‘I wanted to know if a man came to see you recently. His name was Stefán, Stefán Thórdarson.’
Vigga blinked.
‘Do you remember him at all?’ Konrád waited for a reaction but none came. ‘He may have been calling himself Thorson,’ he added, in the faint hope that the old woman could hear him.
This seemed to do the trick. Slowly Vigga turned her head and regarded him with colourless eyes.
‘Thorson,’ repeated Konrád. ‘Do you know him?’
The old woman stared at him without speaking.
‘Did he come here to see you a week or two ago?’
Vigga didn’t respond but nor did she take her eyes off Konrád.
‘Thorson’s dead,’ he continued. ‘I thought you’d want to know that if you were friends with him. You may have heard already. I gather he came here to visit you recently.’
Vigga’s gaze was unwavering.
‘I don’t know if you remember me. I grew up in the Shadow District, not far from where you lived. My name’s Konrád.’
‘H...?’ Vigga tried to whisper, but it came out so quietly that Konrád couldn’t catch it.
‘What did you say?’
‘H... ow?’
‘How? Do you mean how did he die? Well, it was rather a bad business actually. He was smothered. Very probably murdered.’
Vigga grimaced. ‘Mur... dered?’ she whispered weakly, almost voicelessly.
‘We don’t know who did it,’ said Konrád. ‘He lived alone, and he was found dead. I understand he came here shortly before he died, so I wanted to ask how you knew him.’
‘He... came...’ Vigga’s eyes closed.
‘I found some cuttings in his flat — newspaper cuttings about a girl who was found dead behind the National Theatre during the war,’ Konrád continued. ‘The girl had been strangled. Do you know why he kept those cuttings? Did he come to see you about the case? Or for a completely different reason? How did you two know each other anyway? How did you know Stefán Thórdarson?’
Konrád kept up a flow of questions but Vigga no longer seemed able to hear him.
‘Why did he visit you, Vigga? Why did he visit you just before he died?’
The old woman had fallen asleep again. Konrád restrained the urge to try to wake her and instead sat quietly and patiently by her bed, remembering that Vigga hadn’t always been in a foul mood, cursing the local children. Once, when Konrád was seven, he had plucked up the courage to knock on her door early one Sunday morning. He was selling stamps for the Scouts and had knocked on almost all the doors in the neighbourhood except hers. He’d had scant success — had in fact only sold one measly stamp — but then perhaps he had set off a little too early in his excitement and woken his prospective customers, who didn’t hesitate to let him know what they thought about that. He hadn’t intended to risk approaching Vigga’s lair, as he had always avoided her like the plague, but for some reason he forgot his cowardice and before he knew it he had rapped on her door. A long time seemed to pass and he was on the point of running away while he still could when the door opened and there stood Vigga, glaring down at him.
‘What do you want, boy?’ she had asked, scanning the street for more little pests waiting to torment her. There were none to be seen.
‘I... I... I’m selling stamps,’ Konrád stammered.
‘Stamps? What are you on about?’
‘Scout... Scout stamps.’
‘After my money are you? A little scamp like you? Want to come in?’
Konrád hesitated, then told the truth: ‘No.’
Vigga regarded him stormily for a moment and Konrád thought he should perhaps have said ‘no, thank you’ and was about to correct himself when she began to emit a rumbling noise which became a full-blown guffaw. She laughed so hard she had to lean against the door.
Konrád had turned, ready to flee down the steps, when her laughter subsided.
‘There, there, I’ll buy some stamps from you, boy,’ said Vigga. ‘Wait a minute while I fetch my purse.’
She bought three Scout stamps on the understanding that he would never knock on her door or show his face there again, for any reason whatsoever.
Konrád studied the old woman under the duvet, still hearing the echo of her laughter on that long-ago Sunday morning. Without warning she opened her eyes and looked at him.
‘Th... orson?’ Her whisper was barely audible.
‘Do you remember him?’
‘Is it... you... Thorson?’
Konrád didn’t know what to say. Did she really think he was Thorson? ‘I’m not him if...’
Vigga closed her eyes again.
‘Do you know if he was asking questions about that girl who was found behind the National Theatre?’
No response.
‘Do you have any idea why Thorson held on to cuttings about the case for all these years?’
There was no point asking. Vigga had dozed off again. After sitting beside her for a while longer, Konrád rose to leave. He stroked the old woman’s cheek gently. Once she had terrified him, but no longer. There was an air of tranquillity about her. He was on his way out of the room when he thought he heard her voice behind him.
Konrád turned. ‘Did you say something?’
Vigga opened her mouth but barely had the strength to articulate the words. ‘Thorson? Is that... you... back again?’
‘Is everything all right, Vigga?’
‘Have you come... about that girl?’
‘Yes,’ said Konrád, thinking he might as well go along with it.
‘... not... just her...’
‘What did you say?’
‘... there was... another one,’ croaked Vigga from under the duvet, her voice hoarse and threadbare with age. ‘Another one who disappeared... and the huldufólk... the huldufólk...’
‘Another girl?’ Konrád leaned closer to hear. ‘Who do you mean?’
‘... never... found her... never found her bones...’
13
The military police had their headquarters at the Laugarnes camp. There, standing in a huddle, were twelve GIs guarded by four armed men. They had been rounded up from various parts of Reykjavík and the surrounding area by the military police and brought there without any explanation. Nine were privates, one a lieutenant, two worked in the mess hall, and one was from the US naval base in Hvalfjördur. They still hadn’t worked out that they were all called Frank when the door opened and Thorson greeted them. Flóvent had telephoned following his meeting with Rósamunda’s parents to inform him that the body had been identified and the girl’s parents were adamant that she hadn’t known any American soldiers, let alone been walking out with one.
The men were made to line up in a row, facing forwards. Two or three demanded to know why they were being treated like this, but Thorson just asked for their patience, thanked them for assisting the police in a difficult case and assured them that they would soon be free to go. At that moment Flóvent entered the room, accompanied by Ingiborg, who recognised her Frank immediately.
She walked straight up to him, and he gave her a chilly, embarrassed smile. The other men watched, still unsure what the police wanted with them and what sort of drama they were witnessing.
Thorson went over to Ingiborg. ‘Is that him?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘This is Frank Carroll. If that is his name.’
The soldier met Thorson’s eye and nodded. ‘I’m Frank Carroll,’ he murmured in English.
‘Why did you lie to me?’ Ingiborg asked him, with a hurt expression. He may not have understood the words, but he couldn’t fail to detect the pain in her voice. ‘What’s your real name? Who are you?’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I—’