The Legacy Read online

  ‘Big head?’ Huldar frowned. ‘Is there a recording of this?’

  The others were looking at Freyja, so she was forced to answer, though her reluctance was obvious. ‘Yes,’ she snapped. ‘You can have it later.’ The others seemed a little taken aback by her tone.

  Konrád broke the awkward silence that followed. ‘It’s hardly worth your while listening to the recording. It was totally unsatisfactory.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Anyway, we need to decide the next move. How are we to proceed?’ His eyes dropped to his phone as if seeking the answer there. ‘We could always take her to the station, whether she likes it or not, and finish it off there. We really can’t postpone any longer.’

  ‘No. Agreed.’ Out of the corner of his eye Huldar saw Freyja stalk out of the room. A moment later she reappeared on the other side of the glass where she started talking to the young woman in the yellow dress. Margrét had gone, presumably with her grandfather.

  ‘That would be extremely inadvisable.’ The doctor now sounded like the automaton familiar from the courtroom. ‘The girl’s seriously traumatised and you risk compromising her evidence if you handle her in a clumsy, ignorant manner. How often do we have to remind you people?’ She showed with a forceful gesture of her hand that she was referring to Konrád and Huldar as representatives of the State Prosecutor and police. ‘Children of that age are extremely suggestible; they have an overwhelming tendency to say what they think people want to hear. If you want to confuse her and implant a false impression in her head, then by all means carry on. And good luck when the defence lawyer – if you ever apprehend the culprit – makes mincemeat of her testimony in court. If I’ve understood correctly, it’s not as if you have any other witnesses.’

  ‘That has yet to be established.’ Huldar spoke against his own conviction. Naturally they would interview the husband and friends of the dead woman, her closest colleagues and so on, but it was practically a foregone conclusion that these people would know nothing about what had happened that night. The interviews would merely serve to round out their picture of the victim and, with luck, provide pointers about anyone who could conceivably have resorted to such an appallingly brutal act.

  Huldar caught himself staring at Freyja through the glass. Easy on the eye though she was, it wasn’t her appearance that drew his attention but the fact that from their body language she and the woman in the yellow dress appeared to be discussing something important. The woman who had been talking to Margrét was holding a hand to her breast and seemed upset. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising – her role was to prevent the child from becoming distressed. He glanced quickly away when Freyja turned and seemed to be looking straight into his eyes. Then he remembered the mirror. He returned his attention to the doctor. ‘But, in spite of that, I agree with you that we should stick to the present arrangement if possible. When do you think we can have another go?’

  The doctor shrugged. ‘They’d know better than me.’ She gestured at the glass. Freyja and the woman in the yellow dress were leaving the interview room. ‘Though I assume we won’t make any further attempt today.’

  ‘I’m sorry but that’s out of the question.’ Huldar shook his head. ‘We need to speak to her without delay. And that means today. We urgently need answers, even if only to a few basic questions.’

  Behind him he heard a cough. When he looked round, Freyja was there. It was uncomfortable having to meet her gaze. He realised that she was as stunning as he remembered, and the faint, familiar scent of her conjured up memories that were inappropriate, to say the least, given the situation. Pulling himself together, he pushed the thoughts away.

  ‘Right at the end, Margrét told Silja something you’ll want to know.’

  Huldar interrupted before Freyja could continue. ‘What was it? Could she give a better description than just his skin colour?’

  ‘If I can finish?’ Freyja’s colour had risen. He seemed to have sunk even lower in her estimation. ‘Margrét told Silja that the black man was going to kill again. Another woman.’

  Suddenly Huldar no longer cared what Freyja thought of him.

  Chapter 6

  Elísa Bjarnadóttir lay naked on the stainless steel dissection table in the National Hospital pathology department, as if patiently waiting for the post-mortem to be over. But her rigid attitude – slim arms at her sides, legs straight – was one no living person would adopt. Her long, dark hair hung from the table, still wet from the wash they had given her body after they had completed the external examination and the nightmarish task of prising the duct tape off her head. Countless strips of tape were now hanging on a drying frame in the corner. It was hoped that some of the murderer’s hairs would be found clinging to them. Naturally, the innermost layer was covered in Elísa’s own hair, although they had exercised the greatest possible care when removing it. The strips would also be checked for fingerprints, in case the murderer had touched the tape with bare hands. The forensic technicians certainly had their work cut out. They were unlikely to discover any prints, though, given that none had been found on the body apart from those belonging to the policeman who was first on the scene. The presumption was that the murderer had been wearing gloves since it must have been necessary to manhandle the woman quite a bit.

  From the thirteen bruises he had found, the pathologist concluded that the killer had attacked Elísa violently and that she had fought back. She must have done. It was unthinkable that she would have surrendered to her horrific fate without a struggle. The white flesh of her arms was covered in marks left by hard fingers, and the pathologist deduced from the large, round contusion on her chest that her assailant had leant the full weight of his knee on her. The front teeth in her upper and lower jaws had been smashed, apparently by the brutal act of forcing the metal tube of the vacuum cleaner down her throat. The pathologist assumed they would find the broken crowns in her stomach. Her nose was grotesquely squashed to one side, and this, along with the welts left across her face by the tape, which had not faded when she was washed, provided further visual evidence of her ordeal. In the corner of the lab, beside the drying frame, a silver vacuum cleaner sat waiting to be taken away for further analysis. Recalling the circumstances in which he had first seen it, Huldar felt an impulse to avert his eyes. The sight of the woman was even worse, yet it wasn’t easy to look away either.

  The occasional drip fell from her shining, wet hair and a small puddle had collected on the tiled floor underneath.

  ‘It’s not every day you’re faced with something like this.’ The pathologist shook his head. ‘I saw some grim stuff during my training in Scotland, but since coming home I’ve had nothing like this land on my table.’

  ‘Any vacuum-cleaner killings there?’ Huldar hoped his voice wouldn’t betray him. He’d seen a fair amount in his job, including dead bodies and people smashed up in accidents and fights. Two images in particular rose to mind: one of an ear torn off a man when his car had turned over, which Huldar had found lying on a bed of moss; the other of a body in the aftermath of a house-fire, which had fused to the melted linoleum. But these and countless other unpleasant incidents had felt different somehow; not nearly as upsetting. He’d never before had to poke around inside a corpse or watch as a pathologist probed every orifice in search of specimens that might shed light on the identity of her killer.

  Up to now Huldar had managed to avoid post-mortems; others had dealt with that side of things in the few murder investigations he had worked on. And just as his bosses had shielded him when he was a rank-and-file officer, so he couldn’t delegate the task to a subordinate now that he was in charge of his first major inquiry. He would have to tough it out. If word got around that he couldn’t hack it, he’d be head of the investigation in name only. His team would spend more time bitching about his lack of balls than obeying orders – not that they would cope any better. He’d command as little respect as Ríkhardur. It wasn’t a case of becoming desensitised to the horror but of putting on a brave face, faking indiffere
nce, even though his insides were turning over at the sight and smell.

  ‘I don’t just mean in Scotland. Have you ever heard or read about anything like this?’

  The pathologist shook his head. ‘No, not that I remember. I’ve read about some pretty unorthodox murder weapons, like high-heels and even a corkscrew, but never a vacuum cleaner.’

  ‘No. It’s not exactly the first thing that springs to mind if you want to kill somebody.’ Huldar glanced briefly at Elísa’s battered, waxen face, then away again. ‘I’m asking myself, why go to all that trouble? It would have been much simpler to use a knife.’ A large kitchen knife had been found at the foot of the bed, along with three rolls of duct tape; only the cardboard centres had been left of two, but there were still several metres’ worth of silver tape on the third. It had been used to blindfold Elísa and block off her eyes, ears and nose, presumably to ensure that the vacuum cleaner could do its job without drawing in any more air. A preliminary examination indicated that the knife had been used to cut the tape. No blood had been found on the blade or anywhere else at the scene.

  ‘Yes, you’d have thought so. The M.O.’s so outlandish that in your shoes I’d concentrate my energies on that. Is the murderer trying to make the history books? Does he have a phobia about blood or prefer to kill by some method that doesn’t involve piercing the flesh? Or could it be symbolic in some way? That’s plausible. Otherwise it’s hard to imagine why he would come up with such a bizarre method.’

  ‘What if he’s a psycho?’ The thought had struck Huldar the instant he laid eyes on the scene in the victim’s bedroom. He hadn’t had the time or imagination to come up with any alternative explanations.

  ‘A psycho?’ The pathologist appeared surprised by the question. ‘I assume you’re referring to a psychotic. You’d better be careful if you’re going to pursue that angle. The mentally ill are rarely violent. In fact, they’re much more likely to be victims than perpetrators. And if they do act violently, it’s usually against themselves. No, I don’t think you’re looking for someone who’s mentally ill. He’s almost certainly got a serious personality disorder, but the evidence doesn’t point to the sort of hallucinations or delusions associated with psychosis.’

  ‘No. Maybe not.’ Huldar wasn’t prepared to abandon the insanity theory entirely, though he was willing to put it to one side while considering the method and the murderer’s apparent squeamishness about blood or piercing and cutting flesh. Unfortunately, though, this was unlikely to provide them with a lead, since there was no national database of people’s phobias. Then again, the angle might come in useful once they had a suspect in their sights. If they ever reached that point.

  While the pathologist was preparing the next stage, Huldar inspected the small, transparent plastic bags and glass jars on the trolley beside the table. If no evidence was obtained from the adhesive tape, it was still possible that these biological specimens might help identify the culprit. Some of the jars had already been removed, since the assistant had taken advantage of the hiatus to pass them on for analysis.

  As a rule, Icelandic murderers confessed as soon as they were caught, so cases were rarely won or lost on the strength of forensic evidence, though occasionally it had to be produced in court to bring stubborn individuals to their senses. In practice, most saw the light once the evidence was stacked up against them, and even seemed relieved at the chance to unburden themselves. Before you knew it they were busy trying to convince themselves and others that it was all an accident; they were fundamentally decent people and the whole thing had been an unfortunate mistake. It was amazing how keen most were to ingratiate themselves with the police in an attempt to make them understand their side of the story. As if it mattered. It wasn’t the police’s job to pass judgement, merely to establish the facts. Huldar wondered if Elísa’s murderer would react the same way once he was standing before him. How would he justify what he had done? Or would he belong to the tiny minority who never confessed?

  A clear, viscous fluid oozed from the corner of Elísa’s mouth like a teardrop that had gone astray. Huldar raised his eyes to the pathologist, only to see that he had picked up an electric saw. His stomach turned over.

  The doctor examined the tool as if debating its suitability. Then, apparently satisfied, he placed it on a tray with the other instruments. Each looked more sinister than the last. You could tell they weren’t designed with a living patient in mind: Huldar would have run a mile if he saw a doctor approaching him with one of those.

  ‘Who do you suspect? The husband?’

  ‘Too soon to tell. He’s only just got back to the country. They questioned him this morning but I haven’t had a chance to read the transcript yet. I had to dash straight here from the Children’s House. But I had a word with one of the guys who interviewed him and it sounds unlikely he was involved. According to them he’s distraught. And we’ve got confirmation that he was abroad when the murder was committed. He was at a conference with another Icelander who travelled over with him, so he can’t have gone anywhere near the actual killing. Though maybe he’s a good actor – paid someone else to do his dirty work. The only information we’ve managed to extract from the little girl so far is that the killer was black.’

  ‘Black? That should make your life easier.’ The pathologist’s expression grew serious again. ‘What sort of state’s she in?’

  ‘Shit.’ There was no other word to describe Margrét’s condition. Huldar steered the conversation back to the murder, uncomfortable about discussing the girl in the presence of her mother’s corpse. ‘It’s not clear yet if she meant the man was wearing black trousers and shoes, or if she was referring to his skin colour. She probably got a glimpse of his feet and legs from under the bed, though she claims she saw his head too, presumably before she crawled into hiding. She described it as unusually big.’

  ‘Big?’

  ‘That’s what she said. But what would a child regard as a big head? I don’t know.’ Huldar lowered his eyes to avoid having to watch as the pathologist prepared to resume work. The little he had seen so far had been gruesome enough. He half hoped the assistant had got lost in the hospital’s labyrinthine corridors so the second part of the post-mortem would have to be postponed. He was desperate for nicotine but couldn’t stomach the idea of putting anything in his mouth. Certainly not gum. Even if a lit cigarette was placed between his lips he wasn’t sure he could face smoking it. The less he inhaled in here, the better.

  ‘Don’t ask me. Can’t you get an artist to sit down with her?’

  ‘Sure. All in good time. She’s refusing to see anyone at the moment, so we’ve given her a bit of breathing space. We’ll test the water again later this afternoon or this evening. We urgently need to get this straight. I can’t send my people out hunting for a dark-skinned suspect when she could have been referring to his clothes.’ Huldar suddenly remembered what he had wanted to ask the pathologist. ‘Elísa’s husband is a doctor here at the hospital.’

  The pathologist raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh? Who is he?’

  ‘Sigvaldi Freysteinsson. He’s a gynaecologist.’

  ‘Never heard of him. Is he the same age as his wife?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’m unlikely to have come across him. They’re a different generation. I’m so old I hardly know any of the younger doctors.’ The pathologist snapped on a pair of latex gloves. ‘Leaving aside her husband, I’d be willing to bet she knew her killer. It’s rare for a complete stranger to attack a victim with the sole purpose of torturing them. And you can’t call this anything else. Though her death can’t have taken long, her ordeal must have been indescribable. You saw her teeth – it would have required an act of incredible brutality to shove the tube down her throat. And the air was sucked out of her lungs with such force that they collapsed, probably resulting in burst eardrums and a number of other internal injuries that we’ll discover when we open her up. It won’t be pretty, I can promise you that. No, Iceland’s too
small to contain an individual sick enough to do that to a victim picked at random. He’d have been identified and taken out of circulation long ago, before something like this happened.’

  ‘We can’t be sure of that.’

  ‘Maybe not, but fortunately torture’s uncommon here in the West, at least as an end in itself. In the rare instances when it’s used it’s generally associated with extreme sexual abuse. You do occasionally hear of examples among the criminal underworld in big cities abroad, but our home-grown thugs have stopped short of it up to now. Sure, they administer beatings but as far as I know their method of torture usually consists of intimidation. No one’s died or incurred permanent physical damage from being tortured in Iceland. If they had, I’d have heard about it. It doesn’t matter how tough you are, if you’re tortured, you’ll take yourself to hospital as fast as you can. The incident would show up in the system.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. What kind of sick bastard would be capable of this?’

  ‘That’s the million-dollar question. However much they might want to torture someone to death, few people would be capable of it. Most of us have inhibitions that prevent us from overstepping the conventional moral boundaries. Which brings us back to the fact that no sharp weapons were used and the act itself merely consisted of pressing a switch.’ The pathologist turned his head to Huldar. ‘Of course I can’t be certain, but given that there’s no evidence of rape, I would assume that the person who did this felt an overpowering loathing for the woman. There’s no sign that the attack was sexually motivated – unless semen turns up at the scene. It’s not unknown for perverts to masturbate over the victim instead of committing rape. But none was discovered while I was there, and I think it’s unlikely we’d have missed it.’

  ‘None was found during the second examination of the house either.’

  ‘Was she involved in anything shady? Should I be prepared to find traces of illegal substances in her bloodstream?’