Last Rituals (23 page)

 

"Me?" Thóra gaped. "What does she want from me? To apologize for her bizarre behavior toward her child?"

 

 

"She didn't say," Matthew replied. "She just said she wanted to talk to you, but not right now. She wanted time to get over the shock."

 

 

Thóra said nothing. Of course she would talk to the woman if she insisted, but it would be a long time before she would console someone who had mistreated her child. "I can't see the motive behind that letter," she said, to change the subject.

 

 

"Nor can I," replied Matthew at once. "There's something so crazy about pretending Harald sent it himself that I think the murderer must be a psychopath."

 

 

Thóra stared at the sheet of paper. "Could the person who wrote it be implying that Harald was dead and would come back to haunt his mother?"

 

 

"Why?" asked Matthew reasonably. "Who could expect to benefit from tormenting her like that?"

 

 

"Harald, of course, except that he was dead," Thóra said. "His sister perhaps—maybe their mother mistreated her too?"

 

 

"No," Matthew replied. "She wasn't mistreated—I can promise you that. She's the apple of her parents' eye."

 

 

"So who can it be?" Thóra asked, floundering.

 

 

"Not Hugi anyway. Unless he had an accomplice."

 

 

"Pity we didn't know about the blood on his clothes when we spoke to him this morning." Thóra looked at her watch. "Maybe they'll let me talk to him on the phone." She dialed directory assistance and got the number of the prison. The duty sergeant gave her permission to talk to Hugi on condition that they kept the conversation short. She held impatiently for several minutes listening to a digital rendition of
Für Elise.
Finally, a breathless Hugi came on the line.

 

 

"Hello."

 

 

"Yes, hello, Hugi. This is Thóra Gudmundsdóttir who came to see you this morning. I won't keep you long but unfortunately we forgot to ask you about the blood on your clothes. How do you explain that?"

 

 

"That fucking shit." Hugi groaned. "The police asked me about it. I don't know what bloodstained T-shirt they mean, but I explained the blood on my clothes from the night before."

 

 

"How?" Thóra asked.

 

 

"Harald and I went to the toilet to snort up during the party. He got this huge nosebleed and some of it splashed me. The bathroom was tiny."

 

 

"Couldn't you get that corroborated?" Thóra asked. "Didn't any of the other guests remember you coming out of the bathroom covered in blood?"

 

 

"I wasn't exactly covered in blood. They were all off their heads too. No one mentioned it. No one noticed, I guess."

 

 

Damn,
thought Thóra. "But the bloodstained T-shirt in your closet—do you know how it got there?"

 

 

"I haven't the foggiest." A short silence followed before he added: "I think the cops planted it. I didn't kill Harald and didn't mop up any blood with a T-shirt. I don't even know if it's my T-shirt or someone else's. They never let me see it."

 

 

"Those are serious accusations, Hugi, and to tell you the truth I don't think the police do that sort of thing. There must be another explanation, if you're telling the truth." They ended the call, and Thóra filled Matthew in.

 

 

"Well, he has an explanation for half of it," he said. "We have to find out from the other guests at the party if they remember any nosebleeds."

 

 

"Yes," Thóra said, hardly expecting it to be worth the hassle. "But even if they do, the T-shirt in the closet still needs to be explained."

 

 

A
ping
came from the computer, and they both looked at the screen. "You have new mail" appeared on a tab in the right-hand corner. Thóra grabbed the mouse and clicked the envelope icon.

 

 

It was an e-mail—from Mal.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 19

Hey, dead Harald.

 

 

What's up, man
?
I'm getting mail from someone pretending to be the Icelandic police and some scumbag lawyer
[Thóra could not help being riled by this—despite having been called much worse in her legal career]
. Those jerks reckon you're dead—as if, eh
?
Drop me a line, anyway—it's all a bit weird.

 

 

Bye

 

Mal

 

 

"Quick, quick," Matthew said. "Answer while he's still at his computer."

 

 

Thóra rushed to click "Reply." "What should I say?" she asked as she typed in the customary: "Dear Mal."

 

 

"Just anything," Matthew snapped. Very helpful.

 

 

Thóra decided to write:

 

 

Unfortunately it is true about Harald's death. He was murdered and won't be replying. I'm the "scumbag lawyer" who tried to contact you the other day; Harald's computer is in my safekeeping. I'm working for the Guntliebs—they are desperate to find the killer. A young man is in custody who is probably innocent of this awful deed and I suspect you may have information that could help us. Do you know what it was that Harald claimed to have found and who the "fucking idiot" is he refers to in his last e-mail to you
?
Please send me a phone number where I can contact you.

 

 

Regards

 

Thóra

 

 

Matthew read as she typed and as soon as she had finished—in record time—he gestured impatiently and muttered: "Send it, send it."

 

 

Thóra sent the message and they waited in silence for a few minutes. At long last a pop-up announced a new message. Excitedly they looked at each other before Thóra opened it. And they were both equally disappointed.

 

 

Scumbag lawyer—fuck off. Take the Guntliebs with you. You all suck. I'd rather die than help you.

 

 

All my hate

 

Mal

 

 

Thóra slowly breathed out. No mixed messages there. She looked at Matthew. "Could he be joking?"

 

 

Matthew caught her eye but could not tell whether she was joking too. He presumed she was. "Sure—I bet he'll send another mail with smileys bouncing all over the screen saying how much he loves the Guntliebs." He groaned. "Screw it. Harald obviously didn't speak highly of his parents to his friends. I think we can forget this guy."

 

 

Thóra sighed. "Aren't we wasting our time, then? We could go down to Kaffibrennslan, for instance, and talk to the waiter who gave Halldór his alibi, if he's on duty. I do agree it's a pretty weak testimony. If he isn't working now we can just have a coffee."

 

 

Delighted, Matthew stood up. Thóra quickly removed the memory stick, slipped it into her handbag, and switched off the computer.

 

 

There were few customers at Kaffibrennslan, so Thóra and Matthew had a choice of seats. They sat at a table close to the bar on the lower floor. While Thóra was struggling to hang her coat over the back of her chair, Matthew tried to catch the attention of the young waitress. Then Matthew turned to Thóra. "Why didn't you wear the coat you were in this morning?" he asked, goggling at the huge padded coat spread out on either side of her chair—the arms were so stuffed with goose down that they almost stood out at ninety degrees.

 

 

"I was cold," Thóra said, as surprised by his question as he seemed to be by her coat. "I keep it at the office—I wore the other coat there this morning and I wear this home in the evenings. Don't you think it's nice?"

 

 

Matthew's expression spoke volumes about his opinion of the coat. "Lovely—if you were taking core samples from an Antarctic glacier."

 

 

Thóra rolled her eyes. "God, you're so uptight," she said, smiling at the waitress who had appeared at their side.

 

 

"Can I help you?" the girl asked, returning her smile. She had a short black apron tied around her slender waist and was holding a small notepad, ready to take their order.

 

 

"Yes, please," Thóra replied. "I'll have a double espresso." She turned to Matthew. "Don't you just want tea in a china cup?"

 

 

"Ha-ha. Very funny," he said, then turned to the waitress and ordered the same as Thóra.

 

 

"Okay," she said without writing the order down. "Anything else?"

 

 

"Yes and no," Thóra said. "We were wondering if Björn Jónsson is here now. We wanted to have a word with him."

 

 

"Bjössi?" said the girl, startled. "Yes, he just got in." She looked at the clock on the wall. "His shift starts now. Should I get him for you?" Thóra thanked her, and the girl went off to fetch Bjössi and their coffee.

 

 

Matthew smiled sweetly at Thóra. "Your coat is great. I mean it. It's just so…huge."

 

 

"You didn't let that stop you flirting with Bella. She's huge too—so huge that she has her own center of gravity. The paper clips at the office go into orbit around her. Maybe you should get yourself one of these coats. They're incredibly comfortable."

 

 

"I can't," Matthew said, smiling back at her. "Then you'd have to sit in the back of the car. That wouldn't work. There's no way to fit two of those in the front seat."

 

 

Further discussion of coats was put on hold when the waitress arrived with their coffee. A young man was with her. He was good-looking in a slightly feminine way—his dark hair unusually well cut and groomed, and not the faintest hint of a shadow on his cheeks. "Hi, you wanted to talk to me?" he asked in a singsong voice.

 

 

"Yes, are you Björn?" said Thóra, taking one of the cups of coffee. The young man said he was and she explained who she and Matthew were. She felt it unnecessary to confuse him by speaking English, and stuck to Icelandic. Matthew said nothing and just sat there sipping his coffee. "We wanted to ask you about the night of the murder, and about Halldór Kristinsson."

 

 

Bjössi nodded gravely. "Sure, no problem—I'm allowed to talk to you, aren't I? It's not against the rules?" When Thóra assured him it wasn't, he continued. "I was working here, with some others actually." He looked around the half-empty bar. "It's not like this on weekends. It gets packed."

 

 

"But you remember him in particular?" Thóra asked, taking care not to sound as if she doubted his words.

 

 

"Dóri? You bet," Bjössi said, a little self-importantly. "I was starting to recognize him—if you know what I mean. Him and that friend of his—the foreign guy who was killed—they came here often and you couldn't help noticing them. That foreigner really stood out. Always called me 'Bear,' like my name means. Dóri came by himself sometimes, too, and I'd chat with him at the bar."

 

 

"Did he talk to you that night?"

 

 

"No, it wasn't like that. It was crazy in here and I was all over the place. But I said hello to him and we exchanged a few words. He was quite gloomy actually so I didn't hang around."

 

 

"Do you know exactly when he arrived?" pressed Thóra. "Given what you've said, you hardly had time to notice that detail—you had no reason to."

 

 

"Oh, that," Bjössi said. "He put the bill on a tab so he didn't have to pay every time he ordered another drink. We always make a note of when a customer starts paying on a tab and when he stops and actually pays." Bjössi flashed Thóra a conspiratorial smile. "He did right to pay on a tab that night, because he sure was knocking them back. His credit card would have melted from all the swipes."

 

 

"I see," said Thóra. "But are you sure he sat here drinking constantly until his friends arrived around two? Couldn't he have popped out without your noticing?"

 

 

Bjössi paused to think before answering. "Well, of course I can't swear he was here the whole time. I was pretty sure and told the police that, but in retrospect I could have been judging from what he ordered from the bar—and of course, I didn't serve him every time. He might have let someone else put a drink on his tab—I don't know." He waved his hands in the air. "But it's not such a big place, and seriously, I would have noticed if he'd left. I reckon so, anyway. I think."

 

 

Thóra was stumped. What else could she ask about that night? The waiter didn't seem that sure of himself and her confidence in Halldór's alibi had been severely shaken. After thanking Bjössi she gave him her card in case he remembered anything more, though this seemed unlikely. She turned to Matthew and her now tepid coffee and told him, between sips, what the waiter had said. They finished their coffee and Thóra noticed that it was time to go home, so they paid and left.

 

 

It was almost five but the traffic was still light. Few people were out and about in the cold and blustery weather. The handful of pedestrians hurried along without stopping to look around or window-shop. Instead of going to her office, Thóra decided to ask Matthew to drive her to the parking garage, and she'd just make her way home from there. She rang Bella to let her know that she wouldn't be in until the next morning and find out about any business involving her that had come up in her absence.

 

 

"Hello," came the answer on the phone—no mention of the company name or who was speaking.

 

 

"Bella," Thóra said, attempting to disguise her displeasure. "It's Thóra, I'm not coming back today. But I'll be in at eight tomorrow morning."

 

 

"Huh" was the delphic reply.

 

 

"Any messages for me?"

 

 

"How should I know?" Bella said.

 

 

"How? Well, I'm such an optimist I thought the secretary and switchboard operator might have accidentally taken a message. Of course that's absurd of me."