Two days after Jónatan’s tragic demise they had met on the docks. Thorson was embarking for England and Flóvent had come to see him off. He described his visit to Jónatan’s relatives and expressed his doubts that the case would be taken any further. Thorson could think of nothing to say. Flóvent was clearly shattered by the accident. The MP had pleaded his cause with senior figures in the police, assuring them that no charges would be brought by Jónatan’s family. Flóvent would not be reprimanded for professional misconduct, but Thorson could tell that it made no difference to him.
A freezing shower of Icelandic rain broke over their heads as they shook hands, vowing to meet up again once the war was over. The harbour was grey with naval vessels. Flóvent and Thorson could hardly hear each other over the shouting, the throbbing of engines, the pounding of boots as the troops marched past to the waiting ships.
‘No,’ Thorson told his mother, closing his suitcase. ‘I need to get... I need a change of scene. I feel restless here. It’s hard to explain but, strangely enough, in the heat of battle, when men were dying all around me, my thoughts went there. To the stillness. There’s such an incredible clarity and silence in the Icelandic wilderness. And I promised myself that if I lived through the war, I’d go back there one day and experience it again.’
One of the first things Thorson did on arriving in Iceland was look Flóvent up. He remembered the way to his house in the west of town, so one day he went round and knocked on the door, and immediately recognised the man who answered it as Flóvent’s father. After they had exchanged greetings, the old man invited him in, remembering him as a colleague of his son’s. He said that he was fit for nothing these days; he’d had to give up his job on the docks and was struggling to make ends meet on the dole, an indignity that seemed to him no better than receiving charity.
‘You two weren’t in touch at all?’ asked the old man, when Thorson had explained why he was there.
‘No, I’m afraid not. We were planning to meet up again after the war but it’s taken longer than I intended. I meant to write to him but never got round to it.’
‘So you haven’t heard the news?’
‘News?’
‘I’m sorry you should have to find out like this but my son’s dead. He passed away two years ago.’
‘He’s dead?’
‘Yes. He left the police shortly after that last case of yours and took a desk job with the civil service — the tax office, in fact — and worked there right up until he went into hospital.’
‘I’m very sorry to hear that. How...?’
‘He’d been suffering from stomach pains for a long time but hadn’t done anything about it. Turned out he had cancer.’ The old man passed a hand over his eyes. ‘He died a miserable death, a wretched death, the poor lad. You can find him in the graveyard near here on Sudurgata. Close to his mother and sister.’
‘I didn’t know,’ said Thorson. ‘Please accept my condolences.’
‘Thank you. Well, it can’t be helped. The poor lad.’
‘I... to be honest, that was the last thing I was expecting to hear.’
‘Yes, well, none of us knows how long we’ve got.’
Thorson couldn’t think of a reply to this, and Flóvent’s father seemed lost in his recollections. They sat for a while in a silence broken only by the tiny plinks from a dripping kitchen tap.
‘Did he ever talk to you about the case of the girl behind the theatre?’ asked Thorson at last.
‘No, very seldom. Deliberately avoided bringing it up, it seemed to me. Didn’t want to remember. I got the feeling it had never been properly cleared up, but he didn’t know what to do about it.’
‘What hadn’t been cleared up?’
‘I don’t know. But I got the feeling he wasn’t happy about the way it ended. I expect it was because of the accident with your prisoner.’
‘Of course, it didn’t end well.’
‘No, that’s what he said. My son seemed to grow old before his time, and I blame it on that damned business.’
‘It was a difficult investigation.’
‘It hit him very hard. I don’t believe Flóvent was ever satisfied with the way the case was closed. In fact, I think he may have wanted to reopen it before he died. Of course, you never got his letter.’
‘His letter?’
‘He wrote to you but the letter was returned.’
‘Which letter?’
‘He didn’t know where to address it, so he tried sending it to your regiment but they sent it back. It should be around here somewhere. I found it among his papers after he died.’
The old man went into his bedroom and came out again with an envelope addressed to Thorson, which he handed over. Thorson opened it carefully and read the enclosed letter.
Reykjavík, 13 December 1947
My dear Thorson,
I hope this note will reach you. I don’t know if you made it through the war alive, but I wanted to try to find out.
Over the last couple of years I’ve often found myself thinking of you and our work together. I don’t know if I ever thanked you properly for all your assistance, cooperation and support, so I wanted to make amends for that now.
I can only begin to imagine the horrors you must have endured during the fighting. I’ve read a great deal about the Normandy landings and believe I have some idea, if only superficially, of the devastating bloodbath you must have witnessed first-hand.
Our final case is never far from my thoughts. I believe we came to the right conclusion, yet sometimes I feel a creeping suspicion that we could have done better. Pursued a different line of inquiry, perhaps. But this is probably only my uneasy conscience speaking, because of what happened to the boy. I have found it hard to come to terms with the way it ended. Naturally his family up north were shattered when they heard the news, but they didn’t blame us for what happened once they were apprised of all the facts.
Our principal witness and helper in all this was the MP’s son, Hólmbert. He confirmed all our suspicions about Jónatan, and this should have set my mind at rest, but for some reason the matter won’t give me any peace.
Well, my dear friend, I’d be grateful if you would send word, even if only a few short lines, to let me know how you are. I should be greatly reassured.
Thorson stood contemplating his old friend’s grave for a while, then made the sign of the cross and said a short prayer. Flóvent’s father was lying near at hand, and beyond his stone was one of the mass graves that had been dug at the height of the Spanish flu, where Flóvent’s mother and sister lay beneath the turf, side by side with other victims of the epidemic.
Rest in peace read the inscription on the headstone, and Thorson knew that if ever that prayer was appropriate for someone, it was for Flóvent.
46
With a little detective work, Thorson had discovered that Hólmbert was in a nursing home in Reykjavík, and it was there that he headed after his visit to the graveyard. He didn’t know the man from Adam, had never met him, though he had been a familiar face in the press over the course of his political career. His name had lingered in Thorson’s memory because Flóvent had made a point of noting how very helpful Hólmbert had been.