‘Yes, well, you can think what you like.’
‘Is that why Eyvindur’s forehead was marked with a swastika? Is it something to do with this picture?’
‘Swastika? What swastika?’
‘You didn’t know? Felix — or the unknown killer, if he’s to be believed — dipped a finger in Eyvindur’s blood and drew a swastika on his forehead. Can you imagine why? Or what it’s supposed to mean?’
Brynhildur was visibly shocked. ‘That’s horrible. I didn’t know.’
‘Didn’t Felix tell you? I wouldn’t have thought he’d forget a detail like that.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t notice,’ said Brynhildur. ‘Perhaps he couldn’t bring himself to take a closer look at the body. I don’t know. He didn’t say a word about it.’
‘Why would someone draw a swastika on Eyvindur’s forehead? What message were they trying to send?’
‘I simply don’t believe that Felix did it,’ said Brynhildur staunchly.
‘The swastika must be linked to Nazism, surely?’
‘I don’t know... It would appear so.’
‘Tell me about Hans Lunden.’
‘Hans?’
‘Yes, Dr Hans Lunden. How do you know each other? What business did you both have with Werner Gerlach at the consulate shortly before the war?’
‘Business? I went there once — I was invited to dinner. But I wasn’t a regular guest. Hans Lunden is Rudolf’s brother. It was, well, before the war and... Where did you get this information, if I might ask?’
‘What brought Hans Lunden to Iceland? What business did you both have at the consulate?’
‘He came to see his brother as far as I’m aware. Rudolf would know more about that than I would. You should ask him. The dinner was given in Hans’s honour. He’s a well-known physician in Germany. Or scientist, rather. I was invited to accompany them.’
‘Tell me about you and Rudolf.’
‘What is there to tell?’
‘What’s the nature of your relationship?’
‘We... we get on well. If you’re implying that our relationship goes beyond that of a housekeeper and employer, you’re mistaken.’
‘In other words, you simply work for him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not for anyone else?’
‘No. Honestly, what is this all about? I don’t appreciate the tenor of these questions. I don’t appreciate it at all.’
‘What did you mean when you said that Felix hated his father?’ asked Flóvent, changing tack. He got the impression that he wasn’t going to get much more out of her tonight. He would have to take Brynhildur into custody for further questioning.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Earlier, when I’d just recovered my senses, you said he hated his father. I presume you meant Felix?’
‘Their relationship has been... strained... for a long time,’ said Brynhildur. ‘I think strained is the right word.’
‘Why is that?’
‘You’ll have to ask them,’ said Brynhildur evasively.
‘You have no idea where Felix could have gone?’
‘No.’
Flóvent stood up, still a little unsteady on his feet.
‘You’ll have to come with me.’ he said. ‘You must have realised that.’
Brynhildur studied him for a while, then asked: ‘Is that really necessary?’
‘There’s every indication that Felix has committed murder. You helped him to hide from the police. You chose to cover up for him. I’m afraid there’s no alternative.’
‘You don’t believe his story.’
‘No. I have no reason to believe a man who fails to come forward immediately when a man is killed in his home.’
Later that evening Flóvent unearthed the documents.
He had left Brynhildur in custody, cleaned himself up as best he could, then decided he was sufficiently recovered to take another look around Rudolf’s surgery before heading home. Brynhildur had offered no resistance and had accompanied him without a word to the police station on Pósthússtræti, from where she was escorted to the prison on Skólavördustígur. The only thing she asked was whether she would be locked up for long. He was unable to answer that.
With the aid of a torch he had borrowed from the police station, Flóvent walked slowly through the surgery, opening drawers and cupboards. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. Clues to where Felix might be hiding, perhaps.
Since he was intending to conduct a more thorough search of the premises in the morning, he suddenly decided, halfway inside the wardrobe from which Felix had leapt out earlier, that he’d had enough for now. The wardrobe was empty. As he was backing out, he accidentally bashed the torch against the door. As it hit the floor he heard a hollow thud. Flóvent tapped the wooden base. There was no mistaking it. He got down on all fours and ran his fingers along the floor of the wardrobe until he felt a slightly raised edge. With the help of the pocket knife he always carried, he managed to prise up one of the boards. Underneath was a small bundle of papers and some envelopes that turned out to contain specimen jars. Some of the papers showed tables of what appeared to be height and weight measurements, others featured lists of questions. He leafed through them quickly. At first glance, some of the questions seemed to relate to personal matters such as family circumstances, sleeping habits and diet, while others were intended to assess cognitive development and intelligence.
Flóvent stared down at the hiding place in the base of the wardrobe, the maid’s words — about Ebeneser and Rudolf quarrelling over some boys — echoing in his mind.
32
The woman stared at Thorson in confusion, having just been interrupted while bawling out her younger sister. Either she hadn’t heard his question or she hadn’t taken it in.
‘Vera,’ repeated Thorson. ‘You mentioned her name. Could you tell me which Vera you mean? Who is she?’
‘Vera?’ echoed the older sister of the girl Thorson had rescued from the minesweeper — an effort for which he had received precious little thanks. The girl herself was standing behind her sister, cradling her red cheek and glaring at him as if it was all his fault. Him and his meddling.
‘Yes.’
‘What do you want with her?’
‘She... knows a friend of mine,’ Thorson improvised. ‘I just wondered if it was the same woman. It’s not a very common name,’ he added, ‘Vera.’
‘An army friend of yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘She takes in washing for the soldiers,’ said the woman. ‘Billy helped her get set up. Is his name Billy? Your mate?’
Thorson nodded. ‘Does she run a laundry?’
‘Hardly a laundry, but Billy fixed her up with a washing machine, and she’s got a wringer and some washing lines. She’s run off her feet. My sister,’ said the woman, giving the younger girl a dirty look, ‘sometimes helps her out and Vera’s obviously earning enough to pay her a bit.’
Thorson continued to quiz the woman about Vera until his prying made her first puzzled, then suspicious. But by then she had told him about Vera’s relationship with Billy, a sergeant in the British Army, who had been instrumental, if Thorson had understood correctly, in finding her a steady stream of customers. She had left her Icelandic boyfriend, who was a bit of a deadbeat, and started a new life; she was standing on her own two feet and had broken free from a relationship that wasn’t going anywhere. Billy had opened her eyes to a world of possibilities and she had no intention of missing out on them.
The woman confirmed that the man Vera used to live with was called Eyvindur, but she had no idea what had become of him. She’d heard about a murder but didn’t know the identity of the victim or whether anyone had been caught yet. As far as she knew, Eyvindur was off on a sales trip. That’s what Vera herself had told her. Vera was planning to break the news to him, about Billy, as soon as she got the chance. Really, she should have moved out ages ago.