‘I suppose that’s not really the kind of justice I was talking about,’ said Thorson. ‘What you say is quite right: your father’s a very sick man. But, strange as it may seem to you, he’s the least of my concerns. What concerns me is a young man called Jónatan and a detective I once worked with, whose name was Flóvent. I owe it to Jónatan to see that the truth comes out. And Flóvent would have wanted me to clear the boy’s name. We abandoned the inquiry just when it should have been getting going. I left the country. Flóvent was badly hit by Jónatan’s death. We both were. It’s not too late...’
‘For the truth to come out?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Well, in my view what you claim is outrageous,’ said Benjamín. ‘I still can’t understand how you’ve come to such a conclusion. But that’s your business. All I beg is that you shield my father, shield those of us in his family who are still alive...’
‘I can only do what’s right,’ said Thorson. ‘However badly it may affect you.’
‘What do you mean by “right”? Do you really think it’s right to destroy my family?’ Benjamín hesitated a moment, then continued. ‘I’m a wealthy man. If you’d like me to make a donation to some charity or organisation... some pension fund... either now or in the event you ever find yourself in need...’
Thorson shook his head.
‘Incidentally, that’s in no way intended as an admission,’ said Benjamín. ‘Only that I know that the moment this becomes public — assuming the police make it public — the rumour mill will start up and it’ll be almost impossible to reverse the damage. I run a large company. We’re prominent members of society. Allegations of this kind would be a serious blow to our reputation.’
Thorson didn’t know how to respond to this.
‘Are you quite sure it was my father who did this to the girls?’ asked Benjamín.
‘I’m convinced, and I believe a proper investigation will confirm my findings. At least in Rósamunda’s case. Hrund is more difficult. Her body was never found, so there’s no way of knowing exactly what happened.’
‘I see. Fine. Then I’ll expect a call from the police shortly. Again, please excuse my behaviour earlier — I lost my temper when you started coming out with those allegations. I hope you won’t hold it against me.’
‘Thank you for coming to see me,’ said Thorson. ‘And for your understanding. I believe it’s best for everyone concerned to have this matter cleared up once and for all.’
‘Yes, maybe you’re right.’
Thorson made to rise and show his visitor to the door, but Benjamín told him not to inconvenience himself; he could see himself out. They shook hands in parting.
‘You’re dead set on this?’ said Benjamín.
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
‘All right, goodbye then,’ Benjamín said, his voice dropping to a whisper, and he left the room.
Thorson heard the door close behind him and sat for a while, thinking over the visit and wondering if he was doing the right thing by rescuing the case from oblivion and trying to have the investigation reopened. He was feeling more tired than usual after his trip to the nursing home and Benjamín’s subsequent visit; the whole business must have affected him more than he’d realised. He thought about how convenient Jónatan’s death had been for Hólmbert. How he had seized the chance to pull the wool over the eyes of the police, blaming Jónatan for the sole purpose of deflecting suspicion from himself.
Gazing unseeing out of the window overlooking the garden, Thorson made up his mind once and for all to take his discoveries to the police without further delay.
He went into the bedroom, opened the drawer of his bedside table and took out the photo of his lover that he’d kept by his side all these years. It brought up painful memories of the lengths to which they’d had to go to keep their relationship a secret, the social stigma that used to be attached to people like them. Although times had changed for the better, out of habit he still kept the picture discreetly tucked away in a drawer. It reminded him of the trials they’d had to endure, the prejudice they’d faced. He took it out almost every day, seeing again that direct gaze, that inscrutable smile, and remembered the time they’d had together, the love they’d shared, the love he had lost and grieved for ever since.
Feeling bone weary, Thorson replaced the photo in the drawer and stretched out on the bed. A succession of images passed through his mind: Rósamunda; Benjamín trying to bribe him with money; Benjamín’s father, Hólmbert, the former cabinet minister and his grandfather, the MP. And as always his mind presented him with a picture of Jónatan lying in a pool of blood on Laugavegur, the tiny snowflakes settling on his eyes.
The MP and his son... Had the MP been aware of his son’s crimes? Had he protected him? Or had the son been protecting his father?
Thorson began to drift off to sleep.
Had the son been protecting his father?
He awoke to find himself struggling to breathe. Even in the midst of his struggle, his mind latched on to the MP, and he knew suddenly that Hólmbert was not the only suspect in Rósamunda’s killing. There was his father the MP, whose house it was that Rósamunda had refused to visit; who had been on a trip up north with his son when Hrund was assaulted; who had been of sufficiently high rank, in a sufficiently elevated position, that the girls wouldn’t have dared to expose him.
Waking up properly, Thorson found that he really couldn’t breathe; his head was being pressed down into the bed by a deadly weight. He struggled to open his mouth and draw breath but was overcome by a terrible sense of suffocation. As he frantically fought for oxygen the realisation hit him that he was being overpowered by someone stronger than himself...
50
Benjamín stared without speaking into the dark corner where Rósamunda had been found.
‘My father was an accessory,’ he said at last. ‘He didn’t kill Rósamunda. But he walked in on his father standing over her body, and helped him dispose of it. To that extent my father’s as culpable as my grandfather was. He was confronted with an impossible dilemma when the police came to see them. Either to come clean and point the finger at his father, or lie and frame his friend, who was already dead.’
‘He chose to lie.’
‘What would you have done? What would you have done in his place?’
Avoiding Konrád’s eye, Benjamín kept his gaze fixed on the doorway, as if he could see Rósamunda’s cold, lifeless body.
‘He discovered what his father had done and had to live with that knowledge for the rest of his life. Had to take care that the truth never came out. Could never be free of the guilt.’
‘How did you know?’
‘It was his illness.
‘His illness? You mean his Alzheimer’s?’
‘Yes. My father kept it secret right up until he developed dementia. The disease made him lose control of the memories he’d been keeping locked away inside him. They slipped out, one by one, including the most painful ones. He started talking about episodes from his past that he’d never spoken of before, hardly seemed to realise he was doing it. Naturally I knew — we all did — about Jónatan, but my family never really discussed him or what had happened. It was never really talked of. But then my father started rambling on about Jónatan and always seemed very disturbed when he mentioned him. He kept saying that my grandfather had picked up some ideas from him about the huldufólk and used them to do something unspeakable. He kept crying — a man who’d never shown his feelings. Naturally I was curious, and in the end I got the truth out of him. I found myself confronted by a family tragedy — the ugly truth about my father and grandfather. And of course the other, much greater tragedy involving the deaths of Rósamunda and Hrund and later of Jónatan. I had no idea what to do with the information. It was just too much for me. I felt I had to contain it at all costs. I felt responsible. All of a sudden I found myself in the same position as my father. He had been wrestling with his conscience all these years. Then one day when I was visiting him at the nursing home I found a man his age sitting in his room with him. He’d dug up the truth, only he thought my father was responsible for what my grandfather had done, and he was talking about going to the police. I went round to see him. Not to hurt him but to talk to him.’