Last Rituals (32 page)

 

 

Laura cautiously unwrapped the paper towel. When she saw what was inside, she shrieked and made the sign of the cross. Gloria began to weep again.

 

 

* * *

Gudrún, or Gurra as her friends called her, repressed the urge to bite her nails with great difficulty. It was such a long time since she had stopped the habit that she could not even remember when—for example, whether it was before or after she married Alli. She looked at her well-manicured hands. Unfortunately she was not wearing nail polish; picking that off was a good way to vent frustration. She wondered whether to paint them for the sole purpose of being able to pick it off again when the polish dried, but she abandoned the idea.

 

 

Instead she stood up and went into the kitchen. It was a Saturday and she had planned to make a nice meal. Alli worked every day except Sundays, so Saturday evening was their only time to relax together. Gurra looked at the clock—it was far too early to make dinner yet. She sighed. Everything was clean and tidy—there was no housework left to do. But if she could not find something to keep herself occupied she would go mad. Something to take her mind off her fear. She recalled how scared she'd been when the police knocked on their door with a search warrant for the upstairs apartment. Then nothing had happened. Incredible but true. All her worrying had been unfounded and she had begun to relax again. Until the other day.

 

 

Why were those people prying into the case again? Weren't the police satisfied with their findings? So why stir it all up again? She groaned. What had she been thinking? Even though Alli was normally a complete pig and had lost all interest in their marriage, she still didn't want to get rid of him. She even did a thing or two to hold on to him. At forty-three, she was too old to go back out on the market.

 

 

How stupid she had been. Sleeping with her lodger. And, the funny thing was, that apartment had often had much more attractive tenants than that freaky German. She could not have been in her right mind—ignoring the fact that it happened more than once, and indeed more than twice. Sex with him had been fun—there was no denying that. There was an air of adventure about it, presumably because she knew she should not be doing it. Harald was also much, much younger than her husband and much more frisky. If only he hadn't been covered in all those awful scars and rings and studs.

 

 

Think, think—she took a deep breath. How could they ever find out? No one knew about it; she had never told a soul at least. Common sense alone had stopped her boasting about the affair to her best friend. Harald would hardly have talked about it. He had no need to brag—there was an endless stream of young women through his apartment. He could boast about them if he felt the urge to discuss his sexual conquests. She corrected herself—that "endless stream" had really been only two girls for the most part: a tall redhead and a petite blonde. He would surely never have mentioned his affair with her, and the police certainly had no inkling of it. She had spoken to them briefly a few times and nothing in their words or attitude ever implied that they considered her relationship with Harald to be more than that between a landlady and tenant. Which was actually how it had become toward the end. Harald had told her he couldn't be bothered anymore, he had other fish to fry. She grimaced at the thought.

 

 

She would have preferred to be the one who broke it off. To his credit he thanked her very nicely for the memories, but that did not stop her from losing it completely. She blushed at the recollection. How shamefully uncivilized of her. She was really annoyed about his true reason, although he had never actually admitted it to her. He had found himself a steady girlfriend. Gurra had seen them entering and leaving his flat several times during the week before he was murdered. This was a new girl who had not visited Harald before as far as Gurra knew. They spoke German together so she was presumably a compatriot of his—perhaps Icelandic women were not quite good enough for him when it came down to it. She was furious at Harald's hypocrisy; it was fine for her to cheat on her husband but he couldn't cheat on his girlfriend. No, he was too good for that.

 

 

So what, it was over and done with and what mattered now was not dwelling on something that might never come to light. She went into the laundry room. It was a long time since she had cleaned it properly. It was located off the corridor and could be reached from her own apartment and the hallway off Harald's. That was one of the few modifications they had made when they decided to buy the house and rent out the upper floor. She put the latch up and went inside.

 

 

Yes, there was work to be done here. The floor was still covered with pawprints from the police dogs who had searched everywhere for drugs. Fortunately nothing was found in the laundry—Gurra had no idea whether she and Alli would have been placed on the list of suspects or some sort of narcotics squad register if drugs had been found in the common area. Their presence had been requested during the search, which made no difference, since neither of them had ever touched drugs—at least she hadn't. Who knows what Alli got up to on those endless business trips of his. But it didn't really matter—the police let the dogs sniff all around and when they seemed satisfied they abandoned the room without further ado. One officer had peeked inside the dryer and washing machine, mostly for curiosity's sake. That was it.

 

 

She opened the closet and took out a broom and bucket. When she removed the bucket she noticed a box. She stared at it. The last time she had cleaned the laundry room there was no box in the closet. It was usually empty apart from cleaning equipment for both apartments. Carefully she took it out. It must be Harald's. She tried to remember the last time she mopped the floor of the laundry room. Oh, my God—it had been when he dumped her. He had walked in to put some wash in the machine, and when she suggested—with no effort to conceal her real intentions—that she was up for doing it, he announced with a smile that enough was enough.

 

 

Since that unpleasant memory was from right before the murder, Harald must have placed the box there just prior to his demise. Why? He had never accepted her offer to use the storage room. The four shelves reserved for the tenant stood empty. Could he have wanted to hide something from his new girlfriend, thrown it into a box and stashed it away there? Judging from his physical appearance and bizarre décor, he was unlikely to have anything to conceal. Her heart skipped a beat. Unless he had secretly filmed his conquests and did not want his girlfriend to find them? There was hardly a more repulsive way to enter a relationship—the thought of becoming an entry in a sexual conquest collection. Gurra clutched her head in both hands. It could even be her on tape or in some photographs. She stood riveted to the spot staring at the box. She had to open it. There was no alternative. She had to open the box and convince herself that nothing in it would reveal her secret.

 

 

Gurra bent down and forced up the cardboard flaps. She stared at the contents. No photographs—no tapes. There were dishcloths wrapped around fragile objects, she supposed, and sheets of paper in plastic file holders. It was a massive relief. She reached for one piece of paper and saw that it was a very old letter, presumably valuable. The script and text were undecipherable, so she put it under her arm, planning to take a better look later. She browsed through the rest of the papers and to her great relief saw that they had nothing to do with Harald's private life either. One other sheet caught her attention, though. It appeared to have sloppy scribbles all over it, scrawled in red ink, and the paper—if it was paper—was thick, dark, and waxy. The text was bizarre and a rune or symbol had been drawn at the bottom of the page. It was signed with two names, both illegible although she recognized Harald's as one of them from the tenancy agreement. She put it back in the box. Odd.

 

 

Gurra pushed the contents to one side in order to reach the fragile objects wrapped in dishcloths at the bottom. She took hold of one package and carefully lifted it up. It was light—almost as if the cloth was empty. Cautiously she opened it and stared in awe at the contents. She shrieked, clenched her fist around the old letter that she was still holding, and flung the dishcloth to the floor. She ran out of the laundry room and slammed the door.

 

 

* * *

Gunnar picked up the phone and dialed the extension for María, the director of the Manuscript Institute. She was probably still at work even on a Saturday. A large exhibition was pending, and judging from the commotion surrounding the last major event, the institute would be a hive of activity. "Hello, María, Gunnar here." He made an effort to sound suitably authoritative—the voice of a man of integrity who had no desire to give an exaggerated impression of himself.

 

 

"Oh, it's you." Her curt response suggested that his tone had not impressed her. "I was just about to contact you. Any news?"

 

 

"Yes and no," Gunnar said slowly. "I'm well on my way to locating the document, I think."

 

 

"I feel much better knowing that you
think
you've got it," she said sarcastically.

 

 

Gunnar was careful not to get drawn into an argument. "I've looked everywhere in the department and I've contacted the representatives of Harald's family who are going to search his belongings. The document is there—I'm convinced."

 

 

"Don't you mean you
think
you're convinced?"

 

 

"Listen, I only called to keep you in the picture—there's no need to be rude," Gunnar said, although what he wanted to do most of all was slam down the phone.

 

 

"Quite right, sorry. We're so busy here with the exhibition. I'm all on edge. Don't let it upset you," María said in a much friendlier tone of voice. "But I stand by my word, Gunnar. You have only a few more days to find it. I can't start covering up for your students."

 

 

Gunnar wondered how many days "a few" would be. Hardly more than five, probably more like three. He did not want to press her for a more precise answer, from fear that she would shorten the deadline. "I realize that—I'll let you know the moment I hear something."

 

 

They exchanged dry good-byes. Leaning forward onto his elbows, Gunnar hid his head in his hands. The letter had to be found. If not, he would probably have to resign. It was unthinkable for the head of department to be implicated in the theft of documents from a foreign institute. Hatred welled up inside him. That bloody Harald Guntlieb. Before he arrived on the scene Gunnar had even toyed with the idea of one day standing for election as vice chancellor. His only dream now was that life would return to normal. That was all. There was a knock at his door.

 

 

Gunnar sat up and called out: "Come in."

 

 

"Hello, may I disturb you for a moment?" It was Tryggvi, the janitor. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. With slow steps he walked up to Gunnar's desk and declined the offer of a seat. He held out his hand, palm up. "One of the cleaners found this in the students' common room."

 

 

Gunnar picked up a little steel star. After examining it carefully, he looked in surprise at Tryggvi. "What is it? It can't be worth anything."

 

 

The caretaker cleared his throat. "I think it's a star from Harald's shoes. She found it the other day but only told me about it just now." Gunnar gave him a blank look. "So what? I don't quite follow."

 

 

"There was something else. If I understand her correctly, she also found traces of blood around the window." Tryggvi looked into Gunnar's eyes, waiting for a reply.

 

 

"Blood? Wasn't he strangled?" asked Gunnar, incredulous. "Isn't it just an old bloodstain, then?"

 

 

Tryggvi shrugged. "I don't know. I just wanted to let you have this—it's up to you what you do with it." He began to turn around, then stopped in his tracks. "Of course, he wasn't just strangled."

 

 

Gunnar's stomach churned at the thought of the awful abuse of the body. "Yes, quite right." He stared at the steel star, baffled. Then he looked up when Tryggvi spoke again.

 

 

"I'm certain it's from the shoe he was wearing when he was murdered. But of course I have no idea whether the star fell off before then."

 

 

"Well, well," muttered Gunnar. Gritting his teeth, he looked sternly at Tryggvi, stood up, and said: "Thank you, it might be irrelevant but you did right to let me know."

 

 

The janitor nodded calmly. "Actually there's something else," he said, and produced a folded paper towel from his pocket. "The woman who cleaned the common room over the weekend of the murder found traces of blood on the floor which someone had tried to clean up. And she found this too." He gave the paper towel to Gunnar. "I think we should talk to the police." After thanking the professor, he left the room.

 

 

Gunnar sat down again, stared at the star and thought about what to do. Was it important? Would a call to the police be a Pandora's box that would start the questioning all over again? That must not happen. It simply must not happen now that everything was getting back to routine. Apart from that bloody letter, of course. With a groan, Gunnar put the star down. It could surely wait until Monday. He opened the paper towel. It took him a while to realize how the object he was holding was linked to the case. When he realized, he just managed to put his hand over his mouth before letting out a scream. He picked up the telephone and dialed the emergency number for the police, 112. This one could not wait until Monday.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 26

The journey to Rangá went like a dream. The weather had kept up, and although there was snow everywhere, it was calm and bright. Thóra sat happily in the front seat of the new rental Jeep, admiring the view. She had emphasized to Matthew the importance of driving slowly down the winding steep slopes at Kambar and regaled him with endless stories of accidents there, with the result that they ended up driving at a snail's pace. Thóra soon lost count of the cars that overtook them. She used the time to browse through one of the two files returned by the police, which were supposed to contain all the case documents. She paused over the description of the T-shirt that was found in Hugi's closet. "Hey!" she shouted.