Tristan Berglindarson and any other victims who might come forward, it would end up being one person’s word against another’s. In that case it would make no difference how many victims there were, as strength in numbers had no validity in Icelandic law. The onus would be on every single victim to prove that a crime had been committed against them. Since Tristan had waited years to bring charges, there was no question
now of a medical examination or record of injuries. This was the Achilles’ heel of sexual offences: that it so often came down to one person’s word against another’s.
Tristan himself had already been interviewed once in front of a judge but the investigators still had to question a long list of Bergur Alvarsson’s other former charges. They would be speaking initially to thirty-three young people who had been resident at his home in the last four years. Not all of them could be contacted, however. One had moved abroad with his family, two had been awarded disability allowance at eighteen and moved to Spain, and two were dead, one from an overdose, the other from suicide. That left twenty-eight names.
Gudlaugur was assigned to helping trace the kids they hadn’t yet managed to contact; Huldar to attending the interviews. When Hafthór mentioned that the judge had insisted on the presence of a child psychologist, Huldar’s spirits had lifted, though he tried not to let it show. But when he oh-so-casually asked the psychologist’s name, the smile that spread over his face when he heard that it was Freyja gave him away. Gudlaugur, catching it, rolled his eyes.
Hafthór looked disconcerted. ‘Do you know her?’
‘She’s assisted us with several cases.’
‘All right, is she?’
‘Oh, yes.’
The digression caused Hafthór to lose the thread and he couldn’t remember anything else to tell them. After hovering in front of his desk for a while, Gudlaugur and Huldar left the room and went to their new workstations. Unlike those in CID, these consisted of booths with high partitions. Huldar assumed this was due to the sensitive nature of the cases dealt with here. The fewer people who saw what was on screen, the better.
The officers whose desks he and Gudlaugur had been allotted were on holiday. Judging by the three photos pinned to the partition, the man Huldar was standing in for was a weight-lifter. They showed him grinning triumphantly as he posed beside a succession of barbells loaded with impressive weights, designed for dead lifts, squat lifts and bench presses. Presumably each picture had been taken after he had beaten a personal record. It reminded Huldar of those idiots who had photos taken of them posing with their guns beside dead animals on safari – but far less harmful, of course. There were no photos in Gudlaugur’s booth, or indeed anything else personal. The officer had departed on holiday as if he had no intention of ever returning.
Huldar switched on the computer and logged in under his own username. He found the inquiry folder and was relieved to be admitted without a hitch. The IT department obviously hadn’t wasted any time in organising his authorisation. He checked to see what was stored in the folder but didn’t click on many files while he was getting to grips with the overall picture. The oldest files dated from nearly three months ago, which was consistent with the fact that the original complaint had been filed at the end of May. Not much seemed to have happened between then and the recent appearance of the anonymous interview with Tristan in the media. After that it hadn’t taken the police long to discover his identity and only then had the inquiry got properly underway. Since then files had been pouring in, even though this had coincided with the beginning of the summer holidays.
Huldar paused when he spotted a familiar name on one of the files. It belonged to a student taking a degree in policing, who had previously done a stint of work experience in Erla’s department. She had last saved a file ten minutes ago. Huldar rose to his feet and peered around. Unable to spot her, he tried calling her name: ‘Lína?’
Over in the far corner, a familiar red head popped up over one of the partitions. Lína smiled, waved, and came over.
They greeted each other with genuine warmth as they had got on well when working together in CID. Lína was a stickler for detail, prone to citing her textbooks, and not shy about pointing out other people’s mistakes. This had done nothing to endear her to the rest of the team, not least because most were wary of the new generation of police officers who would come armed with university degrees. But Huldar wasn’t resentful about progress or change, taking the view that neither he nor his colleagues would be able to halt the tide, so he had taken her under his wing.
Huldar explained what he was doing in Sexual Offences and asked why Lína was there herself. It wouldn’t have surprised him to hear she’d graduated early.
‘I’m here for the summer.’ Lína blushed slightly and avoided Huldar’s eye. ‘I’m trying to build up a portfolio of experience in a number of different departments. That’s why I didn’t apply to come back to your team.’
Huldar grinned. ‘Sensible decision. Just what I’d have expected of you.’ He glanced around. ‘Listen, perhaps you could teach me the ropes, since you’ve been here longer than me?’
The tiny Lína drew herself up to her full height, her head just reaching his shoulder. ‘Yes, I should be able to do that,’ she said, with the air of an old pro.
Huldar nodded, trying to look grave. ‘Are you working on the case I’m helping out with?’
‘Yes.’ Lína shuddered and pulled a face. Huldar assumed this was due to the serious nature of the crime but he was wrong. Lína’s disgust was motivated by something else entirely. ‘Yes. And I can’t begin to describe what a pig’s ear they’ve made of it. How could they possibly have forgotten to inform Reykjavík city council about the complaint? And overlooked the case altogether? They didn’t even interview the alleged perpetrator back in the spring.’
Naturally, Lína would be outraged by this kind of incompetence. He could have told himself that. She wouldn’t be fobbed off with the explanation Huldar and Gudlaugur had been given, which was that a mistake had been made during the handover between investigators. The person who received the complaint had gone on sick leave shortly afterwards and his replacement had overlooked it. A typical unintentional oversight. Nor was Lína likely to have been impressed by the mistake made by the switchboard when the victim had tried to report the case directly to the City of Reykjavík. In her eyes, this level of incompetence would be unforgiveable – which it was, of course, but Huldar had no intention of getting drawn into the blame game. It was too late now to undo the damage. ‘So, what job have they given you?’
Lína’s scandalised expression cleared. ‘I’m responsible for going over part of the material that was removed from the care home. I’m recording it and making a preliminary assessment of whether it constitutes evidence.’ Pride shone from her porcelain-white face. ‘There’s an unbelievable amount of stuff. Apart from the contents of the flat, the storeroom was crammed with boxes containing all kinds of lost property. I was asked to sort through it. Some of it dates back to before the suspect’s time, but it all needs to be catalogued anyway. It’s not as if odd socks, notebooks or hairbrushes are labelled by year.’
Huldar tried to sound enthusiastic. ‘Interesting.’
Lína wasn’t only a good student, she was a shrewd judge of character and a mind reader to boot. ‘You think it’s pointless?’
‘No. Of course not,’ Huldar lied smoothly. He couldn’t imagine anything more tedious than having to sift through junk from a storeroom. His own basement storage unit was half full of clobber he had transferred from his old place when he bought his flat. That had been seven years ago and he hadn’t once gone down there since locking the door on the stuff. He would never use any of it again but nothing could be further from his mind than having a clear-out. He’d sooner go on a shopping expedition to the Smáralind mall with one of his sisters. And that would only happen over his dead body. ‘Have you got far?’
‘I’m about halfway through.’
‘Found anything interesting? Apart from odd socks and hairbrushes?’
Lína glared at him. ‘Ha ha. I have, actually. There are various items that could be significant. Some of the kids left all their belongings behind. I found a diary, for example, and two mobile phones that are recent enough models to date from the period we’re examining. The IT department is working on unlocking them in case they belonged to anyone who turns out to have be
en a victim. They may contain messages or photos that could be relevant.’
‘Oh, great.’ Huldar smiled, hoping Lína would forgive his earlier scepticism. ‘Whose diary is it?’
‘One of the girls who was a resident there. I’ve yet to go through it but it’s very densely written, so who knows? Maybe she saw or suspected something. If so, she might have mentioned it.’
‘Let’s hope so.’ Huldar saw Hafthór waving to him from his office door. He gave Lína a pat on the shoulder and told her he was looking forward to working with her again.
Freyja was looking good. Even better than he remembered. She smelt good too; no sickly-sweet reek of perfume but a hint of expensive soap made from natural ingredients, like the sort he imagined you’d find in the bathrooms at health spas. They hadn’t met for months but he got the feeling that in this case absence might have worked in his favour. The smile she bestowed on him was warmer than usual and she clasped his hand more firmly, which made it hard for him to concentrate on the interview Hafthór was conducting.
It didn’t help that the interview room wasn’t what he was used to. They’d attempted to make it a bit cosier, as part of the same arrangement that had stipulated the presence of a child psychologist. A padded armchair had been dragged in and placed in one corner; there was an ailing pot plant on the table and a familiar framed map of Iceland on the wall, with red crosses marking all the fatal traffic accidents of the previous ten years. It wasn’t the happiest choice of wall decoration and Huldar hoped none of the kids would ask what the crosses meant. Something told him that the judge who had made this arrangement with the police hadn’t come by to check up on how his orders were being carried out.
The Doll Page 7
