Rudolf shook his head. ‘Will you please leave me in peace,’ he said.
‘So you don’t know why he was found murdered in your son’s flat?’
‘No.’
‘And you don’t know where your son is hiding?’
‘How often do I have to tell you that I have no idea of his whereabouts?’
‘Do you have any reason to believe that something might have happened to your son?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That he might have suffered the same fate as Eyvindur, for example?’
‘That he is dead — is that what you are implying?’
‘You must have considered the possibility. Now that you know about the cyanide capsule we found in his suitcase. Aren’t you afraid he might have killed himself?’
‘I cannot tell you anything about Felix. As I have repeatedly told you, though you are apparently too dim-witted to understand.’
‘Aren’t you the least bit worried about him?’
‘I will not dignify that with an answer,’ said Rudolf. ‘I will not dignify anything you say with an answer. I insist that you leave me alone.’
‘Felix must have been remarkably free of prejudice as a child,’ Flóvent remarked. ‘Did you know that he and Eyvindur were friends, or at least played together, as boys?’
Rudolf ignored this.
‘I mention that he must have been free of prejudice because there was a huge gulf between them socially. Eyvindur came from an appallingly rough home. His mother was a drunk and his father a violent criminal, forever in and out of prison. Yet Felix was from a bourgeois family; his father was a doctor. Did he ever talk about Eyvindur? Were you aware of their friendship?’
Again he was met by silence.
‘Why would a boy from such a prominent home befriend a lad who lived in conditions like that, with a dangerous convict as a father? Wouldn’t Felix have had to seek your permission to associate with him? Did you give it? Or did Felix do it to defy you? Was that when he stopped living up to his father’s expectations?’
‘Get out,’ snapped Rudolf. ‘I have nothing to say to you.’
Flóvent took out the four-page pamphlet that he and Thorson had found at Eyvindur’s flat, held the photograph up to the doctor and asked if he recognised the people in it. Rudolf seemed to have made up his mind to behave as if Flóvent wasn’t in the room. Flóvent asked again if he recognised the people. When he received no response, he began to describe what the picture showed, naming Ebeneser and Brynhildur and the boys Felix and Eyvindur, and asking if Rudolf knew the others. The doctor didn’t even deign to look at it.
‘I understand that Brynhildur Hólm works as your housekeeper nowadays,’ said Flóvent. ‘Am I right?’
Rudolf said nothing.
‘Can you confirm that?’
‘What do you want with her?’ Rudolf asked at last.
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that,’ said Flóvent as politely as he could. He had a degree of sympathy for Rudolf, under the circumstances, but the doctor’s withering scorn undeniably grated on his nerves. ‘At present, anyway,’ he added, noting that the man’s face had turned even darker red. ‘Could you tell me where I can get hold of her? We’ve established that she used to rent rooms on Njálsgata until a few years ago. My colleague is going to speak to her landlord—’
‘That is no concern of mine. You can invent whatever nonsense you like,’ said Rudolf. ‘Leave me alone. I have nothing whatsoever to say to you.’
‘All right,’ said Flóvent. ‘There’s just one more question I’m obliged to put to you.’
‘I have no desire to speak to you. You seem incapable of grasping the fact.’
‘Who’s Hans Lunden?’ asked Flóvent. ‘Who is Dr Hans Lunden?’
Rudolf shot him a glance, visibly startled by the name. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘He was in the country shortly before the war, and it’s possible he’s visited on other occasions too. Perhaps you could enlighten me. Who is he and what was he doing here?’
Rudolf said nothing.
‘He’s your brother, is he not? How did he come to know the consul, Dr Werner Gerlach?’
He wasn’t really expecting Rudolf to answer any of his questions, given how uncooperative he had been up to now. And his instinct was correct. The doctor lay there in stubborn silence, waiting for Flóvent to take himself off. But the visit hadn’t been a complete waste of time. Flóvent had no idea what it all meant, but he had made it clear to Rudolf that he knew about Hans Lunden and his links to the German consul. If this information was significant, Rudolf was bound to wonder how he had found out and, more importantly, whether Flóvent knew more about what Hans and Gerlach had been up to. Before he left, there was one more thing he wanted the doctor to think over.
‘What is the nature of the relationship between Brynhildur Hólm and Hans Lunden?’
There was a long pause.
‘What do you think you know?’ Rudolf finally retorted with a sneer. ‘You know nothing. You are an ignorant fool.’
‘What is it that I don’t know?’ asked Flóvent. ‘Do enlighten me. Why can’t you be straight with me? Don’t you feel the slightest concern for your son?’
Rudolf turned his head away.
‘I want to ask you again about your quarrel with Ebeneser,’ said Flóvent. ‘You had a row about something to do with some boys. To do with Felix, I would guess. Can you confirm that?’
Rudolf didn’t react.
‘Would you care to tell me about that?’
The silence dragged on and Flóvent gave up. Clearly it was futile to keep pressing the doctor on these points. His eye happened to fall on the copy of Skírnir lying on the bedside table, and, changing the subject, he asked the doctor about his interest in the origin of the Icelanders and this new theory about the Heruli. Rudolf continued to snub him, staring silently out of the window.
Only as Flóvent was leaving the room did Rudolf finally turn to him.
‘To think they believed that Iceland was home to such a remarkable race,’ he said. ‘That this was the ancestral heritage...’
‘Who? What heritage?’
‘These peasants.’
‘What heritage?’
‘These... damned peasants.’
Rudolf could not be persuaded to explain, so Flóvent took his leave, wishing him a quick recovery. He walked out of the hospital feeling intensely frustrated. He lingered for a while outside, letting the hot August sun warm his face and trying to make sense of Rudolf’s parting comment. Eventually, he set off and was heading west, alongside the hospital, when a woman suddenly emerged from the building. To his astonishment, it appeared to be Brynhildur Hólm. He was about to call out to her but checked himself and instead began to follow her at a discreet distance as she walked briskly up towards Skólavörduholt. She strode purposefully past the military barracks on top of the hill, looking neither right nor left, wearing a long black coat and black lace-up shoes, and clutching a small black doctor’s bag.
26
Brynhildur Hólm’s former landlord was eager to assist the police, especially when he heard that Thorson was Icelandic-Canadian. He had relatives in North America himself, he said: two maternal uncles who had emigrated to Winnipeg just after the turn of the century, with their entire families, and still kept up with their relatives back in Iceland. He was very interested in Thorson’s life out west, so Thorson told him a little about Manitoba, about the farming conditions and a few of the well known figures in the Icelandic community, poets and others who had made their mark. In spite of the landlord’s curiosity, he was deliberately vague about his own circumstances.
The man remembered Brynhildur well. She had rented rooms from him on Njálsgata for several years and always paid on time; he had no complaints about her as a tenant. She had been single, and he suspected she might have been a little lonely as few people came to see her and she made no effort to get to know her neighbours. Having said that, she had been helpful with their minor injuries and ailments once they learnt she was a nurse. He didn’t think she had ever been married, but her manner had discouraged personal questions, so he couldn’t be sure.