Арнальдур Индридасон - The Shadow District

‘But he reckoned it could have been Jónatan standing on the corner?’

‘Yes. Rather than your father, anyway.’

‘During my training in Edinburgh they told me that criminals are sometimes drawn back to the scene of a crime. Particularly in cases of murder or other serious incidents.’

‘So you think Jónatan may have been drawn back to the theatre?’

‘Hard to say. Criminals go back for a variety of reasons. Guilt is one. It gnaws away at them until they’re on the brink of giving themselves up — and some actually do turn themselves in. Another is fear of being found out. They’re scared they’ve left something incriminating at the scene and want to double check.’

‘So you think the man on the corner was Rósamunda’s killer? Whether or not it was Jónatan?’

Flóvent shrugged. ‘Did you tell Frank to steer clear of Icelandic women from now on?’

‘What good would that do?’

‘His testimony isn’t everything,’ said Flóvent. ‘Jónatan’s strongest link to the two girls is the folk tales. That’s where we should apply the pressure when we question him.’

‘We’ve got the link to Hrund,’ said Thorson. ‘All we really need is to connect him to Rósamunda. Any reason to put off searching his apartment?’

Flóvent glanced at his watch. ‘It’s pretty late,’ he said, thinking of his father. ‘Maybe we should leave it till tomorrow morning, before we talk to the boy.’

Thorson nodded. It had been a long day, and he was tired. They drove down to the centre of town where they parted company. Flóvent said he wanted to walk home; he had a lot to think about. Thorson headed into Hótel Borg, hoping to grab a bite of supper before bed. He was staying there for a few nights while the barracks were undergoing some modifications. It didn’t bother him in the least, except when the drinking got out of hand at the weekends.

The restaurant was packed but he found an out-of-the-way table and decided to order the roast lamb. A waiter came over and started to apologise in broken English that the kitchen was closed. Thorson replied in Icelandic and asked if the man could fix him a snack instead since he was a guest at the hotel. The waiter promised to see what he could do.

Sitting back and surveying the crowded room, Thorson spotted the proprietor, a strapping, broad-shouldered man, standing by the door to the kitchen in conversation with a waiter. The proprietor was a champion in the ancient art of Icelandic wrestling known as glíma , and had toured the world in his younger years, taking on all challengers. His fame had spread all the way to Manitoba. He had done so well out of these tours that when he returned home he was able to build the hotel out of the proceeds, and ran it now with great panache.

That evening the restaurant was largely filled with American servicemen, officers mostly, accompanied by several Icelandic women whose shrieks of laughter frequently punctuated the roar of male voices. Thorson was only too familiar with the so-called Situation. Numerous cases involving relations between soldiers and Icelandic women had landed on his desk at military police headquarters. In a rather draconian effort to tackle the problem, the Icelandic authorities had set up a juvenile court to process cases involving minors, but the initiative had proved short-lived since there were few solutions available short of exiling the younger girls to the countryside to remove them from temptation. It was against regulations to bring women back to barracks and the age limit for admission to dance halls was sixteen, but neither rule was observed in practice. Every now and then fights broke out between locals and servicemen, and there were instances of women seeking to press charges because of the way they had been treated. Cases where soldiers turned out to be married back home were common and invariably a source of distress.

His mother had asked in her letters how he liked his ancestral home. He knew his parents missed Iceland at times; they always spoke well of their homeland and fellow Icelanders. They had emigrated while still young, at the turn of the century, in search of a better life in the new world, and had the good fortune to be allotted a decent piece of land when they arrived in Canada. Thorson’s mother had relatives in Manitoba who had fled a life of poverty in Iceland several decades earlier, and they gave the young immigrants a warm welcome. His parents were hard workers and had been quick to establish themselves and put down roots in their new country. Although they often thought of home and missed family and friends, they never regretted their decision to leave. Thorson had written that most Icelanders were still dirt poor but their situation had greatly improved with the outbreak of war, since now there was plenty of well-paid work to go round. As a result, people were flocking from the countryside to Reykjavík in search of a better life — new homes, opportunities that had never been open to them before, a brighter future. He omitted to mention the Situation, preferring not to cast a shadow on his parents’ rosy image of the old country, but said the occupation was proving such a watershed in the history of the nation that it was bound to change it for ever. The traditional farming society that his parents had known was fast disappearing.

Having finished his snack, Thorson returned to his room and went to bed. He could hear a muffled echo of the carousing from the restaurant and thought of his home in Canada, as he often did in his lonely state. His parents had told him so many tales of their old homeland, their memories tinged with nostalgia. But the society that awaited him bore little relation to their stories. From the moment he arrived, he’d had the inescapable feeling that he was in a completely different country from the one his parents had left.

Early next morning Flóvent and Thorson drove round to Jónatan’s bedsit to search for conclusive evidence that he had known Rósamunda. They had no idea what precisely they were looking for and wouldn’t know until they found it. Jónatan had handed over the keys himself the evening before, saying they were welcome to search his room. His only concern was that they would muddle up the papers on his desk: the notes, source references and other carefully ordered material. He offered to go with them and prove that he had nothing to hide, but they declined his offer. ‘Maybe later,’ Flóvent had said.

The tiny bedsit was exactly the kind of place you would expect a university student, a bookworm too engrossed in his research to take care of himself and his surroundings, to live. In addition to the volumes of Icelandic folk tales and legends, they found a range of other scholarly works related to his studies in the Icelandic Department, as well as books and papers devoted to his other interest: birds. When they’d visited him the previous evening he claimed he’d been out watching cormorants, and Flóvent unearthed a brief composition Jónatan had written about the bird, stating that it was large, black, almost prehistoric in appearance, with a broad wingspan and talons, that it was impressive in flight and a good diver.

In the bookcase they discovered a file of sketches Jónatan had made of the cormorant and other seabirds, which revealed an above-average skill in draughtsmanship — even artistic flair. Some were painted in clear watercolours, with every detail accentuated.

‘Nice work,’ remarked Thorson.

‘The boy’s an artist,’ agreed Flóvent, holding up one of the drawings and inspecting it closely.

‘A sensitive soul, perhaps.’

Flóvent replaced the picture and surveyed the room. He was aware of a flutter of excitement in the pit of his stomach, a feeling that had been present when he woke up that morning and had now returned. ‘There’s nothing here to suggest that he attacks and harms women.’