Last Rituals (28 page)

 

 

"Seen?" Matthew repeated.

 

 

Dóri's blush grew even deeper. "Not exactly seen—I didn't mean that. Been involved with is more like it." He looked down at the floor. "It was this autumn. I'd passed out on the sofa here after a party and I woke up in the night to this awful gasping noise." He looked up at Matthew. "I don't know how I was lucky enough to come round—normally I'm right out of it when I'm in that state—but anyway, I woke up and went to check it out and saw Harald who was literally in his death throes." Thóra thought she noticed the young man shudder at the recollection. "I undid a belt that was tied really tight around his neck. It wasn't easy, because he'd tied one end to the radiator in his room. Then I managed to bring him around with CPR—only just."

 

 

"Are you sure he wasn't trying to commit suicide?" Thóra asked.

 

 

Glancing at her, Dóri shook his head. "No, it wasn't a suicide attempt. Believe me. I'd rather not go into details about the state I found him in." Now it was Thóra's turn to blush, which seemed to cheer Dóri up when he noticed. He went on, emboldened. "Then I talked it over with Harald and he freely admitted what he'd been up to. He even suggested that I try it—he said it was far-out. But he'd been in danger and was fully aware of the fact. He was scared to death."

 

 

"So you don't think he gave up the habit after that shock?" asked Matthew.

 

 

"I bet he didn't," Dóri answered. "Though I don't know for sure—he was scared shitless."

 

 

"Do you remember when this was?" Matthew asked.

 

 

"The early hours of the eleventh of September," he said without a moment's thought.

 

 

Matthew nodded pensively. He looked at Thóra and said in German: "He changed his will ten days later." Thóra nodded too, convinced now that the young man in front of them was the Icelandic heir named in the will. He had just saved Harald's life days before the will was altered; it was unthinkable not to mention him in it.

 

 

"I understand German, you know," said Dóri, grinning slyly.

 

 

His expression equally malicious, Matthew did not respond. Instead he said: "Hugi told us that Harald was sometimes nasty to you in front of the others—in fact, he humiliated you, if I remember correctly. Didn't that upset you?"

 

 

Dóri snorted. "What's he going on about? You know Harald wasn't like normal people. He could wind me up, but he could be a real laugh too. Most of the time he treated me great, especially when there was just the two of us. But when we were with the others he could be a bastard every now and again. It didn't bother me—Hugi can tell you that—and Harald always apologized afterward. It didn't make any difference, just a drag while it lasted."

 

 

Thóra didn't think it took much intelligence to see through this statement. Surely he must have found it unbearable. But there was little point in probing him for details. "So what can you tell us about Harald's research?" she asked. "Can you describe what form your help took?"

 

 

Dóri answered immediately, happy to change the subject. "It was nothing special. I really only helped him with translations, with a bit of resource work too. He went all over the place—I couldn't see the connections, but I'm not a historian so that's not saying much. He sort of wandered from one thing to the next—in the middle of reading a passage I'd translated from Icelandic into English, he would suddenly ask me to read something else, and so on."

 

 

"Can you cite any examples of articles or topics he was interested in?" asked Matthew.

 

 

"Er, I can't give you a complete list. When it started I was mainly translating passages from Ólína Thorvardardóttir's Ph.D. dissertation on the era of witch burnings, then he became interested in Skálholt because of a text about sorcery by some of the students at the school there, and a book of witchcraft that was in circulation. He also had an old letter in Danish—I wasn't so great at translating that but I did my best. It was about an emissary and something I didn't understand properly. When he got that he suddenly changed tack, stopped wondering about witch burnings so much and shifted back a century or so.

 

 

"I remember translating a passage for him from a description of Iceland by Bishop Oddur Einarsson from around 1590. It was about Hekla and I remember an account in it of a man who went mad after climbing the mountain and looking down into the crater. And he was fascinated by the eruption of Hekla in 1510, and Bishop Jón Arason and his execution in 1550, and Bishop Brynjólfur Sveinsson. Yes, then suddenly he wanted to know everything about the Irish monks. So you could say he was still going back at the time of his murder—to the time before Iceland was properly settled."

 

 

From this recitation of dates it was obvious that the young man had a cast-iron memory. Not surprising that he could do his courses in spite of all that partying, Thóra thought. "Irish monks?" she asked.

 

 

Dóri nodded. "Yes, the hermits who were here before the Vikings arrived."

 

 

"Okay," said Thóra, uncertain what to ask next. Then she remembered poor old Gunnar, who had set up the meeting with Harald's friends. "That old Danish letter—do you know where it came from or where it ended up?"

 

 

Dóri shook his head. "I have no idea where he got it—he had other old letters that he was comparing with it. They were in a leather wallet, but the Danish one wasn't. It's bound to be around somewhere."

 

 

"Do you recognize the name Mal?" Matthew asked, out of the blue.

 

 

Dóri looked at them and shook his head. "No, never heard of him. Why?"

 

 

"Oh, no reason," said Matthew.

 

 

Dóri was about to say something when his mobile rang. He took it out, looked at the screen, pulled a face, and put it back in his pocket.

 

 

"Your mom?" Matthew asked Dóri, grinning.

 

 

"Right," he replied bitterly.

 

 

A text message alert bleeped in his pocket. Since Dóri made no move for his mobile, Thóra fired her next question. "Do you know anything about a visitors' book that Harald may have owned or talked about? The visitors' book of the cross, or something to that effect?"

 

 

Dóri looked baffled. "The visitors' book of the Cross? You mean the religious sect, the Cross?"

 

 

"No, not that," replied Thóra. "So you never heard any mention of a visitors' book?"

 

 

"Nope."

 

 

Matthew clenched his fists. "Tell us about the raven Harald was trying to buy."

 

 

Dóri's Adam's apple leaped in his throat. "Raven?" His voice had risen an octave.

 

 

"Yes," Thóra chipped in. "We know he was trying to buy a raven. Do you know why?"

 

 

Dóri shrugged. "No. But I can appreciate him wanting to own a raven. Interesting birds."

 

 

Thóra was convinced that he was lying, but could not work out the best response. Matthew took over before she decided. "Do you know anything about a trip that Harald made to Hólmavík to see the sorcery and witchcraft exhibition?"

 

 

"No," said Dóri, clearly lying again.

 

 

"What about Hótel Rangá?" Thóra asked.

 

 

"No." Another lie.

 

 

Matthew looked at Thóra. "Hólmavík, Rangá. Maybe we should do a bit of traveling?" Dóri's expression did not suggest that he approved of this idea.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 23

Dóri was enormously relieved as he hurried away from the house. He looked over his shoulder when he had gone through the gate and onto the sidewalk, but neither Thóra nor Matthew seemed to be watching him from the window. He thought he noticed a curtain twitching on the lower floor and cursed the nosy neighbor. That scraggy old bitch was still up to her tricks, he thought—she never gave Harald a moment's peace, complained about every cough and grunt.

 

 

The morning after one of their first parties that summer, Dóri was sent to the door to hear her tirade, and how that woman could nag! He had been so hungover that every word and every wave of sound that came with it felt like the blow of a hammer on his forehead. He shuddered at the recollection, especially at how it had all ended—he had to push the woman out of the way to put his head outside the door and vomit. Understandably she was not impressed, but Harald managed to appease her that evening. For the rest of the summer, Dóri had to keep a low profile whenever he visited. But the other party guests thought the story was hilarious when Dóri finally managed to crawl back up to recount it.

 

 

His mobile rang. Dóri took it from his pocket and saw on the screen that it was Marta Mist—again. This time he answered. "What?"

 

 

"You done?" Impatient and irritable. "We're waiting for you, come over."

 

 

"Where?" Dóri didn't feel like facing anyone at the moment. He just wanted to go home and lie down but knew he wouldn't have the chance. Marta Mist would phone again and again, and she would come by in the end if he did not answer. Best to get it over and done with.

 

 

"101—hurry up." She hung up and Dóri quickened his pace even more. It was cold outside and he was exhausted. Before he knew it he was in the hotel lobby, shaking off the drifting snow that had gathered on his hair on the way. He ran his fingers through his hair, then shook his head again. Then he opened the door and went in. Naturally they were sitting in the smoking section—with a few cups of coffee and one glass of beer in front of them. Suddenly, Dóri felt an uncontrollable craving for a beer. He went over to them and sat down in a chair, even though Marta Mist and Bríet had shifted apart to make room for him between them. He could not bear the thought of sitting pressed up against them at the moment.

 

 

The girls tried not to look affronted, and Dóri watched them slowly shift back to try to fill the space inconspicuously. Marta Mist was a genius at keeping her cool. She rarely showed any emotions other than outright fury and contempt. Wounded pride was not on her agenda. "Why the fuck didn't you answer the phone?" she snarled. "We've been dying to hear from you."

 

 

This infuriated Dóri. "What's wrong with you? I was talking to those lawyers. What was I supposed to say over the phone?" When no one spoke, Dóri repeated the question. "Eh? What was I supposed to say?"

 

 

Marta Mist brushed this off. "You could have freakin' texted back. That wouldn't have been too much to ask."

 

 

"Oh, of course," said Dóri sarcastically. "That would have looked good. What do you think I am? A thirteen-year-old girl?"

 

 

Brjánn chipped in. "What happened—are you okay?" he said calmly while sipping his beer.

 

 

It was more than Dóri could take. He waved to the waiter and ordered a large beer. Then he turned back to the group. "It went just fine—you know. They have their little suspicions but don't really know anything." Dóri tapped on the edge of the table with the fingers of his right hand while he searched with his left for the cigarette packet in his coat pocket. He could not find it. "I left my cigarettes there—could you lend me one?"

 

 

Bríet tossed her packet at him, and Dóri groaned. They were typical girls' cigarettes, snow-white with menthol, and super slim to top it off. But he snatched up the packet and took one all the same. A shame that Marta Mist was sulking—she smoked real cigarettes, Marlboro. He took a drag, then removed the cigarette from his mouth, looked at it and shook his head. "How can you smoke this crap?"

 

 

"Some people say 'thank you,'" grumbled Bríet.

 

 

"Sorry. I'm just so wound up." The beer arrived and after a long draught Dóri puffed out his cheeks and exhaled with a sigh. "Ah, that's better."

 

 

"You didn't tell them anything, did you?" said Marta Mist. Her rage had subsided.

 

 

Dóri took another sip, shaking his head. "No, nothing important. I told them a lot of stuff of course—they grilled me nonstop and I had to answer."

 

 

Marta Mist looked thoughtful, then nodded, apparently satisfied. "Absolutely sure?"

 

 

Dóri winked. "Absolutely sure—don't worry."

 

 

Marta Mist smiled. "My hero."

 

 

"What else?" Dóri said casually, waving his chic cigarette in front of his face. "Don't I look cute?"

 

 

Andri giggled and tossed his own packet across the table to Dóri. "What do you think they'll do next? Do they want to see us again?"

 

 

"No, I doubt it," Dóri replied.

 

 

"Good," said Brjánn. "Hopefully they'll run round in circles and give up."

 

 

Bríet was the only one not happy. "What about Hugi? Have you completely forgotten him?" She looked round at them all, shocked.

 

 

The smile vanished from Dóri's face. "No. Of course not." He took another drink of his beer, which did not taste as good as before.

 

 

Marta Mist punched Bríet on the arm, making her yelp. "What's wrong with you anyway? They'll never give up—they'll discover something. The important thing is that we don't get mixed up in it. You and your pessimism."

 

 

"People don't get convicted of murders they didn't commit—he'll get off, you wait and see," Andri scoffed.

 

 

"What planet are you on?" Bríet asked, undeterred by the pain in her arm. It wasn't often that she dared to confront Marta Mist, but she couldn't help resenting the way she acted with Dóri. "Innocent people get convicted all the time."

 

 

"Stop bickering," said Marta Mist, her eyes fixed on Dóri. "It'll be okay, don't worry. Let's go and get something to eat. I'm starving."