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

  ‘No. You’re wrong. If we’d managed to kill the lot, I’d have been satisfied. I could have died content. Something broke, you see, when Vaka was murdered. Before that I was happy. I loved her more than life itself. I loved Orri and we lived our lives without hurting anyone else. Then one day she wasn’t there any more. I saw her that morning when we were in a rush and there was no time to say anything that mattered, to drop a kiss on her head or tell her we loved her. We were too busy trying to calm her nerves about her first day at her new school. The last thing I said to her was to make sure she didn’t lose the teaspoon from her lunchbox. Can you imagine? A stupid teaspoon.’ Dagmar was silent for a moment. ‘We never got her school bag back. Or her clothes. They must still be here in your property office. The teaspoon too, probably.’ The woman’s arrogant manner had almost gone, leaving her looking utterly deflated. ‘Before Thröstur came to see us, we were both losing the will to carry on. We couldn’t get out of bed in the mornings. All we could think of was what Vaka must have gone through. Our darling little girl. I used to have fits of retching, imagining that monster groaning and her crying. It’s been like a soundtrack to our lives ever since. Orri wasn’t sick but he used to go into fits of rage. Over nothing.’

  None of them spoke. Of course no child should lose her life in such an appalling manner, violated, bewildered and terrified. But that didn’t justify what had followed. Dagmar drew herself up and continued: ‘Then Thröstur appeared. That evening was a turning point: it gave us a purpose again. Revenge. It became our mission to deal out a just punishment to all those who had put their own interests before the children they were supposed to be protecting. Could there be any more despicable betrayal than that? Not for me. Not for Orri. I don’t know about you, but then you’ve never had to suffer what we’ve been through.’

  Dagmar paused again and silence settled over the room. The lawyer was growing agitated but he seemed to have learnt his lesson about interrupting. ‘As we listened to Einar churning out the whole story something snapped inside me. Inside both of us. At that moment it was like we were standing on the brink, staring down into the vortex. Knowing that if we let ourselves be sucked in, we would be free to satisfy our anger, our thirst for revenge. No more having to struggle to get over it; no more being told to move on and put a cheerful face on things. Did you know that that’s what everyone expects?’ When they didn’t answer, Dagmar continued: ‘Instead, we could devote all our energies to the opposite, to nursing our hatred. The instant I realised this, I swung the hammer and after that there was no turning back.’

  ‘Where was Orri at this stage?’

  ‘In the hall. He walked out after Einar had finished talking. But he wasn’t exactly pissed off about what happened. Oh no. When he came back in he was pleased. Never mind what he says now. Pleased enough to react positively to the idea of doing away with the lot of them after Jón’s release. We were determined to go through with it. Of course we discussed the pros and cons, but before long we started collecting all kinds of stuff that would come in handy. I doubt you’ve been able to trace a single item to us, not now, more than ten years later.’ She searched Erla’s and Huldar’s faces as if hoping to be praised for her ingenuity but they remained impassive. She continued: ‘We bought everything we needed, even the alcohol for Jón. We’d decided how each person was going to die. It wasn’t going to be a case of alive one minute, dead the next. No, their deaths would be drawn out, preceded by something to unnerve them, to give them a hint of what was in store. Looking back, I reckon the sulphuric acid was the most spectacular. I bet Kolbeinn would agree.’ Dagmar smiled proudly, then raised her eyebrows, apparently surprised by the unenthusiastic response of those present. ‘Shortly after we’d sketched out our plan, we took the decision to divorce, to avoid suspicion when the time came. Because no one could carry out an operation like that alone. It was hard, so terribly hard. I loved Orri and he loved me. But those were the lengths we were prepared to go to. After the divorce had been finalised and everyone thought we were sworn enemies, we met up twice a year to discuss our plans. By Vaka’s grave, on her birthday and on the anniversary of her death. Then, when Jón wrote to me that he was getting out, I rang Orri from a friend’s phone, and we met one evening up at the Heidmörk Nature Reserve, to divide up the tasks and finalise all the details.’

  ‘He seems to have left you with all the most important jobs. Is that right?’ Erla pulled over the jug of water and refilled Dagmar’s half-empty glass. ‘Or did he just fail to do his bit?’

  ‘He took responsibility for a variety of things. He provided the accommodation, helped me kidnap the judge and drive him to the holiday house, and we both engineered Benedikt Toft’s death in the garage. But he suddenly lost his nerve. He claimed he was rushed off his feet at work and that if we ended up in the police’s sights he would be under more suspicion than me. Then he started getting paranoid that Jón had been spotted outside the holiday home. I tried to rescue the situation by pretending I’d seen him in town. The intention was to reassure Orri that if they started looking for Jón it would be here in Reykjavík, not in the countryside. I reckon I did a pretty good job of playing a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I used to be that woman once. But not any more.’

  Huldar clasped his grazed hands behind his head. It appeared that Orri had always played a careful game, making sure he didn’t leave behind any incriminating evidence. Perhaps he had been as gung-ho as Dagmar in the beginning but, as she alleged, had second thoughts when he realised that Dagmar didn’t care if they were caught once it was all over. His decision to approach Freyja suggested that he had wanted to give his side of the story before it was too late – indeed, it was thanks to him that they had managed to save Thorvaldur and his children.

  ‘You’d better think long and hard about anything that could link your ex-husband to the offences. Did anyone see or hear him? Is there some tool that might have his fingerprints on it? Anything that could support your allegations? Because he’s telling a very different story. He claims he thought it was all just fantasy on your part and that he lent you the building without realising why you wanted it. Now it’s your word against his and it’s quite possible that he’ll get off far more lightly than he deserves to. You can’t be happy about that. After all, he was the one who turned up late to collect Vaka from school. If he’d been on time, none of this would have happened.’

  Dagmar leant towards Huldar. ‘You know what, Mr Smoker? I couldn’t give a damn. It’s not Orri’s fault he was stuck in a traffic jam. He can get off scot-free for all I care. Jón too. And Sólveig. And Thorvaldur. But they’ll get what they deserve. I’ve nothing to do for the next decade or so but plan how their lives will end.’

  The lawyer interrupted. ‘I advise you not to say another word.’ He looked at Erla. ‘Don’t write that down. She wasn’t being serious. I insist on speaking to my client in private. Now.’

  Erla gathered up her papers. ‘No problem.’ Huldar followed her out but glanced round when Dagmar called out to him.

  ‘Hey, Marlboro Man. We’re not so different, you and me. It’s only a question of degree. In my shoes you’d have done the same.’

  Huldar didn’t answer. He felt a powerful urge to wash his face, to take a hot shower. Dagmar’s words had caught him off balance. It was time to get his life under control.

  He followed Erla upstairs. Once in the office he would tell her about his conversation with internal affairs, thereby putting an end to any further sexual relationship between them. Slightly to his surprise, he was aware of a tinge of regret. But it was too late for that. Now he would focus all his efforts on Freyja. She had been forced to sit in the car with him for over an hour on the way to the crime scene and they had got on fine. You never know, he might be allowed to go down to the lake with her to feed the ducks. He had a hunch that if he made it that far, the battle would be won.

  Epilogue

  They lowered the coffin into the grave. The men were obviously ex
perienced; there was no danger it would tip on its side or land with a bump. They freed the ropes, then withdrew a little to stand, straight-backed and solemn, while the minister spoke a few words, Bible in hand. Thröstur didn’t take any of them in. He was the only mourner in attendance at this reburial, in stark contrast to the original funeral. Few if any of the prominent figures who had filled the pews then would want to be associated with the deceased now. How they must be regretting the praise they had heaped on him in the obituaries. So they should.

  Thröstur hadn’t been intending to go along; it had been a last-minute decision. In his eyes this ceremony marked the end of a journey that had begun long ago at Hafnarfjördur police station. As it happened, neither he, his mother nor Sigrún had been informed that the burial was taking place, since no one had expected them to attend. He had heard the news from Einar’s daughter in Norway. She had rung and he happened to pick up the phone. Her reason for calling had been to tell them about the re-interment but also about a number of other things. If what the woman said was true, her father had been an absolute monster. This wasn’t news to Thröstur. But he was surprised to learn that she and her brother had been abused by their father as kids, and even more taken aback when she told him that Einar had in all likelihood abused his stepson Jón as well.

  That explained everything. That explained nothing.

  Why should a similar experience produce such different individuals? The woman’s brother, Einar’s son, had killed himself after a long battle with depression. She was in no doubt about its cause. She herself had managed to work through her childhood trauma, though she didn’t think she would ever recover completely. Jón, Thröstur’s own father, had taken to drink and ended up the same kind of monster as the man who had moulded him. The next generation had developed in separate ways as well: Sigrún had retreated from the world as far as possible, whereas he had always given it the finger, and now didn’t know how to stop.

  The only thing the woman’s story had actually shed light on was why Einar hadn’t turned his back on his stepson when Thröstur tried, as a little boy, to involve the authorities. It hadn’t simply been a question of avoiding disgrace by association; he had been afraid that Jón would reveal the abuse that he had been subjected to as a boy. It was strange that Jón hadn’t done so later on, during his murder trial, but perhaps he had realised that it wouldn’t make any difference to his punishment.

  The phone call was brief. Once she had got these things off her chest they had only exchanged a few more words, despite the painful experience they shared. That’s just the way it was: he was alone with his sorrows, just as Sigrún was, and the woman in Norway too. They would each have to find a way of coping on their own; standing together wouldn’t make them any stronger.

  That’s why he was here. In a pathetic attempt at a final reckoning with a dead man. The cemetery caretaker hadn’t known what to do with himself once it dawned on him who Thröstur was. In the end he had, like most people, adopted the course of least resistance, pretending he didn’t know that here was the grave robber himself, come to see the coffin returned to its proper place. The minister and pallbearers, on the other hand, had no idea who he was, asked no questions and seemed merely keen to get the ceremony over with.

  The minister snapped the Bible shut and beckoned Thröstur to approach the grave, before moving back. Thröstur stepped onto the planks that had been laid on either side of the hole. He wondered if digging up the coffin had been a wise move, or if it had simply made his problems worse. He couldn’t make up his mind.

  The aim had been to ensure that Einar received a proper post-mortem, so the police would believe Thröstur when he eventually told them that Dagmar had dealt him his death blow. Since no one in the system had ever listened to him before, he had no reason to expect things to be any different this time. But he had wanted to reduce the risk that he or Sigrún would be accused of involvement in Dagmar and Orri’s killing spree. They were obvious suspects since they both had every reason to wish the victims dead. On top of that, he was shit-scared of Dagmar and Orri, and had been ever since that fateful evening. After she had dealt with Einar, Dagmar had told Thröstur that she wasn’t going to leave it at that, and he had been petrified that she would try to get rid of him and Sigrún too. The couple seemed to be capable of anything.

  Only now was that fear dying down. It was nothing like as bad as it had been in the beginning. That first year after he witnessed his grandfather’s murder had been the hardest. Whenever he tried to fall asleep at night he would picture the couple breaking in. The secret of his grandfather’s murder and the woman’s threat had gnawed away at him, feeding his anxiety. Suddenly he’d found it hard to concentrate at school. His entire life had been blighted by the events. It wasn’t until it occurred to him to unburden himself in the time capsule that he’d felt a sense of freedom. There was a degree of comfort in knowing about the information sealed in the earth, waiting to see the light of day. If he was murdered before the couple dispatched their other victims, the letter might help to expose them. It was unbearable to think they might kill him and get away with it. Yet he didn’t dare to foil their plans. Not then.

  Of course Thröstur had wanted them to succeed; his desire for vengeance had probably been equal to theirs and it didn’t cross his mind to try and kid himself otherwise. The difference was that he wanted the couple to get caught in the end. The problem had been to find the right moment to report them, not too soon and not too late. He had tried to find out what his legal position would be if he covered up for them for too long and realised that it wouldn’t be good. That was why he hadn’t dared to let them finish their mission. Sadly. He would have enjoyed knowing that Sólveig had suffered like an insect crushed under the heel of a pitiless child. But he didn’t regret much else.

  Thröstur contemplated the coffin at the bottom of the hole. It was the same coffin that he and his spineless mother had dug up several days ago. During the phone call, Einar’s daughter had told him how she’d laughed when asked if she wanted to buy a new one.

  He studied the battered coffin lid. Beneath it lay the beginning and end of all his troubles. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. He saw, hopefully for the last time, the moment when he had opened the door to Sigrún’s room, the day Vaka had come round to their house to use the phone. He saw his sister, her face swollen with tears, sitting on the bed and tidying the girl’s hair with her brush. He heard his own anguished cries when he pulled the duvet off the girl and took in the fact that she was dead. He only had to see the bloodstain on the sheet to work out what had happened. He knew those stains too well from personal experience.

  Thröstur squeezed his eyes tighter shut. This would be the last time he allowed himself to remember. When he left here it would be to begin a new life. He allowed himself to remember Sigrún’s voice as she told him between sobs that Vaka wouldn’t stop crying. She had cried and cried, and Sigrún had to stop their father hearing her and coming back. But when she took away the pillow the girl’s face was blue and she was lying quite still. Since then she hadn’t been able to wake her up.

  Thröstur re-lived the devastating sense of shock. He couldn’t comprehend how he’d had the presence of mind to take the pillow from Sigrún, carry it into the bedroom where their father was lying in an alcoholic stupor and push the pillowcase against his limp hands in the hope that his prints would be transferred onto it. It had worked. In his memory he walked back into Sigrún’s room, laid the pillow over the girl’s face, gripped Sigrún by the shoulders and told her she hadn’t done anything. Their father had killed her friend. She herself had hidden in the cupboard and now she was to get back in there and wait until someone opened the door. She might have to wait a very long time. While she was sitting in the dark she was to keep thinking about how their father had put the pillow over the girl’s face. Not her. She had remembered wrong. She must never breathe a word of what she’d first thought had happened. Never, ever. Then he shut her in the cupboa
rd and went into his own room.

  Still to this day he didn’t know if Sigrún had succeeded in brainwashing herself or if she remembered what had really happened. His most fervent wish was that she should believe that their father had been to blame. As he had been, all things considered.

  And the man in the coffin, of course.

  Thröstur glanced round at the minister and the pallbearers waiting impatiently.

  Then he unzipped his flies and pissed on the coffin.

  When he had finished, Thröstur walked along the boards and back to the path. The shocked disgust on the other men’s faces meant nothing to him. He strode away towards the exit, feeling more reconciled to life than ever before.