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

  Chapter 34

  There was no doubt they were on the right track. A host of recent tyres had torn up the snow on the dirt road. As they drew nearer, they spotted lights and Huldar instinctively accelerated, sending gravel flying up on either side. They skidded on a bend and he slowed down a little, not for fear of losing control of the car but because Freyja screamed, gripped the door-handle for dear life and shrieked abuse at him the rest of the way up to the house.

  The headlights of a whole fleet of vehicles lit up the area, throwing every flaw in the bare concrete walls of the building into stark relief. Nevertheless, it was easy to imagine how the house would look if the construction were ever completed: large and imposing in its arrogant simplicity. Summer palaces like this had sprung up all over the country in the period when people were deluded into believing themselves richer than they really were, and quite a few were waiting, half completed like this one, for the good times to return. Huldar, never having belonged to the rich set, didn’t know if he would have been tempted by a prize like this. He hoped not.

  Boards had been nailed across all the windows, but light was spilling out of the open front door from the powerful floodlights inside. It must be jam-packed in there, however ridiculously large the so-called ‘summer cottage’. As well as the Forensics van, he recognised cars belonging to Erla and the pathologist, and a couple of other police vehicles from Reykjavík. In addition there were two ambulances parked in the drive and two police cars from Borgarnes. The silhouette of a hunched figure was visible in the back seat of each of the Reykjavík squad cars. One appeared to be a woman – Dagmar, Huldar assumed. The other was a man, his short, dark hair a greasy mess. Jón Jónsson or Thorvaldur?

  Huldar and Freyja jumped out of the car. The mountainsides echoed with the slamming of their doors and the snow creaked underfoot. The frost was harder here than in town and their breath produced clouds of steam. A strange odour hung in the windless air. Sadly, it was one Huldar was all too familiar with – the stench of decomposition. Slapping his coat pockets, he discovered that he’d forgotten to bring the menthol cream for smearing under one’s nose at times like this. ‘Maybe you’d rather wait outside.’ He glanced at Freyja but she shook her head. ‘Pull your jumper over your nose, then. This is going to be extremely nasty.’ She paused to follow his suggestion, then accompanied him inside, her eyes wide and staring.

  Huldar found Erla talking to a policeman he didn’t recognise, presumably one of the officers from Borgarnes. They were standing at the top of the stairs to the basement, which seemed to be the source of the appalling stench.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  Erla turned. ‘Fine. Considering. We’ve got one pretty horrific corpse. But it could have been worse.’ Looking past him, she clocked Freyja. ‘I hope she’s here for the kids and not as your special guest.’

  ‘She came for the kids. Where are they?’

  Erla looked back at Huldar, a gleam of menthol cream under her nose. ‘In the ambulance. I suggest she gets her arse over there. Now. Before she pukes all over her fancy shoes.’ Erla had sharp eyes; Freyja’s footwear was totally inappropriate for a crime scene.

  Huldar went back to join Freyja, who must have heard every word. She pretended not to care but her eyes were narrowed angrily above her jumper.

  ‘The kids are in one of the ambulances. You’d better go and see to them.’

  She stalked off without a word, the clacking of her heels echoing in the bare concrete interior.

  ‘Well, then. Want to take a peek downstairs?’ Erla’s mood improved the moment Freyja had gone. Perhaps she was mollified by his unquestioning obedience. ‘Though I warn you, it’s a sight you won’t forget in a hurry. Would you rather skip it?’

  ‘No.’ He was lying, but then he had no choice. Huldar really didn’t like corpses. The smell alone was bad enough, without having the grisly vision imprinted on your memory. He took the menthol from Erla and wiped it under his nose but it didn’t help much.

  Erla went ahead, apparently immune to the smell that grew more sickening with every step. She had been there longer than him and seemed to have become de-sensitised. But then she was tougher than many of her male counterparts – in this as in other areas. ‘The pathologist has just finished. He went with Forensics to fetch a stretcher and other equipment for removing the body. That should improve the atmosphere a bit.’ She didn’t hesitate when they reached the bottom of the stairs but walked straight over to the open steel door, towards the source of the light.

  Huldar followed. He did his best to empty his mind in the hope that he would be able to survey the scene dispassionately, without taking in what he was seeing. But it was no good. He halted in the doorway, staring aghast at the body that had once been the Supreme Court judge, Yngvi Sigurhjartarson. At least, it must be him because the corpse was missing its hands and feet.

  ‘They held him captive here, Dagmar and Orri. He was here for two months, believe it or not, after they ambushed him. Dagmar said it didn’t take much to encourage him to write the suicide note, just the promise that, if he did, they wouldn’t kill him. People believe all kinds of bullshit when they have no choice. They left him food and water but the house is so remote that they couldn’t get out here very often, so the food can’t have been too appetising by the end.’

  ‘Did you say they?’ Huldar asked, his voice muffled by his elbow. He couldn’t even pretend to out-tough Erla in a situation like this.

  She turned her head, but didn’t comment when she saw how he was taking it. He was hardly the first person who couldn’t cope with the smell of decomposing flesh. ‘She insists that she and Orri plotted the whole thing in collusion. The divorce was part of the plan, to stop anyone guessing that they were working together. I know he denies taking any part in it, but that’s her story. The truth’s bound to come out in the end.’

  ‘Yes, let’s hope it does.’ Futile to waste time wondering about the details now. Tomorrow, the police would commence their interrogation of Dagmar and Orri, which would eventually extract the truth, or at least one version of it. In complex cases like this, the police never felt confident of all the facts by the end of the inquiry. Some details were neither right nor wrong; they came down to the perception of the individual.

  The corpse’s grey skin was like marble where it was visible under the bloodstained clothes. The stumps were an ugly mess. The arms looked worse than the legs; there had been a chance for bruises and gangrene to develop before the man died, whereas the cuts on his legs looked relatively clean. A film covered the open eyes, obscuring their colour, and the bluish lips were parted as if the man had emitted a sigh as he finally gave up the ghost. Of relief, perhaps.

  ‘According to the pathologist, he’d have been unlikely to survive long even if he’d been allowed to keep his hands. There’s a nasty abscess from the tight bonds on his wrists, where he must have injured himself trying to break free. The poor guy had nothing else to do. The doctor says he’d soon have developed septicaemia from the wounds – that’s if he didn’t suffer a cardiac arrest. He wasn’t in very good shape to begin with.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Huldar prayed fervently that it wouldn’t involve lingering down here. His gaze fell on a small, petrol-powered chainsaw on the floor beside the door and he could almost hear the whine of the motor and the poor man’s screams.

  ‘Can you take over interviewing Thorvaldur? Remember how insufferable he was when we questioned him before?’ Huldar nodded. ‘Well, he’s a changed man – for the moment anyway. So we’d better take advantage before he recovers.’

  On his way out Huldar spotted a bloodied, skin-coloured lump on the other side of the room and paused. In front of it was a small, yellow, numbered marker, placed there by Forensics to show that it was evidence. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Oh, that’s Thorvaldur’s hand.’ Erla walked over to join him. ‘She sawed it off.’

  ‘I don’t understand why they can’t reattach it. It has to be wo
rth trying.’ Thorvaldur was lying on a stretcher in the ambulance. The doctor had joined the driver in front while Huldar talked to the patient for the ten minutes he had been allotted. Thorvaldur was almost unrecognisable as the smartly dressed, supercilious prosecutor who had sat in the police interview room only yesterday. The same expensive suit could be glimpsed under the blanket but the collar of his shirt was now twisted and grimy, and his jacket had seen better days. His hair, too, was wet and unkempt, his face ashen under the filth. His left arm was resting on top of the blanket, wrapped in a white bandage and unnaturally short.

  ‘The doctor says the cut wasn’t clean enough and that too long a time has passed. When did it happen?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some hours ago.’ Thorvaldur cradled the stump with his right hand. ‘But not that many. Why won’t they even try?’

  ‘They know what they’re doing. At least it wasn’t your right hand.’

  ‘I’m left-handed.’

  ‘Oh.’ Huldar looked away, ashamed that he hadn’t noticed. ‘It could have turned out worse. Try to hold on to that thought.’

  Thorvaldur raised his eyes to Huldar’s face. ‘How are the kids? Are they all right? Karlotta …’

  ‘They’re being looked after. They’re young. They’ll get over it.’

  ‘You think so? Really?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Of course he knew nothing about it but he allowed himself to hope.

  ‘I tried. I tried and I lost my hand as a result. That was the end for me. I couldn’t bear to lose the other one. I should’ve given in straight away … should’ve …’

  ‘Should have what?’

  Thorvaldur dropped his gaze to his arm again. ‘I was given a choice. To end up like the man under the blanket …’

  ‘Yngvi Sigurhjartarson. The Supreme Court judge.’

  ‘Seriously? I should have recognised him. But that … this … the corpse looked nothing like him.’

  ‘No. I don’t suppose it did.’ Huldar tried to shrug off a mental image of the man’s hideously disfigured face. ‘Go on – you were given a choice between ending up like him and what? What was the alternative?’

  ‘To sacrifice one hand for Karlotta, the other for Dadi. If I sacrificed both my hands, they’d be spared. But in the end I could only save one of them.’

  ‘Were you told they’d be killed?’

  ‘No. They’d be raped. By Jón Jónsson. She said that shouldn’t bother me because I’d shown before that I thought it was OK. She dragged him in to prove to me that he was really there.’

  ‘I see. Was she referring to the time when Thröstur came to you for help years ago, when you were temping with Hafnarfjördur Police?’

  ‘Yes.’ Thorvaldur’s eyes were suddenly swimming with tears. ‘But it wasn’t like that. I never thought it was OK. I just didn’t have any choice.’

  ‘We always have a choice, Thorvaldur. The way I understood it, you did nothing to help Thröstur because you received such a good job offer from his grandfather. Isn’t that the truth?’

  ‘It was much more complicated than that. His grandfather said he’d see to it that I was sacked if I took the matter any further and I couldn’t face having that on my CV. And he claimed the boy was a pathological liar and that this wasn’t the first time he’d gone to the authorities with a pack of nonsense. For all I knew, it might have been true – how was I to know the man was a liar himself? Then he added that if I kept quiet, he’d make sure I landed a plum position at the Prosecutor’s office after I graduated. Because I’d have proved I could be relied on.’ A tear ran down his cheek, into his ear. ‘He kept his promise. It was my big chance. I didn’t have any connections. I’d have been forced to work my way up, waste years at the bottom of the pile in some crappy, two-bit practice. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. And he said the boy was a liar. That’s what he said.’

  ‘Which was bullshit. Thröstur was telling the truth.’ Huldar couldn’t bring himself to pity Thorvaldur; the man was feeling sorry enough for himself. The tears kept on flowing. ‘Tell me about Karlotta. We need to know exactly what happened so she can be given the help she needs.’

  Thorvaldur sniffed. ‘At first I didn’t believe she was serious about cutting off my hand. The chainsaw seemed so unreal somehow. I apologised for failing Thröstur and indirectly failing her daughter as a result. I kept saying sorry over and over again. But she wouldn’t listen, she just kept insisting I had to choose between letting Jón Jónsson abuse my children or sacrificing my hands. So I said I wanted to save Karlotta and Dadi, and held out my hand. The kids were out of their minds with terror – completely out of their minds – clinging to me while all this was happening. I’d got down on my knees so I could hug them, and I held out my arm, thinking she would chicken out. But she didn’t. She grabbed it and lifted the saw. Then …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I blacked out. When I came round, the stump was numb and some rags had been wrapped round it. She was still standing there. Karlotta and Dadi had fled into the corner, terrified. They were covered in blood. I remember feeling desperately thirsty. But she didn’t give me any water. Just kicked me in the side and told me to choose: I’d saved one of my children, but not the other. And I gave in. I couldn’t take any more.’ He fell silent, closed his eyes, then carried on: ‘Karlotta and Dadi started screaming – I don’t think they understood what was happening but they knew it had something to do with them – that I’d betrayed them. But I had no time to comfort them because she said she was going to count to ten, then I’d have to choose which of them to sacrifice.’

  ‘And you chose Karlotta?’

  ‘I couldn’t think. I was in shock. The only thing I could take in was the numbers – each one seemed infinitely precious because as long as she was counting I didn’t have to say either name aloud. Then suddenly she reached ten. And I blurted out “Karlotta”. I don’t know why. It was only after she’d taken her out of the room that I wondered what I’d have done if I’d been given time to think properly. I still couldn’t decide. Is it worse for a boy or a girl to suffer that? Is it better to be younger? Or older? Did I make the right choice?’

  ‘Both choices were equally bad.’ Huldar saw the doctor twist round in the front seat, his expression horrified. He tapped his watch to remind Huldar that his time was nearly up. ‘You keep saying she. Did you see the woman’s face? Would you be able to recognise her again?’

  ‘Yes.’ Thorvaldur closed his eyes. ‘I don’t suppose she ever meant to let me or the kids survive. Perhaps we were lucky after all.’

  ‘There’s no question about that.’ Huldar put a hand on Thorvaldur’s shoulder. ‘One more thing before I let you go. Did you see anyone else apart from her? A man, for example?’

  ‘I saw Jón Jónsson. She showed him to me. No one else, though. She was alone.’

  Huldar clasped his shoulder in parting, then stood up. After he had climbed down from the ambulance, Thorvaldur called out hoarsely: ‘What would you have done? Which one would you have chosen? Karlotta or Dadi?’

  Huldar turned. ‘I can’t answer that. I don’t have any kids.’ He closed the doors behind him.

  Freyja was sitting in the back of the second ambulance with Karlotta in her arms. The girl was wrapped in a blanket and had her face buried in Freyja’s chest. A pink sock, the sole wet and black with dirt, poked out from under the blanket. Her thin little body was shaking with sobs. Her brother was lying curled up in a foetal position on the stretcher, apparently asleep. Huldar climbed in, pulling the door to behind him. ‘How is she?’

  Freyja shook her head. ‘Not good. I’m going back to town with the ambulance. They’ve got a doctor and a nurse waiting at the Children’s House, and they’ve called out a nurse from the emergency services for victims of sexual violence as well.’

  ‘So he …?’ Huldar gestured wordlessly, hoping she would understand.

  Freyja shrugged and gently lifted the blanket off the little girl. She was naked from the waist down apart f
rom her socks. ‘Unclear. We’re about to head off; I’m just waiting for the doctor.’

  Huldar nodded. ‘I’ll call you, if it’s not too late when I get back. Otherwise, talk to you tomorrow.’ He reached out a hand to the little head and stroked the dirty, sweat-stiffened hair. ‘Good luck. The worst is over.’

  After that he stood in the driveway for a while, puffing out his cheeks and taking quick panting breaths in an effort to contain his rage. He kept trying to get himself under control and was still trying when a second doctor emerged from the house and climbed into the ambulance to join Freyja and the children.

  The two ambulances moved off. He watched the rear lights until they vanished behind a hill.

  ‘Are you coming?’ Erla called from the front door.

  ‘Just going to have a smoke. Be with you in a sec.’ His voice was deep and hollow with tiredness.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ Erla sounded worried. ‘Make sure you don’t throw up anywhere near the house.’

  ‘I’m fine. I’ll be along in a minute.’ Huldar forced a smile and Erla disappeared back inside. He lit up and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. The nicotine did nothing to soothe his murderous anger; if anything, it intensified it. But the fury brought a certain clarity, freeing his mind from thirty years of indoctrination in good behaviour, in knowing right from wrong. Sometimes violent instincts had to be given their head.

  Best get it over with.

  Still smoking, he walked towards the police car where Jón Jónsson was being held. He halted by the rear door and took another drag while looking the man over. He recognised him from the photographs: his face was puffier and dirtier but still the same ugly mug, the same sly expression. Sensing that someone was standing beside the car, Jón Jónsson swung his head round and met Huldar’s eye. His mouth hung open stupidly as he stared at the policeman. He was dead drunk.

  Huldar inhaled again and the glowing end of his cigarette grew longer. Then he opened the car door, to be hit by a sour reek of alcohol that he was all too familiar with. It was what people smelt like after drinking for days on end. Jón was swaying slightly, trying to find his balance. When Huldar spat in his face, he didn’t even seem to notice.