Ashes to Dust Read online

  Chapter Three

  Tuesday 10 July2007

  Some days in Thóra’s life were slightly worse than others; on a bad day, for example, she would need to stop on her way to work to go back and turn off the coffee maker, or she’d get a call from the school asking her to fetch her daughter Sóley, who had got a bloody nose at break time. Other days were even worse: bills were overdue and the cash machine was broken, petrol got pumped into the family car which ran on diesel, and so on. On those days nothing went as it should, neither at home nor at the office. It was not yet noon when it became clear to Thóra that this was going to be one of those unfortunate days. It started with a long search for the car keys, which finally appeared in the mess in her son Gylfi’s room. The refrigerator turned out to be nearly empty, and the bread that Thóra had planned to use for Sóley’s lunch was mouldy. Thóra had wanted to go shopping on the way home from the airport the night before, but the plane from the Islands landed so late that the shops were closed. Things were no better at the office, where everything was topsyturvy: the computer system was down because of ‘router upgrades’ by the internet service provider, and there was no phone connection because an overzealous electrician who had been making repairs on their floor had accidentally fiddled with a wire that he ought to have left untouched. So for the greater part of the morning they had no connection to the outside world apart from their mobile phones. This upset the secretary, Bella, who refused to use her mobile phone for office work since the office didn’t pay her phone bill. Bragi, Thóra’s business partner, had lent her his mobile with desperation in his eyes. God only knew how the girl would treat callers, since she was not known for her amiable disposition.

  As soon as the telephone connection was restored, Markus rang. After exchanging pleasantries, he got to the point.

  Alda isn’t answering my calls,‘ he said. She could hear the anxiety in his voice.

  ‘You weren’t supposed to try to contact her until the police had finished questioning her, Markus. It could look as though you were trying to influence her testimony, and that’s the last thing we want.’ Thóra knew full well that he wanted to make sure the woman would verify his story, but she doubted that a phone call from him would change Alda’s testimony. She would either tell the truth, or lie to save her own skin. And when the chips were down, most people chose self-preservation.

  ‘But it’s so strange,’ said Markus. ‘We’ve had quite a lot of contact recently and she’s almost always answered as soon as the phone rings. Even when she doesn’t answer right away, she generally calls me back pretty much immediately. She’s never ignored me like this.’ He hesitated for a moment before continuing: ‘Maybe she’s avoiding me because she doesn’t want to back up my story. What do you think?’

  Thóra was fairly certain he was right, but didn’t want to worry him even more. Of course there could be another explanation, but it seemed unlikely. ‘I think we should keep calm until we know something for sure.’ She looked at the clock. ‘I imagine that the police have already contacted her, although they probably haven’t questioned her yet. If she doesn’t substantiate your story then they’ll call you back in, and you have the right to have me there to support you. They will want to talk to you again, whether she verifies your statement or not, so you should just keep calm if they contact you.’

  Markus took a deep breath. ‘Alda wouldn’t throw me to the lions.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ replied Thóra, thinking that Androcles had probably said the same thing about the Romans in the old days, right before he was shoved out into the arena. ‘Of course, I could phone our friend Gudni and try to find out what’s going on. There’s no guarantee he’ll tell me anything, but in the light of his dislike for formal procedures, you never know - he might let me in on something.’

  ‘Do you think he’s still in charge of the case?’ asked Markus hopefully. ‘I could always phone him myself.’

  ‘No, absolutely not,’ Thóra said quickly. ‘I don’t want you speaking to him on your own. God only knows how that would end. I’ll talk to him. Even though the police in Reykjavik are involved in the investigation, they’ll certainly keep him informed of any developments. It’s his home ground.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I keep trying to get hold of Alda in the meantime?’ said Markus.

  ‘You should forget about that,’ replied Thóra firmly. She thought for a moment, then asked: ‘When did you last speak to her?’

  ‘I spoke to her briefly by phone the evening before last,’ answered Markus. ‘The night before we went to the Islands. I told her that I was finally going to be allowed into the house.’

  ‘I see,’ said Thóra. ‘One final question before I phone Inspector Leifsson: do you think that Alda knew about these three corpses, or played any part in their deaths or the death of whoever owned the head?’ Thóra wasn’t sure she’d ever asked a more ridiculous question.

  ‘There’s no way,’ said Markus. ‘We’re the same age - making her fifteen in the year of the eruption. She wouldn’t hurt a fly. Neither then nor now. So she could hardly have expected that I’d stumble onto three corpses as well as the box in the basement. If she’d known about the bodies or been connected to them in any way I’m sure she would have pushed me even harder to have the excavation stopped. Warned me, at the very least.’

  ‘Yes, one would have thought so,’ Thóra said thoughtfully. ‘It’s just a bit of a coincidence that a box with a severed head and three corpses should be found in the same place.’

  ‘Well, stranger things have happened,’ said Markus, seemingly insulted.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Thóra retorted. She could think of nothing even remotely as bizarre. They said goodbye and she went to get herself a cup of coffee. She could use a bit of refreshment before phoning Inspector Leifsson.

  Gudni Leifsson turned off his torch as he went down into the basement. The lights that the Reykjavik CID had set up there were pointed at the area where the bodies had been found, but were strong enough to light the entire basement space. He went over to the man leading the investigation, a discomfortingly young man who had introduced himself as Stefán when the gang of police from Reykjavik had disembarked from the little plane late yesterday evening. It was obviously time to retire. It was happening far too frequently that he met colleagues who had still been in their mothers’ wombs when he himself had started his career. Gudni stared straight ahead. ‘What do you think?’ he asked calmly, without wasting words on pleasantries or even looking at his colleague.

  Stefán turned around to see who had addressed him. His expression immediately changed to one of irritation, which confirmed what Gudni already knew: the policemen from Reykjavik wanted the country yokels to leave them alone to investigate the scene in peace. This Stefán had scarcely deigned to listen to Gudni’s account of recent developments as they were driving to the house yesterday evening along with several nameless, even younger men. These accompanying officers had not spoken a word the entire time, as far as Gudni had been aware. ‘Isn’t it a little better than it looked at first?’ he asked now, not letting the young man’s irritation trouble him.

  ‘We don’t know anything yet,’ Stefán replied, turning away from Gudni to watch the men working. ‘How could this possibly be better than it looked?’

  ‘Well,’ said Gudni calmly, ‘I just wondered whether these might be the earthly remains of some unlucky thieves who got trapped here in the eruption and suffocated. People who had perhaps intended to take advantage of the emergency situation and do their looting undisturbed. This house wasn’t buried under the ash the first night, so unscrupulous individuals would have had time to come here from elsewhere and make a clean sweep of the neighbourhood. The eruption made worldwide headlines at the time.’

  Stefán stared at Gudni. ‘You can’t be serious,’ he said, pointing at the three corpses where they lay, side by side, on their backs. ‘How do you see that happening? The air became so bad that the burglars ran down to the basement to li
e down and take a breather? They could hardly have thought that there were any valuables down here.’ He turned back to his subordinates’ work. ‘People who suffocate are generally found lying on their stomachs, unless they were sleeping when it happened. They try to crawl away. They don’t lie down nicely in a row, any more than their heads fly off their shoulders.’ He pointed at the place where the head had lain, but it had already been removed from the scene.

  ‘You’ll discover one day that there are no absolutes in this life,’ Gudni replied, perfectly unperturbed. This wasn’t the first big city upstart he’d sparred with. ‘Otherwise, hopefully this Alda has an explanation, at least as far as the head is concerned. Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘As far as I know, no one’s been able to get in touch with her,’ replied Stefán, without looking at Gudni. ‘We’re going to keep trying, and hopefully we’ll reach her today. Then I’ll have a better talk with this Markus Magnusson, who came here to pick up the bonce.’

  ‘The head, I expect you mean,’ corrected Gudni. ‘We’re talking about a human head here - not a “bonce”.’

  Stefán shot Gudni a look that was anything but pleasant. ‘Head, bonce, noggin - what difference does it make? I very much doubt that this Markus has told the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth about what happened here. I find his statement in the report both untrustworthy and ridiculous.’

  ‘That’s because he’s an imbecile,’ Gudni replied. ‘Always has been.’ He switched on his torch and turned towards the stairs, without saying goodbye.

  Dís honked the car horn and pulled herself up over the steering wheel to look out through the windscreen. The little end terrace appeared to be empty. She leaned back again in her seat. What was Alda thinking? She hadn’t come to work for two days in a row. There was nothing too mysterious about that, anyone could catch the flu, but it was unlike her not to call in and let people know, or to answer messages. Alda was conscientiousness personified; she always came to work on time, and was always willing to work late if necessary. In a nurse this was a rare quality, and Dís knew that without Alda she and Agúst would have it much tougher at work. They paid her well, and up until yesterday her work record had been spotless. So they couldn’t understand at all why she hadn’t called in to let them know that she couldn’t make it yesterday morning, especially since four operations It had been scheduled. Dís and Agúst, both doctors, had had to assist each other, performing the operations together instead of taking them separately with Alda’s assistance, because of this they’d had to cancel a number of patient consultations, and even the anaesthetist they’d called in had had to help out, which was bad for their reputation. No, there was something very peculiar about this, so Dís had decided to make a quick trip to Alda’s house during her lunch break, to see if she was home. She looked out again through the glass and wondered whether something could have happened to the woman. Alda was single and childless, so it was entirely possible that she had passed out at home without anyone knowing. Dís got out of the car.

  She walked up to the garage that connected Alda’s terrace house to the next one and peered in through a gap in the brown-lacquered door. She thought she saw a reflection from Alda’s new green Toyota, but could not see it clearly enough to be sure. Nevertheless, this was a bad omen. Alda could hardly have got very far without her car, and if she was at home it was extremely odd that she hadn’t contacted anyone. Dís went to the front door of the house. The sound of the doorbell came from within as she rang it repeatedly. She stopped pushing it and put her ear to the door in the hope of hearing Alda, but could not make out any audible sign of human activity. Still, she was fairly certain that she could hear a radio. She pressed her ear even closer to the door and covered the other one. Yes, yes. She could even hear the tune. It was an old cheesy pop song, about a boy calling out to his father. Dís straightened up and knitted her brow. It occurred to her how strange it was that even after working with Alda for seven years, she had no clue as to what sort of music she liked. Somehow it had never come up in conversation. She grabbed the doorknob and tried the door. It was unlocked.

  Alda!‘ she called through the doorway. No answer - only the melancholy voice of the now-forgotten singer, asking his father to wait for him. Dís pushed on the door until it opened fully. She went in and called out again: Alda! Are you home?’ No answer. The song finished, but started again several seconds later. It must have been on a CD, with the CD player set to repeat. Radio stations hadn’t yet stooped to playing the same song over and over again. Dís walked slowly up the stairs to the first floor. If Alda had been taken ill, she was most likely to be in her bedroom upstairs. Dís had only been to the house once, when Alda had invited her and Agúst, along with their spouses, to dinner earlier in the year, and then they hadn’t left the ground floor. The dinner had been impeccable, as expected: good food and delicious wine, everything very tastefully presented. Dís recalled how amazed she’d been that Alda hadn’t been in a steady relationship since her divorce, which had actually been over and done with by the time she’d started working at the plastic surgeon’s office. She was a particularly pleasant woman, approaching fifty; she had kept herself in good shape and was warm, cheerful and courteous. Dís called Alda’s name one more time before climbing the stairs. No answer. The music, on the other hand, became clearer with every step. She walked as quietly as she could, hoping that Alda would be lying there asleep with the melancholy music playing.

  The singer’s emotional voice came through the half-open door. Dís repeated Alda’s name, more softly. She didn’t want to startle the woman if she was simply sleeping, or even getting dressed. Through the gap in the doorway she could see the sun shining on a corner of the embroidered bedspread. Dís pushed the door with one foot and put her hand over her mouth as she looked into the master bedroom. The music was coming from the CD player on the bedside table, and next to it was an empty wine bottle, an open prescription bottle and a syringe. In the middle of the bed lay Alda. Dís didn’t need her medical degree to realize that there was little use in trying to resuscitate her.

  Chapter Four

  Tuesday 10 July2007

  Thóra leaned back in her chair and sighed, trying to decide who to ask to pick up her daughter Sóley - for the second day in a row. Her mother was out of the question. She had helped out the previous evening when Thóra had been delayed in the Westmann Islands, and besides that, her parents were on their way to the theatre. She would never hear the end of it if her mother missed the play she’d been looking forward to for months. It was some sort of dramatized documentary about the injustices women suffer in the modern world. Thóra smiled to herself. Her father would be eternally grateful if she rescued him from this theatre trip, but she decided not to ruin their plans. Her mother’s disappointment would last far longer than her father’s gratitude.

  She decided to call her ex-husband. Hannes would not be best pleased. The work of an emergency physician was no less demanding than that of a lawyer, and the days were longer and harder. He took the kids every other weekend and sometimes asked to have more time with them when it was convenient, but in general he was not receptive to taking them at short notice. Hannes had a new wife, and his life now revolved mainly around the two of them and their needs. Thóra’s, on the other hand, revolved around everyone but herself; lately all of her time had been going into her work, her two children and her grandson, who had recently turned one. The grandchild actually came part and parcel with a fourth child - her daughter- in law. Sigga was seventeen, a year younger than Thóra’s son Gylfi, but there was not much difference between them in terms of maturity. Somehow the young parents had managed to keep their relationship going despite their belly flop into the deep end of adulthood. They stayed with Thóra every other week, and in between the girl went home to her parents with the little boy - without Gylfi. The relationship between Gylfi and Sigga’s parents was a chilly one; they seemed unable to forgive him for their daughter’s untimely pregnancy
. This was no secret to anyone, least of all Gylfi, so Thóra was happy when he decided to stay at home whilst Sigga was with them. In this way she managed to keep her son to herself a little longer and continue with his upbringing, which had been cut short when he had accidentally increased the human population.

  Thóra put the receiver under her chin and adjusted a framed photograph of her grandson as she selected the number. The little boy had been christened Orri, after countless other proposals by the young parents that still made Thóra shudder. He was irresistible; blond and big-eyed, and still with round, chubby cheeks even though he had long since stopped bottle- feeding. It warmed Thóra’s heart to see him, and she was looking forward to taking care of him next week even though the household’s stress levels increased perceptibly when mother and son were around. She smiled at the little boy in the photo and crossed her fingers when the phone was finally answered. ‘Hello, Hannes. Could you do me a small favour? I won’t be able to pick up Sóley . .

  ‘The girl watched from the playground as the ambulance drove up to the house. She twisted in the swing and let it turn her back in a semi-circle. She was happy that the sirens weren’t on because if they were, that meant it was serious. Maybe the lady had just fallen down and broken her foot? Once her friend broke her foot and then an ambulance came to get her. Tinna puffed up her cheeks then let the air leak out while she thought about all of this. Fat cheeks. Skinny cheeks. Fat cheeks. Skinny cheeks. She stopped playing bellows with her cheeks and sat deep in thought. Here was proof that you didn’t need to eat to become fat. Air could make you fat. She stiffened. Everything was full of air. It was everywhere, and there was nowhere to hide. She would have to try to breathe less.