The Shadow District Read online

  The restaurant, a Thai place situated in an industrial zone on the outskirts of Reykjavík, looked rather uninviting at first glance, its frontage more like a garage than an eatery. It was the kind of place Marta liked: cheap, with fast service, good food, and no danger of any yuppies wandering in off the street.

  When Marta had rung Konrád from the police station to ask if he felt like coming out for a meal, he had jumped at the chance. It was a while since he’d heard from her, and, besides, he had nothing better to do now that he was retired. Despite the age gap they had worked well together in CID, but since Konrád left their relationship had changed and lost its easy intimacy. Meeting up felt different somehow, as if they were no longer on the same team: Konrád had clocked off for good; Marta was still immersed in police work, her caseload heavier than ever.

  ‘Bit hot for you, is it?’ asked Konrád, watching the streams of sweat coursing down Marta’s cheeks.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. It’s good, and I’ve eaten hotter.’

  ‘I’m sure you have.’ Konrád let it drop. It was too easy to get a rise out of Marta. She could never let anyone get the better of her, never admit she was in the wrong; she always had to have the final word.

  ‘How are things with you?’ she asked.

  ‘Not bad. You?’

  ‘Surviving.’

  Marta finished her curry and mopped her face. She was on the plump side, with thick fingers, a large double chin and heavy eyelids that had a tendency to droop, especially after a big meal. Her hair was usually a mess and she wore an unvarying costume of baggy shirts and trousers. She didn’t see the point in tarting herself up – didn’t know who it would be for. She was known in the force, with typical irony, as Smart Marta. She had shacked up with a woman from the Westman Islands for a while, but the woman had eventually taken the boat home. Since then Marta had lived alone.

  ‘Heard from Svanhildur at all?’ Marta asked, picking her teeth, a habit that got on Konrád’s nerves, especially when she started sucking air through them and blowing it out with loud smacking sounds.

  ‘No,’ said Konrád. It was a while since he had caught up with his old friend from the National Hospital.

  ‘She’s just been on the phone to us about a man who was found dead in his flat. A pensioner who lived alone. We assumed he’d died in his sleep. His name was Stefán Thórdarson. Maybe you heard about it?’

  Konrád nodded. He recalled a report in the newspaper several days earlier. A pensioner had been found dead in his bed. He had lived by himself and appeared to have passed away alone and neglected. A neighbour had alerted the police after she hadn’t seen him for several days.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Doesn’t Svanhildur keep you posted on the interesting stuff?’

  ‘I don’t know where people get that idea.’

  ‘Well, she discovered something that had completely escaped the doctor we called to the scene.’

  ‘Not much gets by her,’ said Konrád.

  ‘She thinks this Stefán was smothered. With his own pillow, probably.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She reckons he was murdered.’

  ‘Why, for Christ’s sake? He was ancient, wasn’t he?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ countered Marta. ‘Why was he murdered or why does Svanhildur think he was?’

  She regarded Konrád with heavy-lidded, sated eyes, jabbing at her teeth with the toothpick. Konrád smiled, regretting that he had passed up the chance to needle her earlier.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Let’s start with the first question: why was he murdered?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘Then what makes Svanhildur think he was murdered?’

  ‘Traces in his throat and upper respiratory tract,’ recited Marta. ‘Tiny broken blood vessels in his eyes. The usual.’

  ‘What sort of traces? Fibres from his pillow?’

  ‘Yeah. Svanhildur says someone must have held the pillow over his face until he breathed his last. Quite literally. He wasn’t capable of putting up much of a fight. The poor old boy was over ninety, after all. It would have been over in no time, but even so those telltale fibres remained.’

  ‘That old, was he?’

  ‘Yes, it wouldn’t have taken much to smother him. The officers who found the body didn’t suspect a thing. There were two pillows, one under his head, the other beside it. He … It looked like he’d died in his sleep.’

  ‘In other words, someone wanted it to look like that. Like he’d died of old age?’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘And it had you lot fooled?’ Konrád couldn’t resist a little dig. ‘Were you there?’

  Marta sucked her teeth. ‘The medic who was called in to examine him didn’t notice anything suspicious. And we’re not doctors – it wasn’t our job to go poking around in his throat.’

  ‘So what made Svanhildur check?’

  ‘Why don’t you talk to her?’

  ‘Maybe I will.’

  ‘You do that.’

  ‘Who was he? Anyone you know?’

  ‘You mean was he an old friend of the police? No, he wasn’t. He lived alone, like I said. Not a single brush with the law, at least not in the last twenty years. We still haven’t managed to track down anyone who knew him, apart from the woman next door.’

  ‘No friends or family?’

  ‘None that we know of. Not yet. No one’s laid claim to him. Though maybe that’ll change now. The news’ll break online this evening. It’ll be in the papers by morning. We’ll see if that has any effect.’

  ‘Was it a burglary? Any sign of a forced entry?’

  ‘None. We’ve carried out a thorough investigation of the flat. Forensics have been there all day.’

  ‘So he knew the guy who did it? Opened the door to him? Invited him in?’

  ‘I thought you’d retired?’

  ‘I have,’ said Konrád. ‘Thank God.’

  4

  When Konrád got home that evening he put on a record of Icelandic pop hits from the sixties, uncorked a bottle of red wine – Dead Arm, a favourite of his – and sat down at the kitchen table. The window faced west and the room was bathed in a soft pink glow. He loved to listen to golden oldies, knew all the lyrics by heart. They would run through his head at odd moments, reawakening memories warm with nostalgia. He had only to hear Ingimar Eydal’s band playing the opening bars of ‘Spring in Vaglaskógur’ for his mind to fly back to the summer of 1966 when he had first heard the song.

  His reverie was interrupted by the ringing of the phone in the sitting room and he got up to answer the call. It was past 11 p.m., so it could only be Marta. She would pick up the phone at any hour of the day or night for the most trivial of excuses. Often just for a chat. She’d been lonely since her girlfriend moved back to the Westman Islands.

  ‘Were you asleep?’ asked Marta, not sounding in the least concerned.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘Nothing. Any developments in the dead pensioner case?’

  ‘We’ve finished searching his flat.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We didn’t find much. He lived alone and we still haven’t established whether he had any living relatives. There were no family photos on the walls, no albums. Though he did keep a photo of a young man in a drawer by his bed. He had a few books, but apart from that hardly any personal possessions. The only items of interest were some old newspaper cuttings he must have hung on to for years.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. Not that there’s much to be gained from them. I don’t remember ever hearing about the case.’

  ‘The case?’

  ‘The one in the cuttings. There are three of them, probably from the same paper, but they’re not dated or anything. There’s no indication that the case was ever solved or taken over by the Americans. The last article says the investigation’s ongoing but the police are reporting little progress.’

  ‘What are y
ou talking about? The Americans?’

  ‘I’m talking about a murder inquiry,’ said Marta. ‘During the Second World War. A girl found strangled behind the National Theatre in 1944. Wasn’t that the year you were born?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The case seems to have sunk without trace. I can’t find any record of it in the police files. We had to track it down in the newspaper archives.’

  ‘The body of a girl, found behind the National Theatre?’

  ‘Yes. What?’

  ‘Nothing …’

  ‘Does it ring a bell?’

  Konrád hesitated. ‘No, I don’t know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Why are you being so mysterious?’

  ‘I’m just sleepy,’ said Konrád distractedly. ‘It’s rude to ring people this late. Let’s talk tomorrow.’

  He said goodbye, drained his glass and got ready for bed. But sleep eluded him. Thoughts about his father and the dead girl behind the theatre kept him awake into the early hours. Although he had been reluctant to share the fact with Marta, he was actually familiar with the case because of his father’s rather bizarre connection to it. Konrád didn’t much like talking about his dad, who had at one time dabbled in spiritualism, in partnership with a variety of psychics whose reputations didn’t bear close scrutiny. A few months after her death, the murdered girl’s parents had contacted one of these mediums and asked him to hold a seance for them. Konrád’s father had assisted. What happened at the seance had subsequently ended up in the papers.

  Konrád stroked his left arm absently, wondering whether he should pay Marta a visit or let sleeping dogs lie. He had been born with a slightly withered limb, a defect that seldom bothered him; after all, no one would really notice that his left arm and hand were weaker than his right. Unable to get comfortable, he went on tossing and turning until somewhere in the no-man’s-land between waking and dreaming the notes of ‘Spring in Vaglaskógur’ stole into his mind and he drifted off to sleep at last, accompanied by a fair memory of yellow sand at Nauthólsvík Cove, children playing by the water’s edge, and a flower-scented kiss.

  5

  She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard someone knocking at the front door. It was late and she instinctively knew it must be the police, and that they had come for her.

  She and Frank had fled over Arnarhóll in the teeth of a vicious north wind, down onto Kalkofnsvegur, and from there had walked towards Lækjargata and the centre of town, trying to act as if nothing had happened. In her mind’s eye she could still see the girl lying in the doorway behind the theatre, and knew she would never be able to wipe the image from her mind. She couldn’t understand Frank’s reaction, their idiotic flight from the scene. His decision to run had been spontaneous; she had wanted to fetch the police. When they finally slowed down he had tried to communicate his reasons. It was none of their business. The girl was dead. They couldn’t help her now. Someone else was bound to find her soon and then the problem would go away.

  People were scurrying out of the icy wind into cinemas, into cafes or off to visit friends. Jeeps full of troops roared past along Lækjargata and up Bankastræti. Frank thought they had better split up right away. They could meet again in a few days’ time, in their usual spot behind the cathedral. By then the fuss should have died down. He kissed her goodbye and she hurried home through the centre of town.

  Although she knew it was wrong of them to run off and leave the girl like that, part of her was relieved. Perhaps Frank had done the sensible thing after all. She didn’t relish the thought of having to explain to the police, or anyone else for that matter, just what she had been doing with him behind the theatre, why she had been sneaking off into dark corners with a GI. If the news ever got back to her father he would go berserk.

  There was another round of knocking on the door downstairs, more insistent this time. Her parents had retired for the night and her two younger brothers were asleep. She had slipped into the house and up to her room as unobtrusively as possible, changed into her nightdress and climbed into bed, but sleep wouldn’t come. She had tried to read a romance but couldn’t tear her thoughts away from the dead girl and Frank.

  Damn her, she caught herself thinking, as if it were all the poor girl’s fault.

  She heard her father moving about, then every step creaking as he went downstairs. She slid out of bed and pressed her ear to her bedroom door. Perhaps it wasn’t the police after all. Perhaps it was somebody else.

  No such luck. Hearing her father call her name, she shrank back and retreated across her room.

  ‘Ingiborg!’ she heard him shout again. Then a third time, his impatience growing.

  Her door opened and her mother poked her head in.

  ‘Your father’s calling you, dear,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you hear him? The police want to talk to you. What on earth have you been up to?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, aware how miserably unconvincing it sounded.

  ‘Downstairs with you this minute,’ snapped her mother. ‘Come along. On the double. Goodness, what a to-do!’

  She followed her mother out onto the landing and down the first few steps until she could see two men standing in the hall with her father, their faces turned expectantly towards the staircase.

  ‘There you are,’ said her father in an agitated voice. ‘These gentlemen are from the police.’ He turned to one of them. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’

  ‘Flóvent, sir,’ replied the man. ‘And this is Thorson,’ he added, indicating his companion. ‘He’s here on behalf of the American military police, though strictly speaking he’s Canadian Army. I daresay his Icelandic is better than mine.’

  ‘I’m Canadian. From Manitoba,’ explained Thorson. ‘My parents emigrated from Iceland.’

  Neither man was in uniform. The Icelandic policeman, who looked to be in his thirties, was tall, thin and wiry. Thorson, shorter and stockier, was about ten years his junior. They were both wearing heavy winter coats but had removed their hats when they entered the house.

  ‘Ah, yes, Manitoba,’ said her father. ‘You don’t say?’ Then he rounded angrily on his daughter. ‘They want to talk to you, Ingiborg, about an incident that took place behind the National Theatre. They won’t tell me what it’s about – they insist on speaking to you first. I want to know what happened. What in God’s name were you doing there?’

  She hardly dared look at her father, let alone answer him. The policemen apparently sensed her discomfort.

  ‘If it’s all the same to you, sir,’ said Flóvent, ‘we’d appreciate a word with your daughter in private.’

  ‘In private?’ barked her father. ‘Why is that necessary?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, sir. We can discuss it with you afterwards, if you’d like, together with the young lady.’

  ‘What is the meaning of this, Ingiborg? Why won’t you answer me?’ Her father raised his voice. ‘Would you mind explaining to me why a representative of the American military police is standing in my hall? Surely, you’re not still carrying on with that soldier? Didn’t I expressly forbid it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted timidly, not knowing how else to answer.

  ‘Yet you’re still seeing him? In spite of …!’

  For a moment it looked as though he was going to reach up and drag her the rest of the way down the stairs.

  ‘Calm down, Ísleifur,’ said his wife sharply from where she was standing beside their daughter. ‘I’d rather you didn’t speak like that in front of visitors.’

  Her husband got hold of himself. He shot a look at his wife, then at the two policemen who were still standing there holding their hats, growing uncomfortably hot in their thick winter coats. It had been snowing outside and their shoulders were beaded with moisture.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said.

  ‘That’s quite all right, sir,’ said Thorson. ‘It’s never pleasant receiving a visit late at night like this. Especial
ly not from the police.’

  ‘I’ve strictly forbidden her to fraternise with soldiers but it seems she’s determined to disobey me. Doesn’t listen to a word I say. Her mother encourages it – this wilfulness.’

  ‘If we might … if you would show us to a quiet place where we could have a word with Ingiborg, sir, we’d be very grateful,’ said Flóvent. ‘I assure you it won’t take long. And please excuse us again for disturbing you at such a late hour. We felt it couldn’t wait until morning.’

  ‘You can use the drawing room,’ said the girl’s mother, coming down the stairs with Ingiborg following on her heels. She cast fearful glances at her father. The last thing she wanted was to anger him; in spite of everything she respected him. She knew she had put him in an awkward position by stubbornly persisting in meeting Frank, and now there were two policemen in their house and it was all her fault.

  Her mother showed the men into the drawing room and pushed Ingiborg in after them. Ísleifur made to follow but she stopped him.

  ‘We can talk to them afterwards,’ she said firmly, closing the door.

  ‘And her,’ said her husband grimly. ‘She’ll have to answer for her actions, the silly little slut.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ said his wife, now angry herself. ‘I won’t let you talk about our daughter like that.’

  ‘But it’s intolerable,’ her husband snapped at her. ‘Don’t you understand? The girl’s up to her neck in the Situation! The police here in our house! How could she do this to me? What do you think people will say? You know there’ll be gossip. I have to think of my reputation. Do you have any idea what that means for a man in my position? It doesn’t even cross your mind, does it? My reputation?’

  6

  Gratefully, they removed their heavy coats and hung them over the back of a chair in the drawing room. Having waited politely for Ingiborg to take a seat, Flóvent sat down himself, but Thorson remained standing behind him. The notification had reached Flóvent almost two hours earlier: a woman passing through the area known as the Shadow District had come across the body of a young woman behind the National Theatre building. On learning that the witness had seen two figures hurrying away from the scene in the direction of Arnarhóll, one of them unmistakably an American serviceman, Flóvent had put out a call for Thorson. The two men had worked together on other cases that fell within the jurisdictions of both the Icelandic police and the US Military Police Corps.