Yrsa Sigurdardottir - Ashes To Dust

The woman who answered at the bank said that unfortunately Jóhanna was not in. She sounded young, and sympathy dripped from every word. When Thóra explained that her business was very urgent and asked where Jóhanna could be reached, the girl’s voice became even sadder. Jóhanna was in Reykjavik for the funeral of her sister, and she doubted she would have her mobile turned on, under the circumstances. Nevertheless, Thóra took the number, thanked her and made the call.

An electronic message informed Thóra that the phone was either switched off or out of range. It was ten thirty. Thóra had only attended two funerals in her life, both at Fossvogur Chapel. She tried phoning there, but was told that no one by Alda’s name was being buried there that day or indeed that week. The man she spoke to said he unfortunately couldn’t guess where the burial was taking place, because there were many other options. He also said that almost without exception, funerals were not advertised; such sacred occasions were reserved only for the next of kin. So it was pointless to look in the papers, which had been next on Thóra’s list.

She tried to imagine who might have been invited to Alda’s funeral but came up with no one besides Dís. She didn’t know whether colleagues were generally considered ‘next of kin’, but tried the plastic surgeon’s office anyway. The answering machine announced that calls would only be answered after noon that day due to illness. Thóra couldn’t wait that long if she wanted to make it to court by two. In the end the only man that she could think of, when all other doors had slammed shut, was Leifur.

Only seven minutes passed between her saying goodbye to Leifur and his return call to say that the funeral was taking place in the Midtown Church at two o’clock. The location could only have been more perfect if the ceremony had been due to take place in the courtroom itself, as the Midtown Church was right around the corner. Thóra thanked Leifur, without telling him why she needed this information. He didn’t ask, though he must have been curious. In fact, she had the feeling he didn’t want to talk to her in case she found more evidence for his father’s involvement in the murders. If that was the case, it was fine by her – Thóra was happy not to have to discuss the case with him.

She hurried out of Svala’s office into the pouring rain. The heavy drops reminded her more of a monsoon in a foreign country than Icelandic rain, and she darted over to the little car she’d bought after selling her big jeep, which she couldn’t afford to keep running. Perhaps Alda’s mother was already at the Midtown Church, helping to prepare for the ceremony – and if not, the priest might know where she was. She might be at Alda’s house, or any hotel in Reykjavik. It was impossible for Thóra to decide if a parent would prefer to sleep among the belongings of their dead child or rest their head on the pillows of an impersonal hotel room.

It was no easier than usual finding a parking space downtown. Thóra decided to drive around near the church until she finally came across someone leaving a parking space, and she waited as the elderly woman pulled out slowly in her Yaris. At first it looked as if Thóra would have to search for another space, but she finally managed to squeeze the car nimbly into the tight space. She allowed herself a couple of seconds in the pouring rain to congratulate herself on her driving ability. In fact the car was a little too far from the kerb, but she should be returning shortly so she let it be. She was not at all sure she would do any better on the second try.

She could hear soft organ music through the thick wooden door as she stood in the rain outside the church. She hoped this didn’t mean the ceremony was underway. She had no desire to wander into the middle of a solemn moment not meant for strangers. Of course, it was going to be just as tasteless to shoulder her way up to a grieving mother she barely knew, but at least it was for a noble cause. She opened the door cautiously as the organist stopped in the middle of the tune, before starting on finger exercises. Thóra shook rain from her jacket in the foyer before putting her ear against the door to the church itself. The organ notes overwhelmed almost all other noises, but she thought she could distinguish the murmur of voices within. She cracked open the door and peered though. Towards the front of the church sat two women, staring at a white coffin in front of the altar. One of them stood up and walked towards it, and from behind Thóra could tell that it was Jóhanna, Alda’s sister. The short, grey hair of the woman still seated belonged to their mother. Thóra slipped in. She was hoping to reach the women before they became aware of her, so she tried to keep the old door from creaking.

‘I would have wanted to have the coffin open,’ she heard Jóhanna say, as she tenderly stroked the gleaming lid of the casket. ‘I think Alda would have wanted it that way.’

As Thóra drew closer she heard the older woman give a snort. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you knew how her face looked, with all those scratches on it. She wouldn’t have dreamt of letting people see her like that while she was alive.’

‘It could have been fixed with make-up,’ said Jóhanna testily. She turned to the coffin again, laying both hands on it. They rested there, motionless. ‘It would have been okay.’

‘If you want to see her for the last time I’m sure we can get the sexton to take the lid off,’ replied the old lady, without a trace of sensitivity. ‘I was here before when they brought her, and I got to see her.’ She hung her head. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it. This isn’t Alda any more. She’s ice cold and I’m sure she’s been brought here straight from cold storage. I wished I hadn’t been here.’

Thóra was just one row behind the two women when she cleared her throat to draw their attention. She didn’t want to startle them, and felt uncomfortable to be practically spying on them. The organ music had made it possible for her to get this close, drowning out the low creaking of the floorboards. She would probably have been able to place her hand on the old woman’s shoulder before being noticed.

Both of the women turned and stared at Thóra. ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Jóhanna in surprise.

‘And how dare you come here?’exclaimed her mother, almost choking. ‘Don’t you know that we’re preparing for my daughter’s funeral? This isn’t the place for someone who defends her murderer.’ Anger had overcome the sorrow in her voice.

‘Markus didn’t murder her,’said Thóra calmly, suppressing her discomfort at having disturbed mother and daughter at this private moment. ‘He has a good alibi that proves it was impossible for him to have been anywhere nearher at the time.’

Until that point Jóhanna had resembled a sleepwalker, but at this she seemed to brighten up slightly. Her face was even more haggard than Thóra recalled; her hair was dirty, and her clothing showed signs of neglect. Her mother, however, had taken the time to fix herself up, and looked respectable. Of course, the difference in their appearance did not necessarily mean that the mother hadn’t taken the loss as hard as her daughter. Perhaps she had found it a comfort to have something to occupy herself, even if it were only making herself presentable for the funeral. The corners of her pink-painted lips turned down like a nearly perfect horseshoe, further emphasising the contrast between mother and daughter. ‘Of course he has an alibi,’ said the old woman, adding sarcastically:‘His brother Leifur wouldn’t have had any trouble sorting that out.’

‘No,’ said Thóra, staying calm. ‘That’s not true.’ She wondered whether she should explain the alibi, but decided not to. They would either accept what she had to say, or not. ‘Markus is going before the judge today because of a police request that his detention be extended. It’s easy to prove that he didn’t murder Alda, but it’s proving harder to clear him of something that happened out on the Islands.’ She looked into the old woman’s eyes, which were burning with rage. ‘Most of the people who know what happened there are either too ill to be able to help him, or are no longer with us.’