Yrsa Sigurdardottir - Ashes To Dust

Alda’s death was a different story. Here there was very little in Markus’s favour: both a witness and evidence suggested that he’d been at the scene. The witness turned out to be a boy who had been distributing flyers for his sports club’s tin- can collection on the evening that Alda was murdered. The police had found one of the flyers in Alda’s house and tracked down the boy, who had given a description of a man who had shown up there at the same time as the boy had been walking away from Alda’s house, around seven thirty. The description fit Markus perfectly, and the boy had then selected a photo of him from a group of several he was shown. The boy said that the man had walked up to the house, but he hadn’t seen him get out of a car, nor did he particularly remember anything about cars on the street that evening. Thóra tried to point out that Markus’s car was a model that any normal healthy teenage boy would certainly notice, but to no effect. It was pointed out that Markus could easily have parked elsewhere, especially if he had come there with criminal intent and hadn’t wanted anyone to notice him. Thóra’s objection that Markus had an extremely average appearance and that the description could easily have applied to countless other men was also of little use, as, for that matter, was the fact that the boy could have selected Markus’s photo from the stack at random. However, Thóra hoped this assertion would find better support after she examined the photos that the boy had been shown, because the police could easily have given him a selection in which Markus alone fit the description. She would be allowed to see them later, and she also hoped that a record of calls to and from Markus’s phone, as well as Alda’s, would be turned over to her at the same time. Thóra clung to the hope that this log would reveal that Alda had called Markus as he was driving eastwards from Reykjavik, as he insisted. That would strengthen his testimony a great deal; Alda would hardly have rung Markus if he were at her house.

Thóra had more trouble finding an explanation for the DNA sample on Alda’s body, which proved to be from Markus. This was a hair discovered upon combing out the woman’s pubic hair. It was compared with hair that Markus had provided, and turned out to be from his head. The autopsy hadn’t revealed any recent sexual intercourse, so

Alda’s genitals had been swabbed in search of Markus’s saliva, which had not been found. What his head had been doing between the woman’s thighs was thus left undetermined, and Markus could not shed any light on this detail, since he insisted vehemently that he had not been at Alda’s home, much less between her legs. The only conclusion that Thóra could reach on this subject was that the hair could have come from toilet paper, or something else Markus had come into contact with during his visit the previous evening. Such a thing was not impossible, but this explanation would not be taken into consideration at this stage of the proceedings. On the bright side, if it came to trial, the prosecution would be required to prove unequivocally that the hair had been brought to the scene that fateful night and in connection with the murder; not before that night, and by accident.

Markus had taken the court’s decision incredibly calmly. He was unhappy with it, but understood that he had to swallow it and wait for the High Court’s decision. Thóra praised him for his courage and said that she would let his family know, among them Hjalti, Markus’s only son, who lived with Markus’s ex-wife when he wasn’t in the Islands with his uncle Leifur. The phone call proved to be difficult for Thóra: Hjalti was a little older than her son Gylfi, only nineteen and he seemed very upset at the news. He asked over and over whether his father would be sentenced to prison, and it didn’t matter how much Thóra tried to reassure him that this was unlikely – he wouldn’t be convinced. He only calmed down a little when Thóra gave him Markus’s message that everything would be all right and not to worry at all. Out of pity for the poor boy, Thóra told him at the end of the conversation that he could phone her if he had any questions or wanted to talk to her about his father’s case. She fully expected him to take her at her word and keep in touch, especially now that his father’s name was in the papers.

Thóra took another sip of coffee and stood up. She looked out over the calm swell and shaded her eyes, then closed them and breathed deeply through her nose. She considered how best she could spend her spare hours, without reaching any conclusion. Markus’s detention made it more difficult for her to determine a possible witness. It was clear that Alda’s mother and sister would hardly welcome her with open arms. And although Alda’s colleagues hadn’t been as close to her as her relatives, they would undoubtedly view Thóra with suspicion. Nonetheless, Thóra decided to start with them. Yesterday she’d received a message from Dís, one of the plastic surgeons at the office where Alda had worked, saying she would be willing to meet up. Who knew, maybe she had some useful information. She might even know the real reason behind Alda’s resignation from the A &E. Alda’s sister’s theory that her murderer was a vengeful rapist was starting to sound more convincing, in the absence of more plausible options.

Thóra reopened her eyes and looked out at the placid sea, so much nicer to look at than the overgrown garden. This was the summer that Thóra had intended to sort out her garden, but now it was almost over. She’d ticked almost nothing off the list, apart from mowing the lawn. The hedge had grown to the height of a man or taller, which Thóra wasn’t proud of. Its branches reached up to the sky, utterly neglected. The flowerbeds had succumbed to weeds. She could certainly see how entire cities could disappear beneath a rainforest’s lush greenery, considering how quickly vegetation could sweep over things even in a polar climate. She went back inside. The garden could wait until next year.

Of the four people in the waiting room, Thóra felt she was the one who could most use the services of a plastic surgeon. There were two young women who were attractive by any standards, although their bleached blonde hair did little for them. The other occupant was a young man, and Thóra couldn’t think for the life of her what he might need fixed. On behalf of all Icelandic women she sincerely hoped he wasn’t planning on having a sex change complete with breast implants.

The waiting room was plain, but the fixtures and fittings looked expensive. It made the little closet that served as a waiting room at her legal firm look ridiculous, which suggested a plastic surgeon’s time was worth far more than a lawyer’s. That was no surprise: people were more concerned about their looks than their reputations. Thóra looked at the clock and hoped that it would soon be her turn; she was getting uncomfortable sitting there, knowing the others were regarding her and wondering what work she was having done. She was on the verge of pointing out to one of them, who had glanced once too often at Thóra’s chest, to mind her own business, when the receptionist appeared and informed Thóra that Dís would see her now. Thóra stood up and followed the slender woman. She was wearing a short dress, and such high heels that Thóra’s toes ached in sympathy. Again she compared this to her legal firm’s office set-up, where Bella steered clients into the harbour of the waiting room like a squat little Gothic tug-boat, the tattered hem of her floor-length dress trailing behind her.

‘Through here, please,’ said the dark-haired girl, her snow-white smile gleaming. ‘And I hope it all goes marvellously for you.’ She opened the door to the office, turned and left.