‘I didn’t notice any difference,’ the woman said. ‘She worked very hard. She was seldom home. Used to leave early in the morning and come home late at night, only to snatch a few hours’ sleep really.’
Flóvent surveyed the room again. They hadn’t found any kind of diary detailing Rósamunda’s day-to-day existence, dreams, wishes and desires, and nothing that could explain her tragic fate.
Later that evening Flóvent had a brief meeting with Frank Ruddy’s other girlfriend, who was somewhat taken aback to hear that Frank had a wife back in Boston, though less surprised to learn that she wasn’t the only girl he was seeing in Reykjavík.
‘He’s from Illinois,’ said Flóvent.
‘Yes, Boston,’ said the girl.
‘Boston’s not in Illinois.’
‘Oh? What’s this “Illi” then? I’ve never heard of that.’
‘Illinois is a state. Boston’s a big city in a completely different state.’
Her parents exchanged glances.
The girl, who was nineteen, was sitting with her parents and younger brother in their basement flat in Skerjafjördur, at the address supplied by Frank. He had once escorted her home to her door. Her parents had watched furtively from the window as he kissed her goodbye and when he waved to them, they had waved back. They were from the east, from the countryside.
The girl couldn’t tell Flóvent anything he didn’t already know. She knew next to nothing about Frank except that he was a real gentleman, always had plenty of cigarettes and chewing gum, and used to invite her to dances, and although she didn’t speak much English she had the distinct impression that he had once talked seriously about marrying her and taking her back with him to the States.
16
The next day, Flóvent and Thorson went to visit the dressmaker’s where Rósamunda had been learning her trade. The owner said she’d been expecting a visit from the police about what she described as ‘this tragic business with Rósamunda’. She was fortyish, thin and seemed a little flustered, her words coming out in a nervous gabble. She simply couldn’t understand it; Rósamunda had been such a good girl. So clever with her hands too.
‘A really gifted seamstress,’ she went on. ‘Dressmaking came naturally to her. She could mend garments so the repair was invisible. Quite invisible. And she made some absolutely ravishing dresses.’
‘Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm her, ma’am?’ asked Flóvent, glancing around him. ‘Was she involved in any altercations that you’re aware of?’
He was no judge of women’s clothes: of the dresses, skirts, hats and underwear that had been sent to the shop for mending. The rest of the staff had left for the day. Four electric sewing machines were lined up on a row of tables, surrounded by lengths of material, by needles and pins. Opening off the main work floor was a small room containing two old treadle machines. Bolts of cloth, ribbons and other sewing paraphernalia littered the place, along with fashion magazines and dress patterns.
‘No, not with anyone here,’ said the woman.
‘What about the customers?’
‘She was such a sweet girl, I can’t imagine anyone having anything against her.’
‘I assume most of your customers are women?’ said Flóvent.
‘That’s right.’
‘Do you get any soldiers coming in?’ asked Thorson.
‘To my shop? No, no, I can’t say I do.’
‘So they wouldn’t have any reason to come in here?’
‘Well, I’ve seen one or two drop in with Icelandic girls, but they don’t use our services, if that’s what you mean. They just tend to tag along with their girlfriends.’
‘Do you have any regular customers in town?’
‘Do I? Good heavens, yes. Dozens. Some of my ladies have been coming here for years. We offer a first-class service — I’ve always set great store by quality and I can assure you that my company’s the best of its kind here in Reykjavík.’
‘Do you happen to know if Rósamunda was seeing a soldier?’ asked Thorson.
‘No, not that I’m aware.’
‘What about other suitors?’
‘Oh, no, I shouldn’t think so. At least, she never mentioned it. But then I didn’t know much about her private life. She’s worked for me for several years now and has turned out awfully well, I have to say. I’ve got several experienced seamstresses working for me and another girl in training, but she’s not a patch on Rósamunda. She’s — she was — so much more talented. There’s no comparing them.’
Flóvent noted down the other girl’s name. The owner granted them permission to look around in the back room. Apparently Rósamunda had approached the woman about the possibility of working for her; they hadn’t been acquainted beforehand. Another girl had left recently so the woman had decided to take Rósamunda on for a trial period. A fortuitous decision. On her last day at work she had been putting the finishing touches on an evening gown for one of their regular clients, the wife of a bank manager, who used to shop at Magasin du Nord on her visits to Copenhagen before this ghastly war began, and the bank manager’s wife had declared that this shop was in no way inferior to the famous department store.
Is that so? Flóvent thought to himself, noting down the name of the bank manager’s wife.
‘Yes, I try to... well, you could say that my clientele are very discerning people. And I try to keep it that way.’
Flóvent nodded.
‘These days, of course, with everything in such short supply,’ the woman sighed, ‘we’re forced to make the most of what we have, even to make new clothes out of old ones. And everything’s grey or black. I haven’t laid eyes on a roll of silk in a month of Sundays.’
Looking around the room, they couldn’t see any sign that Rósamunda had brought any personal possessions to work. She used to sit at one of the treadle sewing machines, and the evening gown for the bank manager’s wife, a simple design in black, was draped over a hanger next to it.
‘Do you know where she went after work on her last day here?’ asked Flóvent.
‘I assume she went home; she didn’t mention any other plans.’
‘Was that what she usually did?’
‘Yes, or so I believe. Though I don’t encourage that sort of familiarity from my staff — talking about personal matters, I mean. I prefer to keep things on a formal footing. I feel it’s important to be professional, especially these days.’
‘So you don’t know much about her private life?’
‘Very little.’
‘Did she ever mention the National Theatre in your hearing?’ asked Thorson.
‘The National Theatre? No. Why do you ask? You mean because she was found there?’
‘You never heard her talk about it?’
‘No, never.’
‘Do you remember an occasion three months ago when she failed to turn up to work for a couple of days?’ asked Flóvent.
‘No,’ said the woman. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t remember.’
Thorson was also in tow when Flóvent went along that evening to see the other girl who was training to be a seamstress. She was the same age as Rósamunda and knew her much better than the owner did. The girl was slim and pretty, with shoulder-length, raven-black hair and thick dark brows that almost met over her dark brown eyes. Her skin was chalk-white, which only enhanced the obsidian sheen of her hair. She rented a small room in a basement near the centre of town and was busy mending a ladder in a silk stocking when they knocked on the door. She and Rósamunda had been close confidantes, she told them, and she’d had the shock of her life when she heard that her friend had died, and in such horrible circumstances. She added that she’d been about to come to the police herself with some information about Rósamunda.