The Reckoning: Children's House Book 2 (Freyja and Huldar) Read online

  The bloody man had known exactly what he was doing when he put on that costume. If she had left out the bit about Father Christmas, the police would have handled the matter very differently, not sent round an officer who seemed closer in age to Karlotta and Dadi than to her.

  ‘When’s Daddy coming?’ Dadi looked away from the television to stare hopefully at his mother. The cartoon flickered on the screen behind him. Figures that resembled neither man nor beast were fighting in a Wild West saloon bar. She doubted Dadi had a clue what was going on. He looked ready to drop, exhausted by the week, as he always was on Fridays. ‘We’ve been waiting and waiting.’

  ‘You haven’t been waiting and waiting, Dadi. We’ve only just got home.’ She went over and stroked his head, then bent down and kissed him on the brow. His eyes were glazing over and she knew that any minute now he would fall asleep on the sofa, in spite of the noisy shrieking of the cartoon. ‘Daddy’ll be here very soon. Don’t go to sleep, you know how hard you find it to wake up again.’ It was pointless even to say it; if Thorvaldur didn’t arrive shortly, Dadi would be out for the count.

  Karlotta appeared in the sitting room. ‘Is Daddy coming?’ It was always like this; they would take it in turns to ask. Every other Friday she had to put up with a deluge of questions from the moment they stepped in the door until Thorvaldur deigned to turn up. When he was late she sometimes thought they’d drive her demented.

  ‘Yes, Karlotta. He’s coming very soon.’ Really, she should be grateful that they looked forward to going to stay with their father. She’d heard stories of children who always cried when it was time for daddy weekends, clinging to their mother’s legs so they had to be prised off by force. How would she feel if their parting was like that? Even worse than she did now, undoubtedly.

  ‘He’s going to buy us ice creams. With sauce. Big ones, not kids’ ones like you always get.’

  Æsa forced a smile. ‘I bet that’ll be fun.’ Thorvaldur spoilt them rotten during the weekends they spent with him, filling them with sweets and taking them to the cinema. No rules, just constant excitement and doing whatever they liked. She couldn’t compete; when it was her turn to have them for the weekend she was always too worn out from working all week, and besides she couldn’t afford to provide them with a two-day children’s paradise. She didn’t blame Thorvaldur; she would do exactly the same in his shoes. If she had the money, that is. It was no joke getting them back from their weekends with him, their faces sticky with sugar and their sleep patterns all messed up, but at least she did get them back. Now she was terrified that Thorvaldur would fail to keep an eye on them, and that ‘Father Christmas’ would be on the prowl again and seize his chance.

  The doorbell rang shrilly and Æsa jumped. ‘Well, Karlotta, who do you think that is?’

  ‘Daddy!’ Karlotta raced to the door with Dadi on her heels, his tiredness temporarily forgotten. Æsa gave chase but they had already opened the front door by the time she reached the hall. For a second it occurred to her that it might not be Thorvaldur but the man from the park. But there in the doorway was the familiar face, the highly polished shoes and the jacket that looked as if it had only been taken off the hanger five minutes ago. Thorvaldur was like a cat: always neat and sleek, whatever happened.

  ‘Fetch your things. I need a quick word with your father.’ Æsa pushed them inside to fetch the bags they had packed the evening before, spending ages choosing clothes and toys that Æsa knew they wouldn’t touch. They had another set of everything at Thorvaldur’s place, things he had bought for them himself as he obviously didn’t want them to be seen wearing the threadbare hand-me-downs they brought with them from home. Well, that was his problem.

  Thorvaldur stepped into the hall, making a face as he always did when he was forced to enter the flat. He would rather wait out on the landing, wallowing in his sense of martyrdom. ‘What? I’m in a hurry. I’ve booked a table – I don’t want to be late. Do you have any idea how busy the restaurants are? It’s all about tourists these days.’

  Æsa didn’t have any idea. She hadn’t eaten out for months. But tourists were unlikely to be dining in large groups at this time of year. It was typical of Thorvaldur to make a fuss. She hoped for his sake that the menu wasn’t all escargots and Kobe beef. If he’d had to book, it was unlikely that he was taking the kids for a burger and chips, though she wouldn’t put it past Thorvaldur to book a table at a fast-food joint. ‘Who’s Vaka? Are you going to tell me?’

  ‘I don’t know any Vaka. Stop going on about it, will you?’ Thorvaldur glanced over her shoulder as if checking where the kids were. They both knew he was doing it to avoid meeting her eye.

  ‘If you won’t tell me who she is, you’ll have to tell the police. I rang and they’ll be in touch with you shortly.’ In fact, there was no chance of this. The youthful officer who had come round had kept interrupting her with ridiculous questions about whether she smoked dope or was in the habit of imagining things, so Æsa had left out the bit about Vaka in a desperate attempt to keep him to the point. But there was no need for Thorvaldur to know that. She had decided to ring the police again on Monday morning and demand to finish giving her statement. It had become abundantly clear that they weren’t going to get back to her.

  ‘I can’t tell the police about some woman when I don’t even know who she is. For God’s sake, stop nagging.’ Thorvaldur flung back his head and called: ‘Come on, kids! We’re going to be late for supper.’

  If Æsa knew Karlotta and Dadi, they would come running, trailing their backpacks behind them, in a panic that their father would leave without them. After that there would be no peace in which to talk to Thorvaldur. Clearly, there was no point pressing him about this Vaka. She didn’t care if he wanted to keep his girlfriend a secret. There were more important matters at stake. ‘Will you promise to look after them and never take your eyes off them for one minute?’

  ‘What’s the matter with you? Of course I’ll look after them. Has anything ever happened to them on my watch?’ He answered the question himself before Æsa had a chance to bring up the occasion when Dadi had cut his hand on his father’s razor, or Karlotta’s hair had been singed when one of her plaits swung into a candle on his coffee table. ‘Nothing’s happened because I take good care of them. Better than you. Who were they with when they were supposedly abducted by “Father Christmas”?’ He made invisible quotation marks around the words.

  ‘I can’t be bothered to argue with you. Though you won’t admit it, I know this has something to do with you, and all I ask is that you take special care this weekend. Don’t take your eyes off them for a second.’ Æsa could hear Karlotta and Dadi’s noisy approach behind her. The peace was over. ‘Promise me, Thorvaldur.’

  ‘What? What’s he got to promise?’ Karlotta tugged at her jumper.

  ‘To look after you, darling. And you must promise never to run away from your daddy. You must stay beside him all the time. All weekend.’

  ‘What?’ Dadi squeezed past her and took up position beside his father. ‘What if I need to go for a wee-wee?’

  ‘Or if Daddy needs to go to the loo? Do we have to go with him?’ Karlotta giggled and pushed past Æsa after Dadi. They had no idea of the gravity of the situation; they were too young to understand that there were people out there capable of harming others, even children. However hard she tried to impress this upon them, in their eyes other people were merely there to make life easier and amuse them. Other children existed to be played with and grown-ups were for making sure they had food on the table, were wrapped up warm and were allowed to play between meals.

  ‘Listen to what I’m saying. Promise me.’

  The happy expressions faded from their faces as they gave her their word. Thorvaldur immediately started dressing them in their anoraks and helping them into their boots. Æsa bent down to receive two goodbye kisses. Thorvaldur’s parting shot was that she could have dressed them a bit more smartly – they were going out for dinner, for goodness’
sake. Then he herded them out. Karlotta waved goodbye to her mother as her father closed the door behind them.

  Æsa could still feel the imprint of their kisses on her cheek. She hurried into the bedroom and stood watching as Thorvaldur helped them into the back seat of his car and fastened their seatbelts. As his car vanished down the street, she felt overwhelmed with dread. Her fears redoubled when it occurred to her that Thorvaldur had never promised her not to take his eyes off them, as she’d asked. Why hadn’t she just told him the children were ill? But then she would have had to ask Karlotta and Dadi to back up her lie, and that wouldn’t be fair on them.

  Oh God.

  The weekend had begun. Now she could start pacing the floor.

  Thorvaldur knocked back another dose of ibuprofen and gulped down some water, hoping it would ease his suffering. His head was killing him; the wine at the restaurant yesterday evening must have been of a lower quality than he was used to. Unless it had been that second glass of whisky after he’d got home. Christ. Now he just needed an ice-cold lager to perk him up. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have any – there was a whole six-pack in the fridge. But it was out of the question. He was looking after the kids and he had to consider them. It wouldn’t look good if he turned up at the cinema later reeking of alcohol. He would have to rely on the ibuprofen to see him through this weekend, just like it had on all the previous daddy weekends.

  Thorvaldur re-wrapped his dressing gown and knotted the belt more tightly. He would have to find something for the kids to eat; it was nearly half past ten and they hadn’t had breakfast yet. When they had barged into his bedroom at eight he had managed to buy himself some peace by planting them in front of the television. That had worked until half past nine. Then a cartoon started that they found boring. Still feeling groggy, he had talked them into going outside in the garden to play in the snow. They were still out there, presumably starving. If he called them now, he would have time to get himself together while they were taking off their outdoor clothes and washing their hands. Get himself sufficiently together, at least, to be capable of putting out their cornflakes.

  The sour sensation in the pit of his stomach intensified when he remembered the lecture Æsa had given him yesterday. The kids had been outside in the garden for an hour, alone and unsupervised. Was it possible that …? No, of course not. The garden was fenced off. His stomach gave a half-turn, like a washing machine at the end of its cycle. What had he been thinking of? The wooden fence wasn’t much of a barrier; it hadn’t been designed to keep an enemy out. If someone was determined to climb over, there was nothing to stop them.

  Thorvaldur strained his ears, suddenly too afraid to look outside. What if the kids had vanished? The relief that flooded him when he thought he heard their voices was so intense that his headache faded and even his stomach temporarily behaved.

  He went into the living room, the parquet icy under his bare soles. As he approached the window, he could hear their voices more clearly. There was no doubt about it, Karlotta and Dadi were squabbling. His worries abated with every step; there was nothing to be afraid of. By the time he was standing at the window, about to wave to the children to come inside, all his fears were forgotten.

  It was then that both children started screaming.

  Chapter 23

  Erla was jubilant: evidently the meeting had gone well and she’d been given a pat on the back for achieving a result – if you could call it a result. Huldar suspected her of giving the impression that they were on the verge of a breakthrough. How she had introduced Jón Jónsson – as a suspect or as a victim – was hard to guess, but it had clearly had the desired effect. Erla was never any good at hiding her feelings: if her bosses had reprimanded her, it would have shown in her face. Huldar guessed that their judgement had been clouded by Jón’s name and record. What could be better than a perpetrator who was already a villain? They would be given a more or less free hand to investigate; no one was likely to start finding fault with their methods or clamouring about the human rights of the suspect. If, on the other hand, Jón Jónsson was the victim – if he’d been deprived of his hands and possibly more – all the public would be interested in was how badly he had suffered. The identity of the culprit would be almost beside the point; after all, people would be inclined to sympathise with him or her, however reluctant they might be to admit it.

  The news had evidently got out that she was back in favour and it was safe to be seen with her, because the members of CID had been flocking to her side, one after the other, hoping she would notice them when it came to handing out new assignments. A fresh lead called for a change in emphasis. But although they were all raring to go, no one wanted to be left with the crappy jobs that always formed part of any large-scale operation. Huldar found it wise to hang back; he was sure Erla wouldn’t overlook him. That is, he was convinced she would allot him one of the shitty tasks. Well, there was no chance he was going to suck up to her, or to anyone else for that matter. He was still too much the proud country boy.

  The only other member of the inquiry team who didn’t join in was the man who had been sent to see the pathologist about Einar Adalbertsson’s remains. He sat at his desk, staring at his computer screen, getting up every now and then to fetch another cup of water. Huldar, feeling sorry for the guy, left the gung-ho group who were convinced they were on the brink of cracking the case, and went over to talk to him. Personally he hated visiting the pathology lab – it was always an ordeal for the eyes, nose and ears. And the same, it seemed, applied to his ashen-faced colleague. The man had been compelled to listen to a lecture from the pathologist on the decomposition of human tissues following interment, before being made to view the contents of Einar Adalbertsson’s coffin. The man almost gagged as he described the experience to Huldar and repeated what the pathologist had told him.

  ‘Enzymes and microbes break down the organs, destroying them in a few years, so there was no chance of examining them.’ The man made a face. ‘Thank God. I’m not sure I could have coped with that. There were still tatters of skin and flesh on the bones, though. If it had only been a skeleton, I wouldn’t have minded as much.’ He closed his eyes, shuddered and took a sip of water. ‘It was horrible. His eyes were missing, sunk into his skull maybe, but I didn’t dare ask in case the pathologist tried to retrieve them. There were tufts of hair on his scalp.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to be cremated.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re the only one to come to that conclusion after a visit to the lab.’

  ‘Apparently I was lucky, though. It could have been a lot worse. The pathologist said that if the coffin had been airtight, the body would have been reduced to a putrefied black soup.’

  ‘What else came out of your visit, apart from this delightful experience? What about the cause of death?’ The least the man could do, after making him listen to this stomach-churning description, was to slip him some information.

  ‘Well, it turned out not to be as clear-cut as he told Erla. He’s going to insist on a proper post-mortem and he’s hoping that will clarify the cause of death, as it definitely wasn’t cardiac arrest.’ He shuddered again. ‘Even I could see that when he showed me the back of the skull.’

  ‘What did you see?’ And don’t start on about withered scraps of scalp again, Huldar added under his breath.

  ‘A hole. Almost perfectly round.’

  ‘So? It was my understanding that he hit his head when he passed out in the bathroom. He suffered from an irregular heartbeat, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. There was a fracture in the back of his skull that was consistent with hitting the edge of the bathtub. But there was another wound that couldn’t have been caused by that – a round hole resulting from a blow with a blunt object. Or that’s what the pathologist thought.’

  ‘Why wasn’t that mentioned in the original post-mortem? There isn’t any doubt that it’s the right body, is there? I suppose it’s not impossible that there’s another empty grave somewhere and
that Einar’s coffin will turn up at a later date.’

  ‘His body was never examined. They never held a post-mortem of any kind. At the time there was no doubt about how Einar had died. He was on a waiting list for a pacemaker; he’d been receiving treatment for arrhythmia, which can cause dizzy spells. It wasn’t the first time he’d had a fall. The wound on his head was consistent with hitting the edge of the bath, and the death certificate mentions that there was blood and hair on the tub where he’d struck it. He lived alone and there was no indication that anyone else was present when he died.’ The man shrugged. ‘His daughter was his only next of kin and she saw no reason to demand an inquest. It seems people were content to describe it as an accident. But now that his scalp has gone … apparently it remained behind on the pillow when they lifted out the skull …’ The colour drained from the man’s face, ‘… it’s almost certain that it wasn’t an accident. But it’s not clear whether the doctor who issued the death certificate could have worked out that there were two wounds without doing a post-mortem.’

  Huldar’s mind was working furiously. ‘It’s definitely him, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. The proof’s pretty incontrovertible. The name of his late wife was engraved on the wedding ring still hanging off his finger bone. The skeleton was also wearing a ring from his Freemasons’ lodge. But the pathologist’s going to request his dental records, if they still exist. He’s also going to consult Einar’s medical notes for evidence of old fractures or other injuries that can be used to confirm his identity. There’s a chance that it’s someone else, but only a very slim one.’