Four murders plus one made five. Stefán said goodbye and sighed heavily. He wasn’t going home for quite some time, that was for sure. He switched on his radio but switched it off again when he heard not music, but loud and obnoxious adverts. When he had turned down the radio earlier, a song about sex had been playing. He’d been hoping that it was still on, because he had absolutely no hope of the real thing any time soon. He sighed again and dialled his home number.
Chapter Eighteen
After the longest stretch of warm weather Thóra could remember, dark, heavy clouds now filled the sky. The light was yellowish and the horizon was all grey. She pulled her thin cardigan tightly around herself and realized that she hadn’t dressed for the weather at all. It only took two weeks of warm weather to make you forget what Icelandic summers could be like. Thóra felt as naive as the foreigners who tried to fend off the horizontal rain with mere umbrellas. She quickened her pace and flung open the door to the police station, where she was supposed to meet Markus. He had been called in for yet another round of questioning. Thóra had phoned the police officer, Stefán, to ask him what they wanted to talk about, but he had deflected all her questions and she sensed the case had taken a more serious turn. She shook most of the rain from her hair and brushed it from her clothing.
She was ten minutes early. She took the opportunity to smarten up in the toilets, thinking to herself that it was difficult to respect a woman whose face was smeared with mascara. When she was more or less satisfied with the effect she walked back to the lobby. Markus stood there wearing a dark blue rain-jacket, sensible shoes and a hangdog expression.
‘Well,’ said Thóra as she walked towards him, ‘are you ready?’ She received only a grunt in reply. They both walked to the interrogation room in silence. Thóra was happy not to speak to Markus when he was in such a mood, since now was hardly the time to wonder what the police were planning to ask him. He had been summoned with just over half an hour’s notice in the early afternoon, but before Thóra had dashed out to her car she’d managed to shove the relevant files into her briefcase.
Nevertheless, as they reached the door Thóra paused for a moment to reiterate to Markus that he should answer according to her advice and not say anything outside the scope of the questions, at least not without consulting her first. Markus nodded in agreement, still with the same sullen look, and they walked in. Thóra had to remind herself that people reacted differently to pressure: some became absolutely unbearable, like her client in this case. Could he be grieving for Alda so much? Everyone agreed that he’d been in love with her. True, Alda hadn’t felt the same, but it was possible that he had taken her death very badly. His eyes might not have been swollen with weeping, but perhaps he was someone who dealt with grief through anger and lack of communication. Thóra resolved to be nicer to him.
Stefán was already in the interrogation room with another officer, who was leaving when Thóra and Markus arrived. The officer greeted them gruffly on the way out, and once again Thóra had the feeling that matters were about to come to a head. She crossed her fingers, hoping Markus wasn’t on his way into custody. Apart from the discomfort and shock he would experience, it would put increased pressure on Thóra, demanding more time from her than she actually had to give.
Stefán opened the questioning by announcing that Markus remained a suspect, and that now the murder of Alda
Thórgeirsdóttir was being investigated in addition to the murders of the four unidentified men in 1973. Thóra tried to look impassive but nonetheless dropped her pen on the floor. Markus didn’t have as much self-control, but seemed at first to be taking it very calmly. When Thóra sat up again, though, his face was flushed dark red and his breathing heavy.
‘Are you telling me that I’m suspected of Alda’s murder?’ he said, quietly but angrily.‘Are you nuts? Didn’t she kill herself? What the hell is this?’
Thóra put her hand on his shoulder.‘Let’s let Stefán talk. This must be a misunderstanding we can sort out.’ She looked at Stefán. ‘How did Markus come to be a suspect in Alda’s murder, and when was it actually revealed that she was murdered?’
Stefán appeared completely unaffected by Markus’s reaction. ‘The results of the drug test on her blood and soft tissues revealed that it wasn’t suicide. In the interests of the investigation I can’t discuss these results right now. I need to ask Markus a few questions concerning his relationship with the murder victim, and I strongly recommend that he answer them.’Stefán’s face was stony, making it impossible to read anything from it.
‘In the light of my client being considered a murder suspect, I insist on seeing these particular test results,’ said Thóra. ‘As well as the autopsy report.’
Stefán smiled mockingly. ‘The report you got from the police in the Westmann Islands?’ He leaned forward slightly. ‘I know Gudni let you see the autopsy report on the bodies in the basement. That won’t happen again. If you want further files you have to acquire them through the proper channels.’ He straightened up again.
Thóra would have to explain herself, as Markus could not afford to have Stefán and his colleagues against him because of the autopsy report – there was enough pressure from the media and police authorities to solve the case as quickly as possible. ‘It’s true that I got the report from Gudni without submitting a special request, but it must be borne in mind that I had already heard about its contents on the street. It can’t be considered natural that information from the case files is on the lips of everyone but the parties involved.’
Stefán looked at Thóra, but said nothing. He turned again to Markus. ‘Where were you this past Sunday evening, the eighth of July?’ So they had confirmed the time of death; Thóra scribbled it down.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Markus sharply. ‘How am I supposed to know that?’
‘If I were you I’d try to remember. You have previously stated that you were on your way to the Westmann Islands, and you were there the next morning, as is now well known.’Stefán flipped through some papers on the desk. ‘You said you left Reykjavik at about seven, and by eight thirty you were at your summerhouse on the banks of the Rang River. From there you went down to Bakki early the next morning, from where you caught a flight to the Islands. Is that correct?’
Markus appeared confused. ‘Yes, yes. I just didn’t remember the date. If you had asked about the evening prior to my trip to the Islands I would have answered immediately.’
‘In other words, you’re sticking to your statement?’ said Stefán.
‘Of course,’ snapped Markus.‘Why wouldn’t I? That’s how it happened. Check with Westmann Islands Air. They must have a record of it.’
‘I’m not asking about your movements on Monday morning,’ said Stefán. ‘I’m asking about Sunday evening. It only takes two hours to drive to the airport at Bakki, so the fact that you were there the next morning doesn’t tell us anything.’ Stefán looked up from the report. ‘Can anyone verify your story? Did you stop for petrol or food along the way?’
Markus rocked in his chair and seemed to be trying to remember. Thóra sincerely hoped that he’d stopped for both petrol and something to eat at some shop or other. Her hope was not realized. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I stopped for petrol on the way out of town, as far as I recall.’ He exhaled disappointedly. ‘A lot of time has passed. But I think I stopped at the Orka petrol station on Snorrabraut Road.’