‘No.’
‘He had something on Dad — I don’t know what — and forced him to take part in the deception. Dad had the gift, but that wasn’t enough for your father. He wanted dramatic results, so people would pay more. They met through the Society for Psychical Research. Dad was weak, I admit, and longed for recognition. He had a drink problem too. Used to go on benders. He’d vanish for weeks at a time and sometimes had blackouts lasting days. But he was a good man. Deep down. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone. And he had certain qualities as a medium. A degree of sensitivity not granted to everyone. A sympathetic understanding of people’s search for answers.’
‘Do you know why he told my dad he’d sensed the presence of another girl during that seance for Rósamunda?’ asked Konrád. ‘Where that detail came from? Or who she was? My dad hadn’t fed him any information about a second girl. She was supposedly there with Rósamunda and was accompanied by an intense feeling of cold. Did your father ever talk about that? Did he know any more than he let on?’
‘He knew what he sensed,’ said Eygló, ‘but you don’t believe in any of that, do you? You’ve already decided that everything he said was a lie, so I can’t imagine why you’re asking me.’
‘Well, I don’t know what to make of it,’ said Konrád, ‘but the strange thing is there may actually have been a second girl connected to the Rósamunda case. A girl who was never found. I wanted to check if your father had any prior knowledge of this.’
Startled, Eygló put down her coffee cup. ‘I had no idea she was connected to Rósamunda,’ she said. ‘Do you know how?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. I thought maybe our fathers might have had some inside information, like when they pretended to sense the mittens or the shipwreck.’
‘Pretended? My father had psychic powers, and if he said he sensed the presence of another girl with Rósamunda, he wasn’t making it up. He wasn’t a pathological liar, unlike...’
‘My dad?’
‘Yes.’
‘So he sensed a presence, you say? Who was she? Did he ever discuss it with you? It’s possible her name was Hrund.’
‘He didn’t know her name, but she visited him powerfully during that seance. He had no idea who she was or what had happened to her. All he knew was that she was unhappy and cold. He spoke about the chill you mentioned. The intense cold.’
‘So he didn’t know any more than that?’
‘No.’
‘Nor how she died?’
‘No.’
‘Have you heard of a man called Stefán Thórdarson, or Thorson, as he used to be known in the old days?’
‘Thorson? No.’
‘He didn’t get in touch with you?’
‘No.’
‘And your father died years ago, of course.’
‘Yes,’ said Eygló. ‘He... It was suicide. He’d been in a bad way for a long while. Couldn’t find any peace in his soul, as my mother used to say. Actually, it happened not long after he heard the news about your father.’
‘My father?’
‘Wasn’t he stabbed to death by the abattoir?’
‘Yes. But what’s that got to do with your father?’
‘Mum said he was knocked sideways by the news. Only a few months passed between that and his... his death.’
‘But they weren’t in contact at all, were they?’
‘Not that I’m aware, but then I don’t know everything. I didn’t really know my dad that well. I was so young. But my mother told me he’d been affected by the news of your father’s stabbing. She assumed it was because they’d once worked together but...’
‘But what?’
‘Maybe there was more to it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Eygló. ‘I’m completely in the dark, I’m afraid. All I know is that my father wasn’t well, obviously. No one in their right mind would resort to an act like that.’
She sat there for a while, lost in the sad memories Konrád had stirred up, then abruptly pushed back her chair and rose to her feet, saying she had to get going.
‘Sorry I couldn’t help you at all,’ she added.
‘Thanks for meeting me anyway,’ said Konrád, rising to his feet as well and shaking her hand again. This time the contact was fleeting and she avoided his gaze.
‘I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable,’ he said. ‘It really wasn’t the intention.’
‘No, it... no, not at all,’ said Eygló.
He could tell that she had noticed his withered arm during their conversation and was trying not to stare at it. ‘I’ve got to be somewhere else,’ she added, and hurried out of the cafe.
Konrád sat down again, stroking his arm absently and turning over her words in his mind, thinking about the way she’d talked about his father. It didn’t surprise him. He’d heard similar sentiments before and knew from experience — from his own childhood memories — how unreasonable and violent his old man could be. Konrád’s mother had tried repeatedly to bring her ex-husband to his senses and persuade him to allow their son to come and live with her, but it was no good. On one occasion he had refused to let her in to speak to Konrád and left her standing in the basement doorway. Usually when she came to town from her new home in the east she would stop by and spend some time with Konrád. Sometimes she would start crying and begging his father not to drive them any further apart. But on this occasion his father had had enough.
‘At least let me say goodbye to him,’ she had pleaded, trying to catch a glimpse of her son.
‘Oh, shut the fuck up,’ his father had said and slammed the door in her face.
38
A little online sleuthing soon revealed when the member of parliament and his wife had died, and the fact that they had been survived by several children and grandchildren. No wonder their names had sounded familiar. When Konrád looked them up he remembered that one of the sons had been an influential politician, a cabinet minister, and a leading light in Icelandic society. Of the MP’s four sons and one daughter, only two of the sons were still alive. One had died in his early sixties. Checking the obituaries, Konrád saw that he had passed away suddenly at home. A weak heart was mentioned. The other brother and the sister, however, had lived to a ripe old age. Their descendants were scattered all over the country and as far afield as Britain and Australia.
Konrád decided his first move should be to visit the younger surviving brother, who lived in sheltered accommodation in the little town of Borgarnes on the west coast. He was in the mood for a trip out of town, so the day after his visit to Vigga he got in his car and headed north. The drive took him almost two hours, as he decided to give the tunnel a miss and take the longer, more scenic route around Hvalfjördur. It was a beautiful day, and because most people now used the tunnel he had the road largely to himself. There wasn’t a breath of wind and the fjord lay smooth as a mirror. On a whim, Konrád turned off by the old wartime barracks that still stood above the Thyrill Service Station, which was a shadow of its former self now that traffic around the fjord had dwindled to a trickle.
The old barracks had been painted red and lovingly restored; Konrád had read recently that some were used as summer holiday homes by employees of the nearby whaling station. He drove slowly through the little colony, trying to picture how the area would have looked during the war when there were far more huts and the whole place was alive with activity, iron-grey warships lying at anchor in the fjord. Now silence reigned, broken only by the occasional roar of a passing car. A lone gull was floating on the wind above the old whaling station, as if hunting for the long-lost days of prosperity.
He reached Borgarnes just after midday, quickly located the retirement flats, continued on down the hill and parked outside. The man’s name was on the entryphone in the lobby. Konrád had given no advance warning of his visit, so he had no idea if the man would be home. After waiting for a decent interval, he pressed the bell again but no one answered. Then he rang the bell of what he assumed was the flat next door and a woman picked up. She said she hadn’t seen her neighbour that morning but he often went swimming at lunchtime. Konrád thanked her, returned to his car and drove over to the pool.