The Reckoning

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  ‘Sorry about this morning. I’d like to have gone and fed the ducks with you.’

  Although the view out of the window was nothing to write home about, Freyja continued to stare out, as if fascinated. ‘No need to apologise. It made no difference to me whether you came or not.’ She did her best to sound like her normal self; she didn’t want him to think she was pissed off about losing him to Erla.

  ‘Maybe, but it made a difference to me. I’d like to have gone with you.’

  Freyja had only to draw back slightly to see herself and the corridor behind her reflected in the glass. Huldar was propped against the wall, arms folded, eyes closed. If she hadn’t just heard him speak, she’d have thought he was asleep. ‘Oh, well,’ she said and put her face to the glass again.

  ‘I’m going to quit drinking.’

  ‘Sounds a bit extreme.’ Her breath formed a round cloud on the glass, which rapidly shrank as it evaporated. ‘What’s happened to Thröstur? I thought he was supposed to be here straight after Sigrún? I need to get home.’ She didn’t actually have any plans but anything was better than hanging about here. Molly would be starving, regardless of the fact that Freyja had given her a good feed before she took Saga out. The thought of the dog conjured up the image of her sofa and suddenly she felt ready to drop.

  ‘Sigrún left earlier than expected. He should be here in ten, fifteen minutes at most.’ Huldar’s reflection had opened its eyes and was staring at her.

  Freyja permitted herself a quiet sigh. Did she really have to stand here listening to Huldar whining for ten whole minutes? ‘How long do you think the interview will take?’

  ‘Not long,’ he said unhelpfully. ‘I’m not expecting him to tell us anything useful.’ He sighed. ‘Kolbeinn’s wife rang from London to say she couldn’t get hold of her husband. He’s gone missing too. They’re going to search the house. I wish I could figure out how all this is connected.’

  ‘Then could I maybe slip off? Or will you report me again if I do?’ Still smarting from the dirty trick he had played on her, she couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.

  ‘You can’t leave now. And I didn’t report you. I rang the Children’s House because you wouldn’t speak to me. What else was I supposed to do?’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  Neither of them spoke. Huldar closed his eyes again and Freyja continued to gaze out of the window. The odd car passed down the street in a spray of slush. She decided to take a taxi home; she was in no mood to be soaked to the skin on her way to the bus stop.

  ‘Would you like an Ópal?’ The question was so absurd that Freyja turned her head. Huldar’s voice had sounded hopeful.

  ‘No, thanks.’ She was about to add a cutting remark but decided it was pointless. There was nothing to fight about. It was up to him what he did. It wasn’t as if they were in a relationship.

  ‘Can I apologise yet again?’ Huldar closed the Ópal packet.

  ‘Nothing to apologise for. It doesn’t matter to me.’ Her calm indifference seemed to have more effect on him than being angry or upset would have done. Perhaps he was more used to women being mad at him. He didn’t reply, merely returned the packet to his pocket and nodded. His fringe fell over his eyes and when he pushed it back, his face was sad. Freyja relented and was about to ask for an Ópal after all when, hearing footsteps, they both looked round. She was grateful for the interruption. There was Thröstur, accompanied by a police officer. Huldar stood up straight, dismissing the sadness from his face.

  He seemed almost his normal self as he greeted Thröstur, who acted as if he hadn’t seen his outstretched hand.

  Once again, Thröstur was clearly struggling to suppress his anger, to play the anarchist who couldn’t give a damn. His hair was combed into a Mohican that had developed a sideways droop on the way to the interview. He was inadequately dressed in a thin leather jacket and ripped jeans. On his feet he wore high lace-up boots, obviously made of fake leather, their long laces filthy from trailing on the ground. His eye sockets were painted black right down to his cheekbones. It wasn’t clear whether this was deliberate or whether his make-up had run. His skin was blotchy, his left nostril angry where the stud had been, and the ring through his septum had vanished as well. Perhaps his nose had gone septic. Without his facial piercings, Thröstur looked almost childishly vulnerable, in spite of the warpaint.

  ‘We’re in here.’ Huldar showed Thröstur into the interview room, automatically lifting a hand to place it on his shoulder, but the young man nimbly dodged it, as his sister had earlier.

  To start with, the interview was almost a repetition of Sigrún’s. Same questions, same answers. No and again no. He didn’t know anything, didn’t recognise any of the names they put to him. Freyja listened without speaking, waiting until her contribution was required. Thröstur was a completely different type from his sister: surly, his emotions hidden behind a thick layer of armour. For him to open up would be a miracle. The room was stuffy, the smell of the red Ópal liquorice that Huldar kept chewing the only thing that made it bearable.

  ‘Tell me about your grandfather. Were you close?’

  Thröstur sat further back from the table than Sigrún had done, lounging with his legs splayed and his arms folded. Again he reminded Freyja of a wild animal. He was spreading out to appear larger than he really was, in compensation for his puny frame. ‘Yes and no. He died years ago. What does it matter?’

  Huldar didn’t answer this. ‘I understand you don’t have a driving licence – at least you’re not on the register. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’ Thröstur loosened his arms. As he had sat as still as a statue up to now, Freyja guessed that the question had unnerved him, though why was unclear.

  ‘Your mother has a driving licence, though, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe. I dunno. She doesn’t own a car.’

  ‘No. She doesn’t own a car.’ Out of the corner of her eye, Freyja noticed Huldar smiling faintly. ‘But she rented one the other day. Were you aware of that?’

  Thröstur compressed his lips and folded his arms again. Freyja thought his hands were shaking and that he was trying to hide the fact. ‘No.’

  ‘So you can’t tell us why she did that? You see, we’ve spoken to lots of car-rental places and none of them have any record of renting a car to her before. So it must have been a special occasion. She was having a clear-out, maybe? It was an estate car, plenty of room if you put the back seats down.’

  ‘I dunno what she wanted it for.’

  ‘Really?’ Huldar paused. ‘I expect it’ll all become clear when we ask her about it later. Don’t you think?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. It’s got fuck-all to do with me.’

  ‘All right. Let’s leave it at that. Turning back to your grandfather. You were the last person to see him alive, weren’t you?’

  ‘I saw him the day he died, that’s right. But I have no idea if he saw anyone else after I left.’

  ‘You were selling him toilet rolls to raise money?’

  ‘Yeah. Something like that.’

  ‘Can you remember what you were raising it for?’

  ‘No. It was bloody ages ago. Something to do with school. I can’t remember what. A trip, maybe.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Huldar adopted an exaggerated air of surprise. ‘The thing is, we checked with your old school and they’ve had a rule for many years now that pupils aren’t allowed to fundraise. How strange. Would you like to reconsider your answer?’ Evidently, the police hadn’t been idle.

  ‘No. I told you, I don’t remember. It must have been for something else.’

  ‘Yes. Maybe.’ Huldar nodded slowly. Thröstur brazened it out as long as he could, before eventually giving in and dropping his gaze. ‘Your grandfather’s coffin was dug up from its grave in Hafnarfjördur Cemetery on Wednesday night. Did you have anything to do with that?’

  ‘No.’ Thröstur’s answer came too quickly. He showed no sign of surprise, though the incident
should have come as news to him.

  ‘It happened on the evening of the same day your mother rented the car.’ Since Thröstur said nothing, Huldar carried on. ‘You’re taking this news very calmly. I know I’d want to know more if it was my grandfather. Had you already heard about it?’

  Thröstur gave himself time to consider his answer. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘You’re strangely forgetful for such a young man.’ Huldar bored his eyes into Thröstur. ‘I get the distinct impression that you weren’t too fond of your grandfather.’

  Thröstur looked up, his face dark with rage. ‘Firstly, that man wasn’t my grandfather. He was stepfather to my so-called father. And last time I looked it wasn’t a crime not to like some bloke who wasn’t even family. Are you going to arrest me for that?’

  ‘No. If I arrest you, it’ll be for something much more serious.’ Huldar relaxed his clenched jaw a little. ‘But I can’t help wondering why you chose to go and see him when you were trying to sell that … what was it again?… oh yes, toilet paper … if you didn’t like the guy.’

  Thröstur rallied, recovering his former bravado. ‘Are you some kind of moron? Do you think salesmen have to like their customers? I got in touch with him because I knew he’d buy some off me. That’s all. Haven’t you pigs got anything better to do than investigate ancient sales of bog roll?’

  Freyja watched for Huldar’s reaction but he seemed unmoved by the insults. It was probably a daily occurrence for the police. When Huldar spoke again it was at a normal pitch, his voice calm. ‘Take it easy, boy.’

  ‘I’m not a boy.’

  ‘No? Then stop behaving like one.’

  Neither of them spoke for a moment. Freyja found herself thinking how unfair the situation was. Thröstur hadn’t been born bad, and if he was linked to these crimes, it was only because of what had happened to him. If he had had a normal childhood, he wouldn’t be sitting here now. She longed to get out of this claustrophobic room, to go home, flop on the battered sofa and watch a film with a bowl of popcorn on her lap. Preferably a film in which the bad guys got their comeuppance and their victims escaped unscathed.

  ‘Turning to the letter you put in the time capsule … You’ve had plenty of time now to remember the circumstances, so it would be interesting to hear what prompted you to write it and who the initials belong to.’

  Thröstur sat there like a statue, although his tightly clenched jaw suggested he was grinding his teeth, like Huldar earlier. ‘I’ve already told you, I don’t remember.’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ Huldar seemed far from amused. ‘Let me tell you what we think. We think BT stood for Benedikt Toft, K for Kolbeinn Ragnarsson and JJ for Jón Jónsson. Benedikt has been murdered, Kolbeinn’s gone missing and so has your father Jón. The matter’s looking a lot more serious than it did last time we spoke. I’m going to ask you to stop messing about and tell me who OV, S and I are. We need to get hold of them. Urgently.’

  Thröstur remained stubbornly mute and Freyja wondered what was going through his head. She didn’t for a minute believe that he couldn’t remember the letter; his reactions betrayed the fact that he had something to hide. But what? Looking at the painfully thin young man in his punk gear, she found it hard to believe he would be physically capable of murdering several people, though she knew violent individuals came in all shapes and sizes. It would make life easier if they looked the part. Her thoughts led her back to where she had started: children were not born bad; not Thröstur nor anyone else.

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘I don’t remember what I was thinking. It was ten years ago. Can you remember the school work you did ten years ago? What the fuck am I doing here?’

  ‘You’re here to be questioned in connection with a murder inquiry. You and your family are linked to the case in a variety of ways. Right now, you’re up shit creek without a paddle. And if you don’t start talking, you’ll be up to your neck in it. Do you hear what I’m saying?’

  ‘Are we done here? Can I go now?’ Thröstur directed his words at Freyja.

  ‘No, you can’t go and … no, we’re not done. Look at me when I’m talking to you.’ Huldar’s angry command had no effect. Thröstur kept his eyes trained on Freyja. She was forced to sit there and fake indifference to the young man’s mocking leer.

  Huldar tried again. ‘OK. Have it your way. Next time we meet you’ll most likely be under arrest. Forensics are busy examining the hire car as we speak. If they find anything to suggest that you, Benedikt, Kolbeinn or even just the coffin were ever inside it, no judge will deny us a detention order. For your mother too. And maybe your sister.’

  The twitching muscle in Thröstur’s cheek suggested that Huldar’s words had hit home.

  ‘This matter is no joke and if you persist in refusing to speak, we have no choice but to conclude that you’ve got something to hide.’ Huldar paused for a moment to glare at Thröstur, who was doing his utmost to feign nonchalance. ‘What can you tell me about those tattoos on your hands?’

  ‘Nothing. They’re none of your business.’

  ‘Ultio dulcis. Doesn’t that mean something like “Revenge is sweet”?’

  Thröstur shrugged. ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Of course you do. You have it before your eyes all day every day. Tell me, what revenge did you have in mind when you branded yourself for life with that motto? Does it have anything to do with the people whose initials you put in your letter?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  There was a knock at the door. Gudlaugur put his head round and asked for a word with Huldar. Freyja was left sitting there alone with Thröstur. If this was some kind of good cop–bad cop routine, they’d forgotten to inform her. Thröstur continued to stare into her eyes, deliberately trying to unnerve her. It worked. From the corridor the sound of voices went on and on. They sounded grave but that could be her imagination. She suspected that when Huldar came back in, the interview would be aborted. Either because they had found some evidence in the car and Thröstur was about to be led to the cells, or because they had nothing on him and he was free to go. This might be her last chance to ask the question she was dying to put to him.

  ‘Tell me something, Thröstur, now that we’re alone. Did your father abuse you or your sister when you were children? Before he attacked Vaka? If he did, there’s no reason to protect him. It might win you sympathy for anything you’ve done, depending on how serious it is. I work at the Children’s House, so I’m familiar with these cases; I know how difficult it is to discuss them.’

  Thröstur snorted with rage. ‘You stupid bitch.’ Gripping the tabletop, he loomed over her, bringing his face uncomfortably close. Freyja wished Huldar would come back. The room felt smaller than before, the door further away. What would she do if he attacked her? Put her hands over her head to ward off the blows? Freyja took a deep breath. No. She drew herself up and refused to be intimidated. If he attacked, she would fight back. They were a similar weight and she was almost certainly in better shape than him.

  ‘So you think I’m a stupid bitch. Could you answer the question, please?’

  ‘I’ll answer. The answer is no. Nothing happened to me, nothing happened to Sigrún. And you can shove that up your arse.’

  Freyja almost burst out laughing. She hadn’t heard that one since she was at school. Clearly there was no point continuing this line of questioning. ‘What about Sigrún’s missing fingers? We’ve been told that you’re to blame. Is that true?’

  ‘Jesus. You lot are so stupid. You don’t have a clue. Not a fucking clue. You stupid fucking cunts.’

  The door opened to admit Huldar, who informed Thröstur that he could go, but he was to remain in town as he would be called back for further questioning shortly. Thröstur jumped up and stormed out. He purposely banged his shoulder into Huldar whose face hardened, though he didn’t react in any other way. Just as well. Freyja had ha
d it up to here with the whole situation. There had been enough angry altercations for one day.

  ‘Something’s come up. I’ve been called out. We’ll talk to his mother tomorrow, but you’re free to go now.’

  Freyja walked out into the corridor, where she felt revived by the fresh air. She muttered goodbye. She had gone a few paces towards the lift when she heard Huldar call: ‘Sorry about this morning. It was out of order.’ She raised a hand and waved behind her, without looking back. It seemed he wasn’t going to give up. But as far as she was concerned it was over between them, before it had even started.

  As she stood waiting for a taxi outside the police station, her thoughts returned to Thröstur and Sigrún. She was forced to confront the possibility that she had been wrong. They had both denied it so categorically, as if offended or outraged by the question. Perhaps their father had never laid a finger on them and his assault on Vaka had been a one-off. Perhaps everything she’d thought she knew about the case was wrong. And – and this would be worse – perhaps the same was true of Huldar and the inquiry team: perhaps they were all barking up completely the wrong tree.

  The taxi drew up and Freyja climbed in, feeling more confused than she had for a very long time.

  Chapter 29

  Huldar was so shattered he was afraid that if he so much as let himself blink, he’d be out like a light. The dream of getting an early night, then waking at the crack of dawn and going to the gym for a workout was not to be. Sadly. He’d intended to put on a pair of boxing gloves and beat the hell out of the punch-bag in the basement, to find an outlet for all the pent-up frustration of the last few days and weeks. Frustration that was entirely directed against himself. But at this rate he’d be lucky if he got home at an even vaguely reasonable hour. And even luckier if he made it to the gym any time before the case was solved.