The Reckoning: Children's House Book 2 (Freyja and Huldar) Page 17

  ‘No. I didn’t think for a minute that I’d be staying here. Though I have to admit I’m not quite with you.’

  ‘Oh?’ Fanney scooped Saga up off the floor and settled her on her lap. Freyja was struck by the lack of resemblance between mother and daughter as well. You’d have thought the child was a changeling.

  ‘I’m talking about the daddy weekends,’ Fanney explained. ‘Which you promised to cover for Baldur while he’s … you know …’ Putting her hands over the little girl’s ears, she whispered, ‘in prison’. Then, removing her hands, she continued: ‘I’ll need at least every other weekend off to study. I don’t know if Baldur went into details but I started a course after Christmas, which I’m doing alongside work. It’s turning out to be far more pressure than I’d anticipated, so it would be a big help if I could have a few days free every month to concentrate on my coursework.’ She tightened her hold on Saga. ‘But you can’t have her overnight. Only during the daytime, while I’m working.’

  By some miracle Freyja managed to keep her thoughts from her face. Baldur had committed her without checking with her first. No surprise there. ‘Yes, of course. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’ He clearly knew her better than she knew herself. She couldn’t deny that she had made any such promise, since if she did she’d almost certainly be shown the door. And behind that door would be this odd little niece with the perma-scowl, who she wouldn’t see again until after Baldur was released.

  Besides, what did she have to do every other weekend that was more important than this? Life would be tough enough for the poor little mite even if Baldur turned over a new leaf, since it couldn’t be easy growing up with a convicted criminal for a father. In his absence Freyja would represent the father’s side of the family. Without hesitation – once she had torn a strip off Baldur for dumping his parental responsibilities on her without having the decency to consult her first. ‘She’s not allergic to dogs, is she?’

  ‘No, she has no allergies. Do you have a dog?’ Fanney sounded doubtful. ‘A big one?’

  ‘She’s not that big.’ In the sense that elephants are not that big. ‘It goes without saying that I’ll keep her away from Saga.’ If this proved difficult, she would just have to put Molly in kennels for those weekends. ‘Are you sure Saga will be OK coming to stay with me? Is she shy? She doesn’t seem very pleased with me.’ Perhaps the little girl was making a face like that because she didn’t trust Freyja. It would be a nightmare to be stuck all day long with a crying child. Maybe she was all smiles and giggles normally.

  ‘Not pleased with you? She’s delighted with you!’ Fanney craned her head round to look into her daughter’s face, then raised her eyes to Freyja. ‘Can’t you tell?’

  Meeting Saga’s stormy gaze, Freyja smiled. The scowl didn’t budge. Here was a challenge. She’d get a smile out of that child if it was the last thing she did.

  In the end, the tongue-lashing she gave Baldur wasn’t nearly as blistering as she’d intended. She had left a message for him to ring her, then broke the speed limit in her haste to get home in time for his call. Once she had plugged her phone in to charge and flopped down on the sofa, she felt her indignation draining away. She did her best when he finally rang, but he kept butting in with questions about his daughter and Freyja soon ran out of steam. Instead, she described the little girl, leaving out the bit about the perma-scowl, and it dawned on her as she was praising the child to the skies that she meant every word.

  Baldur soon began to run out of questions, betraying how little he knew about babies. Realising this, he changed the subject. ‘Hey, I had a word with a bloke who shared a cell for ages with Jón.’

  ‘Oh?’ Freyja had sunk back into the shabby sofa but sat bolt upright on hearing the paedophile’s name.

  ‘I asked him everything I could think of that might be of interest to you. According to him, Jón was quite cagey; always careful, like he thought someone was listening or their cell was bugged. That’s not unusual for men like him, though. They’re so obsessed with trying to appear normal that they’re permanently on edge. I don’t suppose I need to tell you but they think their urges are natural and can’t understand why the rest of us don’t agree.’

  Baldur was right: she didn’t need him to tell her that. ‘Didn’t he find out anything of interest then?’

  ‘Sure. Nothing earth-shattering, though.’ Baldur yawned into the phone, as if to underline the fact. ‘According to this bloke, the letters weren’t from his wife. She cut off all contact with him the moment he was arrested. He was in custody until he was sentenced, and his divorce papers were sent to him in jail. His wife seized the first chance she could to dump him. She didn’t wait to see if he was found guilty or innocent. After all, it was obvious. And she never visited him while he was inside.’

  ‘Understandably. She must have been ecstatic to see the back of him. I bet he treated her appallingly. That’s how it usually works. It’s a complex process that involves breaking these women down psychologically. It’s not until they’re isolated from their violent partner that they start to see things in their true light.’ Freyja closed her eyes for a moment, suddenly overwhelmed by tiredness. ‘What about the kids? I assume they followed her example and cut off all communication? I know they both use their mother’s name, not his.’

  ‘Oh? According to Jón’s cellmate, at least one of them came to visit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Only the once though, according to him. Jón was in a very good mood afterwards, so it must have gone well. It’s possible there were more visits but the bloke I spoke to was released, and when he was sent down again later, he ended up on a different corridor.’

  ‘Did he mention when this visit took place? Was it just before Jón got out or early in his sentence?’

  ‘I think he said about two years ago.’

  Jón’s daughter Sigrún would have been eighteen then; Thröstur twenty-two. Perhaps ten years had been long enough for one of them to forget the true awfulness of what had happened and decide that their father wasn’t all bad. Or perhaps they had wanted to ask him about his future plans, since in 2014 he would have been nearing the point when he would normally have been eligible to move into a halfway house. They couldn’t know that he wouldn’t be offered this option when the time came. ‘What did his cellmate say about the letters? Could they have been from his children after all?’

  ‘He had no idea what the letters contained or who sent them, though he’d been curious about them. Like me and everyone else. Maybe they were from his kids.’

  Freyja decided not to mention that Huldar was going to ask the prison authorities about the letters. The police weren’t exactly Baldur’s favourite people. ‘Did you ask if he thought Jón was likely to reoffend? Or go looking for revenge?’

  ‘Revenge?’ Baldur’s tone suggested he couldn’t make up his mind whether to be surprised or indignant. ‘What the hell for? If anyone should be after revenge it’s the parents of the little girl he killed. Or his ex-wife. It was his fault he got sent down and he can’t blame it on anyone else.’

  ‘I know that, Baldur. Everyone knows that. Except him, maybe. Maybe he feels he’s the victim in all this.’ It was a pointless discussion and, since she couldn’t confide in him about what was going on, it would be best to end it. They had already gone over the set time limit for prisoners’ calls. She thanked him and said goodbye, but only after he had asked her to describe one more time how sweet his daughter was. As she rang off, she offered up a silent prayer that Saga would have morphed into a cutie pie before Baldur was released.

  Freyja put her phone back in the charger, then got up and went into the kitchen to feed Molly. She stood and watched the dog wolfing down the unappetising food as if it was prime rump steak. The moment Molly’s dish was empty, she bounded to the front door, banging into everything in the little hall, beside herself with excitement at the thought of going outside. This was all part of the routine: after supper it was walkies time. Whatever the weather
and however tired Freyja was feeling. Anything was better than having to clean up after the dog in the flat.

  Freyja had her shoes and coat on when the phone rang in the living room. She made to go back inside but Molly growled menacingly. She’d better return the call later.

  The phone call turned out to be from Huldar. His message said he wanted to ask her opinion on something and could he drop round? With a bottle of red. Or two. To her astonishment she very nearly answered yes straight away. She tried to kid herself that this was because she was excited about the case but finally had to acknowledge that she was actually quite keen to see him.

  Just before she texted back, she came to her senses. Celibacy was clearly driving her nuts. She would have to do something about it at the weekend, as she had been planning to for so long. But then she remembered her new role as a weekend daddy. Sighing, she reached for the phone again. Some things just couldn’t be avoided: exams, slush, tooth decay, tax and – it seemed – Huldar. But she wouldn’t let her agreement be the first step towards renewing their intimate acquaintance. Oh no. She would make it absolutely clear that nothing like that was on the agenda.

  Chapter 18

  Since the Identification Committee were still no closer to discovering who the hands belonged to, the police had decided to appeal to the general public in the hope that someone would recognise the description. They were expecting quite a few phone calls as the information was so vague that it could apply to thousands of men. The victim was at least fifty but no more than seventy. His marital status was unknown because the mark left on his finger by a wedding band was faint, suggesting either that he was divorced or that he had simply lost or stopped wearing his ring. He probably did some kind of desk job. Alternatively, he could be retired or unemployed. There were no scars or tattoos on his hands. His blood group was O positive like half the country, but that didn’t rule out the possibility that he was a foreigner. He was likely to be a member of an organisation such as the Freemasons. The description went no further.

  The first Huldar heard about the appeal was at the end of Erla’s morning meeting with the investigation team. The incident room was so packed that some of them had to stand. Erla briefed them on the progress of the various lines of inquiry, but omitted to mention the time capsule or the coffin found on the landfill site. However, she did mention the possible link to Jón Jónsson for the first time, though without going into details. Huldar would have preferred it if she had described the letter, Jón’s connection to the murdered prosecutor Benedikt Toft, and the fact that the coffin belonged to Jón’s stepfather. Instead she merely mentioned in passing that Jón Jónsson’s name had unexpectedly cropped up in connection with the inquiry. Huldar tried to convince himself that this was because she was planning to devote tomorrow’s meeting to this new lead. If not, it was hard to see how he was to make any progress. Investigating further possible links would be far too much work for him alone. He was particularly concerned about the lone initial K, which fitted with Kolbeinn, the driver of the car in the underground garage. Erla didn’t share his worries.

  The best way to find out whether the K stood for Kolbeinn or somebody else entirely was to force it out of Thröstur. He was the one who had compiled the hit-list, after all. That interview would be the number one priority if Huldar had his way, in addition to questioning Jón himself. The man had already demonstrated that he was capable of incomprehensible acts, and this surely made him the most likely candidate for the murderer.

  Still, Huldar was in such an excellent mood that he couldn’t summon up any rancour towards Erla. This morning he was predisposed to feel magnanimous towards all the world, since yesterday evening could hardly have gone any better.

  Huldar had no idea what he had finally done right in Freyja’s eyes. He didn’t really understand women, or men for that matter; he couldn’t work out what was going on in their heads. But, for whatever reason, she had been willing to meet him, and for once not to discuss murder or the mistreatment of children. She had invited him round to her flat and, to begin with, had been rather quiet, as if regretting her decision. But he had made sure she never had a chance to put a polite end to his visit. When it came to the opposite sex, he was a veteran of both marathons and obstacle courses. Eventually she had relaxed, thanks either to the wine or to his bottomless well of police anecdotes. He didn’t care which. After they had drained two bottles of red between them and she had started slurring something about babysitting and weekend dads that he couldn’t make head or tail of, he had shifted to sit right next to her, having been inching his way closer all evening. She hadn’t pushed him away – and before he knew it there was no telling which of them was keener to fling off their clothes.

  At that moment Huldar had been struck by a revelation. If he wanted something deeper with this woman than a one-night stand, then a drunken shag on a sofa that was missing one arm wasn’t exactly a good beginning. So, instead of pressing home his advantage, he had pulled back, telling Freyja that he had better make tracks. She had gaped at him in bemused astonishment, all glassy eyes and smeared lipstick. For an instant his resolve had weakened but, ignoring the ache between his legs, he had thanked her huskily for an enjoyable evening and left.

  While he was waiting for the taxi, he had glanced up at the block of flats and seen Freyja standing at her window, watching him. He chose to interpret this as meaning that for once he had done the right thing. More often than not the women he slept with would be flattened by a hangover the morning after, incapable even of lifting a hand to wave goodbye. The sight was invariably so unappealing that he didn’t bother to get in touch again and neither did they, since his face would probably forever be associated in their mind with throwing up and a crashing headache, the night’s pleasurable sex reduced to a hazy memory.

  Erla drew attention to her presence by banging down the remote control of the overhead projector. ‘Aren’t you listening?’ She frowned. Like Huldar she had pronounced dark circles under her eyes, but hers were the result of worry and overwork, whereas his were due to red wine and incipient doubts about the wisdom of last night’s decision. ‘If you can’t keep your mind on the job, I’ll find someone else to assist me.’

  ‘Yes. No, I just got distracted for a moment. Sorry.’ Huldar forced himself to focus. ‘Could you possibly repeat that last bit?’

  Erla tutted but did as he asked. They were the only ones left in the room. She had asked him to stay behind for a brief chat and Huldar had been expecting her either to apologise for her outburst yesterday or to give him a bollocking. Unpredictable as ever, she did neither. ‘I’m going over to the hospital to take a statement from Kolbeinn, the guy who dragged that poor sod Benedikt through the handrail. The doctors have given us the green light. You coming?’

  ‘Sure. Of course.’ Huldar was a little surprised but didn’t show it. The taking of Kolbeinn’s statement was important; the first attempt, which had been made while Huldar was at the landfill site, had been such a disaster that Erla and her colleague had been booted out of the hospital and forbidden to come back until Kolbeinn had recovered. Although the man hadn’t been physically injured, the experience had, not unsurprisingly, come as a terrible shock. When Kolbeinn got home later that evening he had suffered a heart attack and been sent for an emergency angioplasty. The very next day Erla had turned up to question him and he had almost ended up in the operating theatre again.

  ‘Will we be allowed in?’ Huldar asked.

  ‘Yes. They understand how vital it is for us to speak to him.’ Avoiding his eye, Erla started raking together the documents she had used at the meeting. ‘I had to ask the guys upstairs to speak to the senior consultant. The doctors were refusing to take my calls. They only picked up once and that was so some nurse could read me the riot act. Like I’d gone to see Kolbeinn for the express purpose of giving him another heart attack.’

  A light suddenly dawned on Huldar – so that was why Erla wanted him to come along. He’d once half killed a man d
uring questioning – by mistake, needless to say – but it amounted to the same thing. That had been during the fateful investigation that cost him his job. Based on his past record, if something went wrong this time he was bound to get the blame. His good mood slipped a little but he did his best to cling on to it. Did it really matter why she was letting him go along? At least he would have the advantage of hearing the man’s statement first hand, and it would also give him a chance to ask about any possible links to Jón Jónsson. Because they weren’t obvious, as he had already established. If Erla imagined he was going to sit in meek silence on an uncomfortable hospital chair and take the blame if the guy dropped dead in the middle of questioning, she was in for a surprise.

  For once it was a beautiful winter’s day. The sky was cloudless, there wasn’t a breath of wind and the snow glittered a pristine white. Although it stung their cheeks, the frosty air was fresh and invigorating. The remnants of Huldar’s hangover dissipated when he opened the car window, stuck out his head and filled his lungs. He filled them again, to make sure the effects would last, then rolled up the window. On days like this he felt an urge to go skiing, though he’d never owned a pair of skis, never even hired one. When he was a boy he’d been offered his sisters’ hand-me-downs, but they were pink and covered in bunny stickers, so he wouldn’t be seen dead using them.

  He and Erla had hardly spoken during the short drive to the National Hospital. He didn’t dare start a conversation for fear of revealing that he had seen through her supposedly friendly gesture. And she had apparently sensed this, because she concentrated on her driving, but even so managed to hit every red light on the way.

  As they got out of the car, Huldar contemplated the old white hospital building that had originally been designed to cater for the nation’s needs for the foreseeable future. The ugly mess of more recent annexes was testament to how misplaced that confidence had been. He looked up at the triangular frieze by the artist Gudmundur from Middalur. His grandmother had pointed it out to him when she took him with her on one of her trips to Reykjavík for tests. She had told him the picture was called ‘Caring and Healing’. As a child he hadn’t quite grasped what this meant, but now he admired the artist’s humility in recognising mankind’s limited capacity to intervene in the difficult cycle of life. Not everyone could be saved; sometimes all one could do was alleviate people’s suffering. Countless spells in hospital had achieved little in his grandmother’s case.