‘No, I’m not... I know nothing about Felix,’ said Ebeneser, ‘if you came here to ask me about him. I’ve no idea where he is. I have to say I find it unlikely that he would have committed a crime like that, but how would I know? Felix and I haven’t had any contact for... for a long time and I don’t know what he’s been up to in recent years. You should ask Rudolf about that. I really don’t think I have anything to add.’
‘About the photograph...’
‘I’d rather be alone now, if you don’t mind. This isn’t... this is bad news... terrible news for us. For our family, you understand. I’m... naturally I’m very upset about this. If what you say is true, if it’s true that Felix is... guilty of an appalling crime like that, it’s a dreadful shock for those of us closest to him.’
‘We understand that,’ said Flóvent. ‘Could you tell us when the picture was taken? We need the names of the other people in the photo. And to know what the occasion was. If you could—’
‘Do you think he’s made a run for it? Felix, I mean?’
‘Yes, it looks like it. At least we don’t know any better. About the picture...’
‘I’m afraid I can’t be of much help,’ said Ebeneser.
‘Isn’t that the school building we can see in the background?’ prompted Thorson.
‘Yes, it looks to me as if the photo was taken in the grounds here, for the anniversary publication,’ said Ebeneser. ‘Are you absolutely sure that Felix killed Eyvindur?’
‘All the evidence points that way,’ said Flóvent. ‘Clearly they were at school together,’ he said, taking the leaflet back from the headmaster. ‘Do you know if they were friends?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘We have reason to believe that they were close at one time, whatever may have happened later.’
‘Yes, it’s possible. I simply don’t know.’
‘Could you tell us the names of the people in the picture?’ Flóvent asked, holding it up to Ebeneser’s face.
‘Well, that’s me, obviously, and that’s Felix in front of me. Next to him is Eyvindur. Then there’s the school nurse... and a teacher, who died several years ago. I don’t recall the other two boys. I remember Eyvindur because he was... well, we had so many problems on account of his background. He was badly bullied. He couldn’t stand up for himself in the playground. Are you absolutely sure it was him you found in Felix’s flat?’
Flóvent nodded and supplied the additional detail that Eyvindur had been killed with the kind of pistol used by the American military, though the trail didn’t seem to lead in that direction at present. He wasn’t sure if he should mention the swastika drawn in blood. Few were aware of this detail as yet. But in the end he decided he might as well chance it. Ebeneser listened to what he had to say in horrified amazement, then replied that he couldn’t imagine Felix doing such a thing. Or anyone else, for that matter.
‘Do you think it’s because they knew each other as boys?’ Ebeneser asked tentatively, as if afraid of the answer. ‘If it was Felix who shot him?’
‘It’s possible,’ said Flóvent. ‘Can you think why he would have done it? Were they good friends when they were young? They’re standing side by side in this picture. They must have been fairly friendly.’
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t say.’
‘What can you tell me about the nurse?’ asked Flóvent, pointing at the picture again. ‘Did she work at the school for long?’
‘She worked here for several years, yes, and at other schools too.’ Ebeneser fell silent.
‘You must remember her well,’ said Flóvent, ‘but maybe you know her better from another context.’
Ebeneser coughed. ‘I do, actually. She’s been working for Rudolf Lunden for the last few years.’
‘Quite,’ said Flóvent. ‘What exactly does she do?’
‘Everything really,’ said Ebeneser. ‘She nurses him. Takes care of him. She’s his housekeeper.’
‘Does she live in?’
‘Yes.’
‘But they’re not married or anything?’
‘No, they’re not married.’
‘But they have a close relationship?’
‘You’d have to ask them about that. Was it her who told you about the meeting? About my meeting with Rudolf?’
‘No,’ said Flóvent. ‘By the way, I don’t even know her name. Could you enlighten me?’
‘Brynhildur,’ said the headmaster. ‘Her name’s Brynhildur Hólm.’
23
The bandleader announced that they would be taking a twenty-minute break after the next tune, then launched into a jazz number with a lively trumpet line and an increasingly manic drumbeat that drove the dancers wild. When it ended, they poured off the dance floor, back to their tables. There was a new crush at the bar — soldiers mostly, shouting to each other, barging through the crowd, drinks held high, through the heat, the cigarette smoke, the roars of laughter.
The dance floor at Hótel Ísland was so packed that the doormen were turning newcomers away, Thorson among them. He had to resort to showing his police ID before they would let him in, along with two Icelandic girls who had been waiting ages to get in. He saw no sign of the Morality Committee. Thorson let himself be swept along by the press of people to the bar, and because he wanted a drink and was in no particular hurry, he stood there patiently, waiting for a bartender to notice him. The staff couldn’t keep up.
He saw young women — their hair done up in elaborate victory rolls — in the company of soldiers, glimpsed red lips emitting infectious peals of laughter, sensed happy excitement shining from beneath tinted eyelashes. Thorson scanned the room but couldn’t see his friend anywhere. She had told him she was from the sticks, from Keflavík, on the other side of the bay. When she was growing up she used to gaze across at Reykjavík casting its glow into the night sky, and tell herself that all life’s adventures awaited her there, under that sea of lights. As soon as she was old enough, she left home, sailed across the bay and never looked back.
Thorson finished his drink and left. He bumped into a few acquaintances on his way out and they dragged him back to their table and tried to pour more booze down his neck, but he made his excuses, explaining that he was working, kind of. Someone pushed a glass of rum towards him. ‘Come on, be a man, drink up!’ He slipped away as the band started up again with a popular number. As everyone streamed back onto the dance floor, he disappeared outside into the darkness.
He headed for the net shed down by the harbour. It was at Hótel Ísland that their paths had first crossed. She had confided in him that Reykjavík hadn’t turned out to be quite the fairy tale she had imagined. She was disenchanted. Yes, there were nicer shops, bigger buildings, more cars and more going on, but it still had the same suffocating small-town atmosphere as Keflavík. She had arrived during the Depression and taken a job as a maid for a large family, slaving away for demanding employers and earning a pittance. After two years she left her position and worked sporadically at fish-processing factories or doing odd jobs that she picked up here and there, working from dawn to dusk whenever she got the chance. She didn’t mind the long hours. What mattered was that she was her own mistress, didn’t have to answer to anyone. She moved in with a divorced bar owner but their relationship was on the rocks by the time the invasion force landed and the town filled with cheerily singing soldiers. Before long she started getting friendly with the British troops, one thing led to another, and she found herself earning money from these encounters. Her new friends paid for her nights out and her drinks as well. She wasn’t ashamed of that. She was down-to-earth and honest. Thorson ventured to ask why she did it. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, let alone judge her; he just wanted to know what was going through her mind. His friend merely smiled, her expression strangely faraway and empty, as though she had never quite managed to catch hold of that tantalising new world that she had glimpsed in the city lights across the bay.