Last Rituals (24 page)

 

 

A short silence followed on the other end of the line and Thóra could almost hear Bella softly counting down the seconds. "It's five o'clock—I don't have to say anything more to you. I'm done for the day." Bella rang off.

 

 

Thóra stared at her mobile, then said—more to herself than to Matthew: "Do you reckon Bella could be that Mal character?"

 

 

"What?" Matthew had reached the parking garage and pulled in.

 

 

"Oh, nothing," Thóra said, unfastening her seat belt. "What do you do in the evenings, anyway?"

 

 

"This and that," Matthew replied. "Go out for a meal, stroll down to the bars downtown sometimes—now and again I've done some sightseeing, museums and the like."

 

 

Thóra felt sorry for him—it must be rather lonely. "It's Friday tomorrow and my children are going to stay with their father. I'll invite you round for a meal this weekend. How would you like that?"

 

 

Matthew smiled. "Great, if you promise not to cook fish. If I eat any more fish I'll start growing fins."

 

 

"No, I was thinking about something a bit cozier—like ordering a pizza," Thóra said before getting out of the car. She hoped Matthew would drive away before she reached the car she had on loan from the garage. If he thought her coat was cheesy, he'd have a heart attack seeing the vehicle she was driving. But her wish was not granted—Matthew waited to make sure she got into her car and when she unlocked the door she heard him call out to her. She looked around and saw him leaning out of the window.

 

 

"You're joking, of course," he called loudly. "Is that your car?"

 

 

Ignoring his mocking laugh, Thóra called back: "Want to swap?"

 

 

Matthew shook his head and wound up the window. Then he drove away, still chuckling to himself as far as she could tell.

 

 

The previous evening, Thóra had arranged for her daughter to go to a friend's house after school. She dropped by there to pick Sóley up and thanked the friend's mother, a young and rather sassy woman, who told her it was nothing—actually it was easier to have the two of them because they could keep each other occupied. Thóra thanked her again and told her that she would hopefully be able to repay the favor sometime soon. Sometime when the sun started rising in the west.

 

 

There was a crowd at the front door to her house—Gylfi's friends had been round and were just leaving. The floor was cluttered with a heap of coats, sneakers, and beat-up rucksacks that served as bookbags. The owners, three gangling boys whom Thóra knew well and one girl who was less familiar, were getting ready to leave and trying to identify pairs of shoes.

 

 

"Hi," said Thóra cheerily as she squeezed past the group. Her son watched from the hallway door. He seemed just as morose as he had that morning. "Were you doing your homework?" Thóra asked, well aware that this was inconceivable. At that age youngsters did not study together—anyone suggesting such a thing would be ostracized on the spot. But as a parent it was her duty to make such stupid remarks.

 

 

"Er, no," answered Patti, Gylfi's best friend for years. He was a good lad and his new thing was being able to say how many months, days, and hours he had left until he could get his driver's license. A few times Thóra had checked the figures, and generally he wasn't far off.

 

 

Thóra smiled at the girl, who looked away shyly. She simply could not remember her name, although she had been turning up at their house more and more recently. Gylfi had matured a lot—maybe her son was in love with the girl, or perhaps they were even going out together? She looked sweet enough but hardly stood knee-high to Gylfi and his friends.

 

 

Sóley, who had followed Thóra in, had taken off her shoes and coat and arranged them neatly where they belonged. She looked at the teenagers, placed her hands on her hips, and asked them in a housekeeperly voice: "Were you jumping on the bed? You're not allowed to—it ruins the mattress."

 

 

Her brother blushed with embarrassment and shrieked: "What did I do to deserve such a family of retards? I hate you both!" He stormed out and slammed the door behind him. His friends were embarrassed as well and left hurriedly.

 

 

"Bye-bye," Patti said as he closed the door behind them. Before the door shut completely he seemed to have second thoughts and stuck his head back in to announce: "You're not half as retarded as my family—Gylfi's just going through a moody phase."

 

 

Thóra smiled and thanked him. At least this was an effort at courtesy—although the wording could have been more polished. "Well," she said to her daughter, "shall we make some food?" With a conscientious nod the girl lugged one of the shopping bags into the kitchen.

 

 

After dinner together—microwave lasagna Thóra had picked up at the store and pitas she had grabbed thinking they were garlic bread—her daughter went off to her room to play while her son tidied up the dishes. He clearly regretted his rash remarks about the mental faculties of his mother and sister but could not bring himself to apologize. Thóra feigned nonchalance and hoped she was taking the right approach—maybe in the end he would tell her what was troubling him. She thought she had made it clear to him that she was there if and when he needed her. After a cautious peck on the cheek to thank him for his help, she was rewarded with a dopey grin. Then he went to his room.

 

 

Thóra decided to take advantage of the peace and quiet that had suddenly descended to examine the files she had copied from Harald's computer. She fetched her laptop and settled down on the sofa. First she looked at several shots of cooking and the tongue operation, which was dated September 17. Opening them one after the other, she zoomed in on parts that might be interesting, and this made the photographs slightly less revolting. The main theme was the mouth and the operation itself, but various details could be discerned beyond Harald's jaws. The operation had been performed in someone's house—that was certain—because what was visible of the surroundings could not possibly be a doctor's or dentist's office. She could see a coffee table littered with half-full or empty glasses, beer cans, and other trash—and a huge ashtray filled to the brim. It was also clearly not where Harald lived. This apartment looked much scruffier and cheaper than his pristine modern abode.

 

 

One photograph showed part of the body of the person performing or assisting with the operation. He or she was wearing a light brown T-shirt bearing a slogan which was made illegible by the folds in it. She managed to discern the number 100 and "…
lico
…"

 

 

No incision had been made in the first two photographs but the third was taken after the knife had been applied—blood was pouring out of the side of Harald's mouth and an arm that was visible was spattered with bloodstains. The blood must have spurted everywhere when the tongue was cut—if tongue wounds were like ordinary head injuries, it would have bled profusely. Thóra squinted at the arm and zoomed in on what looked like a tattoo. This turned out to be correct—the word "crap" was etched into the arm. No decoration or frills—just "crap." There was nothing else to see in the tongue pictures.

 

 

The cookery photographs had caught Thóra's attention because they were dated just before Harald was murdered—at the time when Hugi said he had gone off by himself and broken contact with his friends. The file properties confirmed this—they were taken on a Wednesday, three days before Harald was murdered. Thóra studied the two shots, focusing on the hands making a salad and slicing bread. Anyone could tell that they belonged to two different people. One pair was covered with scars—tattoo scars including a pentacle and a smiley with a downturned mouth and horns. This must have been Harald. The other pair was much more delicate, feminine hands with slim fingers and neatly trimmed short nails. Thóra zoomed in on one finger that had a single ring apparently set with a diamond or some other transparent stone. The ring looked too ordinary to stick in anyone's mind, but she could try showing it to Hugi to find out whether he recognized it.

 

 

One thought in particular was preying on Thóra's mind, something which had been plaguing her ever since she first went to Harald's apartment. It was the German magazine
Bunte
in the bathroom. She was absolutely certain that Harald would not read that kind of women's magazine. The Icelanders could be ruled out too. It must have been brought there by a German—and a woman. Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes had been smiling on the cover about the expected addition to their family. If her memory served her well, the baby was born that autumn. Could Harald have had a visitor from Germany—someone who stayed with him so that he did not have time to go out with his friends? Thóra called Matthew, who answered on the third ring.

 

 

"Where are you—is this a bad time?" she asked when she heard the noise in the background.

 

 

"No, no," said Matthew, his mouth full. He swallowed. "I've gone out for a meal. Had some meat. What's up—do you want to come and have dessert with me?"

 

 

"Er, no thanks." Thóra could feel how much she really wanted to. It was nice to go out to dinner, dress up, and drink a toast in glasses that someone else would wash up. "There's school tomorrow and I have to make sure the kids go to bed at a reasonable hour. No, I just called to find out if you have the number of Harald's cleaner. I suspect someone was with him just before the murder—and possibly even stayed there. All the signs are that the guest was a German woman."

 

 

"I have the number somewhere on my address list. Do you want me to phone? I've spoken to her before and she speaks good English. That might be easiest—she doesn't know you, but she'll definitely remember me because I paid her last bill."

 

 

Thóra agreed and he promised to call back. She used the time to tell her daughter to get ready for bed and was about to brush her teeth for her when Matthew phoned back. Thóra lodged her mobile between her shoulder and cheek so that she could talk while she handled Sóley's dental care.

 

 

"Listen, she says that the bed in the spare bedroom was used. And there were things in the bathroom—a disposable razor, a woman's razor—which suggests you're right."

 

 

"Did she inform the police?"

 

 

"No, she didn't think it mattered because Harald wasn't murdered in his own place. She also said there had often been guests, sometimes more than just one or two at a time. Generally there was more partying when they were around than there was with this particular visitor."

 

 

"Could he have had a German girlfriend?"

 

 

"Who flew all the way over here and then slept in the spare bed? I doubt it. I never heard any German girlfriend mentioned either."

 

 

"They could have quarreled." Thóra thought for a moment. "Or maybe it wasn't a girlfriend, just a friend or relative. His sister maybe?"

 

 

Matthew paused. "If that's the case I don't think we should go there."

 

 

"Are you crazy?" snapped Thóra. "Why the hell not?"

 

 

"She's had problems recently—her brother was murdered, and there's a minor crisis surrounding her own future."

 

 

"In what way?" asked Thóra.

 

 

"She's a very gifted cellist and wants to make a career of it. Her father wants her to study business and take over the bank. There's no one left—even if Harald were still alive he would have been out of the question. The disagreement over her studies had arisen before he was murdered."

 

 

"Does she wear jewelry?" Thóra asked. The hands on the photograph could well have belonged to a cellist—with exceptionally short and well-kept nails.

 

 

"No, never. She's not the type," Matthew answered. "She doesn't go in for accessories at all."

 

 

"Not even a little diamond ring?"

 

 

A short silence and then: "Yes, I think maybe she has. How do you know?"

 

 

After Thóra had described the photographs, Matthew promised to consider contacting the girl, and they said good-bye.

 

 

"Aren't you done yet?" her daughter said through a mouth full of toothpaste froth. She'd had to put up with having her teeth brushed for the duration of a whole phone call—pearly white, until tomorrow at least. Thóra tucked her in and read to her until she began to grow drowsy. She kissed her half-sleeping child on the forehead, switched off the light, and shut the door. Then she went back to her computer.

 

 

After two hours of perusing Harald's other files without finding anything useful, she gave up and switched off the laptop. She decided to get into bed and read the copy of
Malleus Maleficarum
that Matthew had told her to look into. It was bound to be an interesting read.

 

 

She opened the book and a folded piece of paper fell out.

 

 

* * *

"Shut up," Marta Mist growled. "It won't work unless we all concentrate."

 

 

"Shut up yourself," retorted Andri. "I can talk if I want."

 

 

Bríet thought she saw Marta Mist bare her teeth, but could not be sure because the room was dimly lit—the only light came from a few liquid candles that had been spread around the sitting room. "Oh, stop arguing and let's get this over with." She made herself comfortable on the floor where they were sitting cross-legged in a tight circle.

 

 

"Yes, for God's sake," mumbled Dóri, rubbing his eyes. "I was going to have an early night and can't be bothered to carry on with this crap all night."

 

 

"Crap?" said Marta Mist, clearly still in a temper. "I thought we all agreed to do this. Did I misunderstand you?"