Арнальдур Индридасон - The Shadow District

Feeling bone weary, Thorson replaced the photo in the drawer and stretched out on the bed. A succession of images passed through his mind: Rósamunda; Benjamín trying to bribe him with money; Benjamín’s father, Hólmbert, the former cabinet minister and his grandfather, the MP. And as always his mind presented him with a picture of Jónatan lying in a pool of blood on Laugavegur, the tiny snowflakes settling on his eyes.

The MP and his son... Had the MP been aware of his son’s crimes? Had he protected him? Or had the son been protecting his father?

Thorson began to drift off to sleep.

Had the son been protecting his father?

He awoke to find himself struggling to breathe. Even in the midst of his struggle, his mind latched on to the MP, and he knew suddenly that Hólmbert was not the only suspect in Rósamunda’s killing. There was his father the MP, whose house it was that Rósamunda had refused to visit; who had been on a trip up north with his son when Hrund was assaulted; who had been of sufficiently high rank, in a sufficiently elevated position, that the girls wouldn’t have dared to expose him.

Waking up properly, Thorson found that he really couldn’t breathe; his head was being pressed down into the bed by a deadly weight. He struggled to open his mouth and draw breath but was overcome by a terrible sense of suffocation. As he frantically fought for oxygen the realisation hit him that he was being overpowered by someone stronger than himself...

Benjamín stared without speaking into the dark corner where Rósamunda had been found.

‘My father was an accessory,’ he said at last. ‘He didn’t kill Rósamunda. But he walked in on his father standing over her body, and helped him dispose of it. To that extent my father’s as culpable as my grandfather was. He was confronted with an impossible dilemma when the police came to see them. Either to come clean and point the finger at his father, or lie and frame his friend, who was already dead.’

‘He chose to lie.’

‘What would you have done? What would you have done in his place?’

Avoiding Konrád’s eye, Benjamín kept his gaze fixed on the doorway, as if he could see Rósamunda’s cold, lifeless body.

‘He discovered what his father had done and had to live with that knowledge for the rest of his life. Had to take care that the truth never came out. Could never be free of the guilt.’

‘How did you know?’

‘It was his illness.

‘His illness? You mean his Alzheimer’s?’

‘Yes. My father kept it secret right up until he developed dementia. The disease made him lose control of the memories he’d been keeping locked away inside him. They slipped out, one by one, including the most painful ones. He started talking about episodes from his past that he’d never spoken of before, hardly seemed to realise he was doing it. Naturally I knew — we all did — about Jónatan, but my family never really discussed him or what had happened. It was never really talked of. But then my father started rambling on about Jónatan and always seemed very disturbed when he mentioned him. He kept saying that my grandfather had picked up some ideas from him about the huldufólk and used them to do something unspeakable. He kept crying — a man who’d never shown his feelings. Naturally I was curious, and in the end I got the truth out of him. I found myself confronted by a family tragedy — the ugly truth about my father and grandfather. And of course the other, much greater tragedy involving the deaths of Rósamunda and Hrund and later of Jónatan. I had no idea what to do with the information. It was just too much for me. I felt I had to contain it at all costs. I felt responsible. All of a sudden I found myself in the same position as my father. He had been wrestling with his conscience all these years. Then one day when I was visiting him at the nursing home I found a man his age sitting in his room with him. He’d dug up the truth, only he thought my father was responsible for what my grandfather had done, and he was talking about going to the police. I went round to see him. Not to hurt him but to talk to him.’

‘And the temptation was too great? If you got rid of him, you got rid of the whole problem?’

‘I don’t know what came over me,’ said Benjamín, his voice suddenly breaking at the thought of what he had done. Konrád saw that he was fighting back tears, still staring fixedly into the doorway as if he wouldn’t be able to meet anyone else’s eye if his life depended on it. ‘I thought... he was old, and I thought all I had to do was put him to sleep, then my problems would be over... but it doesn’t work like that. I have horrible nightmares... Though he was frail, he fought back with all his strength, and I was going to stop but... but it was too late. It was over so quickly... so quickly...’ Benjamín heaved a sigh. ‘I... I want this to stop,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to live with these secrets. I don’t want my son to have to hide what I’ve done, to go through the same hell. I want it to stop here.’

‘Did you say that Hólmbert had caught his father in the act?’

‘As far as I can work out, Dad found him with Rósamunda’s body. My grandmother was staying with relatives in Stykkishólmur at the time, and my grandfather was alone in the house apart from my dad. Rósamunda had turned up out of the blue, completely hysterical, accusing my grandfather of getting her pregnant and saying she’d got rid of the baby. She was ranting about a girl up north who she was sure was another of his victims, and threatening to denounce him so everyone would know what kind of man he was. That was how Dad knew what my grandfather had done to her.’

‘He’d raped her, you mean?’

‘Yes. She’d come round one day a couple of months earlier to deliver some dresses and my grandfather had invited her in. Somehow he managed to lure her down to the laundry, then started slapping her around and finally raped her.’

‘And your father insisted he hadn’t known beforehand?’

‘No, he didn’t find out about the rape until later. My grandfather admitted the whole thing when Dad caught him with Rósamunda’s body. By the time my father walked in it was all over. He said it was a horrible shock. The girl was lying on the floor of my grandfather’s study. My grandfather had only meant to shut her up, but before he knew what he was doing he’d throttled her. He asked Dad to help him. Ordered him, rather. Said they had to stick together. The family honour was at stake. The girl had been out of control, and he’d acted in self-defence. But Dad immediately suspected that the same thing had happened three years earlier when they were up north. My grandfather had been in a strange mood one evening, and there were obvious cuts or scratches on his neck that he was trying to hide. When Dad asked about them, my grandfather wouldn’t answer, but the incident lingered in Dad’s mind, and he couldn’t help wondering about the story of Hrund and her disappearance. It was only when he walked in on my grandfather with Rósamunda’s body, though, that he found out the truth. He demanded to know what had happened to Hrund and eventually my grandfather confessed that he’d assaulted her too. He swore he hadn’t killed her like Rósamunda but admitted he’d raped her.’

‘I take it he intimidated her into keeping silent?’

‘Yes. And he forbade my dad to report him — one minute pleading, the next furious. Dad took the decision to cover for him. And stuck by it. For my grandmother’s sake. For the family.’

‘What was all that business about the huldufólk ?’

‘My grandfather was familiar with stories about the elves — you know the kind of thing. It runs so deep, especially in the countryside. And Jónatan was forever talking about them. Apparently my grandfather got the impression that Hrund was very naive and gullible, and he took advantage of that. But Rósamunda was a different story.’