Once she was fairly sure the children were asleep, she fetched her phone and rang Thorvaldur to insist he tell her what was going on. It was only fair. But he didn’t answer; no doubt he was punishing her for not picking up earlier. Her repeated calls achieved nothing. She went to bed as much in the dark about what was going on as when Thorvaldur had hung up on her.
Sleep eluded her and the more tired she became, the more she tossed and turned, the more her worries multiplied. Twice she got out of bed to reassure herself that the window was definitely shut and the catch was on. The second time, she caught sight of a car she didn’t recognise parked outside. It hadn’t been there when she’d got up half an hour ago. It appeared black or dark blue in the darkness, one of those models that are indistinguishable to people with no interest in cars. If she’d had to describe it she would say it looked like the cars children draw: four wheels, four doors, a bonnet and a boot. It wasn’t the colour or shape that fuelled her growing unease, however, but her conviction that there was a figure sitting behind the wheel. She couldn’t be sure but her imagination filled in the gaps and by the time she finally dropped off she had convinced herself that he had been staring at her window. Or, even worse, at Karlotta and Dadi’s room.
When she woke up later that night and looked out for the third time, the car had gone.
Chapter 8
Two seedy-looking figures walked down the steps of the police station on to Hverfisgata, one a little sheepish in yesterday’s rumpled suit, the other in ordinary clothes that had seen better days. Neither was dressed for the weather and they shivered in their thin jackets as they emerged. From his years in the regular police, Huldar knew that it was chucking-out time for those who’d spent the night in the cells. Though he knew neither man by sight, he guessed that the guy in the grubby jeans was a regular, whereas the smarter man was probably the type whose arrest was a one-off that would shock him into getting his drinking under control. At least, he appeared to be furtively checking to see if anyone he knew had witnessed his humiliation. The other guy clearly couldn’t give a toss. He even lingered on the steps to fish a cigarette from his pocket and light up.
Both figures vanished into the thickly falling snow.
Huldar stubbed out his own cigarette and hastened up the steps. He had no need to ask the way from the policeman at reception, merely nodded to him and went inside. The man he had come to see, Gudmundur Lárusson, still occupied the same office as he had when Huldar first joined the police, and would no doubt remain there until he retired. Which must be fairly soon now. His door was open but Huldar knocked for courtesy’s sake. ‘Is this a bad moment?’
Huldar got a shock when Gudmundur looked up. He had aged. His blotchy scalp shone through the sparse white hair and his skin was covered in liver spots. The thick, dark eyebrows that had once lent his face its character were now bleached and straggly.
‘Bloody hell! Huldar! No, not at all. Come in, come in.’ Gudmundur leant back in his chair and threw down his pen.
‘You get younger by the year.’ Smiling at his old boss, Huldar took a chair.
‘Bullshit. I can’t say the same for you, either. What are they doing to you over at the Police Commissioner’s office?’
‘Wearing me out.’ Huldar grinned. ‘At this rate we’ll end up the same age.’
Gudmundur snorted. ‘Is this a friendly visit? Should I get you a coffee? Or are you here on police business? In which case you can fetch it yourself.’
‘Police business. And I haven’t been gone long enough to forget how shit the coffee is here. So don’t worry.’
‘I worry about a lot of things, but whether you want a coffee’s not one of them.’ Gudmundur clasped his hands behind his head. ‘Out with it, then. How can I help you?’
‘Good question.’ It was a drag having to repeat the story of the time capsule and the reason for the police inquiry, so Huldar got it over with quickly. While he was talking, Gudmundur’s white eyebrows rose higher and higher up his forehead. Huldar couldn’t tell if this was a reaction to his story or to the fact that he was frittering away his time on such trivial cases. He hoped it wasn’t the latter. ‘… And I noticed that although Thröstur doesn’t have any previous, he does seem to have had a brush with the law back when he was a minor. Something from December 2000, when he was only eight years old, which is kind of odd. Or at least that’s what it looks like from the entry in the Police Information System, which I can’t access. I assume it’s him, though there he’s using his father’s name, not his mother’s as he does now. His ID number’s the same, anyway. I’ve never been denied access like this before, so I must need special permission to view his files, perhaps because he was a minor at the time. And that means all kinds of red tape. So I wanted to ask if you could check his record for me, to spare me the hassle. As a senior officer, you should have clearance.’ The favour he was asking wasn’t as straightforward as it sounded, since members of the police had recently been hauled before the courts on suspicion of accessing the Police Commissioner’s database without a valid excuse. Although they’d been acquitted, that didn’t alter the fact that people were now reluctant to use the database unless it was unavoidable.
Gudmundur nodded, looking thoughtful. ‘You could have done it yourself if you hadn’t been demoted.’
‘I’m well aware of that. But it can’t be helped. It’s only when something like this crops up that I miss being a manager, a little.’ Huldar hoped his sincerity was obvious.
His old boss shrugged. ‘I hope you won’t be offended but I was a bit surprised when I heard about your promotion. Less so when you were kicked downstairs again. Though of course it would never have occurred to me that you’d last that short a time. Do you know you broke the Icelandic record? Probably the European one too. Maybe even a world record. That’s pretty good going.’ The smile faded from his weary face. ‘Shame how much gloating there was among some of the old bastards here. Men you used to work with. But I wasn’t one of them.’
‘I never dreamt you would be.’ Huldar might not have been a good manager but he was a decent judge of character. He didn’t need to be told the names of those who had taken a gleeful delight in his fall. ‘Anyway, what do you say to taking a look at those reports for me?’
Gudmundur considered the matter in silence, his head cocked on one side. ‘You know that every time we access the system it’s logged? What will I say if I’m asked why I was looking?’
‘Just be honest. I asked you for help with a case. Everyone in my department’s so rushed off their feet that no one with clearance had the time to spare. Which is true enough.’
‘Are they occupied with that business of the severed hands?’
‘Yes.’ Huldar shifted in the uncomfortable visitor’s chair that was well past its sell-by date. Gudmundur wasn’t the type to ask for his office furniture to be replaced. Nor, by the look of things, did he have any truck with the new regulation police shirt that had recently been introduced. ‘Does everybody know?’
‘The cafeteria’s abuzz with it.’
‘I suppose it’s inevitable.’ Huldar sighed. In that case it wouldn’t be long before the media got hold of the story. Which was both good and bad. Bad for Erla, who would be cast in the role of the incompetent investigator unless the case was resolved in the next few days; good, because the news might result in a tip-off about the owner of the hands. Perhaps they should appeal for members of the public to get in touch if they had something missing. ‘Well, if the story’s already leaked, no one’ll have any reason to doubt our workload at the moment – if you’re asked to explain your actions. If you’re willing to do me this favour, that is.’
‘Hadn’t we better stick together? Us two against all the rest?’ Gudmundur gave a short bark of laughter, though he didn’t sound amused. ‘I can’t see how it would do any harm. But I’m not printing anything out. You’ll have to read it on screen.’
That was good enough for Huldar. He read out Thröstur’s ID number a
nd watched as Gudmundur carefully typed it in. The name appeared but there were no records or anything else of use. Instead it said ‘No access’, the same thing that had appeared on Huldar’s own screen. ‘Try again.’ This produced exactly the same result. Huldar straightened up, disappointed. ‘That’s the message I got earlier.’
‘Strange. I’ve never encountered that before. You’ve checked the police register, haven’t you?’
The register was a database of general information about all complaints that had come to the notice of the police. Its existence had drawn criticism from some quarters as it lacked the proper data-protection safeguards. Unlike the official Police Information System, there were no formal rules for its use; access was not logged and chance alone dictated what kind of information accompanied the entries and whether the cases were followed up. The register contained the names not only of criminals but also of witnesses and other members of the public who came in to give statements. Nothing was ever deleted. There were now over 300,000 individuals on the register, many of them deceased. Huldar had searched the database for Thröstur’s name but drawn a blank. It looked as if Freyja’s gloomy predictions about his criminal record were wrong. ‘I didn’t find anything there. Perhaps he isn’t on the system after all?’
‘That can’t be right. In that case it would say “no record found”. He seems to have been known to the police but the entry’s got buggered up somehow. Maybe it happened when the information was transferred between systems. They’ve been upgraded several times since this Thröstur turned eighteen.’
‘Meaning what? Has it been lost?’
Pursing his lips, Gudmundur tried limiting the search to Thröstur’s first name only, but the same result came up. ‘I expect a hard copy still exists somewhere. But for that you’d have to fill in the correct forms. No one, however senior, can just waltz into the archives and start digging around. At least, I can’t.’ He leant back in his chair, frowning, suddenly looking like his younger self again. ‘Something smells odd about all this. I wonder if those records could have been deliberately locked.’
‘Why would anyone do that?’
‘No idea. The boy’s name doesn’t ring any bells. If he was notorious or implicated in something major that led to his being granted anonymity, I’d recognise the name. But I don’t.’
‘Nor do I.’ Huldar ran his fingers through his hair and realised that it could do with a trim. He made a mental note to do something about it before Erla ordered him to get himself down to the barber’s. He didn’t relish the idea and doubted she would either. ‘I suppose I’ll just have to put in a formal request to view the files myself.’
‘Yes. But it could take time, as you know. I’m beginning to think that lot in the archives are a bit slow – mentally, I mean.’ Gudmundur closed the database. ‘If I were you, I’d pay the lad a visit. Ask him a few questions, steer the conversation round to his past. That way you’ll probably get your answers long before the files turn up.’
Huldar nodded. He would have liked to know more about the young man’s background before he went to see him, but there was no chance of that now. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Pity I couldn’t be of any use. Sadly that’s becoming more common these days.’ Gudmundur picked up his pen and hunched over the form on his desk. He didn’t look up as he added: ‘Keep me posted. It’s not often that anything interesting lands on my desk anymore.’
Huldar assured him he would, then said goodbye and left. All was not yet lost: Freyja might have found something in the Child Protection Agency’s records.
* * *
The dilapidated building reminded Huldar of the grotty block where Freyja lived, though he refrained from saying so. The similarity didn’t seem to have struck her. No one would ever have guessed that she lived in such a dump. She certainly didn’t look as if she were short of money. Her blonde hair was drawn back in a high ponytail and glittered with melted snowflakes. There wasn’t a single dog hair on her clothes, which fitted her beautifully. So beautifully that Huldar had to make a conscious effort not to keep running his eyes over her. He knew this wouldn’t be appreciated; his attempt to approach her on Tinder seemed to have prompted her to delete her account. He hadn’t asked her about this and she hadn’t referred to it either. Some things were best left unsaid. He contented himself with feeling pleased that she had agreed so readily to come and see Thröstur, rather than suggesting they put it off until later or tomorrow. It probably hadn’t hurt that he’d begun the phone call by filling her in on the story of the missing records, since, as she then explained, Thröstur’s records were also missing from the Child Protection Agency’s computer system.
It seemed Gudmundur had been right when he said there was an odd smell about all this.
‘And he lives here with his mother and sister?’ Freyja surveyed the three-storey building. The question was rhetorical; Huldar had already told her about Thröstur’s living arrangements. The young man hadn’t been exactly keen to meet them, but had agreed in the end. It struck Huldar as a little odd that Thröstur hadn’t asked what he wanted, merely volunteered the information that his mother and sister wouldn’t be home – Huldar would be better off coming at suppertime if he wanted to speak to them. Why Thröstur should have thought that he wanted to see them too would hopefully become clear in due course.
‘They don’t seem to be doing too well, poor things.’ Freyja turned to look at Huldar. ‘Strange he didn’t opt to come into the station instead. That’s what I’d have done.’
Huldar smiled a little foolishly. She clearly didn’t realise that her own block of flats was no better. ‘He said he didn’t own a car. I don’t suppose he felt like taking the bus in the snow.’
Freyja tipped back her head to look up at the overcast sky. ‘It’s not snowing now.’
Huldar went over to the doorbells. The brass plate and small black buttons almost certainly dated from the sixties, and for a second he doubted the bell would work. Perhaps Thröstur had never actually intended to let them in. Most of the buttons were unmarked but by one there was a small, yellowing card with the names of Thröstur, his mother Agnes and his sister Sigrún. Huldar pressed the bell twice, then waited. He was just about to try again when the door emitted a buzz.
The lobby and stairwell were what you might expect: wrinkled linoleum and grimy walls. There was a faint smell of cat’s piss that intensified the higher they climbed but fortunately faded a little when Thröstur opened the door to them on the second floor.
He didn’t introduce himself or greet them in the conventional manner. ‘You’ll have to be quick because I’m about to go out.’ His expression was neither friendly nor hostile. ‘I’m leaving in fifteen minutes. You’re not getting a second longer.’ On the back of his hand was a black tattoo in decorative gothic script that Huldar couldn’t decipher upside down, though he thought it was in Latin, some classical quotation that the author could never have imagined would adorn an Icelandic fist more than two thousand years later. As Thröstur let them in, Huldar noticed that he had a similar tattoo on his other hand. It was in keeping with the rest of his appearance: the tight black jeans and sweatshirt bearing the anarchist symbol, which only accentuated his skinny frame; the huge tunnel rings in his earlobes, the piercings in one nostril and through the middle of his nose. His black hair was trained forward to hang limply on either side of his face, comb marks clearly visible in the thickly applied gel. Huldar had seen enough variations on this fashion to know that it offered a way for the physically weedy to pose as tough.
Huldar didn’t bother to hold out his hand, knowing that it wouldn’t be taken. ‘I’m Huldar. This is Freyja. We’ll try and be quick.’
Thröstur led the way inside without inviting them to hang up their coats. Freyja and Huldar caught each other’s eye and removed their shoes by tacit agreement, though looking at the brown floor-tiles in the hall, they’d have to change their socks when they got home. The patterned carpet in the corridor only confirmed
their fears. It looked as old as the flat and the underlay was showing through in places, but on closer inspection it appeared to have been recently vacuumed. The cheap shelves and battered sideboard they passed had also been dusted not that long ago. Huldar was willing to bet that Thröstur’s mother or sister took care of the housework: a hoover and feather duster didn’t really go with the recycled punk image.
‘You can sit here if you want, though it’ll hardly be worth it.’ Thröstur cleared a space for them on the sofa facing an enormous, new-looking flat-screen TV. He chucked the stuff in a heap on the floor, then seated himself in an armchair beside the sofa. ‘I know all about it, but I don’t know what you think you’re going to achieve. Try and stop me from doing something stupid? Just how do you plan to do that? The answer is, you can’t.’
As Huldar sat down, he considered how to respond to this. It hadn’t occurred to him that Thröstur would remember the letter after all this time. Perhaps someone had reminded him. All Huldar could think of was that the headteacher or one of the school’s office staff might have bumped into him and asked him about it. Surely Thröstur couldn’t have remembered the exact date when the time capsule would be dug up? Unless he had regretted the letter and his conscience had been nagging at him all these years. It wasn’t unheard of for someone who had lied in court to come forward and confess many years after the event. Perhaps this was similar. ‘We were only going to ask why you wrote the letter and who the people on your hit-list were.’
‘The letter?’ There was no mistaking Thröstur’s puzzlement. ‘What the fuck are you on about?’
‘The letter you wrote ten years ago, at your old school. The one you put in the time capsule, which has just been dug up. The letter listing the initials of people who are supposed to die this year.’
The Reckoning Page 8
