Last Rituals Read online

  Next came those who were under suspicion, at least temporarily. Among them—of course—was Hugi Thórisson, who continuously asserted his innocence. Thóra hurriedly read the main body of his interrogation. Hugi said he had met Harald on the evening in question at a party in Skerjafjördur. They left it for a while and then split up when Harald expressed an interest in going back to the party and Hugi had wanted to head downtown. In the first interviews Hugi revealed little of where they had gone together, only vaguely mentioning a stroll through the cemetery. Later on, when he realized that he was going to be charged with murder, he said they had gone back to his flat on Hringbraut to fetch some drugs that Harald wanted to buy from him. He swore blindly that he not seen Harald after that; he could not be bothered to go out again so he stayed at home. He was unable to give precise times for any of these events, claiming he was drunk and stoned that evening.

  Given how often Hugi was asked whether he could provide more detail about his movements around one o’clock on the morning of Sunday, October 30, Thóra was convinced that an autopsy had revealed this to be the time of Harald’s death. Hugi was repeatedly asked why he had removed Harald’s eyes and where he had put them. Hugi consistently replied that he had not taken his eyes. He had no eyes, apart from his own, of course. Thóra could only pity the poor man if he was telling the truth. She suspected that he was. Although she had only leafed through the case, the feeling remained that it would be highly unlikely for a weak-willed person, as Hugi appeared to be, to tell anything but the truth after such long isolation and intense interrogation.

  Harald’s friends and acquaintances who were at the party in Skerjafjördur were suspects at first, but then they were interrogated as witnesses. There were ten of them in all, including four of the five names on the list Thóra had noticed at the front of the folder. The only name missing was the medical student Halldór Kristinsson.

  All the partygoers told the same story. The party had begun at nine and ended at two when they went into town. Harald had left around midnight with Hugi, but no one knew why. The pair had said they were just popping out and had driven off in a taxi Hugi had ordered. Two hours later the others had given up waiting and gone barhopping. Asked whether they had tried to phone Hugi or Harald, they all gave the same answer: Harald’s battery had died earlier that evening and Hugi did not answer their repeated calls to his mobile or home phone. Nor had anyone answered Harald’s home phone when they rang there. They were also asked about what time they eventually went home from town, but, given the time frame, these questions were more for the sake of form. It turned out that the group had departed at different times, some not leaving until five in the morning. The student friends from the list of names went last, by which time the fifth, the medical student, Halldór, had joined them downtown. Thóra continued browsing in the hope that he had been called in for questioning. He seemed to be the only one who had not been at the party around the time of the murder. Where had he been? Thóra wondered.

  The answer was at the end of the section. Halldór had been interviewed, and it turned out that he had been working until midnight at the City Hospital, where he had a part-time job. That was why he was not at the party. It involved only a handful of shifts a month, Halldór had said; he came in as a substitute when someone was ill or for other reasons. He had taken a change of clothes with him, and after showering at the hospital and getting ready, he took the bus into town. By his own account his car was not working and he gave the name of the garage where it was being mended over the period in question. Halldór said he originally planned to change buses and take another to Skerjafjördur, but he had just missed the last one and decided to go into town to wait for the partygoers at a café instead of forking out for a taxi or walking there. He claimed he had telephoned them and they said they were just on their way. It was around one when he arrived at a bar called Kaffibrennslan, and he bought a beer while he waited, he said. Around two he finally met the people from the party when they arrived in a taxi.

  A series of witness statements followed, interviews with teachers from the history department. These mostly involved how well they knew Harald, and they all said the same—they did not know him outside the university and had little to say about him. There was another question mark over a meeting at the faculty building the night Harald was murdered. It was held to celebrate a cooperative project with a Norwegian university involving a large Erasmus grant. Reading between the lines, Thóra inferred that this “meeting” was more of a cocktail party that lasted well into the evening. The last guests left around midnight. None of the names were familiar to her apart from Gunnar Gestvík, the head of department, and Thorbjörn Ólafsson, the professor supervising Harald’s dissertation.

  The final statements were taken from a barman at Kaffibrennslan and the bus driver who drove Halldór from the hospital into town.

  The waiter, whose name was Björn Jónsson, said he had first served Halldór around one o’clock that night, then several times again within the hour and finally around two when his friends had joined him. He said he remembered Halldór well because of how fast and furiously he drank that night.

  The bus driver also remembered Halldór as a passenger on his last journey. There were very few people on the bus and the two of them had struck up a conversation, discussing the state of the health system and how poorly old people were treated. As far as Thóra could see, Halldór had a fairly watertight alibi. As did all Harald’s friends, except Hugi.

  The reports were followed by several pages of photocopied photographs taken at the scene of the murder. Although blurred and in black-and-white, they were clear enough to give a good idea of the horrific scene. Now Thóra understood even better the shock of the man who found the body, and she doubted he would ever recover.

  The alarm on Thóra’s mobile reminded her that it was a quarter to five. She hurriedly flipped through to the final section, on the autopsy. How strange, she thought, and stood up. There was nothing behind the seventh divider. The section was empty.

  CHAPTER 5

  Thóra reached the day care on time. She met the mother of one of her daughter’s classmates outside in the parking lot. The woman looked at the car with its garage logo and smiled, clearly convinced that Thóra had started going out with some grease monkey. Thóra itched to chase after her and explain that her relationship with the mechanic was strictly business, but instead she walked straight across the school grounds. Sóley went to Mýrarhúsaskóli in Seltjarnarnes, which was not far from where Thóra worked on Skólavördustígur—less than ten minutes’ drive. When she divorced Hannes just over two years before, Thóra had made a firm stand about keeping their house in Seltjarnarnes, even though she had had great difficulty paying for his half.

  Seltjarnarnes was a small town on a peninsula off Reykjavík’s western coast. The surrounding sea was the town’s most distinctive feature and somehow managed to make the residents feel they were surrounded by nature, despite the closeness of downtown. It was perfect for families with children, so property there was in high demand. Thóra was thankful that their house had been appraised before the surge in real estate prices started. Were she getting divorced now, she would not have had a prayer of keeping the house. Of course, this was unspeakably irritating to Hannes, who had nightmares about how much she must have made on the deal. Although she regarded the house as a home rather than an investment, Thóra was pleased about the profit she made on it, really only because of how much it annoyed her ex. The divorce had not exactly been on good terms, although they tried to keep their relationship polite for the children’s sake. A geographical analogy would be India and Pakistan—trouble was always brewing, although it rarely boiled over.

  Thóra went inside and looked around the hall. Most of the children had already gone home. This did not really surprise her, and she had the guilty thought that she was not a good mother. She had followed the Icelandic tradition—have your baby, take six months off, and then reenter the rat race. Nobody s
tayed at home after having kids, so Thóra knew that she was no better or worse than other mothers. This did not stop her from feeling bad from time to time, though. Mother, woman, maiden: the line from the old poem ran through her mind before she realized that the word “woman” hardly suited her. She had not made a single male acquaintance in the two years since her divorce. Suddenly she was seized by a great yearning to make love to a man. She gave herself a gentle shake; it was difficult to imagine a less appropriate place to think about sex. What was wrong with her?

  “Sóley!” the supervisor called out, noticing Thóra. “Your mother’s here.”

  The little girl, sitting with her back to her mother, looked up from the beads she was putting together. She gave a tired smile and swept a blond lock out of her eyes. “Hi, Mum. Look, I’ve made a heart out of beads.” Thóra felt a pang in her own heart and promised herself that she would pick her daughter up earlier tomorrow.

  After a quick stop at the supermarket Thóra and Sóley finally reached home. Gylfi, her son, was already there. His sneakers had been tossed carelessly in the middle of the hallway, and his coat had been hung up on a peg beside the door so hurriedly that it had slid to the floor.

  “Gylfi!” yelled Thóra, bending down to put the shoes on the rack and hang the coat up securely. “How often do I have to tell you to take your shoes and coat off in an orderly fashion?”

  “Can’t hear you,” a voice called from inside the house.

  Thóra rolled her eyes. He could not be expected to hear; the sounds from a computer game were overwhelming. “Turn it down, then!” she yelled back. “You’ll make yourself deaf!”

  “Come here! I can’t hear you!” came the shouted reply.

  “Oh, God,” Thóra muttered as she hung up her coat. Her daughter neatly arranged her own shoes and coat and Thóra was dumbfounded for the hundredth time at how different her children were. Her daughter was a model of tidiness, hardly even dribbled as a baby, while her son would have preferred to live in a heap of clothes where he could throw himself down contentedly at night. But they did have one thing in common: they were both extraordinarily focused when it came to school and homework. Somehow it suited Sóley’s character, but Thóra always found it rather funny when Gylfi, with his long, unkempt hair and clothes with skeletons on them, turned almost hysterical about something like leaving his spelling exercise at school.

  Thóra stepped into the doorway of her son’s room. Gylfi was sitting glued to the screen of his computer, clicking furiously with the mouse. “For God’s sake turn that down, Gylfi,” she said, having to raise her voice even though she was standing right beside her son. “I can’t hear myself think.”

  Without even glancing away from the screen or slowing down his clicking of the mouse, her son stretched out his left hand for a knob on the loudspeakers and turned them down. “Better?” he said, still without looking up.

  “Yes, that’s better,” replied Thóra. “Now switch this off and come and have dinner. I bought some pasta; it only takes a minute to fix.”

  “Just let me finish this level,” the answer came. “Takes two minutes.”

  “Just two,” she said, and turned round. “Let me remind you that it goes like this: one. Then two. Not one, two, three, four, five, six, two.”

  “Okay, okay,” her son replied irritably, carrying on with his game.

  When the food was served fifteen minutes later Gylfi appeared and slammed himself down in his usual chair. Sóley was already seated and yawning in front of her plate. Thóra could not be bothered to start the meal by nagging Gylfi for taking more than two minutes to finish “the level.” She was about to remind him of the importance of this occasion for the family when her mobile started ringing. She stood up to answer it. “You two start eating, and don’t argue. You’re both much more likable when you’re friends.” She reached out for the mobile on the kitchen sideboard and looked at the caller ID, but there was none. She pressed the talk button as she left the kitchen. “Thóra.”

  “Guten Abend, Frau Gudmundsdóttir,” said Matthew’s dry voice. He asked if it was an inconvenient time.

  “No, it’s okay,” Thóra lied. She thought Matthew would be upset if he knew the truth, namely that she was sitting down to dinner. He seemed a polite man, somehow.

  “Have you had time to look at the documents I gave you?” he asked.

  “Yes, I have, but not in any great detail,” Thóra replied. “Actually, I did notice that the police investigation documents were incomplete. I suggest a formal request to obtain them. It’s a terrible drawback having only part of them.”

  “Definitely.” An uncomfortable silence ensued. Just as Thóra was about to add something, Matthew began speaking again.

  “So you’ve made your mind up?”

  “About the case, you mean?”

  “Yes,” he said curtly. “Are you going to take it on?”

  Thóra hesitated for a moment before agreeing. She had a feeling that when she said those words, Matthew heaved a deep sigh of relief. “Sehr gut,” he said in an exceptionally perky tone.

  “Actually, I still have to study the contract. I brought it home to read tonight. If it’s true that it’s ‘fair and normal,’ I can’t see any objections to signing it tomorrow.”

  “Great.”

  “Listen, one thing made me curious: why wasn’t the section about the autopsy in the folder?” Although Thóra knew this could wait until morning, she wanted to know the answer now.

  “We had to make a special application to obtain the documents and I didn’t get them all—just a summary of the main points. I thought it was rather sparse, so I’ve insisted on seeing the entire report,” Matthew replied.

  After a moment’s pause he added by way of explanation: “It complicated the matter a little, me being a representative and not a relative, but fortunately it’s been settled now. In fact, that’s why I rang now instead of waiting to hear from you tomorrow as we had discussed.”

  “Sorry?” Thóra said, not quite grasping the context.

  “I have an appointment at nine tomorrow morning with the pathologist who performed the autopsy on Harald. He’s going to present me with the documents and go through various aspects of them with me. I’d like you to come along.”

  “Well,” Thóra said in surprise. “Okay, that’s fine. I’m game.”

  “Good, I’ll pick you up from the office at half past eight.”

  Thóra bit her tongue to stop herself saying that she generally did not turn up that early. “Half past eight. I’ll see you then.”

  “Frau Gudmundsdóttir—” said Matthew.

  “Do call me Thóra, it’s much simpler,” Thóra interrupted him. She felt like a ninety-year-old widow every time he called her Frau Gudmundsdóttir.

  “Okay, Thóra,” Matthew said. “Just one more thing.”

  “What?” asked Thóra.

  “I’d resist having a heavy breakfast. It’s not going to be a pleasant conversation.”

  CHAPTER 6

  DECEMBER 7, 2005

  Finding a parking space at the national hospital was definitely not the easiest task in the world. Matthew eventually found one some distance from the building where the pathology lab was located. Thóra had turned up at her office early and drafted a letter to the police, demanding access to the documents as the representative of the family. The letter was in its envelope and waiting in Bella’s tray; hopefully it would be posted today, but Thóra still decided to up the odds by labeling the envelope with the words: “Must not be posted before the weekend.”

  Thóra had also called the aviation school to inquire about a debit from Harald’s card in September. She was told that Harald had hired a small private plane and pilot to fly up to Hólmavík and back the same day. After checking Hólmavík on the Internet, Thóra soon realized what had attracted Harald there—its museum of witchcraft and sorcery. She had also telephoned Hótel Rangá to investigate Harald’s trips there, and she was told that he had booked and paid
for two rooms for two nights—the names in the guest book were Harald Guntlieb and Harry Potter. As a pseudonym, the latter displayed a singular lack of imagination. She told Matthew about this and Harald’s trip to Hólmavík as they circled the parking lot.

  “At last,” Matthew said, slipping his rental car into a newly abandoned parking space.

  They walked in the direction of the laboratory, which was located behind the main building. It had snowed during the night and Matthew walked ahead of Thóra, stomping through the piles of slush and ice. The weather was blustery and the bracing north wind tugged at Thóra’s hair. That morning she had decided to wear her hair down but regretted that decision now as the wind swept it in all directions. I’ll look really good by the time I get inside, she thought. She stopped for a moment, turned her back to the wind, and tried to protect her hair by wrapping a scarf over her head. It was hardly fashionable but earned her hair a respite from the gusts. After this ceremony, she hurried after Matthew.

  When they finally reached the building he looked around for the first time since they had left the car. He stared at her with the scarf over her head. She could just imagine how elegant she looked, which he confirmed when he raised his eyebrows and said: “There’s bound to be a bathroom you can pop into when we get inside.”

  Thóra yearned to fire a retort at him, but restrained herself. Instead she gave him a rigid smile and threw open the door. She strode over to a woman pushing an empty steel trolley and asked where they could find the doctor they were supposed to meet. After asking whether he was expecting them, the woman directed them toward an office at the end of one of the corridors. She added that they should wait outside because the doctor was not yet back from a morning meeting.

  Thóra and Matthew sat down in two battered chairs by the window in the corridor.