‘What?’
‘I once heard about a girl who was supposed to have thrown herself into Dettifoss. She was from the Öxarfjördur area. Now you come to mention it, I’m pretty sure her name was Hrund.’
‘Where did you hear about her?’
‘From my father originally, I expect. He was travelling up there when it happened.’
‘Your father was in the area?’
‘Yes. The name stuck in my memory. Whenever I visited the waterfall I would think of her sad end. We’ve got relatives up there, and my father used to visit them. In the summers mainly.’
‘Do you know what happened?’
‘It was such a long time ago that I’ve forgotten the details,’ said Magnús. ‘But some people said she wasn’t right in the head. Or maybe it was a broken heart. Apparently she used to see things. She believed in the supernatural and supposedly had some kind of encounter with the huldufólk before she died.’
‘You couldn’t elaborate?’
‘No, sorry, the story was very muddled. But then delusions like that usually are.’
‘And she was never found?’
‘Not to my knowledge. Her body never turned up.’
Magnús rose to his feet, eager to end the visit. ‘I need to go for my rest now,’ he said. ‘Would you excuse me?’
‘Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to tire you.’ Konrád stood up as well.
‘We fell out over the will,’ Magnús volunteered suddenly, as they made their way to the front door. ‘My brother and I. I felt Hólmbert grabbed the lot in his typical domineering manner. Things never got really acrimonious — I didn’t take him to court — but the upshot is that we haven’t spoken for years. So it’s perfectly possible that this man, this Thorson, went to see him. But if so, I wouldn’t have heard about it.’
‘Right, I see,’ said Konrád.
‘Not that there would have been much point.’
‘For Thorson? Why not?’
‘It would be a waste of time asking my brother if he’d received a visit.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘And it’s too late for me to try and bring about a reconciliation.’ Magnús fell silent. Then he added: ‘I gather the illness is in its final stages.’
‘He’s ill?’
‘Hólmbert has Alzheimer’s and, from what I’ve heard, he’s gone downhill very rapidly,’ said Magnús. ‘Apparently he’s in a world of his own these days.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Yes, it’s a grim fate,’ said Magnús, opening the front door. ‘Apart from that I believe he’s always been healthy. Never known a day’s illness in his life. But that makes no difference when you’re dealing with a degenerative disease like Alzheimer’s.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ said Konrád. ‘So there’s no point my going to talk to him?’
‘No, you can forget about that,’ said Magnús, giving him a firm handshake.
Konrád was forced to slow down when he ran into congestion near the suburb of Grafarvogur. All the way back his mind had been grappling with the implications of what he’d learnt from Magnús, about Hrund and the waterfall, Rósamunda and the theatre. He racked his brain, trying to think of anything that might connect the two girls. Thorson had gone to see Vigga in his search for answers about Rósamunda. Did she tell him about another girl called Hrund? Or had he already been familiar with Hrund’s story from his time in the police? Konrád considered the newest piece of the puzzle: that the MP, Magnús’s father, had been visiting the Öxarfjördur area when talk of Hrund’s disappearance would have been on everyone’s lips. Later, Rósamunda had refused to enter his house. Was that the connection? Did Magnús know more than he was prepared to let on?
Konrád sat in the traffic jam thinking about the former MP and his connections to both cases, however tenuous. He reflected on the fact that the two girls had mentioned the huldufólk and remembered what he had been taught about coincidences when he was just starting out as a detective.
Never, under any circumstances, believe in them.
42
It was very late before Flóvent and Thorson were able to return to the Fríkirkjuvegur offices. By then, Jónatan’s body had been taken to the mortuary, the soldiers injured in the crash were being tended to in hospital, and their jeep had been towed away to the base in Skerjafjördur. Flóvent and Thorson had given the Reykjavík police a preliminary account. A more detailed report would have to wait until the following morning.
They still didn’t know who they should inform of Jónatan’s death. Their investigation into his background had only just got under way; they hadn’t yet identified his next of kin, and Jónatan himself had stubbornly refused to reveal any information about his personal life.
They sat in silence. The only illumination came from Flóvent’s desk lamp. Outside the snow had thickened and was now coming down heavily over the town. Their guilt felt as oppressive as the enshrouding darkness. Both men were haunted by the same thought: a young man in their care had lost his life. For as long as he was in their custody, they were responsible for him, and they had failed him. His death was their fault, though they had only meant to be kind. Their momentary lapse of concentration had cost him his life.
‘Do you think he was really going to take us there?’ asked Thorson, finally breaking the silence. ‘Or was that just a ploy?’
Flóvent didn’t seem to hear. Recalling Jónatan’s extreme distress at being locked up, he wondered if they should have foreseen what might happen; if they had ignored the danger signs. He should have been handcuffed to one of them when they left the prison. They should have read the situation better, guarded him more closely.
‘Flóvent?’
‘What was that?’
‘Was he using the Shadow District as a ploy? Did he really plan on taking us there?’
‘You mean in order to escape?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Flóvent. ‘Impossible to say. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know the answer to that. For God’s sake, why didn’t we handcuff him? We were so careless.’
‘I didn’t see it coming,’ said Thorson. ‘Neither did you. We didn’t forget. It was a gesture of goodwill. We were trying to create an atmosphere of trust. That was important. Then he gets hit by a car. We would have caught him. I was only a few yards behind when he ran in front of that jeep. It was a crazy attempt. And look how it ended.’
Flóvent nodded distractedly.
‘There’s no way we could have predicted that he would make a run for it,’ continued Thorson. ‘He was being cooperative... OK, he was upset at being in jail — we knew that. But wasn’t that because he’d been caught? Because he didn’t want to confess his guilt?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Flóvent. ‘But it’s also possible that we had the wrong man. He didn’t say anything to you?’
‘No. I believe he died instantly. I don’t think he even knew what hit him.’
The soldiers had been driving well over the speed limit, from what Thorson could remember, and he assumed there would be consequences. He had spoken to the man who had been sitting on the pavement, covered in blood, beside the wrecked vehicle. ‘There was nothing we could do,’ the soldier had said, distraught. ‘We didn’t even see him till he landed on the hood.’ He had been informed that Jónatan was dead.
Flóvent was finding it hard to master his despair. ‘The poor boy,’ he whispered, his voice cracking.
‘It was his decision,’ said Thorson. ‘He didn’t have to do it.’
Flóvent said nothing. He knew Thorson was trying to comfort him, and perhaps one could take the view that the student had been responsible for his own fate, but Flóvent was painfully aware that they had badly misjudged the situation.