Last Rituals Page 4

  Like the chapter on military service, this one opened with a photocopy. It was his enrollment letter from the University of Munich. Thóra noticed that it was dated only one month after his discharge from the army. So Harald appeared to have recovered quite quickly after leaving the army, if illness was indeed the reason his duty ended. Next came several pages that Thóra could not completely understand. One was a photocopy of the founding agenda of a historical society named Malleus Maleficarum. Another was a reference from a certain Professor Chamiel, singing Harald’s praises, and others seemed to be descriptions of courses in fifteenth-, sixteenth-, and seventeenth-century history. Thóra was not entirely sure what she would gain from this information.

  At the end of this section were clippings from German newspapers describing the deaths of several young men as a result of peculiar sex acts. Reading them, Thóra gathered that the acts involved constricting the breathing with a noose during masturbation. This must have been the erotic asphyxiation Matthew had mentioned. If the article was anything to go by, this was not an uncommon practice among people who have trouble achieving orgasm due to drug abuse, alcohol, and the like. There was no explanatory note linking the story to Harald, apart from the fact that one of the young men had studied at the same university. The student was not named, nor was any date given. However, there must have been some connection since this article was included in the folder.

  Thóra flicked back to Harald’s graduation photograph at the end of the first section. Scrutinizing it, she thought she could see a red mark on his neck above the shirt. She removed the photograph from its sheath to take a better look. It was slightly sharper outside the plastic, but not clear enough for Thóra to be certain that the mark was a bruise. She made a mental note to ask Matthew about this matter as well.

  The last page of this peculiar collage from Harald’s undergraduate years in Munich was the title page of his dissertation. Its topic was witch hunts in Germany, focusing on the execution of children suspected of sorcery. A shiver ran down Thóra’s spine. Of course she had heard about witch hunts in history lessons at school, but did not recall any mention of children. That would hardly have escaped her attention, even though history bored her stiff at that time. Since there was nothing apart from the title page, Thóra tried to console herself by hoping that the essay included no evidence of children being burned at the stake. Deep down inside, however, she knew otherwise. She started reading the section on the University of Iceland.

  It contained a letter stating that Harald’s application for admission to a master’s course in history had been approved and welcoming him to the university in autumn 2004. Next came a printout of Harald’s grades in the courses he had completed. From the date on the paper, Thóra saw that the printout was made after his death. Presumably Matthew had obtained it. Although Harald had not managed to complete many courses in the year or so that he was a student, the grades were all very high. Thóra suspected that he must have been allowed to take his examinations in English, since as far as she knew he did not speak Icelandic. It appeared he had ten credits left to take, as well as the completion of his master’s dissertation.

  On the next page was a list of five names. They were all Icelanders and after each name came an academic discipline and what could have been a date of birth. Since nothing else was mentioned, Thóra assumed they were Harald’s friends; most were of a similar age. The names were: Marta Mist Eyjólfsdóttir, Gender Studies, b. 1981; Brjánn Karlsson, History, b. 1981; Halldór Kristinsson, Medicine, b. 1982; Andri Thórsson, Chemistry, b. 1979; and Bríet Einarsdóttir, History, b. 1983. Thóra read on in the hope of finding more information about the students, but in vain because the next page was a printout of the campus and its main buildings. Circles had been drawn around the history department and Manuscript Institute, as well as the main building. Once again Thóra had to assume that this was an addition from Matthew. It was followed by another printout from the university’s Web site. Thóra glanced through the text, which was in English and described the history department. This was followed by a similar page on study for international students. She could glean nothing from that.

  The last document in the section was a printed-out e-mail sent from hguntlieb@hi. is, obviously Harald’s address at the university. It was to his father, dated shortly after he began his studies in autumn 2004. Reading the e-mail, Thóra was struck by how cold it was for a letter from a son to his father. Essentially it said how happy Harald was in Iceland, that he had secured a place to live, and so forth. Harald ended by saying that he had found a professor to supervise his dissertation: Professor Thorbjörn Ólafsson.

  According to the e-mail, his dissertation would compare the burning of witches in Iceland and Germany, stemming from the fact that most convicted sorcerers in Iceland had been males, whereas in Germany females had been in the majority. It ended formally, but Thóra noticed a PS under Harald’s name: “If you care to make contact, you have my e-mail address now.” This did not imply much affection. Perhaps his discharge from the army was in some way connected with their poor relationship. Judging from the photographs, his father did not seem to be the most understanding of people, and he was bound to be unhappy about a child who failed to live up to expectations.

  On the next page was a curt reply from his father, also an e-mail. It said: “Dear Harald, I suggest that you stay clear of that essay topic. It is illchosen and not conducive to building character. Take care of your money. Regards,” followed by an automatic e-mail signature with his father’s full name, position, and address. Well, well, Thóra thought, what an old bastard! Not a word about being pleased to hear from his son or missing him, let alone signing it “Dad” or the like. Their relationship was obviously chilly, if not in permafrost. And it was also strange that neither had mentioned Harald’s mother, or his younger sister for that matter. Thóra did not know about any other e-mail exchanges between the father and son; there were none in the folder.

  The final document in this section was a printout from the university listing student societies and student publications in various departments. Scanning the list, Thóra noticed nothing interesting until the bottom of the page: “Malleus Maleficarum—History and Folklore Society.” Thóra looked up from the folder. This was the same name that was on the photocopy of the agenda from the founding meeting during Harald’s student days in Munich. She flicked back through the pages to check. Beneath the name of the society on the Icelandic list was written in pencil: “errichtet 2004”—founded 2004. This was after Harald enrolled at the university in Iceland. Could its establishment have been his idea? This was not unlikely, unless Malleus Maleficarum was particularly symbolic for history and folklore. Of course, it could mean anything; Thóra knew no Latin to speak of. She moved on to section five, his bank accounts.

  This was a thick pile of statements from a foreign bank account. Harald Guntlieb was listed as the holder and his turnover looked enormous at first glance, although little was left in the account at the end of the last period. Several entries had been highlighted with a marker pen: pink for large withdrawals and yellow for large deposits. Thóra quickly noticed that the yellow entries were always the same amount, deposited at the beginning of each month. It was a hefty sum, more than she made in half a year—even a busy one. These must be payments from the trust Matthew said Harald had inherited from his grandfather. It was likely that the inheritance was allocated as regular payments to Harald rather than as a lump sum. This was the most common arrangement for young heirs until a certain age was reached, depending on their reliability. Harald Guntlieb had clearly not been considered very responsible, since, according to Thóra’s calculations, he was twenty-seven when he died but still had not been entrusted with the principal. However, considerable sums had accumulated in the account, and Harald’s basic living expenses were obviously way below his monthly allowance.

  The highlighted withdrawals were a completely different matter. They varied in amount and were made at irregula
r intervals as far as Thóra could see. Notes had been written beside most of them, and since there were not so many, Thóra browsed them all. She understood some of the remarks immediately, such as “BMW” beside a large withdrawal in the beginning of August 2004, when she assumed he had bought a car in Iceland. Others she could not make head or tail of. “Urteil G.G.,” for example, was written alongside a hefty withdrawal from Harald’s student days in Munich. Since Urteil means “ruling,” she had a hunch that Harald had needed to pay someone to conceal the reason for his dismissal from the army. However, the date did not fit and she could not imagine what G.G. meant. In another place was Schädel, “skull,” and elsewhere Gestell, which stumped her. She found more withdrawals with no context and decided not to waste her time on them.

  Two entries caught her attention, however. The first, several years old and amounting to 42,000 euros, was yet again designated by the Latin term “Malleus Maleficarum,” while the much more recent one had a question mark beside it. This was presumably the money Matthew said had gone missing, just over 310,000 euros. Thóra calculated this to be more than twenty-five million Icelandic krónur. No wonder Matthew doubted the money had been spent on drugs. If it had, Harald would have had his work cut out for him, even if Keith Richards had been around to help. And judging from the bank statements it also appeared that Harald was not short of money, in spite of such large withdrawals.

  She moved on to the next page, which showed Harald’s credit card use in the months before his death. Scanning through them, she saw that the majority of the charges were to restaurants and bars, with the occasional purchase in clothing stores. The restaurants could all be categorized as what Thóra’s friend Laufey would call “trendy.” Noticeably few transactions were made in grocery stores. A large sum spent at Hótel Rangá in mid-September caught Thóra’s eye, as did another marked “School of Aviation” and a much smaller charge from the Reykjavík family zoo—of all places—dated at the end of September. There were also a number of small purchases in a pet shop on the outskirts of the capital. Maybe Harald liked animals or had even been trying to impress a single mother by gaining her children’s approval. Yet another point to ask Matthew about. The section on Harald’s finances ended with these statements. Thóra looked at her watch and saw that she was making good progress.

  Thóra decided to take a rest from the folder. She turned to her computer and Googled “Malleus Maleficarum.” More than fifty-five thousand results came back. She soon found one that looked promising, with a page description saying that the phrase meant “Witches’ Hammer” and was the title of a book from 1846. Thóra clicked the link and a site came up in English. The only graphics on the page were an ancient drawing of a woman in a cowl, apparently tied to a ladder. Two men were struggling to lift up the ladder and roll it, along with the woman, into a great fire blazing in front of them. She was clearly being burned alive. The woman looked heavenward, her mouth open. Thóra could not tell whether the artist intended to depict her beseeching God or cursing him. But her desperation was obvious. Thóra printed out the page and went to fetch it before Bella removed it from the printer. That girl was capable of anything.

  CHAPTER 4

  There turned out to be five sheets of paper in the printer, not one as Thóra had expected. The Web site actually contained much more than just a single screen’s worth, and Thóra began reading the pages on her way back to her office.

  The brief introductory paragraph stated that Malleus Maleficarum was undoubtedly one of the most notorious books ever written. First published in 1486, it was intended as a manual to teach inquisitors how to recognize, prosecute, and execute witches. It emphasized that black magic and various customs of the common people were now considered blasphemy, which was punishable by death at that time—practitioners were burned at the stake. The book was divided into three parts, according to the article. The first was aimed at making people realize that magic and witchcraft were real phenomena, and also that these were considered evil and unnatural. It stated that the mere act of believing in the existence of the black arts was blasphemous, which was a new ruling. Section two was a compendium of lurid tales about witches’ practices, dominated by sex with demonic beings. The third and final section laid down the foundation for prosecuting witches. It underlined that torture was a permissible means of extracting confessions and everyone was allowed to testify against those accused of such crimes, irrespective of reputation or other normal standards for deeming witnesses unfit or partial.

  The authors of the text were said to be two Dominican Black Friars: Jakob Sprenger, at that time chancellor of the University of Cologne, and Heinrich Kramer, professor of divinity at the University of Salzburg and chief inquisitor in Tyrol. The latter was credited with authoring the majority of the text, as he had been extensively involved in prosecuting witches ever since 1476. The work was reputedly written at the urging of Pope Innocent VIII, who did not appear to be a particularly attractive character according to this account. He was attributed with starting the witch hunts in Europe by issuing the papal bull of December 5, 1484, titled Summus desiderantes affectibus, authorizing the Inquisition to prosecute witches and equating sorcery with blasphemy.

  It also enumerated this pope’s attempts, in old age, to ward off death by drinking milk from women’s breasts and having his blood changed. While this did not grant him a renewed life span, it did cause the death of three ten-year-old boys from loss of blood.

  Thóra learned that the book soon gained widespread circulation with the advent of printing, and also because its authors were known and respected scholars. Catholics and Protestants alike drew on it in their battles against witchcraft. Part of the book found its way into the law of the Holy Roman Empire, now Germany, Austria, the Czech Republic, Switzerland, eastern France, the Low Countries, and part of Italy. Thóra was astonished to read that the book was still regularly published.

  She put down the printout. Interesting as it was, a six-hundred-year-old book hardly shed much light on the death of Harald Guntlieb. Looking at her watch, she saw that she had only an hour left. She stapled the pages together, put them to one side, and turned back to the folder on Harald. She turned to section six, the police investigation.

  At first glance the summary did not look thick enough to contain the case documents in their entirety. Perhaps Matthew had only managed to procure some of them; in fact, Thóra was shocked that he could have obtained them at all without a formal request. She flicked through the contents, which turned out to be a photocopy of the police interrogation reports. A stamp indicated that they had been handed over two weeks before.

  Here she was on home ground. It was all in Icelandic, which was possibly the reason that the Guntliebs had decided to enlist an Icelander. The pages were heavily annotated in an untidy hand, obviously because Matthew had tried to puzzle his way through them. In the upper right-hand corner of most reports he had written a brief note stating who was being interviewed and his or her connection with Harald. Most of the reports were from interrogations of Hugi Thórisson, who was still detained in custody awaiting charges. Thóra was interested to note that throughout the interrogations he had always had the status of suspect rather than witness—something had surely indicated his guilt immediately. Unlike a witness, he was therefore not obliged to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So he could say virtually anything, although it would hardly serve his interests before the court—judges tended to turn grumpy if the accused said they had been out for dinner with Donald Duck or something equally as likely at the time of their alleged crime.

  It suddenly dawned on Thóra how Matthew had obtained the documents. The lawyer appointed to defend a suspect was entitled access to police records. Hugi Thórisson’s lawyer had therefore had access to them all. Thóra quickly flicked through the reports, looking for one in which Hugi had had a lawyer with him, to see who it was. In the first interrogations Hugi was alone. This was only to be expected; people generally do n
ot ask to have a lawyer present at the start of an investigation, presumably because they think it makes them look more suspicious. When the going gets tougher they begin to hesitate and more often than not refuse to speak without one. This had clearly happened in Hugi’s case, because at the very end of the investigation Thóra saw that he had finally had the sense to ask for a lawyer.

  Finnur Bogason had been assigned to him. Thóra recognized the name. Finnur was one of those lawyers who generally handle cases in which they are appointed to the defense. In other words, no one approaches them of their own accord. Thóra was convinced that, for the right sum, he would have given Matthew the documents. Pleased with her powers of deduction, she started reading through the interrogations.

  The reports were not arranged chronologically, but according to the person being interviewed. Several witnesses were only interrogated once. These included the university porter, the cleaners, Harald’s landlady, a taxi driver who had given him and Hugi a lift on that fateful evening, and several of his fellow students and teachers. The head of the history department, who discovered the body, had been interviewed twice because he was in such a state of shock the first time that he had not spoken a word of sense. Thóra pitied the poor man; it must have been a terrible experience, and the horror of finding a corpse in his arms oozed from every sentence of the interrogation.