Authors: Yrsa Sigurdardottir
Before she tried to talk to Alda’s
mother, she had to clear up one thing. Was it possible that Alda had actually
had a child, even though the autopsy report stated that she’d never given
birth? Thóra called Hannes. As she scrolled down to his number she
smiled to herself. Since the divorce, this was the second phone call in a row
which was not about the children. It was a record. ‘Hi,
Hannes,’ she said when he finally answered. ‘I know you’re at
work so I’ll keep this short. Is there any way a woman could have
delivered a child, even though her autopsy report says she never gave
birth?’
After a drawn-out explanation Hannes finally
answered Thóra in
layman’s terms
. The
autopsy clarified whether a child had exited through the birth canal; a
woman’s vagina and other reproductive organs were inspected, especially
if death hadn’t occurred naturally. A woman could have a child without
there being any sign of it in the vagina, if she had a Caesarean section, but
that would also be evident in an autopsy, from scarring in the stomach and
uterus.
‘The report didn’t mention scars
from a Caesarean section,’ said Thóra.
‘Although
she had had breast enhancements.
Could surgery like that erase traces of
a birth?’
Hannes said that he was no specialist, either
in plastic surgery or forensic pathology, but thought that such scars could be
removed as part of a plastic surgery procedure. But that didn’t explain
why there had been no scars on the uterus wall.
‘Is it possible that the doctor simply
overlooked it?’ asked Thóra. ‘The autopsy wasn’t
primarily concerned with whether she’d had a child.’
Hannes wouldn’t comment on that, no
matter how hard Thóra pressed him. She said goodbye, feeling no closer
to the truth. However, it clearly wasn’t out of the question that Alda
had given birth, so Thóra decided to go ahead and try to arrange another
meeting with Alda’s mother. If Adolf were Alda’s son, it would
explain a lot: her reaction when he was accused of rape, and the picture of him
in her desk.
Thóra’s only hope of getting to
Alda’s mother was to go
through Jóhanna
again. The woman would have no more desire than before to meet someone
representing the suspect in her daughter’s murder. However, Thóra
had to hurry; she needed to be finished before Markus’s custody hearing
at two that afternoon.
The woman who answered at the bank said that
unfortunately Jóhanna
was not in. She
sounded young, and sympathy dripped from every word. When Thóra
explained that her business was very urgent and asked
where
Jóhanna
could be reached, the girl’s voice became
even sadder. Jóhanna was in Reykjavik for the funeral of her
sister, and she doubted she would have her mobile turned on, under the
circumstances. Nevertheless, Thóra took the number, thanked her and made
the call.
An electronic message informed Thóra
that the phone was either switched off or out of range. It was ten thirty.
Thóra had only attended two funerals in her life, both at Fossvogur
Chapel. She tried phoning there, but was told that no one by Alda’s name
was being buried there that day or indeed that week. The man she spoke to said
he unfortunately couldn’t guess where the burial was taking place,
because there were many other options. He also said that almost without
exception, funerals were not advertised; such sacred occasions were reserved
only for the next of kin. So it was pointless to look in the papers, which had
been next on Thóra’s list.
She tried to imagine who might have been
invited to Alda’s funeral but came up with no one besides Dís. She
didn’t know whether colleagues were generally considered ‘next of
kin’, but tried the plastic surgeon’s office anyway. The answering
machine announced that calls would only be answered after noon that day due to
illness. Thóra couldn’t wait that long if she wanted to make it to
court by two. In the end the only man that she could think of, when all other
doors had slammed shut, was Leifur.
Only seven minutes passed between her saying
goodbye to Leifur and his return call to say that the funeral was taking place
in the Midtown Church at two o’clock. The location could only have been
more perfect if the ceremony had been due to take place in the courtroom
itself, as the Midtown Church was right around the corner. Thóra thanked
Leifur, without telling him why she needed this information. He didn’t
ask, though he must have been curious. In fact, she had the feeling he
didn’t want to talk to her in case she found more evidence for his
father’s involvement in the murders. If that was the case, it was fine by
her — Thóra was happy not to have to discuss the case with him.
She hurried out of Svala’s office into
the pouring rain. The heavy drops reminded her more of a monsoon in a foreign
country than Icelandic rain, and she darted over to the little car she’d
bought after selling her big jeep, which she couldn’t afford to keep
running. Perhaps Alda’s mother was already at the Midtown Church, helping
to prepare for the ceremony — and if not, the priest might know where she
was. She might be at Alda’s house, or any hotel in Reykjavik. It was
impossible for Thóra to decide if a parent would prefer to sleep
among the belongings of their dead child or rest their head on the pillows of
an impersonal hotel room.
It was no easier than usual finding a parking
space downtown. Thóra decided to drive around near the church until
she finally came across someone leaving a parking space, and she waited as the
elderly woman pulled out slowly in her Yaris. At first it looked as if
Thóra would have to search for another space, but she finally managed to
squeeze the car nimbly into the tight space. She allowed herself a couple of
seconds in the pouring rain to congratulate herself on her driving ability. In
fact the car was a little too far from the kerb, but she should be returning
shortly so she let it be. She was not at all sure she would do any better on
the second try.
She could hear soft organ music through the
thick wooden door as she stood in the rain outside the church. She hoped this
didn’t mean the ceremony was underway. She had no desire to wander into
the middle of a solemn moment not meant for strangers. Of course, it was going
to be just as tasteless to shoulder her way up to a grieving mother she barely
knew, but at least it was for a noble cause. She opened the door cautiously as
the organist stopped in the middle of the tune, before starting on finger
exercises. Thóra shook rain from her jacket in the foyer before putting
her ear against the door to the church itself. The organ notes overwhelmed
almost all other noises, but she thought she could distinguish the murmur of
voices within. She cracked open the door and peered though. Towards the front
of the church sat two women, staring at a white coffin in front of the altar.
One of them stood up and walked towards it, and from behind Thóra could
tell that it
was Jóhanna
, Alda’s
sister. The short, grey hair of the woman still seated belonged to their
mother. Thóra slipped in. She was hoping to reach the women before they
became aware of her, so she tried to keep the old door from creaking.
‘I would have wanted to have the coffin
open,’ she
heard Jóhanna
say, as
she tenderly stroked the gleaming lid of the casket. ‘I think Alda would
have wanted it that way.’
As Thóra drew closer she heard the
older woman give a snort. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you knew how
her face looked, with all those scratches on it. She wouldn’t have dreamt
of letting people see her like that while she was alive.’
‘It could have been fixed with
make-up,’
said Jóhanna
testily. She
turned to the coffin again, laying both hands on it. They rested there,
motionless. ‘It would have been okay.’
‘If you want to see her for the last
time I’m sure we can get the sexton to take the lid off,’ replied
the old lady, without a trace of sensitivity. ‘I was here before when
they brought her, and I got to see her.’ She hung her head. ‘I
wouldn’t recommend it. This isn’t Alda
any more
.
She’s ice cold and I’m sure she’s been brought here straight
from cold storage. I wished I hadn’t been here.’
Thóra was just one row behind the two
women when she cleared her throat to draw their attention. She didn’t
want to startle them, and felt uncomfortable to be practically spying on them.
The organ music had made it possible for her to get this close, drowning out
the low creaking of the floorboards. She would probably have been able to
place her hand on the old woman’s shoulder before being noticed.
Both of the women turned and stared at
Thóra. ‘What are you doing here?’
asked
Jóhanna
in surprise.
‘And how dare you come here?’
exclaimed her mother, almost choking. ‘Don’t you know that
we’re preparing for my daughter’s funeral? This isn’t the
place for someone who defends her murderer.’ Anger had overcome the
sorrow in her voice.
‘Markus didn’t murder her,’
said Thóra calmly, suppressing her discomfort at having disturbed
mother and daughter at this private moment. ‘He has a good alibi that
proves it was impossible for him to have been anywhere
near
her at the time.’
Until that
point
Jóhanna
had resembled a sleepwalker, but at this she seemed
to brighten up slightly. Her face was even more haggard than Thóra
recalled; her hair was dirty, and her clothing showed signs of neglect. Her
mother, however, had taken the time to fix herself up, and looked respectable.
Of course, the difference in their appearance did not necessarily mean
that the mother hadn’t taken the loss as hard as her daughter. Perhaps
she had found it a comfort to have something to occupy herself, even if it were
only making
herself
presentable for the funeral. The
corners of her pink-painted lips turned down like a nearly perfect horseshoe,
further emphasising the contrast between mother and daughter. ‘Of course
he has an alibi,’ said the old woman, adding sarcastically:
‘His brother Leifur wouldn’t have had any trouble sorting that
out.’
‘No,’ said Thóra, staying
calm. ‘That’s not true.’ She wondered whether she should
explain the alibi, but decided not to. They would either accept what she had to
say, or not. ‘Markus is going before the judge today because of a police
request that his detention be extended. It’s easy to prove that he
didn’t murder Alda, but it’s proving harder to clear him of
something that happened out on the Islands.’ She looked into the old
woman’s eyes, which were burning with rage. ‘Most of the people who
know what happened there are either too ill to be able to help him, or are no
longer with us.’
‘And why are you looking at me?’
asked Alda’s mother, putting one hand to her throat dramatically.
‘I haven’t murdered anyone, if that’s what you’re
insinuating.’
‘Of course not,’ Thóra
replied. ‘But I think you know, or at least have an idea, who these men
were. I’m fairly certain that it was something to do with Markus’s
father Magnus, and Dadi, who is deceased. Your husband may also have played a
part.’
The woman stared at Thóra without
saying a word. Jóhanna looked from one of them to the other, her
eyes wide. ‘Is that true,
Mother
? Is Markus
locked up for a murder that Father committed?’
‘Utter nonsense,’ her mother
spat, without looking at her daughter. She continued to glare at Thóra.
‘I must ask you to leave. Unfortunately, I cannot help you. If Magnus and
Dadi did something, that’s too bad, but I cannot answer for it.’
‘Did Alda have a child?’ asked
Thóra suddenly. Jóhanna looked almost relieved at this
question, perhaps thinking that it confirmed Thóra had a screw loose.
Her mother, on the other hand, appeared startled.
‘What now? More nonsense?’ asked
the woman, but she wouldn’t meet Thóra’s gaze.
‘I met a young man this morning who
told me that Alda contacted him repeatedly and insisted that she was his
mother,’ continued Thóra. It was best to strike while the iron was
hot. ‘Is he lying?’
‘What is she talking about,
Mother?’
asked Jóhanna
, querulously.
‘Is this the secret Alda was going to tell me?’ she said, turning
her bewildered face to Thóra.
‘I don’t know,’ said
Thóra honestly. ‘All I know is that Alda disappeared for a while.
She was supposedly a student at Isafjördur Junior College for about the
same length of time as her pregnancy, if the story is true. But no one there
knows anything about her. That’s why I’m wondering whether the
man’s claim might be true.’
‘Who is this man?’ asked the old
woman, and added frantically: ‘I mean, is he mentally ill, or
something?’
Thóra shrugged. ‘That’s
neither here nor there. I’m not going to discuss him with you if
he’s not Alda’s son, as you suggest. If that were the case, he
wouldn’t have anything to do with you.’
The old woman’s head dropped.
Thóra expected to be chastised again, but instead the old
woman’s shoulders started to shake, at first slightly, then more rapidly.
Jóhanna went to her mother and sat down at her side. She put her
arm around her shoulders, and little by little they stopped trembling. ‘Oh,
God,’ the old woman said, but couldn’t continue through her sobs.
After a while she said: ‘I’ve done so many bad things in my life.
So many bad things.
I should be lying in that coffin. Not
Alda.’ She still did not look up.