The Shadow District Page 12

  When she reached the bridge spanning the rivers, she sat down briefly on a rock to catch her breath. She had a bad taste in her mouth. How did he know about the woman on the hill? Had he sent another girl there before her? Did the soldiers know about her for obvious reasons? Was she herself really going to follow his advice? Advice from Frank, of all people! Could she really stoop that low?’

  She stood up and forced herself to go on, her reluctance growing with every step as she struggled up the final stretch to the farmhouse. The concrete building had an air of neglect: flaking patches of paint here and there bore witness to the fact that it had once been whitewashed. Adjoining the main house, and enclosed by a chicken run, was a tumbledown disused cowshed with a turf roof. Hens wandered in and out under the watchful eye of an alert cockerel. Two children, playing on the grassy roof, paused and subjected Ingiborg to a silent stare. It was a mild, windless day and there was a beautiful view north to the snow-covered form of Mount Esja.

  Avoiding the children’s gaze, Ingiborg knocked at the door. It was opened a crack by a woman in her forties.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Ingiborg began.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked the woman.

  ‘I was told I should talk to you, ma’am.’

  ‘“Ma’am?” Well, aren’t you posh? I don’t call anyone “ma’am” and you shouldn’t either.’

  ‘No, sorry … I … don’t know how to put it … I was told you could help women like … in my position.’

  The woman studied her through the narrow gap.

  ‘Gone and got yourself knocked up, have you?’

  She asked the question bluntly, but without any trace of accusation or disapproval, and before Ingiborg knew it she was nodding and confessing to this unknown woman both her fall from grace and the crime she had come here to commit.

  ‘How did you find me?’ asked the woman.

  ‘I was referred by someone.’

  ‘Yes, I expect you were. Who by? Who told you about me? Your parents? It can hardly have been a doctor. Your gentleman friend, maybe?’

  Ingiborg nodded.

  ‘Soldier, is he?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘Come in, then.’ The woman opened the door wider. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’

  The woman ushered Ingiborg into her kitchen and asked if she wanted anything to drink. Ingiborg shook her head. The kitchen was primitive and very cramped, with a larder off to one side. The woman had been rinsing eggs in the sink and packing them into boxes.

  ‘How far along are you?’ she asked. She was short and wore her hair in a bun. What drew Ingiborg’s attention most were her hands, which were unusually large. Arthritis had twisted the little fingers and ring fingers into her palms, rendering them almost useless. The long, dirty nails resembled talons. Ingiborg averted her eyes.

  ‘I don’t know, not exactly.’

  ‘More than twelve weeks, you reckon?’

  ‘No, not that long. More like eight or nine.’

  ‘I see,’ said the woman, turning to her and drying her hands. ‘That’s all right, then.’

  Ingiborg didn’t move.

  ‘No need to look so terrified,’ said the woman. ‘It’s a very simple operation. I know what I’m doing.’

  Ingiborg found herself staring at the woman’s fingers again and wishing that she had never entered this house.

  ‘I … I didn’t know what you charge for … how much money I should bring.’

  ‘Does it look like I do this for the money?’ asked the woman, glancing around her humble kitchen.

  ‘No. I don’t know.’

  The woman studied her for a while. ‘Maybe you need more time to think.’

  Ingiborg nodded. ‘I think I’m making a mistake.’

  ‘It’s up to you. You shouldn’t be here unless you’re sure this is what you want to do. You can’t allow yourself any doubts. There was a girl here a while ago who was like you, scared out of her wits, with the oddest excuse for her condition, though I’ve heard worse.’

  ‘Excuse?’

  ‘Claimed she was a respectable seamstress. That she didn’t know any soldiers. She was hardly in her right mind after I’d dealt with her – kept rambling on about some bastard who’d forced himself on her; apparently he said some strange stuff about the huldufólk.’

  Ingiborg struggled to keep her gaze from straying back to those hands with their twisted fingers.

  ‘You should go home,’ said the woman, resuming her washing of the eggs. ‘Go home and think about it, and if you want you can come back and we’ll see what I can do for you. You’ve still got a bit of time on your side.’

  Ingiborg fell silent. Neither of them spoke for a while as she lost herself in her memories of the concrete farmhouse on the hill and the woman with the twisted fingers.

  ‘Did you go back?’ asked Konrád, finally venturing to break the silence.

  ‘No, I didn’t, and I never saw the woman again. My parents found out once I began to show, and I had to confess to having sinned with Frank. They banished me to the countryside. I had the child, but it was taken away for adoption. Where, I don’t know. I never asked.’

  ‘You must have had some say in the matter?’

  ‘I agreed to it. I let them decide. Let them push me around instead of doing what I wanted. The worst part was that I didn’t know what I wanted. I couldn’t make up my own mind. Somehow it was easier to let other people take over, hope that it would all fade over time. Perhaps it was even worse than an abortion. I don’t know. I’ve tried not to think about it. My father insisted, and I obeyed. I had no choice. But at least the woman in the farmhouse was honest. The alternative has involved living a lie for the rest of my life. My husband never knew. My son still doesn’t. I hope I can trust you to keep it to yourself?’

  ‘That goes without saying,’ said Konrád. ‘But your story’s hardly unique.’

  ‘No, naturally I wasn’t the only one.’

  ‘Did you ever see Frank again?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘What did that woman mean about the huldufólk?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. But Thorson happened to mention to me that Rósamunda had worked as a seamstress and made beautiful dresses, so I put two and two together. I thought I’d better let him know and rang him. It turned out that the police were already aware she’d had an abortion but didn’t know who’d performed it.’

  ‘Was it the same woman?’

  ‘I expect so,’ said Ingiborg. ‘Though I never heard any more about it.’

  23

  The army jeep made easy work of the rough track leading up to the concrete farmhouse among the small hills east of the Ellidaár. Flóvent noticed that their jolting progress up the slope was being observed from a window by two inquisitive faces which vanished the moment the men stepped out of the car.

  On the way there he had recounted the details of his visit to Vigga. Thorson was astonished to hear that there was another girl, in a distant part of the country, who might also have been raped and, like Rósamunda, had mentioned the hidden people.

  ‘Is that even possible?’ was Thorson’s first response.

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘There are two cases? Related cases in two different parts of the country?’

  ‘It’s conceivable,’ said Flóvent. ‘It’s hard to avoid the conclusion that the same man could have attacked them both.’

  ‘The link being the reference to the elves?’

  ‘Yes. Rósamunda learnt from Vigga that she wasn’t necessarily the man’s only victim. Clearly, their attacker wanted them both to give the same explanation.’

  ‘And one is taken in by it and confides in her sister, while the other thinks it’s totally crazy?’

  ‘But it has the same upshot,’ Flóvent pointed out. ‘Neither one of them reported him. Neither would say who her rapist was. Either they were protecting him or they were afraid to expose him.’

  ‘Why?’

&nb
sp; ‘For various reasons the girl up north was more receptive to the lie. She believed in the huldufólk. Had heard tales of people’s dealings with them. No doubt she was familiar with the folk tales in books and genuinely believed some of them. Maybe even swallowed the lot.’

  ‘Still, we can’t rule out coincidence,’ said Thorson.

  ‘No, of course we can’t rule anything out,’ conceded Flóvent, ‘though I find it highly unlikely. And we do know one thing we didn’t know before.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We’re looking for an Icelander. I can’t imagine the foreign soldiers here know the first thing about the elves.’

  The woman opened the door before they had a chance to knock and looked them both up and down.

  ‘And who are you fine gentlemen?’

  ‘We’re from the police,’ said Flóvent.

  ‘The police? That’s all we need. What do you want with me?’

  ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions about a girl who came to you for help,’ said Flóvent. He added tactfully, mindful of the two children he’d seen in the window: ‘We gather you provide certain services behind closed doors.’

  ‘Services? What are you on about? I sell eggs sometimes. That’s no crime.’

  ‘That’s not what we’re talking about,’ said Flóvent. ‘I believe you know what I mean. As it happens, we’re not here about that. Though you can expect a visit from our colleagues shortly. What we’re interested in is a young woman who came to see you recently, seeking your help.’

  ‘A young woman? That’s not much to go on.’

  ‘You talked about the huldufólk,’ said Thorson.

  ‘Remember her?’ asked Flóvent.

  The woman stared at him. ‘Did she come crying to you, telling tales?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not with you,’ said Flóvent.

  ‘That other one. She chickened out. It was her who reported me, wasn’t it? Snooty little madam. Brittle as a china doll. Was it her?’ The woman stepped out over the threshold, pulling the door carefully shut behind her. ‘I’m not a bit ashamed of what I do,’ she went on. ‘You bloody men don’t have to worry about a thing. You leave all that to the women. So what if I help those poor girls? I haven’t hurt anybody, let me tell you. I’ve –’

  ‘As my colleague said, we’re not concerned with that side of things,’ Thorson interrupted, noticing the fingers curled, clawlike, into her palms as Ingiborg had described. ‘You’ll have to explain to someone else what kind of charity it is you run here. What can you tell us about the first girl? Did she give you her name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or tell you what she did for a living?’

  ‘She said she worked as a seamstress, not that I asked.’

  ‘Is this her?’ asked Flóvent, showing her the photograph of Rósamunda.

  The woman examined the picture. ‘Yes, that’s her.’

  ‘Did you know she was found murdered behind the National Theatre a few days ago?’

  ‘Murdered? No. I hadn’t heard. Well, I knew a young woman had been found … Was that her?’

  ‘Did she tell you who the father was?’ asked Thorson.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you get any feeling about who it might have been?’

  ‘How do you mean “feeling”? I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.’

  ‘Well, whether it could have been a soldier, for example,’ said Thorson.

  ‘No, I don’t know. Was it a soldier who killed her?’

  ‘We’re aware that soldiers have referred women to you,’ said Flóvent, ignoring this.

  ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘You said she’d babbled on about the hidden people,’ said Thorson. ‘What did she mean?’

  ‘The poor girl, she was desperate when she came here. Could hardly get a word of sense out of her. All she wanted was to get rid of … for me to help her with her problem. She wouldn’t hear of anything else. Couldn’t bear the thought of having the child. Couldn’t bear it.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Flóvent.

  ‘She claimed it wasn’t her fault …’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I took it that she’d been raped rather than done it willingly …’

  ‘But she never said who the man was?’

  ‘No, but it sounded like he wanted her to blame it on the huldufólk or something. She couldn’t stop crying and saying sorry, swearing it wasn’t her fault, that she wasn’t responsible and couldn’t stand the thought of having the baby. My heart went out to the poor girl. Someone had attacked her all right, but it was a man who did it. Forget any talk about elves. You can bet your life he was all too human.’

  The US Navy had made major improvements to the road between Reykjavík and Hvalfjördur when they began to store fuel oil on the northern shore of the fjord. As the war went on, more and more warships and cargo vessels docked there, and the naval base now sprawled across the neighbouring ports of Midsandur and Litlisandur. Huts for the workers and huge fuel tanks had sprung up, along with depots providing supplies for naval repairs. A horde of Icelanders worked in the area, including two of Rósamunda’s brothers.

  Flóvent and Thorson headed straight up to Hvalfjördur after their visit to the farmhouse on the hill. It was a beautiful, cloudless February day, but cold, and they drove carefully because the road was icy in patches and difficult to negotiate. Thorson had brought chains in case they got stuck in one of the snowdrifts that often blocked the road.

  As they travelled along the shores of the fjord, Flóvent pointed out places of interest and three times they stopped for Thorson to hop out and examine the bridges they encountered, all of which were only wide enough for one vehicle and consisted of concrete supports with a wooden roadway. The young man clambered around in the snow in his uniform, tapping concrete piles, bouncing on timber decks and jotting down observations in a small notebook. Although Flóvent was becoming frustrated by their slow progress, he held his tongue.

  ‘Just above here is Glymur, the highest waterfall in the country,’ he commented as they stood by the bridge over the River Botnsá at the head of the fjord. ‘You ought to walk up there sometime. It’s a pleasant hike – easy, not too far.’

  ‘How come some Icelanders don’t want to break with Denmark?’ asked Thorson suddenly, as he leant over the rail. ‘Isn’t it about time?’

  ‘I think everyone wants independence really,’ said Flóvent. ‘But some feel the timing’s not right. The Danes are vulnerable because they’ve got their hands full with Hitler, so there are those who think we should postpone our declaration. They don’t want to offend the King.’

  ‘Does his opinion still matter to people here?’

  ‘Not to me,’ said Flóvent.

  Thorson was aware that the inauguration of the republic that summer would mark the end of almost six hundred years of Danish rule. The struggle for independence in the last century and the start of this one had reduced Denmark’s influence in Iceland, but the two nations had to be formally separated before the process could be completed. The Republic of Iceland was to be established at the ancient assembly site of Thingvellir on 17 June, the anniversary of the independence hero Jón Sigurdsson’s birth.

  ‘What’s worse,’ said Flóvent, once they were seated in the jeep again, ‘is the talk of the American army staying on once the war’s over.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be a good thing?’ asked Thorson. ‘Don’t you need military protection? It’s not like you have an army of your own.’

  ‘What we need is neutrality,’ said Flóvent, as they set off again. ‘We’ve no business having an army.’

  ‘Is neutrality really feasible? I mean, would you want to be neutral in this war?’

  ‘Others have managed it.’

  ‘Are you saying you’re just swapping the Danes for the Americans?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know. These are strange times.’

  They were stopped at a checkpoint when they
reached the military zone, but were waved through after Thorson flashed his police badge. Rósamunda’s brothers both worked at the depots and Thorson had phoned ahead to request the assistance of the officer in charge, one Colonel Stone. The colonel had spoken in turn to the man in charge of the Icelandic contractors who had passed on the message to his men. When Flóvent and Thorson arrived, the brothers were waiting for them in the overseer’s office. British and American destroyers lay at anchor in the fjord and a large oil tanker was taking on fuel to supply the fleet out at sea. Dense ranks of Quonset huts, with their curved green roofs and pairs of windows at each end, ran up the slopes from the shore, housing dormitories, offices and stores, while the giant oil tanks loomed over them all.

  The brothers were both in their early twenties, one dark, the other red-haired, both lean, though one was appreciably stockier. His name was Jakob, he was the more self-assured of the two and did the talking. Egill was a bit younger and had little to say for himself, seeming shy and withdrawn in his brother’s presence. Both were dressed in khaki trousers, black military boots and hand-knitted lopapeysur instead of jackets. All they had been told was that the police wanted to talk to them about their sister.

  ‘Are we under arrest?’ asked Jakob.

  ‘No,’ said Flóvent. ‘Of course not. Is that what you were told?’

  ‘That’s what everyone will assume,’ said Jakob.

  ‘We just wanted some information from you. That’s all.’

  ‘Should we talk to them individually?’ Thorson asked Flóvent.

  ‘Why?’ asked Jakob immediately.

  ‘We can start with you,’ said Flóvent. ‘If you’d wait outside, Egill, thank you.’

  Egill looked at his brother, who gave him a sign to do as he was told. Once he had left the room, they sat down and Jakob pulled out a packet of American cigarettes and offered them round. They declined. He lit up with a new American Zippo lighter, flipping back the lid with a loud snap.

  ‘Did your family up north have a good relationship with Rósamunda?’ asked Flóvent. ‘Did you stay in touch with her while you were growing up?’