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.’
‘No,’ said Thorson. ‘He’s an innocent student. A birdwatcher and bookworm who happens to be interested in Icelandic folklore.’
‘They used to say —’
‘Don’t tell me — in the Edinburgh police?’ finished Thorson.
Flóvent smiled. ‘They used to say that you should disregard everything but hard evidence. Any gut feelings we may have about the boy or his digs or his skill at drawing or the fact he’s an innocent bookworm are beside the point. Irrelevant.’
‘Isn’t that just Scottish cynicism?’
‘They knew a thing or two,’ said Flóvent.
He began to examine the source material Jónatan had amassed for his thesis, leafing through the papers until his gaze alighted on an account relating to the huldufólk that appeared to derive from old court records. The handwriting was almost illegible, however, and after peering at it for a while, Flóvent abandoned the attempt to decipher it on the spot and decided to take the pages away to peruse them at leisure.
Thorson was out in the hallway investigating a small wardrobe. He opened it to find two shirts, a folded jumper and some rolled-up socks. Picking up a pair of smart trousers that had been lying in a crumpled heap at the bottom, he searched the pockets and turned them inside out, noticing, as he did so, a rip in the crotch that had been mended so skilfully as to be almost invisible.
Ten minutes later they located the invoice for the mending service, buried in a kitchen drawer.
35
Jónatan hadn’t slept a wink during his night in the cells. The guards heard him muttering to himself and sobbing quietly. When breakfast was delivered to his cell, he asked after the two policemen who had brought him there. He wanted to get a message to them that he mustn’t miss his classes; he should already have been in a lecture by now and was hoping he would be released as soon as possible. The gravity of his situation still seemed to elude him. He had little appetite and hardly touched his breakfast of porridge served with two slices of liver sausage and a glass of milk.
When Flóvent and Thorson arrived at the prison towards midday, he had finally fallen asleep but started awake when the key was turned in the lock and his cell door opened. Sitting up on the bed, he stared blearily at the two policemen in the doorway.
‘I must have dropped off.’
‘Would you come with us?’ said Flóvent. ‘There’s a room where we can talk.’
‘Are you going to let me go?’ asked Jónatan, standing up.
‘We’re going to have a little chat,’ said Flóvent. ‘We need to ask you a few questions concerning the two girls. After that we’ll see.’
‘I explained to these men that I haven’t got time for this; I’ve already missed some of my lectures.’
Nevertheless, he accompanied them down the corridor and into a small room next to the guards’ coffee room. It contained a table and three chairs, and they all sat down. Flóvent asked if they could have some coffee but Jónatan declined his. He seemed calm and composed; brief as it had been, his rest had done him good. Flóvent reached into his pocket for the composition about the cormorant that he had found in Jónatan’s room and handed it to him.
‘Informative stuff,’ he said. ‘Have you always been interested in birds?’
‘Yes, actually. Ornithology’s a hobby of mine. I’ve always been fascinated by nature, birds especially.’
‘By the cormorant in particular?’
‘No, by seabirds generally. The cormorant is... I like watching it in flight, its elongated neck, the way it plummets into the sea. It’s a wonderful bird.’
‘Did Hrund share your interest in ornithology?’
‘Hrund?’ said Jónatan. ‘I wouldn’t know. I don’t think so.’
‘Tell us again how you knew Hrund,’ said Flóvent.
‘I didn’t touch her,’ said Jónatan. ‘I hope you don’t think I harmed her. Because I didn’t.’
‘Did you talk about birds? You told us yesterday she knew a lot about nature, about birds and plants and so on.’
‘Well, maybe we did. But I can’t really remember.’
Flóvent nodded understandingly. Thorson sat silently at his side. Facing them across the table, Jónatan embarked again on the tale of how he had met the young girl who often used to hang around the petrol station. His account was largely consistent with the one he had provided the day before: they would chat from time to time; she had asked a lot of questions about Akureyri and wanted to move south to Reykjavík, and she was open to the idea that the hidden people really existed.
‘And the subject came up because she knew of your interest in such things?’ said Flóvent, once Jónatan had finished.
‘Yes. She knew I was going to university. I told her I wanted to read Icelandic and history.’