Last Rituals (42 page)

 

 

"Are you going to trick the old fellow?" Matthew asked. "That's not a very nice thing to do—given what the poor guy's been through."

 

 

Thóra looked over her shoulder on her way down the corridor and smiled at him. "The only way to find out if this is the letter is to take it to Gunnar. He'll be so delighted when he sees it that he'll do anything for us. Two or three questions about Bríet can hardly hurt."

 

 

* * *

Thóra's smile had faded by the time they found themselves sitting in Gudrún's kitchen with the letter on the table in front of them. Gunnar would hardly be pleased to retrieve it in such bad condition. He'd probably wish it had never been found. "You're sure it wasn't torn when you took it out of the box?" asked Thóra, carefully trying to smooth out the thick sheet without ripping the part that had almost been torn off.

 

 

Gudrún cast a guilty look at the letter. "I'm quite certain. It was intact. I must have ripped it in my agitation." She smiled apologetically. "They can stick it back together—can't they? Maybe iron it out a bit?"

 

 

"Oh, yes. I'm sure they can," said Thóra, although she suspected that a repair would be a rather complicated procedure, if it was possible at all. "Thank you very much for contacting us. You did the right thing—this is probably the document we were looking for and it really has nothing to do with the police investigation. We'll return it to its rightful owners."

 

 

"Good. The sooner I get rid of everything to do with Harald and leave all this mess behind, the better. It hasn't been pleasant for my husband and me since the murder. And I'd like you to tell his family I really want the apartment cleared soon. The sooner I can forget all this, the sooner I can start to get over it." She placed her slender hands down flat on the table and stared at her fingers, adorned with rings. "Not that I didn't like Harald himself. Don't misunderstand me."

 

 

"Oh, no," Thóra said in a friendly voice. "I can't imagine it's been at all pleasant." After a short pause she asked: "One final question. I'd like to ask if you got to know Harald's friends—saw them or heard them?"

 

 

"Are you trying to be funny?" the woman asked, her tone suddenly turning dry. "Did I hear them? At times they might as well have been in
my
apartment, there was so much noise."

 

 

"What kind of noise?" Thóra asked cautiously. "Quarreling? Shouting?"

 

 

Gudrún snorted. "It was mostly loud music. If music's the word. And terrible thuds, like they were stamping their feet or jumping. The odd howl, shouting and hooting—I often thought I'd have done better renting the place to animal keepers."

 

 

"Why did you go on renting it to him?" asked Matthew, who had kept himself out of their conversation up to that point. "If I remember correctly, there was a clause about conduct in the tenancy agreement and the right to terminate it in the event of noncompliance."

 

 

Gudrún blushed. "I liked him despite everything. I suppose that's the explanation. He paid the rent promptly and was a good tenant himself."

 

 

"So was it mainly his friends who made all the noise?" asked Thóra.

 

 

"Yes, you could say that," said Gudrún. "At least, it intensified when they were around. Harald played loud music and stomped around sometimes—but when his friends were with him it was so much louder."

 

 

"Did you ever witness arguments or disagreements between Harald and his friends?" Thóra asked.

 

 

"No, I can't say I did. The police asked me the same question. All I remember was one very heated exchange between Harald and some girl in the laundry room. I didn't get involved, I was busy baking. I wasn't in there or anything, I just happened to hear it when I walked past." The blush returned to her cheeks. Previously, Gudrún had shown them the laundry room to explain how she found the box. The room was off the hallway and it was impossible for her to have walked
past
unless she had just come in through the front door. She had obviously been eavesdropping and Thóra tried to think of a way to let her say what she heard without admitting that she had had her ear against the door.

 

 

"Oh." She sighed, full of sympathy. "I once lived in an apartment where the door to the laundry room was next to mine, and the things I had to put up with. You could hear almost every single word. I found it awfully uncomfortable."

 

 

"Yes," Gudrún said hesitantly. "Harald was generally in the laundry room by himself—fortunately. I don't know if this girl was helping him with the washing or was just there to keep him company, but they were very worked up. It had to do with a missing letter if I recall. This one, I guess." She gestured with her chin toward the table. "Harald kept asking her to forget about something; calmly at first, but he got very worked up when she demanded to know why he refused to back her up. She kept saying it would give her such awesome leverage—whatever that means. That was all I heard because I was just walking past, as I said."

 

 

"Did you recognize the girl's voice—could it have been that little blond friend of his?" Thóra asked hopefully.

 

 

"I couldn't really say," said Gudrún, sarcasm creeping back into her tone. "There were mainly two who came here: a tall redhead and that blond one. They both looked like hookers who'd suddenly been drafted into the army—covered in war paint and wearing those baggy camouflage trousers. Awfully unattractive and rude, both of them. We often bumped into each other but I don't think they ever said hello to me. There was no way for me to tell who it was without actually seeing her."

 

 

While Thóra agreed that Bríet and Marta Mist were rude, they could hardly be called unattractive. She was beginning to suspect that the woman fancied Harald and had a grudge against his girlfriends. Stranger things happened. She tried to conceal her hunch. "Well, that doesn't matter anyway. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the case." She stood up and took the letter. "Thank you very much again, and I'll pass on your request about clearing out the apartment."

 

 

Matthew stood up, too, and shook the woman's hand. She smiled at him and he gave a meaningful smile back. "Why don't you just take the apartment instead?" she said, putting her left hand warmly over his.

 

 

"Yes, no, I won't be in Iceland for too much longer," he stammered as he tried to think of a way to retrieve his hand.

 

 

"Anyway, you could always move in with Bella." Thóra smiled. Matthew gave her a dirty look, but his expression softened slightly when Gudrún released his hand.

 

 

* * *

"You give him the document," said Thóra, trying to get Matthew to take hold of the large envelope. Gudrún had found it for them as they were leaving, placing the old letter inside to prevent further damage. As if there was any point.

 

 

"Out of the question," said Matthew, crossing his arms tight. "It was your idea, so I'm just going to sit and watch—I might hand him a handkerchief if he bursts into tears when he realizes it's in tatters."

 

 

"I haven't felt like this since the time I came back from my driving test and reversed straight into our neighbor's car," Thóra said while they sat waiting. They had been offered a seat and told that Gunnar would see them after his class ended. Since no one seemed to be around, Thóra took the opportunity to stretch out in the chair. "It's not as if it was me who ripped the letter."

 

 

"But you're the one who gets to break the news," Matthew said, looking at the clock. "Is he coming? I have to have a proper meal before you go meet Amelia. Are you sure this caterers' holiday is only until noon?"

 

 

"We'll be quick, don't worry. You'll be eating before you know it." Hearing footsteps from the other end of the corridor, she looked up. It was Gunnar. He had a pile of papers and books in his arms and seemed surprised to see them.

 

 

"Hello," he said, trying to fish the key to his office out of his pocket. "Have you come to see me?"

 

 

Matthew and Thóra stood up. "Yes, hello," said Thóra. She waved the envelope in front of her. "We wanted to ask you whether a letter that was found over the weekend might be the one you're looking for."

 

 

Gunnar's face lit up. "Really?" he said, opening the door. "Do come in. What marvelous news." He went over to his desk and put down the books and papers. Then he sat down and gestured to them to take a seat. "Where was it found?"

 

 

Thóra sat down and put the envelope on the table. "At Harald's flat, in a box of odd stuff. I must warn you that the letter's not in good condition." She gave an apologetic smile. "The person who found it had a little fit."

 

 

"A little fit?" Gunnar repeated vaguely. He took the envelope and opened it carefully. He slowly removed the letter, and as its condition became clear he grew more and more distressed. "What on earth happened?" He put the letter down on the desk and stared at it.

 

 

"Um, the woman found all kinds of other things that upset her," said Thóra. "With very good reason, I can assure you. She asked us to return it because she was very sorry and hoped it could be repaired." She smiled even more apologetically than before.

 

 

Gunnar said nothing. He stared at the letter as if frozen. Suddenly he began to laugh. Disturbing laughter—not at all like amusement. "My God." He sighed when the bout of hysteria had ended. "María will be furious." A little spasm passed through his body when he said the name. He stroked the document, lifted it up, and examined it. "But this is the letter; we should be pleased about that, at least." He giggled.

 

 

"María?" said Thóra. "Who's María?"

 

 

"The director of the Manuscript Institute," Gunnar replied weakly. "She's the one who's worried about this letter."

 

 

"Maybe you could pass the message on from the finder," said Thóra, "that she's very sorry."

 

 

Gunnar looked up from the letter. His expression implied that this would have little effect. "Yes, I will."

 

 

"I want to use this opportunity, Gunnar, to ask you about a student in your department—Bríet, Harald's friend."

 

 

Gunnar narrowed his eyes. "What about her?"

 

 

"We were told that they had an argument. Something to do with their joint project on Brynjólfur Sveinsson. They had a fight about a lost document. Do you know anything about it?" Thóra noticed a painting on the wall behind Gunnar which, as far as she could tell, showed the bishop. "Isn't that him?" She pointed to the picture.

 

 

Gunnar said nothing. He was deep in thought. He did not look around, since he was well aware what was hanging on the wall. "That's not Brynjólfur Sveinsson, it's my great-grandfather, whom I'm named after. The Reverend Gunnar Hardarson. He's wearing clergyman's vestments, not the robes of a seventeenth-century bishop."

 

 

Thóra blushed a little and decided not to ask about another of the numerous photographs she noticed on the wall—one which appeared to show Gunnar and the farmer from Hella she and Matthew had met when they went to the caves. Her embarrassment cheered Gunnar up a little and he leaned forward to hiss: "You two are the least welcome visitors I've ever had."

 

 

Thóra was taken aback. "I'm sorry. But I'd still like to ask you to show a little patience—we're just trying to tie up a few loose ends, and Bríet is one of them. If you'd prefer not to discuss it, you might be able to give us the name of the teacher or professor who was in charge of the project."

 

 

"No, no. I can tell you all about it—that shouldn't be too hard for me. I only meant that you have a knack for unearthing very sensitive in-house matters, which you seem to have done again."

 

 

"Really?" Thóra said in surprise. "I thought it would be most sensitive for Bríet. We understand she behaved rather strangely, that's why we're asking."

 

 

"Bríet, yes. Quite right, her behavior was most odd. It was really thanks to Harald that we managed to stop her before the department ended up in a very embarrassing position." Gunnar loosened his tie.

 

 

"So what did this involve exactly?" she asked as she noticed Gunnar's tiepin for the first time. It reminded her of something that she could not quite place.

 

 

Gunnar's eyes darted down to his tie as he sensed Thóra staring at it. He stroked it with his palm just in case he had spilled some food on it. He scratched himself on the pin and pulled his hand back quickly. "What did it involve, you say—let's see. If I remember correctly, Harald and Bríet decided to compile a register of all known records about Brynjólfur Sveinsson as part of a course they attended. I think Harald proposed it, not Bríet. She just tagged along; she was in the habit of latching onto others for projects."

 

 

"Was it connected with his dissertation?" asked Thóra; she expected he had really been investigating whether the bishop had had a copy of
Malleus Maleficarum
.

 

 

"No, not at all," Gunnar replied. "We found him rather lacking in focus, as I believe I told you. Instead of using his course projects to prepare his dissertation, he roamed far and wide—absorbed himself in topics that sometimes had nothing to do with the history of sorcery. That was particularly true in Brynjólfur Sveinsson's case—he was around in the seventeenth century, as you know."

 

 

"Were you his supervisor on this project?" asked Thóra.

 

 

"No, I think it was Thorbjörn Ólafsson. I can check if you want." Gunnar gestured at the computer screen on his desk.

 

 

Thóra declined the offer. "No, that probably won't be necessary. If you could just tell us what happened we'd be perfectly happy. This is all we need to know at the moment. We're rather pushed for time."