Last Rituals (2 page)

 

 

"Someone phoned," Bella mumbled, glued to her computer screen.

 

 

Thóra looked up in surprise from hanging up her coat. "Really?" she said. "Do you have any idea who it was?"

 

 

"No. Spoke German, I think. I couldn't understand him anyway."

 

 

"Is he going to call back?"

 

 

"I don't know. I cut him off. By accident."

 

 

"In the unlikely event that he does ring back, would you mind putting the call through to me? I studied in Germany and I speak German."

 

 

"Hmph," Bella grunted. She shrugged. "Maybe it wasn't German. It could have been Russian. And it was a woman. I think. Or a man."

 

 

"Bella, whoever calls—a woman from Russia or a man from Germany, even a dog from Greece that speaks in tongues—put them through to me. Okay?" Thóra did not wait for a reply—didn't expect one—but walked straight into her modest office.

 

 

She sat down and switched on the computer. Her desk was not quite as chaotic as usual. The day before she had spent an hour sorting the papers that had piled up over the past month. She logged on to her e-mail and began deleting junk mail and jokes from friends. All that was left were three e-mails from clients, one from her friend Laufey with the subject line
Let's get wasted this weekend,
and one from the bank. She had probably exceeded her credit card limit. And she was bound to be overdrawn as well. She decided not to open the e-mail, to be on the safe side.

 

 

Her telephone rang.

 

 

"Central Lawyers, can I help you?"

 

 

"Guten Tag, Frau Gudmundsdóttir?"

 

 

"Guten Tag." Thóra searched for a pen and paper. High German. She made a mental note to address the woman with the formal
"Sie."

 

 

Thóra squeezed her eyes shut and hoped she could rely on the good command of German she had gained while getting her law degree at the University of Berlin. She put on her best pronunciation. "How can I be of assistance?"

 

 

"My name is Amelia Guntlieb. I was given your name by Professor Anderheiss."

 

 

"Yes, he taught me in Berlin." Thóra hoped her phrasing was right. She could tell how rusty her pronunciation had become. There were not many opportunities to practice German in Iceland.

 

 

"Yes." After an uncomfortable silence the woman continued: "My son was murdered. My husband and I need assistance."

 

 

Thóra tried to think fast. Guntlieb? Wasn't Guntlieb the name of the German student who was found dead at the university?

 

 

"Hello?" The woman seemed unsure whether Thóra was still on the line.

 

 

Thóra hurried to reply: "Yes, sorry. Your son. Did it happen here in Iceland?"

 

 

"Yes."

 

 

"I think I know the case you're referring to, but I must admit I've only heard about it on the news. Are you sure you're talking to the right person?"

 

 

"I hope so. We're not happy with the police investigation."

 

 

"Really?" Thóra was surprised. She thought the police had solved the case admirably. The murderer was arrested within three days of the terrible crime. "You know they're keeping someone in custody?"

 

 

"We're well aware of that. But we're not convinced that he's the guilty party."

 

 

"Why not?" asked Thóra.

 

 

"We're just not convinced. There's no more to it than that." The woman cleared her throat politely. "We want someone else, someone impartial, to go over the case. Someone who speaks German." Silence. "You surely understand how difficult it is for us." Silence again. "Harald was our son."

 

 

Thóra tried to convey her sympathy by lowering her voice and speaking slowly. "Yes, I do understand that. I have a son of my own. It's impossible for me to imagine the grief you must feel, but you have my deepest condolences. However, I'm not sure I can help you."

 

 

"Thank you for your kind words." The voice was cold as ice. "Professor Anderheiss claims you have the qualities we are looking for. He said you were obstinate, firm, and tough." Thóra had the feeling her ex-professor could not quite bring himself to say "bossy." The woman continued: "But sympathetic too. He's a good friend of our family and we trust him. Are you prepared to take on the case? We shall reward you generously." She mentioned a figure.

 

 

It was an incredible amount, before taxes or not. More than twice the regular hourly rate that Thóra charged. On top of it the woman offered a bonus if the investigation led to the arrest of someone other than the man currently in custody. The bonus was higher than Thóra's salary for a whole year. "What do you expect to get for that money? I'm not a private detective."

 

 

"We're looking for someone who can go over the case again, examine the evidence and appraise the police findings." Again the woman paused before continuing. "The police refuse to talk to us. It's rather annoying."

 

 

Their son has been murdered and dealing with the police is rather annoying,
Thóra thought. "I'll think about it. Do you have a number I can call?"

 

 

"Yes." The woman recited the number. "I ask you not to take too long to consider the offer. I shall look elsewhere if I don't hear from you later today."

 

 

"Don't worry. I'll let you know soon."

 

 

"Frau Gudmundsdóttir, one more thing."

 

 

"Yes?"

 

 

"We have one condition."

 

 

"Which is?"

 

 

She cleared her throat. "We want to be the first people to hear of anything you uncover. Important or otherwise."

 

 

"Let's see if I can help you in the first place before discussing the details."

 

 

They exchanged good-byes and Thóra put the telephone down. A great start to the day, being treated like a maidservant. And over the limit on her credit card. And overdrawn. The telephone rang again. Thóra picked up the receiver.

 

 

"Hello, I'm calling from the garage. Listen, it looks a bit worse than we thought."

 

 

"What's the prognosis? Will the car live?" Thóra snapped back. Her car had refused to start when she wanted to run some lunchtime errands the day before. She had tried the ignition again and again, but to no avail. In the end she gave up and had the car towed off to a garage. The garage owner took pity on her and lent her an old clunker while her car was being fixed. It was a heap of junk, marked "Bibbi's Garage" all over, and the floor by the backseats was covered in trash, mainly packaging from spare parts and empty Coca-Cola cans. Thóra had to make do with the car, though, because she couldn't get by without one.

 

 

"It doesn't look good." He was cold. "It'll cost a fair bit." A speech followed packed with car repair terminology that Thóra couldn't make head or tail of. But the price needed no explanation.

 

 

"Thank you. Just repair it."

 

 

Thóra put down the telephone. She stared at it for several minutes, engrossed in her thoughts. Christmas was approaching with all the accompanying expenses: decorations, spending, presents, spending, dinners, spending, family gatherings, spending and—surprise, surprise—even more spending. The law firm was not exactly turning away clients. If she took on the German project it would keep her busy. And it would solve her money problems and much more besides. She could even take the children on vacation. There must be places for a girl of six, a boy of sixteen, and a woman of thirty-six to go. She could even invite along a man of twenty-six to level out the gender and age ratio. She picked up the telephone.

 

 

Frau Guntlieb did not answer; it was a servant. Thóra asked for the lady of the household and soon heard footsteps approaching, probably over a tiled floor. A cold voice spoke over the telephone.

 

 

"Hello, Frau Guntlieb. This is Thóra Gudmundsdóttir calling from Iceland."

 

 

"Yes." After a short silence it was obvious that she was not going to say anything more.

 

 

"I've decided to help you."

 

 

"Good."

 

 

"When do you want me to start?"

 

 

"Straightaway. I've ordered a table for lunch so that you can discuss the matter with Matthew Reich. He works for my husband. He's in Iceland and has the investigative experience that you lack. He can brief you on the case in more detail."

 

 

The tone to the word "lack" could hardly have been more condescending had Thóra been guilty of turning up dead drunk at a children's birthday party. But she ignored it. "Yes, I understand. But I want to emphasize that I'm not sure I can actually help you."

 

 

"We shall see. Matthew will have a contract for you to sign. Give yourself plenty of time to read it over."

 

 

Thóra was seized by a sudden urge to tell the woman to go to hell. She hated her haughtiness and arrogance. But when she thought about a vacation with her children and the imaginary man of twenty-six, she swallowed her pride and mumbled a vague assent.

 

 

"Be at Hótel Borg at twelve. Matthew can tell you a number of things that did not appear in the papers. Some of them are not fit to print."

 

 

Listening to the woman's voice, Thóra gave a shudder. It was tough and devoid of emotion, but broken somehow at the same time. People probably sounded like that under such circumstances. She said nothing.

 

 

"Did you get that? You know the hotel?"

 

 

Thóra almost laughed. Hótel Borg was the oldest hotel in Reykjavík, a downtown landmark. "Yes, I believe I do. I suppose I'll be there." Although she tried to salvage her pride by striking a note of uncertainty, Thóra knew she would be at Hótel Borg at twelve o'clock. No doubt about it.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 2

Thóra looked at the clock and put down the documents for the case she had been working on. Yet another client who refused to face up to the fact that his position was hopeless. She was glad she had cleared up a few minor matters before meeting Herr Matthew Reich. She phoned through to Bella on the switchboard.

 

 

"I'm going out to a meeting. I don't know how long I'll be but don't expect me back before two." A grunt came over the line that Thóra could only interpret as agreement. My God, what's wrong with simply saying "yes"?

 

 

Thóra took her handbag and put a notebook in her briefcase. Everything she knew about the case was from the media, and she had not followed it with any particular interest. As far as she recalled, the scenario was something like this: a foreign student had been murdered, the body mutilated in some unspecified way, and a drug dealer, who maintained his innocence, had been arrested. Not much to go on.

 

 

While she was putting on her coat, Thóra looked at herself in the large mirror. She knew it was important to make a good impression at the first meeting, especially if the client was well-off. Clothes maketh the man, say those who can afford the best. And by their shoes ye shall know them. She had never understood that, basing her judgment of people on their character and never their footwear. Fortunately her shoes were quite presentable and her dress suit appropriate for a respectable lawyer. She ran her fingers through her long blond hair.

 

 

Thóra rummaged in her handbag, eventually found her lipstick, and hurriedly dabbed it on her lips. Normally she did not wear much makeup, making do with moisturizer and mascara in the mornings. She carried lipstick in case of unexpected situations like this. It suited her and made her feel confident. She had the good fortune to take after her mother rather than her father, who had once been asked to model as Winston Churchill's double for an advertisement. While she could probably not be described as beautiful or striking, her high cheekbones and blue almond-shaped eyes meant that she could safely be called pretty. She had also been lucky enough to inherit her mother's build, which made it easy to keep slim.

 

 

Thóra said farewell to her colleagues and Bragi called back, "Good luck." She had told him about the telephone conversation with Frau Guntlieb and the meeting arranged with her representative. Bragi found it all very exciting and felt that being contacted from abroad was a clear indication their firm was on the right course. He even suggested tagging "International" or "Group" onto their modest name in order to spruce it up a bit. Thóra hoped that Bragi was joking, but she could not be sure.

 

 

Outside, the wind refreshed her. November had been unusually cold, boding a long, harsh winter. Now they were paying for the incredibly warm summer, although temperatures in the low seventies would hardly be considered a heat wave outside Iceland. Thóra felt that the climate was changing, due either to the natural climate cycle or the greenhouse effect. For her children's sake she hoped it was the former, but deep down inside she knew it was not. She covered her cheeks with the hood of her coat so that she did not turn up for the meeting with frozen ears. Hótel Borg was too close to her office for her to consider driving there in the car from the garage. God only knew what the German would think if he saw her parking that heap of junk outside. Her shoes would have little to say in the matter then, that was certain. Parking was sparse downtown so she would probably spend twice the time she saved by circling around hoping for a space to open up. As an added bonus, walking made her feel as if she were doing her bit to fight global warming. A walk that short hardly made her an ecowarrior—even in a country whose inhabitants chose to drive any distance over a few meters—but it was better than nothing.