The Shadow District Read online

‘All right,’ said Marta. ‘Could you send us a short report? We’ll take a look at it.’

  The phone on her desk was ringing and the instant she picked it up, her mobile chimed in.

  ‘My report-writing days are over,’ said Konrád curtly. ‘You know where to find me.’

  He left.

  Afterwards, wondering if he could glean any more information from Vigga, he paid another visit to her nursing home. The corridors were alive with residents on the move, many of them inching along on Zimmer frames; they were overtaken by members of staff dashing to and fro with trays and bowls. The air was filled with music from a radio. Vigga was lying in her usual spot, oblivious to it all. Reluctant to disturb her, Konrád took a seat beside her bed. The carer he consulted had told him she never received any visits, so people had been surprised when an elderly gentleman had come to sit with her a couple of weeks ago, and now Konrád had turned up twice.

  He had been sitting there for twenty minutes or so, flipping through an unbelievably tedious lifestyle magazine, when he heard the old woman stirring. He put down the magazine. Vigga opened her eyes and looked at him.

  ‘Vigga?’ said Konrád.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked weakly.

  ‘My name’s Konrád. I came to see you the other day.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Do you remember?’

  Vigga shook her head. ‘Who are you?’ she asked again.

  ‘My name’s Konrád. Naturally you won’t remember me, but I used to live near you in the old days.’

  Vigga showed no sign of recognising him, either from the past or from his recent visit.

  ‘I came to see you the other day to ask about a visitor you had, a man called Stefán. He was stationed here during the war and went by the name of Thorson; he was in the military police. Do you remember his visit at all? Do you recall talking to him?’

  ‘Do I know you, Mr –?’ asked Vigga, suddenly turning formal.

  ‘No, I doubt you’d remember me – it was too long ago. This Thorson wanted to know if you could help him with a case he was investigating during the war – a young woman found strangled behind the National Theatre. When I came to see you recently, you mentioned another –’

  ‘Are you from the management?’

  ‘No, I’m just visiting,’ said Konrád. ‘I don’t know if you talked to Thorson at all, but you told me about another girl, a girl who’d vanished. They never found her bones, you said, and you mentioned the huldufólk.’

  ‘She was attacked by one of the huldufólk.’ With difficulty, Vigga raised herself up from her pillow, her eyes resting on Konrád’s face.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The girl up north. Hrund, her name was. They never found her. She threw herself into the waterfall. Was your father a medium?’

  ‘No,’ said Konrád, disconcerted.

  ‘Yes, he was.’

  ‘No, he −’

  ‘The fake medium!’

  ‘No, he wasn’t. He was a member of the Society for Psychical …’

  ‘He was a crook,’ hissed Vigga, lying back on her pillows. ‘He was a dirty, no-good piece of scum.’

  ‘Vigga?’

  She didn’t answer. Her eyelids drooped again.

  ‘Vigga?’

  Three quarters of an hour later Konrád stood up and left. Vigga was out for the count. He had sat by her side, waiting for her to wake up so he could ask her more about the girl, Hrund. Everything she’d said was a mystery to him. The huldufólk had attacked Hrund and she’d thrown herself into a waterfall. He had no idea what she was talking about. Was Hrund the same girl she had referred to last time, the one who had vanished and never been found?

  He was sitting in his car, about to start the engine, when he suddenly remembered the two pages of notes he had found in the police archives, which appeared to be in Flóvent’s hand. They had mentioned that the suspect knew ‘the girl up north’.

  Could that have been this Hrund?

  He recalled his father’s account of the seance with Rósamunda’s parents. Because of the subsequent furore, no one else had learned that the disgraced medium had sensed the presence of another girl who had also suffered a cruel fate, and Konrád, who was not the credulous type, wondered all the same if he could have meant the girl Vigga had referred to as Hrund.

  37

  The woman was a little younger than Konrád. She had held a number of office jobs over the years, most recently with the social security department. She suggested they meet up at a cafe in the centre of town. Though their fathers had worked together, conspiring to defraud the innocent, Konrád had never spoken to her before. Her name was Eygló and she was the only child of the medium who had held the seance for Rósamunda’s parents.

  He explained over the phone that he’d found her father’s obituary online and got her name from it. Eygló told him her father had been reluctant to talk about his time as a medium, but she turned out to be familiar with the Rósamunda affair and said she’d sometimes wondered how it ended. Konrád informed her that the inquiry appeared to have been abandoned and the case was never solved.

  ‘So you’re his son,’ was her opening gambit as they greeted one another in the cafe. She held on to his hand when he made to withdraw it, scrutinising him for a moment before suddenly releasing it. ‘I have to admit I was a little curious after we talked on the phone.’

  ‘Curious?’ said Konrád as they sat down.

  ‘Your father nearly destroyed my dad,’ she said. ‘I wanted to see what you look like.’

  ‘I hope you’re not too disappointed.’

  ‘We’ll see. Those kinds of character flaws tend to run in families.’

  ‘Character flaws? What do you mean?’

  ‘Dad never used to speak ill of anyone, but that’s what he said about your father – that he was a bad character. Were you brought up by him?’

  ‘I don’t see what … what that has to do with anything.’

  ‘You want to bombard me with questions – why shouldn’t I return the favour?’

  ‘This isn’t about me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Then why are we here? Isn’t it because of your father? That seance? Isn’t that why you rang me?’

  Eygló studied him intently as she waited for his reply. She was petite, dark-haired, dressed almost entirely in black, and looked much younger than her years. Her eyes were bright and searching below her high forehead, her movements brisk and decisive; she had a quick mind and got straight to the point. Over the phone she had informed Konrád that she had followed in her father’s footsteps and worked as a psychic for a while. Konrád toyed with the idea of asking if she’d inherited her talent from her father but hesitated. She added that she wasn’t well known and kept very quiet about what she called her ‘gift’.

  ‘I rang about Rósamunda,’ said Konrád. ‘I wanted to know if your father had ever said anything about her. If he’d researched any of the details of her case before he held the seance. If he had any prior knowledge, let’s say.’

  ‘Wasn’t that your father’s job? To collect information?’

  ‘So I gather,’ said Konrád. ‘He told me how they used to go about rigging the sessions, and about that particular seance, but he didn’t tell me anything about Rósamunda. I was wondering if your father had …’

  ‘You don’t believe in any of it, do you?’ said Eygló. ‘Psychics. Seances.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even in life after death?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Konrád smiled. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can’t be as sceptical as you say or you wouldn’t have dragged me down here. Are you sure you don’t have a touch of the second sight yourself?’

  ‘Did your father ever talk about Rósamunda?’ asked Konrád, quickly changing the subject.

  ‘No, not that I recall. Though he did tell me about that seance. He said your father coerced him into worki
ng with him. Did you know that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He had something on Dad – I don’t know what – and forced him to take part in the deception. Dad had the gift, but that wasn’t enough for your father. He wanted dramatic results, so people would pay more. They met through the Society for Psychical Research. Dad was weak, I admit, and longed for recognition. He had a drink problem too. Used to go on benders. He’d vanish for weeks at a time and sometimes had blackouts lasting days. But he was a good man. Deep down. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone. And he had certain qualities as a medium. A degree of sensitivity not granted to everyone. A sympathetic understanding of people’s search for answers.’

  ‘Do you know why he told my dad he’d sensed the presence of another girl during that seance for Rósamunda?’ asked Konrád. ‘Where that detail came from? Or who she was? My dad hadn’t fed him any information about a second girl. She was supposedly there with Rósamunda and was accompanied by an intense feeling of cold. Did your father ever talk about that? Did he know any more than he let on?’

  ‘He knew what he sensed,’ said Eygló, ‘but you don’t believe in any of that, do you? You’ve already decided that everything he said was a lie, so I can’t imagine why you’re asking me.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what to make of it,’ said Konrád, ‘but the strange thing is there may actually have been a second girl connected to the Rósamunda case. A girl who was never found. I wanted to check if your father had any prior knowledge of this.’

  Startled, Eygló put down her coffee cup. ‘I had no idea she was connected to Rósamunda,’ she said. ‘Do you know how?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. I thought maybe our fathers might have had some inside information, like when they pretended to sense the mittens or the shipwreck.’

  ‘Pretended? My father had psychic powers, and if he said he sensed the presence of another girl with Rósamunda, he wasn’t making it up. He wasn’t a pathological liar, unlike …’

  ‘My dad?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So he sensed a presence, you say? Who was she? Did he ever discuss it with you? It’s possible her name was Hrund.’

  ‘He didn’t know her name, but she visited him powerfully during that seance. He had no idea who she was or what had happened to her. All he knew was that she was unhappy and cold. He spoke about the chill you mentioned. The intense cold.’

  ‘So he didn’t know any more than that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor how she died?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you heard of a man called Stefán Thórdarson, or Thorson, as he used to be known in the old days?’

  ‘Thorson? No.’

  ‘He didn’t get in touch with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And your father died years ago, of course.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Eygló. ‘He … It was suicide. He’d been in a bad way for a long while. Couldn’t find any peace in his soul, as my mother used to say. Actually, it happened not long after he heard the news about your father.’

  ‘My father?’

  ‘Wasn’t he stabbed to death by the abattoir?’

  ‘Yes. But what’s that got to do with your father?’

  ‘Mum said he was knocked sideways by the news. Only a few months passed between that and his … his death.’

  ‘But they weren’t in contact at all, were they?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware, but then I don’t know everything. I didn’t really know my dad that well. I was so young. But my mother told me he’d been affected by the news of your father’s stabbing. She assumed it was because they’d once worked together but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Maybe there was more to it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Eygló. ‘I’m completely in the dark, I’m afraid. All I know is that my father wasn’t well, obviously. No one in their right mind would resort to an act like that.’

  She sat there for a while, lost in the sad memories Konrád had stirred up, then abruptly pushed back her chair and rose to her feet, saying she had to get going.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t help you at all,’ she added.

  ‘Thanks for meeting me anyway,’ said Konrád, rising to his feet as well and shaking her hand again. This time the contact was fleeting and she avoided his gaze.

  ‘I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable,’ he said. ‘It really wasn’t the intention.’

  ‘No, it … no, not at all,’ said Eygló.

  He could tell that she had noticed his withered arm during their conversation and was trying not to stare at it. ‘I’ve got to be somewhere else,’ she added, and hurried out of the cafe.

  Konrád sat down again, stroking his arm absently and turning over her words in his mind, thinking about the way she’d talked about his father. It didn’t surprise him. He’d heard similar sentiments before and knew from experience – from his own childhood memories – how unreasonable and violent his old man could be. Konrád’s mother had tried repeatedly to bring her ex-husband to his senses and persuade him to allow their son to come and live with her, but it was no good. On one occasion he had refused to let her in to speak to Konrád and left her standing in the basement doorway. Usually when she came to town from her new home in the east she would stop by and spend some time with Konrád. Sometimes she would start crying and begging his father not to drive them any further apart. But on this occasion his father had had enough.

  ‘At least let me say goodbye to him,’ she had pleaded, trying to catch a glimpse of her son.

  ‘Oh, shut the fuck up,’ his father had said and slammed the door in her face.

  38

  A little online sleuthing soon revealed when the member of parliament and his wife had died, and the fact that they had been survived by several children and grandchildren. No wonder their names had sounded familiar. When Konrád looked them up he remembered that one of the sons had been an influential politician, a cabinet minister, and a leading light in Icelandic society. Of the MP’s four sons and one daughter, only two of the sons were still alive. One had died in his early sixties. Checking the obituaries, Konrád saw that he had passed away suddenly at home. A weak heart was mentioned. The other brother and the sister, however, had lived to a ripe old age. Their descendants were scattered all over the country and as far afield as Britain and Australia.

  Konrád decided his first move should be to visit the younger surviving brother, who lived in sheltered accommodation in the little town of Borgarnes on the west coast. He was in the mood for a trip out of town, so the day after his visit to Vigga he got in his car and headed north. The drive took him almost two hours, as he decided to give the tunnel a miss and take the longer, more scenic route around Hvalfjördur. It was a beautiful day, and because most people now used the tunnel he had the road largely to himself. There wasn’t a breath of wind and the fjord lay smooth as a mirror. On a whim, Konrád turned off by the old wartime barracks that still stood above the Thyrill Service Station, which was a shadow of its former self now that traffic around the fjord had dwindled to a trickle.

  The old barracks had been painted red and lovingly restored; Konrád had read recently that some were used as summer holiday homes by employees of the nearby whaling station. He drove slowly through the little colony, trying to picture how the area would have looked during the war when there were far more huts and the whole place was alive with activity, iron-grey warships lying at anchor in the fjord. Now silence reigned, broken only by the occasional roar of a passing car. A lone gull was floating on the wind above the old whaling station, as if hunting for the long-lost days of prosperity.

  He reached Borgarnes just after midday, quickly located the retirement flats, continued on down the hill and parked outside. The man’s name was on the entryphone in the lobby. Konrád had given no advance warning of his visit, so he had no idea if the man would be home. After waiting for a decent interval, he pressed the bell a
gain but no one answered. Then he rang the bell of what he assumed was the flat next door and a woman picked up. She said she hadn’t seen her neighbour that morning but he often went swimming at lunchtime. Konrád thanked her, returned to his car and drove over to the pool.

  He had always liked Borgarnes, a friendly little town with a pretty church, perched on a strip of land surrounded by the sea and set against a dramatic backdrop of mountains. It was of historic interest too, as the area featured heavily in the medieval sagas. The only thing that spoiled it for him was the constant stream of tourists pouring into the snack bars and cafes, since Borgarnes was one of the main rest stops on the routes heading north and west.

  None of the swimmers leaving the pool looked the right age to be the man he was after, so he cruised back down the main street. There his hopes were raised when he spotted an elderly man emerging from the local shopping centre with a plastic bag from the state off-licence in one hand and a small sports bag in the other. But they were dashed again when the man climbed straight into a car with a woman at the wheel and they drove away, heading out of town.

  Konrád swung by the retirement flats again, tried the bell in the lobby and this time heard a sharp crackling over the entryphone.

  ‘Yes?’ blared a voice.

  ‘Is that Magnús’s flat?’

  ‘Yes, this is Magnús.’

  ‘Ah, my name’s Konrád and I’d like a brief word if that’s OK. It’s about your parents.’

  ‘My parents?’

  There was a long pause, then the door to the lift area buzzed. When Konrád reached the second floor, Magnús was waiting for him outside his flat. They shook hands and Magnús invited him in, explaining that he had just come home from a swim. Konrád pretended this was the first he had heard of it.

  ‘How did you know my parents?’ the man asked, closing the door behind them and showing Konrád into the sitting room. ‘Are you one of those genealogists?’

  The flat was compact, with an open-plan kitchen and sitting room, a small bedroom, and a fine panorama over the fjord and Mount Hafnarfjall. Its owner, Magnús, appeared to be in good physical shape for his age. He was of average height, straight-backed and sprightly, his head completely bald and his face round. No doubt the swimming kept him fit.