The Reckoning: Children's House Book 2 (Freyja and Huldar) Page 3

  Leaping to his feet, he unfastened the lid. There was an urgent banging on the window upstairs.

  It took Huldar a moment or two to work out what the things floating in the tub were, but once his brain had processed the strange messages it was receiving, he took an involuntary step backwards, losing his grip on the heavy lid. The wind, seizing its chance, hurled it back so violently that the hinges gave way. The lid began to scrape back and forth on the decking, dangling from a single fastening. But when Huldar glanced up to see the owner’s reaction, the old man’s face registered not rage but disbelief.

  Disbelief and horror.

  Huldar hurriedly grabbed hold of the lid and battled to drag it back into place. He yelled to Erla and Gudlaugur for help. Another blast snatched at it. His arm muscles ached as though they were on fire. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He felt a sudden heartfelt wish to be back dealing with the trivial little school matter.

  For there, floating in the red-stained water, were two human hands.

  Chapter 2

  Things had been quiet at the Children’s House for several days now and this morning was no exception. Freyja had been the last one in and the front door hadn’t opened since, while the phone in reception remained stubbornly silent. It was as if winter had sapped all the energy from the country’s child abusers. Fed up though she was with the endless cycle of storms and thaws, Freyja was ready to forgive the weather if it really was having that effect. She’d seen too many broken children, listened to too many grim descriptions of mistreatment, not to be grateful. All the world’s storms were welcome here, if this was the outcome.

  A gust rattled the window, as if instantly taking her up on the invitation. Freyja sighed. She wasn’t looking forward to the inevitable hassle of scraping her windscreen and offered up a silent prayer that for once the heater in her wreck of a car would work. The thought made her shiver. To warm herself up, she reminded herself that winter had its plus sides. As long as the weather was this bad at least she had a break from the pestering of her friends who couldn’t hear of a hill within ten hours’ hike of Reykjavík without wanting to drag her up it.

  ‘Freyja. I’d put away any breakable objects, if I were you. Looks to me like you’ve got a visitor.’ Elsa, the centre’s new director, was standing in the doorway of the cramped little office that Freyja had been allocated after her demotion. The woman, who was around fifty, had been head of a department at the Child Protection Agency before taking over from Freyja after the debacle. It wasn’t considered appropriate for a person who had shot someone to be director of the centre. Even though it was in self-defence. Her bosses had feared a media backlash; that doubt would be cast on her fitness for the role, not least because her brother Baldur was in prison. Fortunately, the agency’s worst fears had not been realised, but by then she had lost the job she loved.

  ‘What? I’m not with you.’ Her numbness gave way briefly to surprise, but that wouldn’t last long. Before she knew it she would be staring listlessly at her screen again, brooding over her fate. Was this to be her life from now on? Was she fated to end up as a dispensable little wheel in the social services machine? Or not even a wheel, just a tiny cog? Her low spirits had nothing to do with her new boss. Elsa was all right, and made an excellent director. No, it was simply that her career, now at a much lower level than she was happy with, was stagnating. The shot she had fired would go on echoing in the Children’s House for years to come. Lately she had toyed with the idea of returning to university and making a fresh start in a different field, though which one she didn’t know. She couldn’t picture herself as a geologist or an accountant. Her talent lay in gaining insights into the minds of children and adolescents, not in analysing rocks or spreadsheets.

  ‘He’s just parked outside. Your friend, the unlucky cop.’

  ‘Huldar?’ Freyja instinctively made a face. ‘He’s not my friend. Quite the opposite. He must be here to see someone else.’

  Elsa tutted. ‘I doubt it.’ She raised a skeletal arm to point out of the window. ‘That is him, isn’t it?’ The woman couldn’t weigh more than seven and a half stone. She didn’t have an ounce of extra flesh to mask or soften her expression and her face appeared unusually animated as a result. She tried to disguise her skinny frame in loose, hippy dresses, but occasionally even these clung to her. A severe haircut only enhanced the impression of a prisoner on hunger strike, particularly when she wore orange.

  Freyja took a quick peek outside. There was Huldar, fighting to close the door of a squad car against the wind. ‘Oh, Christ. I don’t want to talk to him.’

  ‘If he wants to talk to you, you won’t have much choice. Assuming he’s here on official business. I don’t need to remind you how important it is to maintain a good relationship with the police.’ From Elsa’s expression it was plain that Freyja didn’t have any say in the matter.

  The director made herself scarce before Freyja could raise any further objections, leaving her sitting there, praying that Huldar had come to see someone else. She heard the front door open, then the sound of Elsa’s and Huldar’s voices approaching. Before she could finish her prayer they were standing in the doorway, her boss dwarfed by the policeman’s strapping frame. He looked exactly as he had the last time she saw him: tired and haggard. Oddly enough, it suited him. She knew him well enough by now to realise that it was his habitual state. Even in court, dressed in a suit, he had given the impression of needing to go straight home to bed.

  Black shadows under his eyes; stubble; shaggy hair.

  It irked Freyja that this was her type, the weary but upstanding man who wouldn’t waste time in bed yawning. At least he hadn’t, in her experience, though it had only been a one-night stand. But that was his fault for being such an idiot. An idiot – but unbelievable in bed. Before she got carried away with these thoughts, she reminded herself that he was to blame for her present predicament; he had been in charge of the case that had cost her her job.

  ‘No need to introduce you two. Freyja, see if you can help him.’ No mention of what this entailed. Elsa turned and left them to it.

  Huldar grinned awkwardly. He wasn’t as angry with her as she was with him. In fact, he wasn’t angry at all, judging by his constant attempts to renew their acquaintance. Since she had fired that gun they had been thrown together far more often than she liked. They had both been called as witnesses in the trial of the man Freyja had shot and, subsequently, in the much shorter trial of her brother Baldur for possession of an unlicensed firearm. He’d had twelve months added to his existing sentence. Freyja found this the hardest thing to bear, though Baldur himself had taken it on the chin. ‘It’ll give me more time to think,’ he had told her. What it would give him more time to think about, Freyja didn’t dare to imagine. Perhaps Baldur’s lack of resentment was because she had at least tried to lie about the origin of the gun, claiming she’d found it lying about. To give him credit, that bastard Huldar had backed her up, saying untruthfully that he hadn’t a clue how the weapon had come into Freyja’s hands. It hadn’t done any good, though, and being beholden to him only made her more resentful. The presence of Baldur’s fingerprints on the gun had sealed his fate, and she herself had narrowly escaped being charged with perjury. That had been another factor in the decision to demote her.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Yes, do,’ she said coolly.

  ‘Could I maybe sit down too?’

  In the same cool tone she repeated: ‘Yes, do,’ and watched him make himself comfortable. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘You may well ask.’ Huldar laid a sheet of paper on the desk. Observing the untidy scrawl, Freyja reflected that she could have guessed Huldar would have terrible handwriting. ‘I could use the insights of a child psychologist in this case I’m investigating.’ He smiled the same wry smile that had lit up his face when he stood in the doorway. ‘And you’re the only one I know.’

  ‘I see.’ Freyja decided to leave it at that. The less she said, the bet
ter. She didn’t want to give him the impression that she was up for a friendly chat.

  ‘Yes, so … Before I begin … How are you, by the way?’ He held her gaze without blinking. A large part of the bastard’s charm lay in the way he gave her his undivided attention, his air of distraction suddenly gone. No doubt he was like that with all the women.

  ‘Fine. Great.’ She didn’t return the courtesy by asking how he was.

  ‘And your brother?’

  ‘Fine. Great. What was it you wanted to ask?’

  Her curt replies didn’t seem to bother Huldar. He merely smiled again, then explained: ‘I’ve got a note here written by a fourteen-year-old, most likely a boy. I need to know if it’s anything to worry about.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  Huldar handed her the paper. She read it, then handed it back. ‘How long ago was this written and in what circumstances?’

  ‘Ten years almost to the day.’ He told her the story of the time capsule. Freyja listened without interest.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you. This doesn’t give me enough to go on. Though I don’t think you need lose any sleep over it. Lots of teenagers fantasise about killing their enemies one day, but virtually none go on to act it out. You’d need to know the background – if the teenager was angry when he or she wrote it, perhaps because of something the people on this list had done that day, there’s little cause for concern. The letter-writer will have got it out of their system. If, on the other hand, the kid had been nursing this hatred for a long time, that would be more worrying. It’s unlikely, though. It would take a lot to motivate someone to hold on to hatred like that for a whole decade. An awful lot.’

  ‘So there’s hope you’ll forgive me one day?’ Huldar smiled ruefully.

  ‘I said it would take an awful lot, not that it was impossible.’ The smile was wiped off his face and Freyja immediately regretted her words. The truth was that it was hard to go on being angry with someone when they were sitting right in front of you. Much easier when you were alone, brooding on your grievances. ‘All the same, if I were you I’d try to trace the individual in question. I don’t suppose anything will come of it, but at least you’ll be able to dismiss the matter and move on to other cases. I assume the police have more than enough on their plate.’

  ‘No, actually. The weather’s affected the crime rate. We’ve got one major inquiry on the go – a pretty macabre case – but I’m not on the investigation team. It was only by pure chance that I was involved in the early stages. I’m no longer entrusted with anything important.’ This time Huldar’s smile was intended to convey the message that he really didn’t mind, but its lack of conviction merely betrayed how much it rankled.

  Although Freyja knew the feeling only too well, she didn’t say so. If she allowed the tiniest chink in her armour, before she knew it all her defences would be down. She did need a shoulder to cry on, though – someone to listen while she wailed about losing her job; someone, above all, to understand. And that person was sitting opposite her. Her girlfriends were useless; they pretended to be sympathetic but the moment they opened their mouths they gave themselves away. In their opinion, she had only herself to blame. It had been her decision to sleep with the carpenter Jónas, who had turned out to be the cop Huldar; her decision to make it up with him despite clear indications that he was trouble; her decision to take the gun into work so she could hand it over to him; her decision to pull the trigger. It had been nobody else’s fault. So she should just accept what had happened, stop whining, and come along to their hot yoga class. The only person who might have been willing to listen was her brother Baldur, but she couldn’t bring herself to complain to him; however self-inflicted his problems were, it just wouldn’t be appropriate. In the end it was his dog, Molly, who turned out to be Freyja’s best confidante. Despite a tendency to yawn, make faces and roll away during Freyja’s monologues, at least she never criticised her or came up with stupid suggestions.

  But before Freyja could give in to the temptation to open her heart, Huldar continued: ‘Anyway, I’m sure that’s of no interest to you, so I’ll stick to the point.’

  Freyja couldn’t help smiling inwardly. He had unwittingly blown his chance of making peace during this visit. And she would make damned sure he didn’t get any further opportunities.

  ‘I’ve got another letter that looks as if it was written by the kid, presumably on the same day. But I’d like your opinion. Do you think it could be by the same person?’ He passed over another photocopy.

  ‘Well, the handwriting’s similar. But the contents are different. I’m no judge. Don’t you have any experts in the police?’

  ‘Yes, for what it’s worth. I was actually hoping you might spot something in the wording that would suggest it was the same boy.’

  Freyja skimmed the roughly scribbled text. In 2016 there’ll be a nuclear war. It’ll be cold in Iceland but better than in all the other countries where everyone will die. Instead of going to jail, prisoners will be sent abroad. And they’ll die too. Thröstur, 9–B. ‘It could be the same person. It certainly betrays the same negativity. Were the other letters this pessimistic?’

  ‘No. Well, one or two, but nothing like this. Lots of them predicted that Iceland would win the handball world championships, or went on about weird and wonderful modes of transport, or green energy, that kind of thing. Or about what kind of food we’d eat in the future. Luckily most of their predictions haven’t come true. I’m not particularly keen to start dining off insects and seaweed any time soon.’

  ‘Have you asked the school about this Thröstur?’

  ‘No. Not yet. I wanted to hear your opinion first. I felt there was no need to alarm them with the possibility that one of their former pupils might turn out to be a serial killer. So there’s no cause for concern?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. If it is the same boy, he must have been upset for some reason when they handed in the letters. That would explain the negativity. I doubt it’s any more serious than that.’

  ‘Good.’ Huldar showed no sign of leaving, though the conversation appeared to be over. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Freyja gave what she hoped was a sarcastic grin. She had made up her mind to say no more, when, struck by a sudden thought, she added: ‘I assume you’ve checked that no one with those initials has died in suspicious circumstances?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s early days but nothing like that has happened so far this year.’ He drew the photocopies back towards him and rolled them into a tight wad. ‘But 2016 has only just started. Who knows what’ll happen? Hopefully not nuclear war, though. Thanks for your help.’ He smiled again and stood up.

  Freyja watched him go with a feeling of regret that she didn’t care for. She had next to nothing to do and Huldar had at least enlivened a dull day. When he turned in the doorway she presented a carefully blank face, trying to look as though she was glad to see the back of him. ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘Yes, actually. Would you be willing to meet the letter-writer with me once I’ve found out who he is? If he’s still a bit unstable, you’re more likely to pick up on the signs.’

  Freyja answered without stopping to think. ‘OK. It wouldn’t hurt to make sure.’

  Huldar looked pleased and Freyja realised she didn’t have the energy to bear a grudge for ten years. But before she had time to pursue this thought any further, Huldar blurted out another question, seemingly inadvertently. ‘What kind of person would chop off another person’s hands?’

  ‘What?’ She was so taken aback she thought she must have misheard.

  ‘Who’d be capable of chopping off another person’s hands?’

  ‘That depends. Was the victim alive or dead at the time?’

  ‘Alive, most likely.’ The pleasure had vanished from his face.

  Freyja replied without even thinking. After all, she wasn’t aware of any research she could cite to back up her conclusion. ‘A madman. Someone seriously dera
nged.’

  Chapter 3

  This time the e-mail contained no words, only an attachment labelled betrayal.jpeg. It was from the same sender as the others: reckoning@gmail.com. The first one had arrived shortly after midnight on New Year’s Day. There was no question it was from an Icelander. Although short and to the point, the messages couldn’t have been written using a translation program. After each one Thorvaldur had developed a knot in his stomach that no amount of gin and tonic could soothe away. He knew because he’d tried.

  Even the first message had unsettled him, though at the time he’d assumed it must be a mistake. Have you made a will? The opening sentence had given the impression it was spam; he’d received any number of these messages over the years and was always amazed that anyone was idiotic enough to fall for them. What kind of person would make a will in response to an e-mail? But then he’d read further: You’ve seen your last firework display. Go ahead and celebrate the New Year with champagne. There won’t be any more once you’re in your coffin.

  He had long since finished celebrating when he opened the message on New Year’s Day, in the grip of a crippling hangover.

  The e-mails that followed had contained more in the same vein. Threats about his impending death – rather premature, in his opinion. He was only thirty-eight, his life not even half over, and he had no intention of dying before his time. It was ridiculous to be so shaken by this nonsense. He wasn’t used to it. As a rule nothing rattled him: he was never frightened at the cinema, never moved to tears, and had never yet encountered the roller-coaster that could set his pulse racing.

  Therein lay the problem. Being afraid was so alien to him that now he’d let this absurd nonsense get under his skin, he didn’t know how to stop feeling anxious. If only he’d been in a better state when he opened that first e-mail, he wouldn’t be sitting here now with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, incapable of simply binning the message and its attachment. That bloody hangover was to blame for triggering this stupid attack of nerves.