Арнальдур Индридасон - The Shadow Killer

‘He stuck it in the wound?’

‘Yes, unless he used blood from the floor. I expect there was quite a pool around the body when it was found.’

‘Why would he do a thing like that? Why add insult to injury by smearing blood on the victim’s forehead?’

‘What did you say his name was — Felix Lunden, wasn’t it?’

Flóvent nodded.

‘I’m guessing he might be related to a doctor who once worked here at the hospital,’ said Baldur. ‘There can’t be many people in Iceland with that surname. He had a surgery on Hafnarstræti for many years.’

‘Who was he?’

‘Rudolf, he was called. Rudolf Lunden. From a Danish — German family. He was forced to close his surgery following a riding accident. I don’t think he’s practised medicine since. But I didn’t know him well. He had a reputation for being cantankerous. If I remember right, he was linked to the Icelandic Nazi movement in their heyday before the war.’

‘Could this be his son then?’

‘That would be my guess,’ said Baldur. ‘Given his name. And that mark on his forehead.’

‘Oh? Were you able to decipher it?’

‘Yes, I believe so.’ The doctor took a sip of coffee. ‘I believe the person who did this wanted to send a very specific message when he drew that symbol.’

‘What is... What symbol?’

Just then the door of the mortuary opened to admit a young soldier. Over his uniform he wore an armband that identified him as a member of the US Military Police Corps. The young man looked from one of them to the other.

‘I was told I could find Detective Flóvent of the Reykjavík police here?’ he said diffidently. His Icelandic was fluent.

‘I’m Flóvent.’

‘How do you do, sir?’ the young man said politely, and shook Flóvent’s hand. ‘My name’s Thorson. I was told to offer my services to the Icelandic police in connection with a man’s death. I thought I’d better make contact with you as soon as possible. I hope this isn’t a bad moment?’

‘No, not at all. We were just discussing the post-mortem,’ said Flóvent. ‘You speak very good Icelandic. Are you an Icelander, by any chance? No need to call me “sir”, by the way.’

‘I’m a West Icelander,’ Thorson explained, shaking hands with Baldur as well. ‘From Manitoba in Canada. My parents originally came from Eyjafjördur. Is that the man who was shot in the head?’ Flóvent noticed that he avoided looking directly at the corpse.

‘Yes,’ said Flóvent. ‘Felix Lunden, a travelling salesman, from what we’ve managed to establish so far. Used to peddle hats, belts, a variety of face creams and toothpaste, that sort of thing.’

‘Face creams?’ said Baldur, adding another shot of brennivín to his coffee. ‘Can people really make a living from that?’

‘Apparently. He didn’t have any dependants. Lived alone.’ Noticing that Thorson was looking a little pale, Flóvent turned to him: ‘I don’t suppose you’re used to seeing bodies in this sort of state.’

‘No,’ said Thorson. ‘I... I’ve only served in Iceland. I haven’t seen any action yet and the cases I’ve dealt with so far in the military police haven’t... haven’t been quite like this.’

Flóvent could tell the young soldier was making a great effort to appear professional. He wasn’t doing too bad a job of it either. Indeed, Flóvent thought he detected an air of maturity about the young man despite his boyish appearance. Thorson was in his early twenties, fair, with a guileless face that hinted at a trusting nature. Perhaps too trusting, Flóvent thought. There was a look in his eyes that suggested people had been known to betray that trust.

‘Do you think he was killed by a member of the US forces?’ asked Thorson.

‘You’ve probably heard that we found the bullet and that it comes from a Colt .45?’

‘Couldn’t an Icelander get hold of a weapon like that?’

‘We’re certainly not ruling out the possibility,’ said Flóvent.

‘If a soldier was responsible, and word gets out, my commanding officers are afraid it might lead to — how did they put it? — increased mistrust of the defence force. They’re concerned that public debate about this crime could end up being a little one-sided.’

‘And it’s your role to prevent that?’ asked Baldur. ‘Bit young for politics, aren’t you?’

‘I’m not interested in politics,’ said Thorson. ‘What’s that on his forehead?’ he added, changing the subject. He had obviously plucked up the courage to examine the corpse’s shattered face. ‘Is that a letter?’

‘I was just telling Flóvent when you came in,’ said Baldur. ‘It’s not a letter, no; it’s something else, and quite interesting too. You could say the body’s been deliberately branded.’

‘What with?’ asked Flóvent.

‘As far as I can tell, with the Nazi symbol.’

‘The Nazi symbol? You mean the swastika?’

‘Yes, the swastika,’ said the doctor. He walked heavily over to the body and aimed a lamp at the head. ‘It looks to me as if that’s exactly what this mess on the man’s forehead is meant to represent.’

Flóvent and Thorson stepped closer and examined the mark. The doctor was right. Clumsy and smudged though it was, when viewed under the powerful lamp it was clear that the body had been branded with the distinctive Nazi swastika.

There was a commotion outside in the corridor, caused, Flóvent guessed, by the arrival of Ólafía. He had sent for her to identify the body of her tenant. He went out to greet her and was told in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t pleased about being dragged out to this horrible place. She was exhausted, she said. The day had been dreadfully difficult for her. A brutal murder had been committed in her house. Its reputation had been ruined. Her reputation had been ruined. She, who was always so scrupulous in everything, so very particular about selecting her tenants. Only respectable people. With no more than two children.

‘I found the poor man lying on the floor, what more do you want?’ she asked as Flóvent showed her into the mortuary.

‘I’m afraid we need to take care of this formality as quickly as possible,’ he explained. ‘I don’t know how clearly you were able to see him, ma’am, but I have to state in my report that you formally identified your tenant. We need to contact the man’s family and—’

‘Yes, yes, let’s get it over with, then.’

‘Did you get a good first impression of Felix when he started renting from you?’

‘A very good impression,’ said Ólafía. ‘I have a nose for these things. Polite. Obviously well brought up. Nice manners.’

‘You mentioned that he always paid his rent on time?’

‘Always. He was very careful about that.’

‘Did he pay in Icelandic krónur? Or did he use foreign currency? Dollars? Pounds?’

‘Foreign money? No, he didn’t have any foreign money. At least not that I was aware of. He paid in krónur like everybody else.’

‘Did he ever mention his parents’ names to you?’ asked Flóvent. ‘His father? Or mother?’

‘No. Are his parents still alive?’

‘We don’t know. Nor do we know if he had any brothers or sisters. In fact, we hardly know anything about him yet. That’s why it’s so important for you to do us this favour.’

‘Yes, well, I don’t like it at all,’ said Ólafía sourly. ‘It’s a terrible business altogether. Put yourself in my place. I don’t know if I’ll be able to rent out that flat again. Don’t know if I’ll have the heart to. Or if anyone will want to live there after something so... shocking. I haven’t a clue what I’m supposed to do with the place. I’ll have to pay some girls to clean it, and that won’t come cheap.’