Last Rituals Read online

  “What about the eyes?” asked Matthew.

  The doctor cleared his throat. “The eyes. That’s another riddle I cannot explain. As the family knows, they were removed after Harald’s death, which must be some consolation to them in my opinion. But I cannot say why it was done.”

  “How do you remove the eyes from a dead body anyway?” said Thóra, regretting her question at once.

  “There must be lots of ways,” said the doctor. “It appears that our murderer used a smooth tool for the job. All the signs, or rather the lack of them, point in that direction.” He resumed flicking through the photographs.

  Thóra hurried to stop him. “We believe you entirely. We don’t need to see any photographs.”

  Matthew smirked at her. He was clearly amused that she found this repulsive, especially after their exchange in the corridor. This irritated her, so she decided to show him what she was made of. “You began by saying that the autopsy was unusual and strange. What did you mean by that?”

  The doctor leaned forward and his face lit up. He had clearly been looking forward to discussing this. “I don’t know how close you were to Harald Guntlieb; maybe you already know it all.” He flicked through his papers and produced several photographs. “This is what I mean,” he said, placing them on the table in front of Thóra and Matthew.

  It took Thóra a moment to realize what she was looking at, but when it finally dawned on her she could only shudder. “Yuck! What is that, anyway?” she blurted.

  “I’m not surprised you ask,” the doctor replied. “Harald Guntlieb obviously practiced body modification, as it is called in the countries where the habit originated. At first we thought that the state of his tongue was connected with the disfiguration of the body, but then we noticed it had healed so much that he must have had it done some time before—it’s in a different league from tongue studs in perversity, I really must say.”

  Thóra looked at one revolting photograph after another. Gripped by nausea, she stood up. “Excuse me,” she muttered through clenched teeth, and ran for the door. When she stepped into the corridor she heard Matthew say to the doctor in mock surprise: “Strange, and she’s a mother of two.”

  CHAPTER 7

  There were few people at the Intercultural Center. Thóra had chosen that particular coffee shop because it was possible to talk in more peace and quiet there than at most other places downtown. She and Matthew could converse without worrying about customers at nearby tables overhearing them. They sat alone in the side room. The yellow folder containing the autopsy records lay in front of them on the mosaic-patterned table.

  “You’ll feel better after a coffee,” said Matthew awkwardly, looking toward the door through which the waitress had just left after taking their order.

  “I feel fine,” Thóra snapped back. In fact, this was true; the nausea that had come over her in the doctor’s room had passed. After leaving his office she found a bathroom down the corridor and refreshed herself by splashing her face with cold water. She had always had a tendency to feel sick and remembered how upset she used to get about the course books her ex-husband had left open everywhere when he was studying medicine. But the photographs in them were nowhere near as bad as what she had seen that morning; perhaps because the illustrations in the textbooks were somehow more impersonal. She added in a milder tone: “I don’t know what came over me. I hope I didn’t offend the doctor.”

  “They’re not particularly pleasant photos,” said Matthew. “Most people would react in exactly the same way. You needn’t worry about the doctor. I told him you were recovering from a stomach bug so you weren’t in the best shape for looking at that sort of thing.”

  Thóra nodded. “What on earth was that, anyway? I think I figured out most of the photos but in retrospect I’m not sure that I actually understood what some of them showed.”

  “After you left, we went over each one,” said Matthew. “Harald appears to have had all kinds of disfigurements performed voluntarily on his body. According to the doctor, the oldest ones are several years old, but the newest ones were done only a couple of months ago.”

  “Why did he do it?” Thóra asked. She could not understand what motivated a young person to mutilate himself.

  “God knows,” said Matthew. “Harald was never quite normal. Ever since I met the family he was always hanging around with fringe elements. For a while it was the environmentalists, then it was an anti–G-8 protest group. When he finally absorbed himself in history I thought he’d found his bearings.” Matthew tapped the yellow folder gently. “Why he started doing this is beyond me.”

  Thóra said nothing while she pondered the photographs and the pain that Harald must have suffered. “What was that exactly?” she asked, hurriedly adding: “It won’t make me sick.”

  At that moment the waitress arrived with the coffee and snacks they had ordered. They thanked her, and when she had gone Matthew began his answer. “They were the results of all kinds of bizarre operations and surgeries. What struck me most was his tongue. You presumably realized that one of the photos was of Harald’s mouth.” Thóra nodded and Matthew continued. “He had his tongue cut in two, split lengthways. He must have meant it to resemble a snake’s tongue, and I have to admit it was very successful.”

  “Could he talk properly after that?” Thóra asked.

  “According to the doctor, he probably had a lisp afterward, but he couldn’t be sure. He also said that such operations were not unheard-of. They are very rare, but Harald wasn’t a pioneer in the field.”

  “Surely he didn’t do it himself? Who performs that kind of surgery?” Thóra asked.

  “The doctor thought it had been done quite recently because it wasn’t fully healed. He had no idea who the surgeon was but added that anyone with anesthetic, tongs, and a surgical knife could do it quite easily. Doctors, surgical nurses, and dentists, for example. And he added that the same person could prescribe antibiotics and painkillers, or at least ensure access to them.”

  “Jesus Christ, that’s all I can say,” Thóra said. “But what about all the other stuff, those studs, scars, signs, horns, and God knows what else?”

  “According to the doctor, Harald had objects implanted under his skin to produce their outlines in relief. Same thing with those little spikes standing out of his shoulders. The doctor said he removed thirty-two other objects, including little studs like the ones you saw on his genitals.” Matthew glanced awkwardly at Thóra. She sipped her coffee and smiled to indicate that she did not find this embarrassing. He continued. “Then there were symbols, all connected with black magic and devil worship. Harald kept himself busy, there weren’t many big spaces on his body without some kind of decoration.” Matthew paused to eat a small slice of bread. Then he continued. “He doesn’t seem to have liked traditional tattoos—he had scars.”

  “Scars?” said Thóra. “Did he have tattoos removed?”

  “No, no. They were tattoos made by cutting the skin or removing it to produce a pattern or symbol from the scar tissue. Quite a decisive step, having that done. I understood from the doctor that you can’t get rid of such tattoos except with a skin transplant that would leave an even bigger scar.”

  “Really?” Thóra said, surprised. When she was young it was considered wild to have more than two piercings in your ear.

  “The doctor also said one of the cuts on Harald’s body had been made after his death. At first they thought it was just a recent tattoo, but on closer inspection it turned out not to be. It looked like a magic symbol, and it was carved into his chest.” Matthew produced a pen from his pocket and reached for a napkin. He sketched the symbol and turned the napkin so that Thóra could see it. Matthew continued. “The meaning of this symbol is unknown, according to the doctor. The police haven’t managed to decipher it either, so maybe the murderer invented it on the spot. Another theory is that the murderer was unnerved by the circumstances and didn’t make the symbol look the way he had planned. Carving in skin isn’
t easy.”

  Thóra picked up the napkin and examined the symbol. It consisted of four lines forming a box, like tic-tac-toe. The ends of the lines outside the box had been struck through and inside it was a circle.

  Thóra returned the napkin to Matthew. “Unfortunately I know nothing about magic symbols. I had a runic necklace once but I can’t remember what it was supposed to represent.”

  “We need to talk to someone who knows about these things. Who knows, the police may not have investigated the symbol properly. Perhaps its meaning could help solve the case.” Matthew ripped the napkin into four pieces. “The murderer must have had something in mind, anyway, to go to all that trouble. Most people think only about getting as far away as soon as possible after committing a murder.”

  “Maybe the murderer’s a psychopath,” Thóra suggested. “It’s hardly a sign of a healthy mind to carve runes on a body and pluck out the eyes.” She shuddered. “Or he was stoned out of his mind. Which could in fact apply to that poor guy who’s in custody at the moment.”

  Matthew shrugged. “Maybe.” He took a sip of coffee. “And maybe not. Actually we need to visit him in prison as soon as we can.”

  “I’ll contact his lawyer,” Thóra said. “He should be able to arrange an interview, and he’ll realize the benefits of helping us. It’s in our mutual interest. If we manage to find the murderer that the police overlooked, we’ve cleared his client as well. I’ve also sent the police a formal request to see the investigation documents. This is very common and as far as I know the family is generally given them without any delay except for unusually sensitive cases.”

  Matthew took another piece of bread and looked at the clock. “How do you fancy coming to Harald’s apartment? I’ve got the keys and the police have already returned some of what they took when they searched the premises. We could maybe look at that and see if there’s anything to gain from it.”

  Thóra thought it was a good idea. She texted her son and asked him to fetch his sister from day care straight after school. Thóra felt better knowing that Sóley was back home and sometimes asked her son to fetch her early. Although she tried not to take advantage of Gylfi, he generally responded well to her requests. Thóra was just closing her phone when Gylfi’s reply came in. She opened the message and read it. “ok when are u coming home?” Thóra texted straight back that it would be about six o’clock, and wondered if she was simply imagining how interested Gylfi had suddenly become in when she got home. Maybe he just wanted to play his computer games in peace, but it didn’t escape her attention how often he asked these days.

  Before she put her mobile away Thóra rang the office to let them know she would not be back soon. No one answered and the answering machine kicked in after the fifth ring. Thóra announced her absence and hung up. One of Bella’s main jobs was answering the telephone, but on the rare occasions that Thóra needed to call the office she only received an answer half the time. She sighed, knowing it was pointless to discuss this with her sad excuse for a secretary yet again. “Okay, I’m ready,” she told Matthew, who had used the time to finish his remaining food. Thóra drank the rest of her coffee before standing up and putting on her coat.

  Before they left the café they went to the counter and Matthew paid the bill. He emphasized that all this was at the expense of the Guntliebs, but Thóra was uncertain whether this was to make sure she wouldn’t think it was at his invitation and therefore a date or whether he said it from a simple obligation to provide information. She nodded casually and thanked him.

  They went out into the cold to the parking garage where they had left the rental car. Harald’s flat was on Bergstadastraeti, not so far from Hverfisgata. Thóra had become very familiar with the central Thingholt district after she had started working on Skólavördustígur and could direct Matthew without any problems—although there were not many streets, it could be confusing for strangers to find their way along the narrow one-way lanes. They parked outside a dignified white concrete building on Bergstadastraeti where Matthew said Harald’s flat was. It was one of the more desirable properties in the district, clearly well maintained, and Thóra could not begin to imagine the price. At least this explained the astronomical rent that she had noticed on Harald’s tenancy agreement.

  “Have you been here before?” asked Thóra as they walked up to the side entrance. The front door facing the street led to another apartment on the ground floor, where Matthew said the owners lived.

  “Yes, a couple of times in fact,” Matthew replied. “But this is only the second time I’ve been here on my own business, so to speak. The other times I came with the police. They needed a witness when they took away some papers and other items for the investigation, and again when they returned them. I’m sure we’ll check the flat much more thoroughly than the police did. They were determined that Hugi was the murderer, so their investigation of the apartment was more of a formality.”

  “Is the flat as strange as the person who occupied it?”

  “No, it’s very ordinary,” said Matthew, inserting one of the two keys into the lock on the outside door. The keys hung from a ring with an Icelandic flag on it and Thóra inferred that he had bought it specifically for these keys in one of the tourist shops. She couldn’t really imagine Harald in such a store, surrounded by traditional woolen sweaters and stuffed puffins. “After you,” said Matthew as he opened the door.

  Before Thóra could get one foot inside a young woman came around the corner and called out to them in fairly good English. “Excuse me,” she said, fastening her cardigan against the cold. “Are you acting for Harald’s family?”

  Judging from the way she was dressed, Thóra assumed she must have come out of the other flat. Matthew held out his hand to the woman and said in English: “Yes, we met when I got the keys from you. Matthew.”

  “Yes, I thought so,” the woman said, shaking Matthew’s hand with a smile. She was elegant, slender, with her hair and face well cared for, clearly well-off. When she smiled Thóra realized she may not have been as young as she looked at first, because deep wrinkles formed around her mouth and eyes. She held out her hand to Thóra. “Hello, my name’s Gudrún,” she said, adding: “My husband and I were Harald’s landlords.”

  Thóra gave her name and returned the woman’s smile. “We were just going to have a look around. I don’t know how long we’ll be.”

  “Oh, that’s fine,” the woman hurried to say. “I only came to ask if there was any news about when the flat will be vacated.” She smiled again, this time apologetically. “We’ve had a few inquiries, you understand.”

  In fact Thóra didn’t understand, because as far as she knew the Guntliebs were still paying the rent, and it must have been a good arrangement to rent out a flat in that part of town without any of the inconvenience that tenants cause. She turned to Matthew, hoping he might provide an answer.

  “Unfortunately it won’t be just yet,” he answered curtly. “The agreement is still in effect, as I understood the last time we discussed this.”

  The woman was quick to apologize. “Oh, yes, please don’t get me wrong—of course it is. We’d just like to know when the family plans to end it. This is an expensive property and it’s always nice to find tenants who can pay the price we ask.” She gave Thóra an awkward look. “You see, we’ve had an offer from an investment company which is difficult to refuse. They need the flat in two months, but it kind of depends on what your plans are. You know what I mean.”

  Matthew nodded. “I understand your predicament, but, unfortunately, I can’t make any promises at the moment,” he said. “It all depends on the progress we make going through Harald’s belongings. I want to be certain that nothing that could be relevant gets boxed.”

  The woman, who was beginning to shudder from the cold, nodded fervently. “If I can do anything to speed it up, do let me know.” She handed them a business card from an import agency that Thóra did not recognize. It carried the woman’s name and telephone numbers,
including her mobile.

  Thóra produced her own card from her purse and handed it to her in exchange. “Take mine too, and do phone if you or your husband remember anything that could conceivably help us. We’re trying to find out who murdered Harald.”

  The woman’s eyes bulged. “What about the man they’re detaining?”

  “We have our doubts that he’s the murderer,” Thóra said simply. She noticed that the woman seemed shocked at the news. “I don’t think you need have any worries,” she hastened to add. “I doubt whoever it is will come around here.” She smiled.

  “No, that’s not the point,” the woman babbled. “I just thought it was over.”

  They exchanged farewells and Thóra and Matthew went into the warmth. In the hallway they found a white varnished staircase leading to the apartment on the upper floor. There was also a door that Matthew said led to the shared laundry room. After they had gone upstairs to the landing, Matthew opened the apartment with the other key on his ring.

  The first thing that struck Thóra when she stepped inside was that Matthew had been rather liberal with the truth when he described the flat as “very ordinary.” She gazed around her, astonished.

  CHAPTER 8

  Gunnar Gestvík, head of the department of history at the University of Iceland, strode along the corridor where the director of the Manuscript Institute had her office and absentmindedly nodded a greeting to a young historian on the way. The young man gave an embarrassed smile that again reminded Gunnar of his newly found fame within the university and its institutions. Nobody could seem to forget that it was into his arms that Harald Guntlieb’s body fell, to say nothing of the nervous breakdown that he reaped in reward. Never before had he been so popular, if that was the right term, because hardly anyone who now made a detour to talk to him could rightly be classified as a friend.