At that moment they heard a noise from the old man in the wheelchair and turned to look at him.
‘... ósamu...?’
They both stared at Hólmbert. His gaze remained fixed on the television, but it was clear that he was trying to say something. He appeared to be lost in a world of his own, completely oblivious to his son’s presence, let alone Konrád’s.
‘... ós... am... un...?’ he whispered hoarsely at the TV screen.
‘Dad, it’s me Benjamín, your son.’
Hólmbert didn’t react or shift his gaze from the television.
‘Hólmbert?’ tried Konrád. ‘Can you hear me?’
The old man sat motionless as if the two visitors had nothing to do with him.
‘What’s he trying to say?’ asked Konrád.
‘I haven’t the faintest idea. Look, you’d better go.’
‘Didn’t it sound to you like—?’
‘It could’ve been anything,’ interrupted Benjamín, his patience running out. ‘I’m asking you to leave him alone. It’s... I’m asking you to leave us alone.’ He went over and stood by the door. ‘Please, just go.’
Konrád decided to back down. ‘OK, no problem, I’m sorry to inconvenience you. I really didn’t mean to intrude.’ He went out into the corridor and heard the door swing to behind him. As he was leaving the nursing home, he took out his phone and rang Marta.
‘What now?’ she asked.
‘Have you still got those recordings from the CCTV cameras in the vicinity of Stefán Thórdarson’s flat?’
‘Yes, a whole pile of them. All bloody useless.’
‘Why useless?’
‘Because I don’t know what I’m looking for. They just show people coming and going, and I don’t know who any of them are.’
‘Let me have a look at them.’
‘Why? What have you found out?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Konrád. ‘I’d need to check the CCTV footage. But, unlike you, at least I know what I’m looking for.’
‘Hurry up then,’ said Marta. ‘I was just about to head home.’
48
It wasn’t easy for Konrád to persuade Benjamín to meet him behind the National Theatre. Benjamín flatly refused at first, protesting that he didn’t have time for such nonsense and insisting that Konrád leave him and his family alone. Meeting behind the theatre was an absurd idea. He had no interest in Konrád’s melodramatic attempts to smear his family. What happened in the past belonged in the past. Rósamunda’s murder had been solved by the police seventy years ago; her killer had been caught, so he saw absolutely no reason to waste his time on wild conjectures and rumours.
Konrád countered that the matter concerned not only Rósamunda’s case but some new evidence that had come to light regarding Thorson’s recent demise. He reiterated that he would wait for Benjamín behind the theatre. There were a few details he wanted to run by him. If Benjamín didn’t show up, it would make no difference; the matter would progress to the next level, though Konrád’s part in it was finished.
‘Have you notified the police?’ asked Benjamín, after a weighty pause.
‘I’ve shared some of my findings,’ said Konrád, ‘but I’ve yet to give them my final report.’
At this, Benjamín retorted that he wanted nothing more to do with him and hung up. Konrád put his phone away. He sat in his car, peering into the doorway where Rósamunda had been found alone, discarded, back in the days when the world had been at war and the theatre had been an army depot. He was parked on Lindargata, a stone’s throw from Skuggasund. The streets were quiet. A black cat slunk across the road and darted into a nearby garden. A pair of lovers walked hand in hand along the pavement and disappeared in the direction of Arnarhóll.
Konrád got out of his car, walked over to the theatre and gazed up its obsidian-dashed walls, studying the decorative features designed to resemble pillars of columnar basalt, with their allusions to the country’s geology and centuries-old folklore. Within these thick, dark walls human dramas were staged for public entertainment; sorrow and joy were doled out in equal measure, just as they were in life itself. The difference being that when the curtain fell the performance was over and the audiences could go home. Whereas in the real world the drama never ended.
Three quarters of an hour later, Konrád decided to call it a day and head home, having given up all hope that Benjamín would put in an appearance. He opened the car door and was about to ease himself into the driver’s seat when he noticed a figure standing motionless on the corner of Skuggasund, head turned in his direction.
‘Benjamín?’ Konrád called.
The man crossed the road towards him and Konrád saw that it was indeed Benjamín. So Konrád had at least succeeded in whetting his curiosity.
‘Why did you ask me to come down here?’ asked Benjamín. ‘What’s all this in aid of?’
‘Thank you for coming.’
‘You didn’t exactly give me much choice.’
‘Do you find yourself drawn here at times? Because of what happened?’
‘I sometimes go to the theatre, if that’s what you’re asking. Apart from that I have no reason to come here.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘I can’t imagine why I should. I don’t know what you’re trying to insinuate. What happened here had absolutely nothing to do with me or my family.’
‘Yet you came anyway.’
Benjamín didn’t reply to this.
The theatre was illuminated by small floodlights that threw strange shapes on the walls as in a shadow play.
‘I grew up around here,’ said Konrád conversationally. ‘In these streets. Among these buildings. It was here that I first heard about Rósamunda. About her being found in that doorway over there. The incident affected me directly, so maybe that’s why I can’t let it go. You see, a seance was held at my house for Rósamunda’s parents. Disinterring bodies was in fashion at the time and phoney mediums saw a chance to get in on the act, though that’s another story. I don’t know how or why, but this particular medium told my father that alongside Rósamunda he’d sensed another girl, whose spirit could find no rest. Then, the other day, I learnt about the existence of a second girl, called Hrund, from an old neighbour of mine from the Shadow District. If I believed in seances, which I don’t, I’d have thought the girl the medium mentioned must have been this Hrund.’
‘You said you had new evidence,’ said Benjamín impatiently. ‘Is that it? Is that all? A seance? Paranormal claptrap?’
Konrád smiled. ‘You told me you hadn’t met Thorson at the nursing home. I believe he went there after discovering that your father had been in the north when Hrund went missing. The news struck him as significant; he must have regretted that he didn’t make that discovery at the time. That’s why he urgently wanted to go and see your father and try to establish the truth.’
‘You said something new had come to light. What’s new about any of this? Don’t tell me you dragged me all the way down here just for that?’
‘Did you visit Thorson after he went to see your father?’
‘No.’
‘Did he tell you he was going to have the case reopened? Alert the press? Bring it to the attention of the public?’
‘I never spoke to the man,’ said Benjamín.
‘What if I tell you that we have CCTV recordings from two locations close to Thorson’s home, both of which show you in the area at the time of his death?’
‘CCTV? What are you talking about?’ asked Benjamín after a moment’s silence.