Арнальдур Индридасон - The Shadow Killer

‘You can say that again.’

‘It wasn’t always the same men?’

‘No, it wasn’t always the same men that I saw. I told her — told her I wouldn’t put up with sordid goings-on like that in this house.’

‘Sordid goings-on?’

‘It was obvious,’ the woman said, her face tightening oddly.

‘What was?’

‘Well, you can see for yourself — the girl was working as a whore! She had the barefaced cheek to turn these premises into a soldiers’ brothel. Why else would they have come round to see her? To drink tea? Do you think she was hosting little tea parties?’

‘You believe she was working as a prostitute?’

‘Yes, what else would she have been up to? She’s sex mad, that girl, and she finally found a way to make some money out of it.’

Flóvent and Thorson exchanged discreet glances. The woman had worked herself up into quite a state and made no attempt to disguise the violent antipathy she felt towards her former neighbour. Flóvent had shown Thorson the small brown envelope he had found under the sofa. Thorson wasn’t surprised that one of these should have turned up if it was true that Vera was providing services for soldiers.

‘What did she say when you accused her of this?’ asked Flóvent.

‘ Accused her? Do you think I’m lying?’

‘No,’ said Flóvent. ‘Of course not. But didn’t she protest? Or...?’

‘She didn’t say a word. Apart from telling me to shut my face — that it was none of my business what she chose to do in her own home. I said I’d see to it that her den of vice was closed down. Next thing I knew she’d moved out — in the dead of night.’

‘Can you describe the man who came to pick her up?’ asked Thorson. ‘We understand that you saw her go out to the vehicle.’

‘No, it was dark, but I could tell he was in the army,’ said the woman. ‘I reckon he could have been British but he never got out of the car, so I didn’t get a proper look at him. He didn’t lift a finger to help her.’

‘And she was carrying clothes and other belongings from the flat that she loaded into the car?’

‘Yes, that’s right, made two or three trips, then took off with him.’

‘Did you see what kind of vehicle it was? The model? Or licence plate?’

‘No. I know nothing about cars. It was black.’

‘Not a military vehicle, then?’

‘No, I don’t think so. But I wouldn’t know. I hear she’s started doing their washing for them. The soldiers, I mean. Opened a laundry.’

The woman told them how several days ago Eyvindur had returned home only to discover that Vera had moved out. He had taken it very hard and gone round asking everyone in the house about Vera’s movements. Well, he’d learnt from her what his girlfriend had been up to, though of course she’d tried to break it to him gently — it wasn’t her job to interfere in their private life. It wasn’t easy having to tell him about Vera’s visitors. Eyvindur hadn’t believed her. He’d called her a liar and sworn that Vera wasn’t like that. Then he’d locked himself away and wouldn’t speak to anyone else in the building. And to make matters worse, the landlord, his uncle, had come round and told him, out there in the hallway where everyone could hear, that he would have to move out.

‘Apparently he owed him several months’ rent,’ said the woman. Her tone made it clear that her sympathies lay with Eyvindur. ‘He was always having some kind of money trouble. Never had a króna to his name.’

‘When did you last see him, ma’am?’ asked Flóvent.

‘It must have been when the landlord was giving him a piece of his mind,’ said the woman, counting up the days that had passed. Flóvent guessed this must have been the day before Eyvindur’s body was found.

They thanked her for her assistance and returned to Eyvindur’s flat. There on the floor, in plain sight, was the answer to one of the many questions that had been troubling them since the discovery of the body: two suitcases, labelled with Eyvindur Ragnarsson’s name. They turned out, on closer inspection, to contain samples of the wholesaler’s wares: shoe polish, Poliflor, and a dinner service, but nothing untoward. No pills hidden in the lining. Both cases were battered, one of them held together only by two pieces of string.

‘So the suitcase you found in the other flat definitely belonged to Felix?’ said Thorson.

‘Yes, I think we can safely assume that,’ said Flóvent. ‘Which means the capsule’s his as well.’

After they had searched the flat thoroughly for any clues that might explain why Eyvindur had been murdered, Flóvent turned his attention to some papers that Thorson had dragged out of a small store cupboard next to the kitchen. The papers were brown and brittle with age, tied together with string. The cupboard was full of all kinds of other junk, including two pairs of skis and a trunk, which proved to be unlocked. When Thorson opened it, he found old clothes and books, including two dog-eared hymnbooks, and a photograph. Thorson picked up the photograph carefully. It was an old studio portrait of an elderly couple in their Sunday best, the man sporting a full beard. They stared back at Thorson from the depths of time, solemn and a little mistrustful. Underneath the photograph was an anniversary publication from Ebeneser’s school, a four-page pamphlet containing two photographs. One was taken outdoors and showed four adolescent boys with two men and a woman standing a little behind them. Three of the boys were rather shabbily dressed and two of them were wearing caps pulled down over their eyes. The men wore dark suits and one of them had a hat on. The woman stood out because she was wearing the uniform of her profession, a nurse’s costume with a starched white cap on her head and a cape over her shoulders.

Thorson could have sworn he knew one of the men, though he looked considerably younger in the picture. He was the one without a hat, and his features were instantly recognisable. Thorson peered at the boys’ faces, trying to see if any of them could be Eyvindur, but the picture wasn’t very clear, and his only point of comparison was the badly disfigured face in the mortuary.

‘What have you got there?’ asked Flóvent, sticking his head into the cubbyhole.

Thorson handed him the photograph and the pamphlet. Flóvent studied the picture of the old couple, who stared solemnly into the lens as if the camera were some incomprehensible magic box. Then he examined the photo of the boys with the adults standing behind them.

‘Recognise him?’ asked Thorson.

‘Isn’t that the headmaster?’ said Flóvent. ‘Isn’t that Ebeneser, who we met yesterday?’

‘Looks like it to me,’ said Thorson. ‘A little younger, of course. Could the picture have been taken at the school? You can only see the corner of a building, but it certainly looks pretty large.’

Flóvent didn’t seem to have heard. He was staring at the picture.

‘Could it be her...?’ he muttered to himself.

‘Who? Do you know the other people in the photo?’ asked Thorson. ‘And the old couple?’

‘I could have sworn I’d seen that woman before,’ said Flóvent, pointing at the nurse. ‘I’m sure it’s her.’

‘Who is she?’ asked Thorson.

‘I wonder,’ Flóvent muttered. ‘I only saw her for a second but...’

‘Who? Who is she?’

‘I saw her at Rudolf’s house. She was watching me from the drawing-room window but quickly pulled the curtain. It’s definitely the same woman. I don’t know her name but she was at Rudolf Lunden’s house.’ Flóvent studied the photograph again. ‘I’m positive it’s the same woman.’

He peered at the boys’ faces. ‘Do you suppose one of them’s Eyvindur?’