Арнальдур Индридасон - The Shadow District

‘Is there any reason why we should?’ asked Thorson.

‘No, this is... this is all a misunderstanding.’

‘Do you have family here in Reykjavík?’ asked Thorson.

‘No.’

‘Any friends then? Anyone you’d like to inform that you’re sitting in here with us?’

‘No, I’d just like to go home again as soon as possible, if you don’t mind. I don’t need anything except to get this over with. No one else need know, surely?’

‘Need know what?’

‘That you’ve brought me in for questioning?’

‘No,’ said Flóvent. ‘Not necessarily. Does the thought make you nervous?’

‘I’d rather people at the university didn’t know I was being questioned by the police. That’s all. I still don’t understand why you wanted me to accompany you here. I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘Well, that’s good, that’s excellent,’ said Flóvent. ‘Can you tell us how you knew Hrund?’

‘I ran into her a few times. There was a petrol station with a restaurant not far from our camp and sometimes when I walked over in the evening she’d be there — a friend of hers served in the shop — and we got chatting. She said there wasn’t much going on in the countryside and asked about life in Akureyri. About the soldiers and so on. I think she wanted to move there. Or maybe even south to Reykjavík.’

‘Did you tell her about your fascination with the huldufólk ?’

‘She was very interested to hear I was going to university. I told her I wanted to read Icelandic and history; perhaps do research into folk beliefs and... that sort of thing.’

‘Are you familiar with stories about the huldufólk attacking humans?’ asked Thorson.

‘There are examples of that, yes.’

‘Did you tell her any stories like that?’

‘I don’t remember if... We may well have talked about it. I forget.’

‘Did she believe in supernatural beings? In the hidden people?’

‘I think... She kept an open mind,’ said Jónatan. ‘She struck me as being a bit naive and unworldly, a child of nature.’

‘Meaning what exactly?’

‘Well, she was deeply rooted in the countryside, had grown up very close to nature and knew everything about the plants and birds, and had such — I don’t know how to put it — she... I can’t explain it better than by describing her as a child of nature. People like her probably find it easier to believe in supernatural phenomena, spend more time than the rest of us thinking about elves and demons and trolls.’

‘Do you believe in those kinds of phenomena yourself?’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Jónatan firmly. ‘Except as a mirror of human society. I believe folk tales provide us with an insight into the mindset of the common man. They can reveal a great deal about people’s attitudes over the centuries, whether it’s their fear of the unknown or their desire for a better life or dreams of a better world. They can tell us so much both directly and indirectly about life in the past. That’s how I look at them. Not as true stories or representations of reality.’

‘Did Hrund view them like that?’

‘I can’t give you a simple answer to that.’

‘But she was a child of nature?’

‘Yes, that was my impression.’

‘Had Hrund ever been molested by — what shall we call them — supernatural beings?’ asked Flóvent.

‘Molested? No, I don’t believe that for a minute. But please be clear that I didn’t know her very well. Hardly at all, in fact. We only met a few times and chatted a little. I can’t say I really got to know her, so I may be reading too much into what she said. Look, I don’t know what it is you want from me. I don’t understand these questions. What have folk tales got to do with anything?’

‘Did any of the other members of the road crew share your interest in folklore?’ asked Flóvent.

‘No. None of them.’

‘Were any of them involved with this girl?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

Jónatan had grabbed his packet of Lucky Strikes as he was leaving his digs and now extracted a cigarette and lit it, sucking in a lungful of smoke and blowing it out again. Flóvent pushed over an ashtray.

‘Good cigarettes?’

‘Yes, great. I get them from a friend of mine at the university — his sister’s seeing a Yank.’

‘Are you absolutely sure you didn’t know a girl here in Reykjavík called Rósamunda?’ asked Thorson.

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

‘She worked as a seamstress.’

‘No, I don’t know anyone by that name... Isn’t it, wasn’t that the name of the woman found behind the theatre?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Why are you asking me about her?’

‘Rósamunda had no interest in the huldufólk or folk tales, yet she and Hrund both shared a bizarre experience related to them, and we wondered if you might be able to shed some light on it for us.’

‘What was that? What kind of experience?’

‘Before she disappeared, Hrund let it be understood that she had been assaulted by one of the huldufólk ,’ said Flóvent, leaning closer over the desk. ‘And Rósamunda said that a man who raped her had told her to blame it on the huldufólk . Their stories are so alike that you’d think they’d both fallen victim to the same perpetrator. The alleged attacks took place three years apart. One up in Öxarfjördur where you happened to be working on a road construction team. The other here in Reykjavík where you happen to be studying at the university. We’ve established that you knew one of the girls and now I’m asking you again: did you know Rósamunda?’

As Jónatan listened to Flóvent it gradually dawned on him what the police were really after when they came round to his digs and why he had been brought to their offices.

‘Am I under arrest?’ he asked, aghast.

‘Is there any reason why you think you should be?’ asked Thorson.

‘Are you... Do you actually believe I harmed them, both of them? That I... that I... killed them?’

‘Did you?’ asked Flóvent.

His astonishment was unmistakable but something about his manner struck a false note.

‘No,’ Jónatan burst out, the spittle frothing from his mouth. ‘Are you mad?’

‘Did you persuade Hrund to lie about being attacked by one of the hidden people, to cover up what you did to her?’

‘Lie about the hidden people?’

‘Did you repeat the game with Rósamunda when you moved down here to Reykjavík?’

‘No!’

‘Did you force yourself on both girls?’

‘Force myself? No! You’ve got it all wrong. It’s... I can’t believe you’re serious. I don’t believe it. This is... This is crazy,’ said Jónatan, rising from his chair. ‘I have to go home. I need to get on with my thesis and I... I’ve got a lot to do. I’m far too busy for this.’

He rushed towards the door but Thorson blocked his way, seized his arm and led him back to the chair where he pushed him down again. Jónatan offered no resistance.

‘I’m afraid you can’t go home yet,’ said Thorson calmly. ‘Not until we’ve had a chance to talk some more.’

Frank Ruddy listened to the approaching footsteps. Two men, he thought, in a hurry by the sound of it. They halted outside his cell and he heard the jingling of keys. He was lying on a mattress, smoking and reading a pornographic comic. Propping himself up on his elbow, he listened to the jingling. He was expecting to be released any minute; he’d wasted enough time in the slammer. Last time he checked, there was no law against assuming a false name and lying to Icelandic girls. He shouldn’t have to spend days locked up for that kind of crap. The police said they were checking his criminal record in the States. Well, good luck to them. They wouldn’t find a thing. They said he was still a suspect in the killing of the girl he and Ingiborg had found. A lame excuse. They had nothing on him.