The Shadow District Page 5

  Konrád had never been inside her cellar but knew of its existence from the blood-curdling tales of children who had gone missing in the Shadow District or neighbouring Thingholt and never been heard of again. It was rumoured that they had come to a sticky end in Vigga Pig’s cellar. She had always lived alone on the edge of the district, in a small house clad in corrugated iron that gave a satisfying boom when you threw stones at it. The single-glazed windows used to ice up in freezing weather. She seemed to have few friends; at least she had few regular visitors, apart from the man in the coal lorry who used to come once a fortnight until Vigga relented in her hatred of inevitable progress and allowed the Reykjavík District Heating Authority into her home to install the new geothermal radiators. She made her living as a washerwoman, according to Konrád’s mother, who used to forbid him to tease Vigga as her life was tough enough without a pack of naughty children giving her grief.

  Konrád entered the room where Vigga was asleep under a white duvet. He reflected that the Shadow District had a strange, roundabout way of seeking him out. There was the girl murdered during the war, the cuttings the old man had kept, his dad’s seance, and now Vigga, lying under the covers, invisible apart from her grey hair and wrinkled forehead. He wondered what business Stefán could have had with his childhood bogeywoman, this indomitable old lady whom even death had not yet managed to defeat.

  10

  The doctor, Baldur, was a big-boned, craggy man of around sixty, with a booming bass voice, who hailed from the Hornstrandir Peninsula in the remote north-west of the country. When Flóvent entered the mortuary, Baldur was standing over the young woman’s corpse, pouring out a thick line of snuff on the back of his hand. He snorted it first up one nostril, then the other, then took a red handkerchief from the pocket of his white coat and wiped his nose.

  ‘Morning, Flóvent.’ He returned the snuff rag to his pocket. ‘This is a nasty business you’ve been landed with. Such a young girl. What a waste.’

  ‘Have you had a chance to examine her yet?’

  ‘Briefly. Looks to me like a case of manual strangulation.’ The doctor ran a finger down the girl’s long, elegant neck. Bruises were visible under the skin, patches of discoloration encircling her neck like thick fingers. ‘I’m working on the assumption that it was a man, based on these marks. They were inflicted by a strong pair of hands. He wouldn’t have had any problem obstructing her windpipe. The girl would have tried to fight him off. Tried to defend herself. He must have punched her in the face – see the contusion here? Her nails are broken too. Look.’ Baldur lifted one of the young woman’s hands to show Flóvent.

  ‘Was she attacked behind the theatre?’

  ‘No, I doubt it happened outdoors. If it had, we would have found marks from the sharp gravel, but I can’t see any cuts or abrasions. So I really don’t believe she was assaulted outside.’

  ‘You think her body was disposed of behind the theatre after she was killed?’

  ‘That’s plausible. And, yes, she was probably dead already. There’s another fact you ought to be aware of, though I stress I’ve only carried out a preliminary examination so far. The girl appears to have had an abortion.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, fairly recently. Not a professional job either. A bloody mess, in fact.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I find it hard to believe it was the handiwork of a qualified medic. Though I suppose it’s not impossible. There are incompetent fools in my profession, like in any other. Did the girl have a boyfriend?’

  ‘We still haven’t identified her,’ said Flóvent. ‘So it’s possible.’

  ‘A soldier, maybe?’

  ‘We’re currently searching for the man who found her body. An American soldier who fled the scene as soon as he realised what was up. He had an Icelandic girl in tow. We’ve spoken to her, but she couldn’t help us much. We believe it’s possible the soldier was acquainted with the victim. Do you know of anyone she could have gone to about her … her predicament?’

  ‘You mean for an abortion? No, I don’t. The law was changed a few years ago to allow them in strictly limited circumstances. If the mother’s life’s in danger, for example, or in cases of rape or incest. But one of those specific conditions would have to have been present for a doctor to perform an abortion. Getting pregnant by a soldier wouldn’t qualify.’

  ‘Naturally, it’s a sensitive subject for many people,’ said Flóvent.

  ‘I imagine it’s not too hard to come by a backstreet job in the present situation,’ said the doctor. ‘But of course it’s all done behind closed doors. There’s a black market in that sort of thing just like anything else in these strange times we’re living through.’

  The hunt for a Sergeant Frank Carroll among the American troops had yielded nothing so far. Thorson was convinced the man had lied to Ingiborg. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time a soldier looking for some fun had exaggerated his rank and strung a girl along with promises that when the war was over he would take her home and introduce her to a brave new world in America. In an attempt to find out more about the man calling himself Frank Carroll, Flóvent and Thorson paid another visit to Ingiborg, though they saw no reason at this stage to arrest her and bring her in for a formal interview.

  The identity of the murder victim was still a mystery. No one had reported her missing, as far as the police could ascertain, but news of her fate had spread following reports in the morning papers and on the radio, and Flóvent was confident that sooner or later someone who knew the girl would realise she was missing and get in touch. He broke the news to Thorson that she had undergone an abortion not long before she died.

  This time, when the two detectives turned up to question Ingiborg further about her American boyfriend, she was alone in the house with her mother. Her father had torn a strip off her after their first visit, but now that he wasn’t home she seemed a little more relaxed. They wouldn’t permit her mother to listen to the interview, politely showing her out of the same drawing room they had used last time.

  ‘The fact is, Ingiborg,’ said Flóvent, ‘we can’t find any record of a Frank Carroll in the US Army.’

  ‘Which means,’ said Thorson, ‘that one of you is lying. Either you’re lying to us or he lied to you.’

  ‘If we find out that you’ve lied to us, Ingiborg,’ Flóvent went on, ‘we’ll take you down to the police station and from there to the prison on Skólavördustígur. We’ve given you the benefit of the doubt so far and been very considerate, but if it turns out you’ve been spinning us a yarn, all that will change.’

  ‘I’m not lying,’ protested Ingiborg. ‘I’d never lie to you. I’ve done nothing wrong. We just found the body and …’

  ‘And what, Ingiborg?’ asked Thorson.

  ‘He must have been lying to me,’ she said in a small voice. ‘He told me his name was Frank Carroll. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Have you been with a soldier before?’ asked Flóvent.

  ‘No, I’m not a slut.’

  ‘Did he promise to take you to America?’

  Ingiborg didn’t answer.

  ‘Did he say he was going to marry you?’

  ‘We discussed it.’

  ‘Was the wedding going to take place soon or after the war?’

  ‘After the war. He was terrified of being sent to Europe, to the front. So he said we’d have to wait until the war was over. It sounded perfectly reasonable to me.’

  ‘Going to come back for you, was he?’ asked Thorson.

  Ingiborg nodded. ‘I’m not an idiot, whatever you may think. I’m no soldier’s tart. Frank’s always behaved honourably towards me. He knew Daddy was opposed to our relationship and he was sorry about it. He knew we’d never be accepted by my family. That we’d always have to stand on our own two feet.’

  ‘And you were reconciled to that?’

  ‘You have no idea what it’s like living with my father,’ she said coldly.

  ‘What else do you
know about Frank?’ asked Flóvent. ‘Did you notice any stripes or insignia on his uniform? Did he ever mention what regiment he belonged to? Or mention any of his friends?’

  ‘No, I have no idea. I never met any of his friends except at Hótel Borg, and I didn’t pay that much attention to his uniform.’

  ‘Do you remember any of their names?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have any letters from him? Any photographs?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has it occurred to you,’ said Thorson, ‘that since you found the dead girl everything he’s told you about himself has turned out to be a lie?’

  It had most definitely occurred to her as she lay wide awake in the dark watches of the night, racked with anxiety. Frank had not been particularly forthcoming about his circumstances, and their conversations had been necessarily limited in scope due to the language barrier. She was aware that he was interested in cars but knew next to nothing about his family. But then they’d only been together a matter of months, and she had imagined that as her English improved – because he was certainly making no effort to learn Icelandic – they would become better acquainted.

  ‘I’m sure his name’s Frank because they called him that at Hótel Borg. Other men he bumped into. His friends.’

  ‘All right, that’ll do for now,’ said Flóvent. ‘If you remember anything else, please get in touch.’

  ‘Do you know who the girl was?’ asked Ingiborg.

  ‘No, not yet,’ said Thorson.

  ‘Could she have gone there with a soldier, like I did?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Someone like Frank, who took her behind the theatre?’

  ‘We have yet to establish that,’ said Thorson, anxious to avoid hurting her. ‘Was there any particular reason why you and Frank chose that spot?’

  ‘It was his idea. He said they sometimes go there. The soldiers.’

  ‘With their girls?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The sentries in their sandbagged post in front of the National Theatre were unable to help the police as none of them had noticed the girl. And if anyone else apart from the schoolmistress had been in the Shadow District that evening and knew something, they weren’t coming forward. It seemed no one had witnessed the girl’s arrival in the doorway, by whatever means and in whatever company. The police had scoured the area around the theatre for clues that could shed light on her fate but had found no leads.

  Thorson took charge of questioning the soldiers who worked in the supply depot. Inside, the place could hardly have looked less like a theatre. The stage had yet to be built and the auditorium was piled to the rafters with stores and munitions. At Flóvent’s suggestion, they established themselves in the coal cellar. Although originally intended as a boiler room, the cellar was now to become a banqueting hall since coal heating was being phased out in favour of natural hot water. At present there was a fair amount of commotion in the building as the depot was moving to a new location: the decision had been taken to resume work on the theatre at long last.

  None of the servicemen they spoke to said they knew the victim, though two privates admitted to being on friendly terms with Icelandic girls.

  ‘Turns out there are any number of soldiers in the Reykjavík area called Frank,’ Thorson told Flóvent as they left. ‘I checked that while I was looking for a Sergeant Carroll. He’s fed her a pack of lies. Though that’s nothing new.’

  They strode rapidly down Hverfisgata in the raw weather, hands dug deep in their pockets; Flóvent in hat and long winter coat – the only one he owned – Thorson in his cap and wearing his military greatcoat over his uniform. The cathedral bell struck two.

  ‘No, that’s nothing new.’

  ‘As long as he wasn’t lying about his Christian name, we ought to be able to track him down,’ said Thorson.

  ‘Round up the men who match Ingiborg’s description, or come close,’ said Flóvent, ‘and we’ll see if she can pick out her man. It wouldn’t hurt if they came from Illinois as well.’

  ‘None of them are sergeants.’

  ‘No, I never thought they would be.’

  They parted ways, Thorson continuing to the military police headquarters at the camp in Laugarnes, Flóvent heading down to the CID offices on Fríkirkjuvegur. When he arrived, he found an elderly couple sitting on a bench in the lobby. He marched straight past without giving them a second glance, but they stood up and looked after him as he entered the office. A secretary grabbed his arm as he went by.

  ‘They want to talk to you,’ she said, nodding towards the couple.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That couple. About their daughter.’

  She gave him a meaningful look as she said the last two words, and Flóvent immediately cottoned on. He glanced out into the lobby where the couple stood huddled together, eyes fixed on him and the secretary.

  ‘But they’re so old,’ he whispered.

  ‘She was adopted,’ the secretary replied in an undertone. ‘They’re hoping it’s not her they heard about on the news but they haven’t seen their daughter for a couple of days and don’t know where she’s got to.’

  Flóvent went back out and greeted the couple. The man shook him by the hand and introduced himself and his wife. Their manner was restrained, though their eyes were anxious. Flóvent guessed they were in their late sixties. Both wore thick overcoats. The woman looked good-natured; the man was thin with gaunt cheeks, and accustomed to hard labour if his hands were anything to go by.

  ‘We didn’t want to bother you unnecessarily, sir,’ he said. ‘But we heard about the girl behind the theatre, that she was around twenty, and −’

  ‘I told him to talk to the police but he wanted to wait and see if she turned up,’ his wife broke in. ‘Do you know who she is, sir? The girl you found?’

  ‘No, not yet,’ said Flóvent. ‘No one’s enquired after her.’

  ‘This isn’t the first time she’s disappeared like this,’ said the woman.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘No, but last time she turned up again.’

  ‘I can take you over to the mortuary, if you feel up to it.’

  The couple exchanged glances.

  ‘You’d have to identify her,’ explained Flóvent. ‘It’s the only way we can be sure.’

  ‘I’ve never been there before,’ said the woman.

  ‘No,’ said Flóvent. ‘It’s not a place you want to have to visit.’

  He rang Baldur at the National Hospital and asked him to make himself available, then escorted the couple out to the CID car and drove them the short stretch to the hospital. It was one of the largest buildings in the country. The doctor greeted them at the door of the mortuary. He had brought out the girl’s body, which lay on a table under a thin, white sheet. The couple stood close together, hand in hand, as the doctor lifted the sheet from the girl’s face.

  Flóvent saw the instant recognition. Saw from the way the hope died in their eyes that she was their missing daughter.

  11

  Baldur replaced the sheet.

  ‘Who could have done this to her?’ gasped the woman, looking at her husband. ‘Our poor little girl.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to take a statement from you,’ said Flóvent. ‘I’d be grateful if you could come back to Fríkirkjuvegur with me.’

  ‘Would it be possible …?’ The woman turned to Flóvent. ‘Could we possibly stay with her a little longer? Just for a few minutes?’

  ‘Of course.’ Flóvent gave the doctor a sign to leave the room with him.

  ‘Any luck tracking down that Yank?’ asked Baldur once they were alone.

  ‘At present he’s only a witness who fled the scene. I don’t think we should read any more into it. Thorson’s helping us. Have you met him?’

  ‘I don’t recall.’

  ‘He’s a good lad. Icelandic-Canadian. He’s proved very helpful in liaising with the troops in the past.’

  ‘Well, you’re bound to get
the odd troublemaker. I expect the majority are decent enough,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Indeed. Look, I think it would be best if a doctor filled them in on the facts – how she came to die, the abortion.’

  ‘I can do it if you like.’

  ‘Thank you, it might sound better coming from you.’

  Baldur nodded and went back to join the couple. Flóvent waited outside in the corridor, trying but failing to imagine how the girl’s parents must feel.

  After a considerable length of time, the door opened and the couple came out again, accompanied by the doctor. The woman was wiping her eyes with a handkerchief she had taken from her bag. Her husband had his arm around her. After saying goodbye to the doctor, Flóvent gave the couple a lift back to Fríkirkjuvegur where he showed them into his office. He offered them some genuine coffee that Thorson had rustled up from US Army stores, and gave them a chance to recover from their initial shock. He didn’t want to come across as overbearing or intrusive in their hour of grief.

  ‘Do you have any idea who could have done this to her?’ the woman asked eventually.

  ‘I’m afraid we have nothing to go on yet. We very much hope you’ll be able to help us get the investigation off the ground, now that we know who she is.’

  ‘I just can’t imagine who would have wanted to do this,’ said the man. ‘It’s so … so unreal somehow. That something so horrible should happen to our little girl.’

  ‘I understand she was your adopted daughter?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the man. ‘Our Rósamunda came to us when she was one and a half. We didn’t have any children of our own. We’d always wanted them, but it wasn’t meant to be.’

  ‘Where was she from?’

  ‘From up north in Húnavatn County,’ said the woman. ‘My sister worked on a farm there. A local woman died leaving behind a large family of young children and, thanks to my sister’s efforts, the father gave us his daughter to bring up.’