Yrsa Sigurdardottir - Last Rituals

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 Thora did not recognize. It carried the woman's name and telephone numbers, including her mobile.

Thora 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," Thora 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 Thora 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 Thora 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.

Gunnar Gestvik, 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.

Of course this business would eventually all blow over, but God alone knew how weary he was of having to answer stupid questions about the incident, which were prompted by nothing but sheer nosiness. He was beginning to feel revolted by the expression people invariably put on their faces while mustering the courage to ask their questions. The expression was supposed to show a combination of sadness at the young man's untimely death and compassion for Gunnar, but almost without exception the outcome was completely different. Their faces radiated only morbid fascination and relief that it had happened to someone else.

Should he perhaps have followed the vice chancellor's advice and taken two months' leave? He couldn't be sure. People might have lost all interest by then, but it would be rekindled when the case went to court. So he would only be postponing the inevitable by taking a rest. Besides, it would merely have spawned endless rumors about hima nervous breakdown and self-imposed convalescence, binge drinking at home, or even worse. No, he thought it was the right decision to turn down leave and let the storm die down. People would eventually grow bored of the subject and start avoiding him again.

Gunnar tapped on the door where Maria Einarsdottir, director of the institute, had her officemore for politeness' sake than anything else, because he immediately opened the door without waiting to be told to enter. She was on the telephone but gestured to Gunnar to take a seat, which he did. He impatiently waited for her to finish the call, which sounded as though it involved an order for printer toner that had not been delivered.

Gunnar tried to conceal how much this irritated him. When Maria had called him several minutes earlier she said it was a serious matter and demanded that he meet her at once. He had put aside the project he was working on at the moment, an application for an Erasmus program grant for the department of history in cooperation with the University of Bergen. The application was to be submitted in English and Gunnar had just been getting into his groove when Maria phoned. If this serious matter of hers was about toner, he would certainly give her a piece of his mind. He had begun to arrange a few well-chosen words when she put the telephone down and turned her attention to him.

Before she spoke she gave Gunnar a ruminating look, as if she too were choosing her words carefully. The fingers of her right hand drummed on the desk and she sighed. "Christ," she said in English, finally.

She had clearly not been using her time searching for a phrase from the classics, Gunnar thought, trying not to show how inappropriate he considered it for the director of the Manuscript Institute to use such a word. Times had certainly changed over the forty years since Gunnar was a young man. In those days people took pride in sounding classicalnow it was thought cheesy and pretentious. Even a woman like Maria, well educated and not a youngster anymore, used slang and shoddy grammar. Gunnar cleared his throat. "What is it, Maria?"

"Christ," she repeated, running both hands through her cropped hair. It was just beginning to turn gray and a few silver strands glittered when she ruffled it. Then she shook her head and got to the point. "One of the old letters is missing." A short pause, and then: "It's been stolen."

Gunnar's head snapped back. He could not conceal his surprise and disapproval. "What do you mean, stolen? From the exhibition?"

Maria groaned. "No. Not from the exhibition. From here. In-house."

Gunnar sat openmouthed. In-house? "How could that happen?"

"That's a good question. To the best of my knowledge it's the first time something of this kind has happened here." In a sharper tone she added: "Who knows, maybe more than just this letter is missing. As you well know, six hundred manuscripts and fragments from Arni Magnusson's great collection are preserved here, along with all the old letters he amassed and a hundred and fifty manuscripts from the Royal Library in Denmark. Oh, yes, and seventy other manuscripts and letters from here and there." She paused and stared Gunnar in the eye. "You can bet we'll go through every scrap of paper here to find out whether anything else is missing. But I wanted to talk to you in person before I make it public. As soon as I order a count, it will be obvious what's going on."

"Why do you want to consult me about it?" asked Gunnar, surprised and slightly annoyed. As head of department he did not need to have much contact with the institute and had no particular function in it. "You're not accusing me of taking the letter?"

"For God's sake, Gunnar. I'd better explain the situation to you before you start asking if I suspect the vice chancellor." She handed him a letter that was lying on her table. "Do you remember the documents we had on loan from the Danish national archives?"

Gunnar nodded. The institute often received loans from foreign collections that were in some way connected with its own work. As a rule Gunnar got wind of them but did not commit them to memory unless the documents were related to his own areas of academic interest. The Danish collection was clearly not one. He skimmed the letter, which was written by Karsten Josephsen, a chief of department at the Danish national archive. Written in Danish, it was a reminder that the deadline for returning the documents was approaching. He handed the letter back to Maria. "I'm completely at a loss."