Holding the gun down by his side, he ran for the door behind the house. When he rounded the corner, he saw white washing hanging from the lines, billowing gently in the breeze. The door to the laundry was open as before and in the dim light that spilled out Thorson noticed that the washing wasn’t all clean, although it had been hung out to dry.
‘Vera!’ he called, pausing by the lines. ‘Vera, are you there?’
There was no answer.
‘Billy!’ he shouted. ‘Billy Wiggins!’
He gripped his gun more tightly and was about to start inching his way towards the house, unsure what might await him there, when his gaze fell on the rows of white sheets hanging on the lines. There was no question about it: they were soiled. Either the washing machine had failed to remove the stains or something had brushed up against the sheets after they were pegged out to dry.
Thorson edged closer and, taking hold of one of the sheets, saw that it was covered in dark smears. He ventured further into the rows of sheets and saw that something had definitely brushed up against them. He had already begun to fear the worst by the time he stumbled on Vera lying on the ground.
Tearing the washing aside, he saw that she had fallen against a sheet and brought it down with her as she fell. She lay there in a tangle of bloodied white linen. Blood trickled from her head. She appeared to have another wound in her arm and a third in her chest. Clearly, she had tried to flee but had got caught up in the washing until, in the end, she had sunk lifeless to the ground.
Thorson heard a noise behind him and turned to see Billy Wiggins emerging unsteadily from the laundry and staring in his direction with a gun in his hand. Thorson was unprepared. Their eyes met, and for a moment it looked as though Wiggins was going to raise his weapon, but then he flung it away in surrender.
‘I didn’t mean...’ he faltered, gazing towards the spot where Vera lay. ‘It was... she... I didn’t mean...’
53
The meeting between Thorson and his commanding officer, Colonel Franklin Webster, was brief. Thorson had been sworn to secrecy. First, they dealt with the incident involving Billy Wiggins.
‘Extremely regrettable,’ said Colonel Webster.
There were many other words Thorson could have used to describe Vera’s fate, but he chose not to comment.
‘I understand it was motivated by jealousy,’ said the colonel. ‘A crime of passion.’
‘Apparently she had started seeing an American,’ said Thorson.
‘Extremely regrettable,’ repeated Webster, and Thorson told him that Sergeant Wiggins had been arrested and was now awaiting deportation to Britain.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Webster, seeing no reason to waste any more time on the matter. ‘Anyway, I have had several meetings with our friends at the Leper Hospital,’ he continued, ‘and although they’ve been accommodating, they’re not giving much away. Of course we have to respect the fact that they can’t go public about their operations. They had no choice but to dispose of the man. They had their reasons and although things went very wrong, there’s no need to pursue it any further. It seems like the man chosen to carry out the execution was one of Ballantine’s team. He’s no longer in the country. His negligence is Ballantine’s problem. Hopefully Graham’ll learn from this.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Thorson. ‘I understand Intelligence were prepared to intervene in our investigation if necessary.’
‘There’s more at stake than that, Thorson. Though they didn’t tell me straight, they hinted that they’d only narrowly prevented the exposure of a major counterespionage operation on the Continent. They’ve gone to great lengths to protect their people. This Felix almost upset the applecart. An amateur, I’m told. A dilettante.’
‘Yes, he doesn’t seem to have had much training. Though he did figure out that he was being used to pass on false information, and he was intending to warn them.’
‘I’ll give him that.’
‘I heard he was fed information about Churchill’s movements.’
‘Of course, that information is confidential; it’s none of our business,’ said Webster. ‘They say that their operations were at risk of being compromised, and we have to take their word for it. There wasn’t much time, so they had to act fast, though granted they could have planned the assassination better.’
‘They sure could.’
‘But a necessary sacrifice like that is of little significance when you consider the big picture. The Icelandic government has agreed that the matter should be classed as a military secret. It’s nothing to do with them, anyway: the Icelanders aren’t involved in this war.’
Thorson didn’t see any point in arguing.
After the meeting, Thorson went round to see Flóvent, who was sitting in his office on Fríkirkjuvegur. In spite of being sworn to secrecy, Thorson judged it safe to confide in his Icelandic colleague about what he had learnt from Colonel Webster. Brynhildur had been released. No official explanation had been given for Felix’s death: his suicide was being treated as a family tragedy. Flóvent had found the radio transmitter he had been using hidden in Rudolf Lunden’s dilapidated summer house on the coast at Vatnsleysuströnd.
‘And Eyvindur?’ asked Flóvent after they had talked over the case yet again. They had discussed it endlessly in these last few days, always getting stuck on this same question.
‘There’s a war on,’ said Thorson.
‘Is that supposed to make it all right?’ asked Flóvent.
‘Officially the case remains unsolved, whatever happens further down the line. I guess there’ll be nothing to stop someone revealing the truth once the war’s over.’
‘And the swastika on his forehead?’ asked Flóvent.
Thorson shrugged. ‘I don’t know how these people’s minds work.’
‘A necessary sacrifice?’ said Flóvent, making a face.
Thorson said nothing.
‘I wondered if they were more jittery than usual at the Leper Hospital because of the visit,’ Flóvent said.
‘Visit?’
‘Apparently he’s on his way.’
54
Quite a crowd has gathered along Laugavegur. Men in hats, women wearing coats or jumpers over their light summer dresses, children running around their legs and out into the street. Police officers shoo them good-humouredly back onto the pavement and tell them to stay there and behave themselves. Some people are waving Union Jacks, others Icelandic flags, as if it was the first day of summer when the townspeople traditionally celebrate the end of winter. British soldiers are patrolling the crowd, keeping their eyes open. There is a rumour that he will drive along this route on his way to Parliament House, and the crowd has been waiting patiently for hours, excited at the prospect of catching a glimpse of the great man.
A girl of about twenty hurries up the road from the Shadow District and finds herself a vantage point on the corner of Klapparstígur. She’s wearing a smart coat and a pretty hat, and is carrying a two-year-old girl in her arms. She’s adjusting the child’s sunhat when she hears a murmur further up the street and knows something’s starting to happen.
The swell of excitement reaches her, and she spots the car at the front of the procession. The people around her start frantically waving their flags and break out in cheers as the vehicles approach and finally drive by. Daringly, the woman steps out into the road and holds up the child so she won’t miss anything. As the procession drives past she sees a fat, round-faced figure with a peaked cap on his head, leaning forward in one of the cars. She beams and waves at him and he waves back, and their eyes meet for an instant before the column of cars crawls on down Laugavegur and vanishes from sight.