The Reckoning

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  Freyja shuddered. ‘God, no. At least, I hope not.’ She declined the proffered bag. ‘I’ve been asked to help the police with a case that his name’s cropped up in. I read the account of his trial but it doesn’t say much about Jónsson himself, so I thought of asking you. You must have come across him in here. He’s only just got out.’

  The toffee seemed to get in the way of Baldur’s tongue. He said indistinctly: ‘Jón’s toxic. I don’t know how else to describe him. When he was around I used to catch myself holding my breath.’ His handsome features contorted in disgust. ‘Luckily I wasn’t on the same corridor as him for long.’

  ‘Was he really that vile? I read in an interview that he’d found Jesus in prison. Or claimed he had.’ Freyja remained as convinced now as she had been years ago that the man’s piety was a sham.

  Baldur clicked his tongue dismissively. ‘He’s not the only one who’s played that game. But he’s one of the few who became even creepier as a result. I’ve never seen worse acting. People’s eyes usually move when they read the Bible, but his didn’t budge. I bet he was just sitting there having sick fantasies about children.’ He grimaced again.

  ‘No doubt.’ Freyja wasn’t surprised by Baldur’s description. Since it was unlikely that anyone had actually bought his crap about finding religion, she couldn’t understand why the man had bothered to put on such an act. Convicted murderers weren’t eligible for release after serving only half their sentence, so that could hardly have been the motive. ‘Are men like him left in peace in prison? Or did he do it to avoid violence from the other inmates?’

  Baldur laughed. ‘Seriously? It’s a big misunderstanding that paedos and rapists are given a hard time inside. No one can be arsed to make their life a misery. Maybe they’re a bit more isolated than normal, but that’s all. Why should we take it on ourselves to punish them? If we’re caught, our privileges are cut and we risk having our sentence extended. No, if the public wants tougher penalties for these bastards, it’s up to them to sort it out.’

  The ensuing silence was made awkward by the sound of a couple having sex next door. Baldur rustled around in the bag of toffees and Freyja shifted on the battered chair in the hope of making the legs creak. She couldn’t wait for him to get out; she wanted to meet her brother where there was room to breathe. On a bench in the town centre or even, for that matter, out on the moors. But there would be no chance of that any time soon. ‘Why the charade, then?’

  ‘You should be able to answer that better than me. I thought you worked with men like him every day?’

  Baldur had never really grasped what Freyja did for a living, or why she had chosen to work in an area so full of grief and misery. It was as alien to him as a career in crime would be to her. He went out of his way to avoid conflict; it didn’t sit well with the unbridled optimism that was his overriding character trait. ‘I don’t work with men like that,’ she explained patiently. ‘I work with their victims. I never see the abusers, thank God. You could say I clean up after them.’

  ‘Keep it that way. And stay away from that evil fucker Jón.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Freyja had no intention of going anywhere near the man. It was his son she was curious about. Now that his violent outburst was no longer as vivid in her memory, Freyja was inclining to the view that Thröstur posed no risk. Except perhaps to his own father, since the initials JJ in his letter presumably referred to him. As for the other initials, it was hard to say, unless they alluded to paedophile associates of his father’s. Or simply to other kids the boy had regarded as his enemies at the time. She didn’t think the individuals in question had any reason to be on their guard now, apart from Jón. Thröstur and his sister Sigrún had almost certainly suffered appalling abuse at their father’s hands, and now that Jón was free they must both be anxious about his next move. Perhaps not on their own account but in relation to other potential victims. How long before their father started drinking again and lost any self-discipline he might have developed in prison? No doubt they dreaded having to re-live the experience of being the children of a monster whose name was splashed all over the media. It was probably no coincidence that Thröstur had said the murders would be committed in the year his father got out. The family would have been warned at the time of his sentencing that Jón could expect to be released after serving only two-thirds of his sentence. Perhaps Thröstur had gone around with some crazy notion of becoming an avenging angel and taking out paedophiles. Freyja made a mental note to check the initials in his letter against the names of child abusers known to have been active ten years ago.

  It would be tragic if Thröstur acted on the threats in his letter. He would receive no mercy from the courts. The system didn’t like it when people took the law into their own hands. ‘Do you think Jón’ll reoffend?’ she asked.

  ‘I deliberately avoided getting to know him, so I haven’t a clue what he will or won’t do. But it wouldn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Or me.’ Freyja decided not to mention how low the success rate was for the rehabilitation of those sexually attracted to children. It might lead to a conversation about how difficult it was to rehabilitate offenders in general, and before her sat a prime example of a man who refused to mend his ways, though of course his offences were very different in nature. ‘Do you know if he’s at Vernd?’ It occurred to her to contact the manager of the halfway house and ask where Jón spent his days.

  ‘Didn’t you know? He never went to Vernd. The part of his sentence he’d normally have spent there, he served inside, because the halfway house committee didn’t feel he was eligible to finish his sentence there. And their decision is final. In other words, they didn’t like the look of him, though he’s supposed to be so holy nowadays.’

  She could understand their decision only too well. ‘What about visits? Did anyone come to see him? His wife or children, for example?’

  ‘I don’t know. As far as I can remember, no one came to see him while we were on the same corridor. I never remember bumping into him here in the visitors’ wing either. Of course that doesn’t mean he never had any visitors, but they can’t have come that often.’ Baldur ferreted around in the apparently bottomless bag of sweets. ‘He used to get letters, though. I do remember that.’ He unwrapped another toffee, popped it in his mouth, and carefully folded up the paper. ‘Who gets letters these days?’

  ‘Me. You. Everyone, I imagine. But they’re mostly bank statements or official circulars. Are you sure they were personal? Not just notices from the tax office or something?’

  Baldur shook his head. ‘No. These were handwritten.’

  ‘From his children, maybe?’

  ‘They must have been very good at writing then. It looked like an adult’s handwriting.’

  ‘His children are grown up now, of course,’ Freyja said, half to herself. Baldur sat up and rested his back against the wall, his legs projecting over the side of the bed. As usual he was impeccably dressed. Thanks to Freyja he was more on trend than most free men. Since the rent she paid him was pitifully low and he wouldn’t hear of raising it, she compensated by buying him clothes and other gear she thought he needed. They were alike in always wanting to present an immaculate appearance, and being in prison made no difference. It didn’t require a psychology degree to work out that this was a legacy of growing up hearing themselves constantly referred to as ‘poor motherless kids’. No child wants to be a ‘poor kid’ and they had both discovered that the best way to persuade those around them that nothing was wrong was to come across as strong. And look the part. This method still worked now that they were adults. ‘I was curious about the letters because he always seemed weirdly tense when they arrived and I wanted to know why. Though not enough to have another go at snooping. After that I was moved to a different corridor, so I don’t know if they kept coming.’

  ‘When was this?’ The letters could have been fromThröstur, though Freyja thought it unlikely. Unless he’d written to his father to threaten him. But in that c
ase the bastard would probably have shown the letters to the prison authorities in the hope of eliciting sympathy or being given protection after his release. No way was he the type to sacrifice himself for his children.

  ‘About eighteen months ago, I guess.’ Baldur fell silent for a moment and his gaze suddenly became shifty. ‘Speaking of letters.’ He bent forward and reached into his back pocket. ‘I got this.’ He handed a folded sheet of paper to Freyja, then looked out of the narrow window at the grey sky beyond.

  Freyja read the contents, and although she didn’t understand all the details of the test results supplied, she got the gist. All the questions she had been longing to ask about Jón Jónsson seemed suddenly irrelevant, merely a symptom of her need to be professionally occupied. Here, in contrast, was something of tangible importance. ‘This could hardly be more conclusive, could it?’ The table showed the results of a paternity test. ‘Ninety-nine point nine nine per cent.’

  Keeping her eyes lowered, she reread every word and figure – not to acquaint herself more closely with the contents, but to buy time. She didn’t know whether to feel happy or sad. She sat staring blankly at the paper. It struck her that here was a tragedy in the making. Although the child didn’t seem real and she didn’t experience any rush of family feeling, the thought of Baldur as a weekend father really hurt. A weekend father who spent more time in prison than out. A weekend father cast in the same mould as Baldur’s own and therefore barely deserving of the title. Given how painful Baldur had found his distant relationship with his father when he was young, he would surely be determined to act differently himself. But how would he manage it from behind bars? It was extraordinary how often good intentions came to nothing. Freyja raised her eyes at last. ‘What about the mother? Are you in a relationship with her? Is she nice?’ The tone of her questions belied their seriousness. She experienced an overwhelming urge to grab her brother by the shoulders, shake him angrily and ask what the hell he’d been thinking of. Would it have killed him to use a condom?

  ‘We’re not in a relationship. Never were, really. She only came here twice. But the dates fit.’

  ‘Has the baby been christened? Does she have a name?’ All the sheet of paper revealed was the child’s sex and ID number. The little girl must be about ten months old, though Freyja was too distracted to be sure.

  ‘She’s called Saga.’

  ‘Saga.’ Freyja handed the sheet of paper back to Baldur and their eyes finally met. ‘Pretty name.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Though I didn’t have any say in the matter.’ Baldur looked away. ‘I didn’t know she existed until three months ago when I was asked to take a blood test. Apparently there were two of us in the picture, so it wasn’t a question of just acknowledging the baby. Pity for her that the other guy didn’t turn out to be the father.’

  Freyja sensed that Baldur shared her concerns. What kind of father would he be? The answer to that would be decided not by luck or the vagaries of fate: the responsibility lay squarely with him. He would have to finish this bloody jail sentence, start a new life and try his damnedest to be a good father. Perhaps this would be the spur Baldur needed to turn his life around. Stranger things had happened.

  ‘I’ll help you both as much as I can. For as long as you’re in here.’ Freyja forced herself to smile. ‘And after you get out too, of course. It’s not like I’m about to add to the human race myself any time soon. If I was willing to help you with Molly, you can imagine how much more willing I’ll be to help with your daughter.’ The words sounded odd. Baldur was a father. The whole thing would seem more real once she had seen the child. Then it would no longer be a faceless baby but a flesh-and-blood little girl. A girl called Saga. ‘You can rely on me, Baldur.’

  * * *

  The first creeping doubts began as she was driving with slow care up the desolate, icy road over the Threngsli Pass. The spell Baldur had cast didn’t even last as far as Hellisheidi. She had meant every word when she promised her support, but it wouldn’t be that simple. What about the child’s mother? Baldur had been reluctant to discuss her, which suggested there was no love lost there. That wasn’t a good sign. But even if all was sweetness and light between them, would she welcome interference from the father’s sister?

  The sky darkened as Freyja crossed the mountains. In the blizzard that followed, she was reduced to driving at a snail’s pace. She had promised to call Saga’s mother as soon as she got home. At least the hold-up delayed this excruciating task.

  Chapter 15

  Freyja zigzagged her way between the desks in the open-plan CID office, all the way to the far corner where Huldar sat. Several of the detectives glanced up; it wasn’t every day that a young woman dropped in. A few, recognising her from the case that had led to Huldar’s fall from grace, dropped their eyes again. Huldar could have sworn he saw a malicious smirk on some faces. He stood up and waved, glad for a chance to look at someone other than Gudlaugur, whose head was forever popping up to ask questions. Erla had ordered Gudlaugur to speak to a mother claiming that her children had been abducted by Father Christmas, and he was obviously dreading the conversation. He kept rehearsing his questions aloud and was driving Huldar up the wall. Freyja’s appearance was a welcome distraction.

  ‘Good that you could drop by.’ Huldar bestowed his widest smile on her and wished he had gone for that haircut he kept having to postpone. As always, Freyja looked well rested and neatly presented, unlike him. His broad grin shrank a little when he caught sight of Erla. She had been bending over someone’s desk but straightened up when she saw Freyja and stared at them both grimly. Huldar had managed to extract her permission to investigate a possible link between the time-capsule letter and the murder in the underground garage, but he had failed to add that he was planning to involve Freyja again. Erla had shown little interest when he drew her attention to Benedikt Toft’s participation in the first trial of Thröstur’s father, Jón Jónsson. Instead of being fired up with excitement as he had hoped, she had responded coolly that Iceland was a small country and connections turned up everywhere. It was the argument trotted out by politicians when they appointed friends and relatives to public office, and it was as infuriating when someone said it to your face as it was to read in the press.

  Erla hadn’t said a word about this possible lead at the progress meeting yesterday, merely listed the angles currently under investigation and those that had proved unproductive. He supposed he should count himself lucky that she had decided to allow him to pursue it, though she had only done so because the inquiry was still mired in darkness. It was obvious that Erla didn’t believe for a minute that it would provide any answers, and now that she had spotted Freyja, there was every chance that she would revoke her permission and give him the list of chainsaw owners to plough through instead.

  Ever since their first meeting a year ago, the two women had been at odds. At the time Huldar had suspected Erla of regarding Freyja as a rival for his affections. Although, for all Erla knew, nothing had happened between them, this didn’t seem to help; she remained stubborn in her dislike and Freyja clearly couldn’t stand her either. On second thought, their mutual antipathy probably had nothing to do with him; they were simply too different. He cursed himself for not having arranged to meet Freyja outside the office.

  ‘Shall we take a seat in the meeting room?’ Out of the corner of his eye, Huldar saw that Erla was showing signs of heading in their direction and it was all he could do not to drag Freyja away. Not that the meeting room would provide much of a refuge. It would be better to leave the building, but he couldn’t think of a convincing excuse off the top of his head. ‘It’s quieter there,’ he added lamely. He grabbed some papers from his desk and a pen that he only remembered too late had run out of ink. Never mind – he had to get them both to safety before Erla reached them. Freyja was clearly unimpressed when he almost shoved her down the shortest route between the desks to the smallest meeting room.

  Holding the door open, he hustled her
inside with the same haste. As he did so, he sneaked a glance over his shoulder and, much to his relief, saw Erla in the middle of the office, engrossed in a phone call. He closed the door behind him. ‘Sorry about that. Things are a bit hectic.’ Seeing that this apology had done nothing to mollify her, he added: ‘There’s been a fresh twist that’s really put the cat among the pigeons. As you know, I was ordered to drop my investigation into Thröstur’s letter since they thought it could wait. But the situation’s changed.’

  ‘What happened?’ Freyja chose a chair as far away from Huldar as possible. He would have preferred to sit closer to her but, seeing Erla through the glass wall, changed his mind.

  ‘It’s possible it’s linked to another case. Unlikely, but possible.’ Huldar brought her up to date with the murder in the garage and the link between the victim Benedikt Toft and Jón Jónsson, and also with the severed hands that had turned up in Benedikt’s hot tub. He asked her to keep it confidential, but that was only for form’s sake as the media had already got hold of the story. The coverage was lurid, as he’d guessed it would be, and no wonder. Freyja could hardly add anything to the existing stories and speculation in the press. ‘I was hoping you’d come with me to have another go at talking to Thröstur, and to his sister and mother as well this time. I’m also interested in talking to Jón Jónsson and would appreciate it if you were there to provide your psychological insights – is he likely to be violent on top of everything else? That sort of thing. It’s not impossible that he’s connected to the murder, or even that he’s the killer.’