Last Rituals Read online

  It was an incredible amount, before taxes or not. More than twice the regular hourly rate that Thóra charged. On top of it the woman offered a bonus if the investigation led to the arrest of someone other than the man currently in custody. The bonus was higher than Thóra’s salary for a whole year. “What do you expect to get for that money? I’m not a private detective.”

  “We’re looking for someone who can go over the case again, examine the evidence and appraise the police findings.” Again the woman paused before continuing. “The police refuse to talk to us. It’s rather annoying.”

  Their son has been murdered and dealing with the police is rather annoying, Thóra thought. “I’ll think about it. Do you have a number I can call?”

  “Yes.” The woman recited the number. “I ask you not to take too long to consider the offer. I shall look elsewhere if I don’t hear from you later today.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll let you know soon.”

  “Frau Gudmundsdóttir, one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “We have one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  She cleared her throat. “We want to be the first people to hear of anything you uncover. Important or otherwise.”

  “Let’s see if I can help you in the first place before discussing the details.”

  They exchanged good-byes and Thóra put the telephone down. A great start to the day, being treated like a maidservant. And over the limit on her credit card. And overdrawn. The telephone rang again. Thóra picked up the receiver.

  “Hello, I’m calling from the garage. Listen, it looks a bit worse than we thought.”

  “What’s the prognosis? Will the car live?” Thóra snapped back. Her car had refused to start when she wanted to run some lunchtime errands the day before. She had tried the ignition again and again, but to no avail. In the end she gave up and had the car towed off to a garage. The garage owner took pity on her and lent her an old clunker while her car was being fixed. It was a heap of junk, marked “Bibbi’s Garage” all over, and the floor by the backseats was covered in trash, mainly packaging from spare parts and empty Coca-Cola cans. Thóra had to make do with the car, though, because she couldn’t get by without one.

  “It doesn’t look good.” He was cold. “It’ll cost a fair bit.” A speech followed packed with car repair terminology that Thóra couldn’t make head or tail of. But the price needed no explanation.

  “Thank you. Just repair it.”

  Thóra put down the telephone. She stared at it for several minutes, engrossed in her thoughts. Christmas was approaching with all the accompanying expenses: decorations, spending, presents, spending, dinners, spending, family gatherings, spending and—surprise, surprise—even more spending. The law firm was not exactly turning away clients. If she took on the German project it would keep her busy. And it would solve her money problems and much more besides. She could even take the children on vacation. There must be places for a girl of six, a boy of sixteen, and a woman of thirty-six to go. She could even invite along a man of twenty-six to level out the gender and age ratio. She picked up the telephone.

  Frau Guntlieb did not answer; it was a servant. Thóra asked for the lady of the household and soon heard footsteps approaching, probably over a tiled floor. A cold voice spoke over the telephone.

  “Hello, Frau Guntlieb. This is Thóra Gudmundsdóttir calling from Iceland.”

  “Yes.” After a short silence it was obvious that she was not going to say anything more.

  “I’ve decided to help you.”

  “Good.”

  “When do you want me to start?”

  “Straightaway. I’ve ordered a table for lunch so that you can discuss the matter with Matthew Reich. He works for my husband. He’s in Iceland and has the investigative experience that you lack. He can brief you on the case in more detail.”

  The tone to the word “lack” could hardly have been more condescending had Thóra been guilty of turning up dead drunk at a children’s birthday party. But she ignored it. “Yes, I understand. But I want to emphasize that I’m not sure I can actually help you.”

  “We shall see. Matthew will have a contract for you to sign. Give yourself plenty of time to read it over.”

  Thóra was seized by a sudden urge to tell the woman to go to hell. She hated her haughtiness and arrogance. But when she thought about a vacation with her children and the imaginary man of twenty-six, she swallowed her pride and mumbled a vague assent.

  “Be at Hótel Borg at twelve. Matthew can tell you a number of things that did not appear in the papers. Some of them are not fit to print.”

  Listening to the woman’s voice, Thóra gave a shudder. It was tough and devoid of emotion, but broken somehow at the same time. People probably sounded like that under such circumstances. She said nothing.

  “Did you get that? You know the hotel?”

  Thóra almost laughed. Hótel Borg was the oldest hotel in Reykjavík, a downtown landmark. “Yes, I believe I do. I suppose I’ll be there.” Although she tried to salvage her pride by striking a note of uncertainty, Thóra knew she would be at Hótel Borg at twelve o’clock. No doubt about it.

  CHAPTER 2

  Thóra looked at the clock and put down the documents for the case she had been working on. Yet another client who refused to face up to the fact that his position was hopeless. She was glad she had cleared up a few minor matters before meeting Herr Matthew Reich. She phoned through to Bella on the switchboard.

  “I’m going out to a meeting. I don’t know how long I’ll be but don’t expect me back before two.” A grunt came over the line that Thóra could only interpret as agreement. My God, what’s wrong with simply saying “yes”?

  Thóra took her handbag and put a notebook in her briefcase. Everything she knew about the case was from the media, and she had not followed it with any particular interest. As far as she recalled, the scenario was something like this: a foreign student had been murdered, the body mutilated in some unspecified way, and a drug dealer, who maintained his innocence, had been arrested. Not much to go on.

  While she was putting on her coat, Thóra looked at herself in the large mirror. She knew it was important to make a good impression at the first meeting, especially if the client was well-off. Clothes maketh the man, say those who can afford the best. And by their shoes ye shall know them. She had never understood that, basing her judgment of people on their character and never their footwear. Fortunately her shoes were quite presentable and her dress suit appropriate for a respectable lawyer. She ran her fingers through her long blond hair.

  Thóra rummaged in her handbag, eventually found her lipstick, and hurriedly dabbed it on her lips. Normally she did not wear much makeup, making do with moisturizer and mascara in the mornings. She carried lipstick in case of unexpected situations like this. It suited her and made her feel confident. She had the good fortune to take after her mother rather than her father, who had once been asked to model as Winston Churchill’s double for an advertisement. While she could probably not be described as beautiful or striking, her high cheekbones and blue almond-shaped eyes meant that she could safely be called pretty. She had also been lucky enough to inherit her mother’s build, which made it easy to keep slim.

  Thóra said farewell to her colleagues and Bragi called back, “Good luck.” She had told him about the telephone conversation with Frau Guntlieb and the meeting arranged with her representative. Bragi found it all very exciting and felt that being contacted from abroad was a clear indication their firm was on the right course. He even suggested tagging “International” or “Group” onto their modest name in order to spruce it up a bit. Thóra hoped that Bragi was joking, but she could not be sure.

  Outside, the wind refreshed her. November had been unusually cold, boding a long, harsh winter. Now they were paying for the incredibly warm summer, although temperatures in the low seventies would hardly be considered a heat wave outside Iceland. Thóra felt that the climate wa
s changing, due either to the natural climate cycle or the greenhouse effect. For her children’s sake she hoped it was the former, but deep down inside she knew it was not. She covered her cheeks with the hood of her coat so that she did not turn up for the meeting with frozen ears. Hótel Borg was too close to her office for her to consider driving there in the car from the garage. God only knew what the German would think if he saw her parking that heap of junk outside. Her shoes would have little to say in the matter then, that was certain. Parking was sparse downtown so she would probably spend twice the time she saved by circling around hoping for a space to open up. As an added bonus, walking made her feel as if she were doing her bit to fight global warming. A walk that short hardly made her an ecowarrior—even in a country whose inhabitants chose to drive any distance over a few meters—but it was better than nothing.

  A full six minutes after leaving the office she walked through the revolving doors of the hotel.

  Thóra scanned the elegant restaurant. The Art Deco interior had been restored some ten years ago to its original state. The result was a rather gentrified atmosphere, bringing to mind women with bob cuts, Charleston dresses, and gaudy ropes of pearls, smoking from long ivory holders. Since its construction in the Roaring Twenties it had been the grandest venue in Iceland, always full of bright young things and various government officials showing off to foreign dignitaries. The refurbishment had toned the place down a little, Thóra thought as she scanned the elegant restaurant. She realized that, apart from the large windows facing Parliament House and Austurvöllur Square, there was little to recall from the years when she spent most Saturday nights at Hótel Borg with her friends—all of them invariably drunk. In those days she had no worries apart from how her butt looked in the clothes she was wearing that night. The greenhouse effect would not have been on her mind, except perhaps as the name of a rock band.

  The German looked about forty. He sat straight as a beanpole on the upholstered chair, his broad shoulders hiding the smart back of the seat. He was just beginning to go gray, which lent him a certain air of dignity. He looked stiff and formal, dressed in a gray suit and matching tie that did not exactly create a colorful impression. Thóra smiled, hoping it would make her come across as friendly and interested rather than idiotic. The man stood up, removed the napkin from his lap, and put it on the table.

  “Frau Gudmundsdóttir?” A harsh, cold pronunciation.

  They shook hands. “Herr Reich,” Thóra muttered, with the best German pronunciation she could muster. “And do call me Thóra,” she added. “It’s easier to pronounce too.”

  “Please have a seat,” the man said, sitting down himself. “And please call me Matthew.”

  She took care to sit down with her back straight and wondered what the other guests in the restaurant thought of this upright duo. Probably that they were meeting up to found a society for people with steel spine braces.

  “Can I offer you something to drink?” the man asked Thóra politely in German. The waiter clearly understood what he said, because he turned to Thóra and awaited her answer.

  “Sparkling mineral water, please.” She recalled how fond the Germans were of mineral water. It was becoming more popular in Iceland as well—ten years before, no one with any sense would have thought of paying for water at a restaurant where it ran straight out of the tap. Buying carbonated water was somehow more acceptable.

  “I presume you have talked to my employer, or rather his wife, Frau Guntlieb,” Matthew Reich said when the waiter had gone.

  “Yes. She told me I’d get more details from you.”

  He hesitated and sipped a clear liquid from his glass. The bubbles suggested that he had ordered sparkling water too. “I put some documents together in a folder for you. You can take it with you and look at it later, but there are a number of points I want to go over with you now, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Certainly,” Thóra replied at once. Before he had the chance to continue, she hurried to say: “But one thing I’d like to know a little more about is these people I’m going to work for. Maybe it makes no difference to the investigation, but it matters to me. Frau Guntlieb mentioned a surprising figure as my fee. I’m not interested in taking advantage of the family’s grief if she can’t afford this.”

  “They can afford it.” He smiled. “Herr Guntlieb is the president and largest shareholder in the Anlagenbestand Bank of Bavaria. It’s not a large bank, but its clientele includes corporations and wealthy individuals. Don’t worry. The Guntliebs are very, very well-off.”

  “I see,” Thóra said, thinking that this explained the servant answering the telephone at their home.

  “However, the Guntliebs have not been so fortunate with their children. They had four children, two sons and two daughters. The elder son died in a car accident ten years ago and the elder daughter was born severely handicapped. She died as a result of her condition a few years ago. Now their son Harald has been murdered and the youngest daughter, Elisa, is all they have left. It has been an enormous strain on them, as you can imagine.”

  Thóra nodded, then asked hesitantly: “What was Harald doing here in Iceland? I thought there were plenty of universities in Germany with good history faculties.”

  Judging from Matthew’s otherwise expressionless face this was a difficult question. “I really don’t know. He was interested in the seventeenth century and I’m told he was doing some kind of research comparing continental Europe to Iceland. He came here as part of a student exchange program between the University of Munich and the University of Iceland.”

  “What kind of comparative research was it? Was it political, something like that?”

  “No, it was more in the field of religion.” He took a sip of water. “Maybe we should order before we go any further.” He waved to the waiter, who approached holding two menus.

  Thóra had the feeling that there was more behind his haste than hunger. “Religion, you say.” She looked at the menu. “Could you be more specific?”

  He put the open menu down on the table. “It’s not really the sort of thing you talk about while you’re eating, though I expect we’ll have to sooner or later. But I’m not sure that his area of academic interest had anything to do with the murder.”

  Thóra frowned. “Was it related to the plague?” she asked. This was the only idea that occurred to her that fit the time bracket and was too distasteful for table talk.

  “No, not the plague.” He looked her in the eye. “Witch hunts. Torture and executions. Not particularly appealing. Unfortunately Harald was deeply interested in it. Actually this interest runs in the family.”

  Thóra nodded. “I understand.” She did not understand in the slightest. “Maybe we should save this until after the meal.”

  “That’s unnecessary. The main points are in the folder I’ll give you.” He picked up the menu again. “You’ll also be getting some boxes of his belongings from the police. There are documents connected with his thesis which will provide you with further information. We’re also expecting to get his computer and a few other things that may provide some clues.”

  They looked at the menu in silence.

  “Fish,” Matthew said without looking up. “You eat a lot of fish here.”

  “Yes, we do,” was the only reply Thóra could think of. “After all, we are a fishing nation. Probably the only one that has managed to regulate its fishing sustainably.” She forced a smile. “Actually, fish is no longer the mainstay of our economy.”

  “I don’t like fish,” he said.

  “Seriously?” Thóra closed the menu. “I do, and I’m thinking of having the fried plaice.”

  In the end he settled for the quiche. When the waiter had gone, Thóra asked why the family thought the police had the wrong man in custody.

  “There are several reasons. First, Harald would not have wasted his time arguing with some dope dealer.” He stared at her. “He used drugs now and again; that was known. He drank alcohol too. He was
young. But he was no more a drug addict than he was an alcoholic.”

  “That depends on your definition of addict,” Thóra said. “As far as I’m concerned, repeated drug use is addiction.”

  “I know a few things about drug abuse.” He paused, then hurried to add: “Not from personal experience, but through my work. Harald was not an addict—he was doubtless on his way to becoming one, but he wasn’t one when he was murdered.”

  It dawned on Thóra that she had absolutely no idea why this man had been sent to Iceland. She doubted it was to invite her out to lunch and moan about Icelandic fish. “What is it exactly that you do for this family? Frau Guntlieb said you worked for her husband.”

  “I’m in charge of security at the bank. That includes background checks for prospective recruits, managing security procedures in the company, and money transportation.”

  “That doesn’t involve drugs very much, surely?”

  “No. I was referring to my previous job. I spent twelve years with the Munich CID.” His eyes fixed on hers. “I know a thing or two about murders and I don’t have the slightest doubt that the investigation into Harald’s murder was badly handled. I didn’t need to see very much of the man in charge to realize he doesn’t have the faintest idea what he’s doing.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Thóra understood who he meant, despite the awkward pronunciation. Árni Bjarnason. She sighed. “I know him from other cases. He’s an idiot. A stroke of bad luck having him assigned to the investigation.”

  “There are other reasons the family doesn’t think the drug dealer is connected with the murder.”

  Thóra looked up. “Such as what?”