The Shadow District Read online

  ‘Was that how you usually did it?’ asked Konrád. ‘Chatted to people beforehand, then passed it on to the medium?’

  ‘There was no set way of doing it,’ said his father. ‘This particular psychic held a whole load of meetings at our place, and I was in charge of finding out a little bit about the sitters. The same people often came back again and again, so he got to know them himself. Like the father and son. They’d been twice before. But sometimes he didn’t know them at all and said he preferred to have some facts up his sleeve before he started − helped him warm up, he said.’

  Konrád’s father paused. ‘He should never have described those mittens like that,’ he continued eventually. ‘But the strange part was that the silly sod did actually sense a presence. He told me, when the fuss about that bloody seance was at its height, that he was sure he’d sensed the presence of their daughter, and another girl too, who was with her. He had the feeling she’d come to a bad end as well.’

  ‘There was another girl with her?’

  ‘That’s what he claimed.’

  ‘What happened to her? What sort of bad end?’

  ‘He didn’t say. Didn’t like to discuss it, any more than he did the other stuff that happened at that seance. After we’d been found out no one would listen to him any more.’

  ‘Didn’t he tell you anything about her?’

  ‘No. Except the bit about the cold. He said she’d been accompanied by this powerful feeling of cold. But listen, Konrád, he was a bloody amateur, this bloke, and most of what he came out with was stuff I’d fed him.’

  The story of the seance had remained etched in Konrád’s memory because it was the last conversation of the kind that he’d had with his father. One evening in mid February, Konrád had come home near midnight to see a police car parked in front of their basement flat and two officers hanging about outside. He wasn’t particularly surprised, as his father was certainly known to the police and whenever there was a burglary, or a bootlegger was busted, or a major smuggling ring was exposed, they would come round to question him, even haul him off to the station on Pósthússtræti. It was 1963. Konrád had recently dropped out of technical college where he had been training to be a printer and started drinking heavily. His father had never interfered much in his life, and he seldom heard from his mother who had moved with Beta to Seydisfjördur in the East Fjords. Konrád’s drinking companions were generally other layabouts on a fast track to the gutter, or else his father. Konrád took cash-in-hand jobs on building sites, shoplifted, broke into cars, and ran errands for his father for a minor share in the profits of whatever shady activity he was involved in at the time. In spite of this, Konrád had never been caught or had any kind of brush with the law.

  One of the officers approached him and asked if he lived in the building and knew the tenant in the basement. Konrád, who had learnt to be wary of the police, opened his mouth to trot out a lie but nothing came to mind. So he admitted that his father lived in the basement – they lived there together – and asked if it was him they were after.

  ‘No, we’re not looking for him,’ said the policeman. ‘Were you with him this evening?’

  ‘No,’ said Konrád. ‘Why are you asking?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘Any idea who he was going to meet?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ asked Konrád.

  ‘Had he fallen out with anyone recently? Was there anyone after him?’

  ‘After him? What are you on about?’

  ‘Your father’s dead, mate,’ said the other policeman. ‘Do you know if he was planning to break into the abattoir down on Skúlagata?’

  Konrád wasn’t sure he’d heard right. ‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘He was found lying in the alley by the abattoir,’ said the policeman. ‘Stabbed. Do you know what he was doing there?’

  ‘What are you talking about? Stabbed! Was he stabbed?’

  ‘Yes, stabbed to death.’

  Konrád gaped at the policemen. They had been sent to inform the dead man’s next of kin, but they knew his father well and saw no reason to be compassionate towards drunks and petty crooks. Just then a car drew up and yet another policeman climbed out. But this one wasn’t in uniform, and it soon became apparent that he was a detective.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Konrád shouted furiously, shoving at one of the officers. He would gladly have punched him but the man’s partner immediately grabbed Konrád, knocked him down in the road and got him in a stranglehold. Konrád flailed wildly and it took both officers to overpower him. When they had managed to subdue him, they raised him to his feet again.

  ‘Let him go,’ ordered the detective wearily. ‘Leave him be.’

  The two officers grumbled but eventually relinquished their grip on Konrád.

  ‘They’ve told you what happened?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you his son?’ asked the detective.

  ‘Yes. They said he was stabbed. What happened? Why …? Is he dead?’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t know what happened?’

  ‘Yes, I … I can’t believe it.’

  ‘You don’t know who attacked him?’

  ‘Attacked him? Me? No, I was in town. What the hell happened? Is … is he really dead?’

  The detective nodded. Speaking in a level tone and, unlike the other officers, without a trace of superiority, he explained that a passer-by had found Konrád’s father lying in a pool of blood near the gates of the abattoir on Skúlagata. He had been stabbed twice and left lying in the road. There were no witnesses and they didn’t know the identity of his killer. Konrád couldn’t tell them anything about his father’s movements. He didn’t know what business his old man could have had at the abattoir or down on Skúlagata, and hadn’t a clue who he’d gone to meet or who he could have run into there. His father had fallen out with countless people over the course of his life and had always kept questionable company. Konrád quickly realised that his death was bound to be viewed in that light.

  ‘My condolences, son,’ said the detective. ‘I’m sorry you had to find out like this. If there’s anything I can do for you, anything that bothers you, anything you want to know, whatever it is, please get in touch.’

  His father’s killer was never found. A comprehensive murder investigation was launched but eventually shelved due to lack of evidence. However, his father’s death did have a profound effect on Konrád: he eventually turned his back on his dead-end lifestyle, re-enrolled in technical college and finished his training as a printer. And, as fate would have it, some years later he joined the police and ended up a detective himself. From time to time his fellow officers would whisper about his father and once or twice even asked him outright about the case, but Konrád would bite their heads off. He never forgot, though, the kindness and consideration the detective had shown him in his hour of need.

  26

  The day after their trip to Hvalfjördur, Thorson and Flóvent met up again at the offices on Fríkirkjuvegur at noon. This time they were going to speak to the foreman of the road crew in Öxarfjördur. Flóvent had learnt his name from Vigga and after a few phone calls discovered that he had quit his job with the National Road Administration and started working instead for the Americans at Patterson Field in Sudurnes on the Reykjanes Peninsula.

  They headed south-west along the Sudurnes road. The day was overcast but the sun broke through the thick layer of cloud here and there to strike a glittering light from the surface of the sea. As they drove, Flóvent took the opportunity to educate Thorson about the wealth of folk beliefs that had survived for centuries among ordinary Icelanders, passed down from generation to generation during the long, dark winter nights, when every sound carried on the wind might herald a terrifying revenant with gaping wounds; when every knoll or outcrop of rock might house the huldufólk. When the landscape was populated with ogresses and trolls who turned to s
tone at sunrise, or creatures like the nykur, a horse with hooves facing backwards, which left a trail that vanished into cold lakes, or the tilberi, a fetch-like creature that suckled from teats on women’s thighs. Fantastical tales like these had grown out of man’s relationship with nature, out of the Icelanders’ arduous struggle for survival in a harsh environment, out of their fear of the winter darkness. All of which, when combined with a love of storytelling and a fertile imagination, gave rise to magical worlds that could seem as real to people as their own.

  ‘But that all belongs in the past, surely?’ said Thorson as they entered the airfield. ‘It sounds like something out of the grey mists of time.’

  ‘Yes, I expect the modern world’s sweeping it all away,’ said Flóvent. ‘Though a surprising number of people still believe in the huldufólk.’

  He parked behind a large hangar and turned his head to study Thorson. The Canadian had been quiet for most of the journey, his thoughts clearly miles away.

  ‘And it’s not just the huldufólk,’ Flóvent added, on reflection. ‘Many ordinary Icelanders still believe in all kinds of creatures and folk tales. The old beliefs run deep.’

  They were told where they could find the Icelandic foreman, Brandur, who was in charge of a small airstrip-maintenance crew. Patterson Field had been constructed two years earlier on the Njardvíkurfitjar wetlands in an area formerly known as Svidningar. Named after a young pilot who had died while serving in Iceland, Patterson Field was home to US fighter planes defending the south-western corner of the country. It was one of two airfields in the area. The other, Meeks Field, which catered for bombers and transport aircraft, was named after another young pilot who had lost his life off the Icelandic coast.

  When Flóvent and Thorson arrived, the crew were busy putting in new markers along the runway. Flóvent did the talking and asked to speak to the foreman.

  ‘What do you want with him?’ asked a man with a big paunch, a dirty flat cap and a cigarette clamped between stubby fingers. He was leaning against a green army truck, watching the men work. His manner was so brusque that Flóvent dropped any attempt to be polite.

  ‘Are you Brandur?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ The man took off his cap and scratched his bald head.

  ‘We’d like a word with you about your time in charge of a road crew in Öxarfjördur a few years ago. I’d like to talk somewhere we won’t be overheard.’

  The man looked them both up and down, taking in the civilian dress of the older man and the uniform and military police armband of the younger. The workers stopped what they were doing to stare at the new arrivals.

  ‘Öxarfjördur? What’s that about?’

  ‘Would you accompany us into the hangar?’ asked Flóvent. ‘Then we can explain in a more private setting.’

  Brandur hesitated, uncertain what was going on but now thoroughly intrigued. Eventually, after barking at his men to quit slacking and get back to work, he offered Flóvent and Thorson a lift in his truck. They clambered into the front seat and Brandur drove them the short stretch to the hangar. Once they were inside, Thorson positioned himself by the door to ensure they were left undisturbed in the small office. Brandur plonked himself down in the only chair. Flóvent, left standing, didn’t beat about the bush.

  ‘Do you remember the disappearance of a young girl from a farm in the Öxarfjördur area when you were working there with the road crew?’

  ‘You mean the one who threw herself into the waterfall?’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘That’s what some people thought.’

  ‘So you’re familiar with the case?’

  ‘I remember it well. A very sad business. It really shook people, as you can imagine.’ He fished a cigarette out of a packet of Camels with thick, yellow, smoker’s fingers. ‘But what’s it got to do with me?’

  ‘Were you acquainted with her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was anyone from your crew acquainted with her?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. Are you suggesting one of my crew bumped her off?’

  ‘Where did you get that idea?’

  ‘There were a lot of rumours doing the rounds.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘That she threw herself into Dettifoss because of a broken heart. That was one. Nobody knew what had become of her, so they had to fill in the gaps.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anyone killed her,’ said Flóvent. ‘Did any of your men talk about her in your hearing? Before or after her disappearance?’

  ‘Well, they were shocked and sad about it, as you’d expect, and I remember we joined the search party, but if you’re suggesting any of my men harmed her, I wouldn’t believe it. Not for a minute.’

  ‘So you didn’t hear any comments about her that struck you as strange or inappropriate? A bit off colour?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re driving at, mate,’ said Brandur, taking a drag on his Camel. ‘Have you found her? The girl?’

  Flóvent shook his head. ‘Do you remember hearing any talk about local superstitions?’ he continued. ‘About the huldufólk, for example?’

  ‘No,’ said the foreman, with an expression that showed he no longer understood where on earth Flóvent was going with this.

  ‘These men you’ve got working for you here on Patterson Field, were any of them up north with you?’

  ‘No, they’re all Sudurnes men. The crew up north were mostly locals.’

  ‘We’ve heard there were British troops in the area,’ chipped in Thorson.

  ‘Yes, they had a base at Kópasker,’ said Brandur. ‘Fine lads. Still wet behind the ears most of them – still reeling from finding themselves up there at the arse-end of nowhere.’

  ‘Were they involved with the local girls?’

  ‘I daresay. But I didn’t take any notice.’

  ‘Do you know if the girl in question was mixed up with them?’

  ‘No, you should talk to her family. Why are you asking me?’

  ‘Are you acquainted with her family?’

  ‘No. All I know is …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They were the salt of the earth,’ said Brandur. ‘Decent folk. It was terrible to see how badly they were hit by that business.’

  ‘Do you remember any visitors who happened to be passing through the area at the time?’ asked Flóvent. ‘There must have been plenty of summer guests on the farms.’

  ‘Yes, there was quite a bit of coming and going. We couldn’t help noticing because we were working on the roads.’

  ‘Anything that struck you as unusual?’

  ‘No … Unusual …?’

  Flóvent gave Thorson a glance as if to say they were wasting their time with Brandur.

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean by unusual,’ the foreman went on. ‘Of course there were a bunch of big shots hanging around there all summer, as always. War profiteers from Reykjavík, there for the salmon fishing. Another lot from Akureyri; the director of the Co-op, that lot who spend their time sucking the lifeblood out of the farmers – Co-op capitalists. Oh, yes. My mate Stalin would send those gentlemen packing in no time. And they had two or three MPs in their pockets.’

  ‘Co-op capitalists?’

  ‘Yeah, you know the type.’

  ‘And local MPs?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know where they came from, though I’m assuming it was from the north. You heard stories about them in the district – about all the drinking that went on in the fishing lodges. The kind of debauchery that the working man never gets to enjoy. No, we’re just expected to foot the bill.’

  ‘You didn’t harm the girl yourself?’ interrupted Thorson.

  ‘God, no!’

  ‘Are you interested in Icelandic folklore?’ asked Flóvent.

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Huldufólk? Elves? Are you interested in that kind of thing?’

  ‘Me? No. Not in the slightest. I’ve no time for bullshit like that.’

  ‘All right,’ said Flóven
t, catching Thorson’s eye. ‘I think that about wraps it up. We don’t want to keep you all day. Thank you for your time.’

  Brandur got up and they walked out with him. All the aircraft were out on reconnaissance and the place was quiet. Mechanics sat around, smoking and playing poker, and ignored them. A Glenn Miller number was playing on the radio.

  ‘Mind you, there was a lad in my crew who was crazy about that sort of stuff,’ said Brandur as he hauled himself into the truck.

  ‘What?’ asked Thorson.

  ‘Elves and so on. Pupil at Akureyri College he was – bookish type. A loner and a bit of an oddball. They used to tease him, the boys, called him the professor and so on, all pretty harmless. He was a hard worker, though. Couldn’t fault him on that.’

  ‘And he was interested in the huldufólk?’

  ‘Yes, in folk tales and all that. Reckoned he knew the whereabouts of some elf dwellings by the road. Bit peculiar like that, if you know what I mean, but totally harmless.’

  ‘Know where we can get hold of him?’ asked Flóvent.

  ‘If I remember right, he was heading south to study at the university,’ said Brandur. He started the engine with a load roar, shoved the truck into reverse, then slammed the driver’s door and leaned out of the open window. ‘But I’ve no idea what became of him.’

  27

  Stefán’s neighbour Birgitta gave Konrád a friendly welcome, apparently unsurprised to see him again. He took a seat on her sofa, and she asked how the investigation was going, whether the police were any closer to finding out what had happened to Stefán. He said he couldn’t really answer for the police as he was mainly looking into the case on his own account, given that it touched him personally, though only in a very remote way. She was immediately intrigued, so Konrád gave her a brief account of the Rósamunda affair, leaving out his father’s involvement and saying only that he was acquainted with Rósamunda’s parents. It appeared that the case had never been solved as there was no record of it in the police archives, though it was possible the US military might be sitting on some papers if the matter had been handled by them. Konrád knew Marta was planning to send a request for information to the American authorities.