The Doll

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  Freyja was left standing there, still none the wiser about Rósa or her fate.

  Chapter 16

  Thursday

  The man in the cell was in such a state that the police officer on guard duty thought he should be taken to hospital. He’d had enough experience of dealing with addicts in custody to recognise withdrawal symptoms better than most. In his opinion, the prisoner’s life might be in danger if he wasn’t seen by a doctor soon, and as deaths in custody were naturally frowned on, his recommendation was taken seriously.

  Why Erla chose Huldar to take the man to hospital was anyone’s guess. As usual, he hadn’t raised any objections, but he did wonder if by some sixth sense she had known he was with Freyja and had deliberately chosen to ruin his evening. If so, she’d done a brilliant job.

  Huldar closed the hatch in the cell door. ‘How long’s he been like that?’

  ‘It started around midday while he was being questioned and he’s gone dramatically downhill over the last couple of hours.’ The police officer lifted a hand to the bolt. ‘The trouble is, I don’t know what drugs he’s dependent on. If it’s opioids, his life’s probably not in danger, but if it’s alcohol or something else, he could be at risk of a seizure or a heart attack. The same applies if it’s a cocktail of substances. The doctors at the National Hospital will know what to do, so it’s best they handle it. Anyway, from what I hear, it seems unlikely he’s the killer.’

  Huldar nodded. Before leaving work, he had skimmed the prisoner Týr’s statement. When Týr had heard that the blood on his shoes was Binni’s, he’d managed to retrieve a scrap of memory from the haze: he had gone over to Binni’s place to borrow a Coke. From the transcript, it seemed he had been deeply affronted when asked if he was referring to the drink or the powder. According to him, he had just needed a mixer.

  When Binni didn’t respond to his request, Týr had simply gone ahead and helped himself to a can of Coke from his fridge. Týr seemed to have been completely oblivious to the fact that Binni was slumped dead on the sofa. But then it had quickly become apparent that Týr’s eyesight was totally shot and since, by his own account, he had lost his glasses years ago and never got round to replacing them, it was quite plausible that he simply hadn’t noticed the gaping wound in Binni’s throat.

  The footprints provided further evidence that his statement was broadly correct: someone had walked straight across the blood-spattered floor to the fridge, without going over to the sofa. Týr’s visitor had backed up his statement, recalling that his host had vanished briefly to fetch some Coke. The men’s credibility as witnesses was equally shaky but, taken together, their stories did appear to add up to the truth The two Coke cans discovered in Týr’s unit, bearing his and Binni’s fingerprints, further supported this version of events. Three identical cans had been found in the victim’s fridge. There was no sign of the blood-stained murder weapon in Týr’s container either, or indeed of any other knife that could have inflicted the wound and subsequently been washed clean. By the time he had finished reading, Huldar was fairly satisfied in his own mind that the man in the cell had had nothing to do with the killing. Not least because of the drugs that had been lying around for all to see in the dead man’s container. Nothing of the kind had been found at Týr’s place, which suggested he hadn’t stolen any pills. It would be a strange kind of addict who’d had the presence of mind to take away two Coke cans but had left the stash behind, however off his head he had been at the time.

  On the other hand, Týr had failed to dig up from the recesses of his mind exactly when he had seen Rósa. The only time frame they could get out of him was that she had been around before Týr went to fetch the Coke. He didn’t think much time had passed between these two events but became confused when they tried to get him to be more precise. He thought he had waited quarter of an hour. But maybe it was half an hour. Or even an hour. So the information was of little use for establishing whether or not Rósa had been at the scene when the murder was committed. Finding the girl was now the police’s top priority – not that this had done anything to speed up the process. She was still missing.

  Huldar braced himself for the stench that was bound to hit them the moment the cell door was opened. The prisoner was lying on the couch, with the sick bucket, of which he appeared to have made copious use, on the floor beside him. Despite being prepared for the worst, Huldar had to cover his nose and mouth with his elbow as the heavy steel door swung outwards. ‘Christ!’

  ‘I’m dying.’ The man lay curled up in the foetal position, his eyes shut, though he obviously wasn’t asleep. He raised his head a little. ‘You’ve got to help me.’ He turned hopeful, red eyes on Huldar. ‘You! I know you, don’t I? You’ve got to help me. Please, give me something – anything.’

  ‘Do you two know each other?’ The guard glanced at Huldar in surprise.

  ‘Not exactly. We met when the body was discovered.’ Huldar turned to the prisoner. ‘I’m here to take you to hospital. They’ll help you feel more comfortable.’

  ‘Hospital?’ The man’s voice was threadbare. Even hoarser than it had been on the evening of his arrest, which Huldar would hardly have believed possible. ‘I don’t need a hospital to make me feel better. Haven’t you got any dope? Stuff you’ve confiscated?’

  ‘Nope. Not a thing.’ Huldar felt an extreme reluctance to set foot in the cell and hoped to God the man would be able to get up and make it outside under his own steam. ‘Come on. It’ll do you good to get a bit of fresh air. I’ll drive with the window open. Come on, mate. I’ve got an energy drink. A nice cold one.’ Huldar waved the can inside the cell door. It worked.

  Týr struggled to his feet, tottered, clutched his head and sank down again. Then he made another, desperate effort and this time he was successful. Huldar felt sorry for the poor bastard. He had never experienced full-on withdrawal symptoms himself, despite having graduated from the university of hangovers. According to those in the know, withdrawal symptoms were like the kind of turbo-charged hangover you’d get by knocking back a bottomless well of beer that had been brewed among the radioactive waste from a nuclear reactor. ‘You’ll feel better once you’ve got this down your neck.’ He opened the can for the man, since he looked too frail to pull the tab.

  ‘Huh.’ Although clearly unimpressed by Huldar’s medical advice, Týr took the can and gulped down its contents. Then he stiffened and for an agonising moment it looked as if he was about to regurgitate the lot. Mercifully, however, it stayed down.

  ‘Have you got a coat for him? An anorak or something?’ Huldar asked the officer. Týr was wearing the same filthy jeans as when he had been arrested, but had been lent a T-shirt that was far too big for his skeletal frame. The prison storeroom always had a supply of shabby old garments from lost property. The T-shirt was decorated with a spoon from which thick yellow liquid was dripping. Beneath it was the logo of Lýsi, the cod-liver-oil producer. Huldar doubted the company would be particularly grateful for the association with Týr. ‘It’s cold outside and he already looks like he’s freezing.’ Huldar gestured at the goose pimples covering Týr’s poor, punctured arms.

  ‘That’s due to the withdrawal symptoms. It’s got nothing to do with the temperature in here.’ Although the guard seemed to know what he was talking about, he obligingly went to fetch a coat.

  ‘Please, mate. You must be able to fix me something. Just one Oxy. Please.’ Týr wrapped his arms around himself in an attempt to stop the violent fits of shivering that were assailing his frail body. The moment he had finished speaking, his teeth – the few he had left – started chattering.

  ‘I haven’t got anything. Honestly. They’ll give you something in hospital.’

  ‘Shit. The stuff they give you there is shit.’ Týr was still shaking. ‘What about a beer? Have you got a beer? Or a shot of something?’

  He was persistent all right. ‘You know I haven’t got anything like that,’ Huldar said. ‘I’m a cop, remember? And I’m on duty.’
/>   The other officer returned with an old anorak that more or less fitted the prisoner and would be quite warm enough for a chilly summer night. Huldar helped Týr put his arms into the sleeves and zipped it up, since the man was trembling too badly to do it himself. Then Huldar took hold of his bony shoulder and steered him down the corridor and out into the fresh air. He helped Týr into the back of the car but didn’t bother with the belt as the man immediately collapsed sideways onto the seat.

  It wasn’t far to the hospital but Huldar drove slowly to be on the safe side. He tried to keep Týr talking in the hope of distracting him from his nausea. ‘Did you know Binni well?’

  ‘Well?’ The pain in the husky voice was an eloquent testimony to the man’s sufferings. ‘Quite well. You know.’

  ‘Did you ever talk?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘What about?’ The moment he had spoken, Huldar realised how foolishly optimistic he was being. Týr was barely capable of giving more than one-word answers in his state.

  ‘Football.’

  Of course they had talked about football. What had he been expecting? The Middle East peace process? ‘Tell me something. Do you think there’s any way you could have killed Binni without remembering?’

  ‘No—’ Týr broke off and retched, without bringing anything up, then added: ‘I remember everything. More or less. I remembered you.’

  Fair point. It would be an odd order of priorities for his memory if it had covered up an act as drastic as murder but clung on to the recollection of a man knocking on the door shortly afterwards and hanging around for a few minutes. ‘Did Binni have any enemies? Was he in debt to someone for drugs or booze?’

  ‘Drugs. Booze.’ Longing dripped off the words. Týr sounded like a man in hell talking about heaven.

  ‘Was Binni in debt? To someone who could have killed him over it?’

  ‘No. Binni had drugs.’

  Huldar understood what Týr meant. If Binni had been in debt to his dealer, he would have run out of pills. Of course, there was every chance he would have organised another dealer or dealers to keep him going while he owed money to the first guy, but that didn’t alter the fact that no dealer in his right mind would let his customers accumulate debts so big that they could never pay them off. And a dealer wouldn’t be in a hurry to kill off a debtor, since, if he did, he would never get his money back. The executors were unlikely to take drugs debts into consideration when settling the victim’s estate.

  ‘What about other friends, apart from you and your neighbours? Or acquaintances? Did he have any visitors that you remember?’

  Týr retched again and Huldar cursed himself for not having had the presence of mind to bring along any more cans of the energy drink. He offered the only thing he could think of. ‘Want a cigarette?’ He could drive back to the station with the window open to get rid of the smell. But the offer proved to have been unwise, since it triggered another bout of heaving and this time Týr went ahead and vomited. Of course he did. Not even Huldar could smoke when he was in the throes of a killer hangover. The mere sight of a cigarette packet was enough to make his stomach turn over.

  Fuck. Huldar fumbled for the buttons that controlled the windows and opened them all, front and back. He had to fight the urge to stick his head out of the window and drive the rest of the way to the hospital like that.

  When Týr had finished his spasmodic heaving, he groaned and lay back on the seat. After a few more groans, he answered Huldar’s question: ‘Binni was popular. He often had mates round.’

  ‘The dark-haired girl, Rósa – the one you asked to buy mixers for you – did she often visit him?’

  ‘I wasn’t counting, man. Stop grilling me.’ Týr sniffed, then gagged again.

  ‘OK, I’m done.’ Huldar put his head out of the window and snatched a gulp of fresh air. ‘Nearly there.’ Hearing the man’s breathing growing laboured, he put his foot down on the accelerator. ‘How are you doing? All right?’

  Týr emitted a rattling sound. ‘I’m dying.’

  ‘You’ll survive. I promise.’ Huldar could say this with some confidence as he was pulling into the hospital car park as he spoke.

  ‘Will you do something for me, mate?’ The hoarse voice sounded as if the man was losing consciousness.

  ‘I don’t have any drugs, remember?’ Huldar searched for a parking space near the night entrance that wasn’t reserved for the disabled or ambulances.

  ‘I know. I need a little favour.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve got a cat. A black bugger. Could you feed him for me?’

  There was no one about by the containers on Grandi, which wasn’t surprising given that the number of residents had halved over the previous twenty-four hours. Of those who lived in the four containers, one was dead and another was in hospital. Huldar had left him there, shivering and shaking in the hands of the professionals, after he had dealt with the formalities, which included forbidding any visits and reminding them of the rules pertaining to the care of prisoners under arrest.

  ‘Puss, puss!’ Huldar called into the gloom, as loudly as he dared without risking waking the occupants of the other two containers. He was holding an open tin of tuna that he had bought on his way back from the hospital in one of those depressing shops that are open all hours and used only by the desperate. Although the tin was dusty and past its sell-by date, Huldar doubted the cat would turn its nose up at it. The choice had been between that or a plastic-wrapped sandwich with yellow mayonnaise oozing out between the crusts. ‘Puss, puss. Come here, kitty.’

  Huldar peered into the surrounding gloom but couldn’t see any movement. Perhaps the cat had mewed its way in with one of the neighbours, or gone down to the beach to catch its own supper. Cats could look after themselves. If the human race vanished off the face of the earth, the cats would cope. Dogs, on the other hand, wouldn’t have a chance. Huldar put down the tin of tuna on a rusty cooker that stood abandoned by one of the containers, and lit a cigarette.

  He’d smoked it halfway down when he heard the sound of an approaching car. Turning, he watched as an old wreck pulled over and stopped under a streetlight. It had a large spoiler fixed to the back and a go-faster stripe along the side facing Huldar, though the engine couldn’t have had more than four cylinders, judging by the noise it was making, and would probably have come off worse in a race against a mobility scooter. The car was weighed down, with two people in the front and three in the back. When the rear door opened to let out a passenger, booming music briefly destroyed the peace, before being muted to a dull bass beat as the door slammed shut again. Huldar guessed they were sightseers, come to get an eyeful of the murder scene and maybe take a selfie to post on social media.

  A skinny young woman had clambered out onto the gravel. Her shoes with their ridiculously thick platform soles weren’t exactly suited to the rough ground and she teetered as she picked her way over. She was wearing a bulky, purple waist-length jacket made of fake sheepskin, and black leggings. In that get-up her arms, windmilling wildly to help her keep her balance, appeared thicker than her thighs. ‘Hey! You!’ Clocking Huldar, she came hobbling towards him.

  ‘Hi!’ Now that she was standing in front of him, he saw that she was only a teenager. The darkness couldn’t hide how clumsily her thick make-up had been applied, the purple lipstick matching her jacket. ‘Do you live here?’

  ‘Me?’ Huldar was too taken aback to be offended. ‘No.’ Feeling compelled to explain what he was doing there, he added: ‘I’m looking for a cat.’

  ‘Oh.’ The girl’s face fell. Perhaps she’d been hoping to get some juicy details about the murder from one of the occupants. Nothing people did surprised Huldar any more. But after a moment she brightened and gave him a knowing wink. ‘Oh, right. I get it. Cat.’ She beamed. ‘Do you know if there’s any going?’

  ‘Any?’

  ‘Yeah. You know.’

  He didn’t. ‘I’m not quite sure I follow you.’

&n
bsp; ‘Oh.’ The girl hesitated, looking past Huldar at the containers. ‘I was told …’ She broke off, belatedly regretting that she had ever struck up a conversation with him.

  Huldar finally twigged. ‘You mean dope? Right, yeah, that’s what I’m here for too. The cat was just an excuse.’

  The girl smiled again, visibly relieved. ‘Yeah. God, I thought so, but, like, then I thought maybe you were one of those … you know, like, one of those uptight types.’

  ‘Me? No way.’ Huldar returned her smile. ‘Hey, do you know who it is that’s selling? I wasn’t told exactly where to go.’ He nodded towards the containers, giving silent thanks that he was in his civilian clothes.

  ‘The guy in that hut. The one with the purple door.’ She pointed at Binni’s unit. ‘Hey! Whoa! It’s, like, the same colour as my jacket!’

  Huldar grinned. ‘And your lipstick, don’t forget.’

  ‘Yeah, right. It matches, you know.’

  Huldar nodded gravely. ‘What’s the guy selling?’

  ‘Anything, man. Anything you want.’ The girl made a pathetic attempt to sound worldly. ‘Though, actually, I don’t know exactly. I’ve never been here before. We only just heard about him, so we thought we’d check him out. There’s a party tomorrow. You know.’

  This ordinary teenage girl was a perfect example of the latest depressing trend in the drugs scene. Previously, it had only been problem kids who went looking for hard stuff of the kind that had been found at Binni’s place. Now, though, perfectly normal, respectable teenagers were being drawn to this shit.

  ‘Can I give you a piece of good advice?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Do you want to live like that?’ Huldar jerked a thumb at the containers.

  ‘No way. Are you crazy?’

  ‘Then stay away from drugs. Don’t go looking for another dealer. Skip it.’

  ‘What? Another one? What’s wrong with this guy?’