Konrád searched for other stories from the first few months of 1944, the historic year Iceland had become an independent republic, the year he was born. According to his father, news of the notorious seance held at their flat had found its way into the papers. Konrád had never checked whether or not this was true, but he took the opportunity now, sifting carefully through the dailies in search of anything about a fraudulent medium and his accomplice.
The first he’d heard of the affair was when his Aunt Kristjana stormed into the flat like a whirlwind from the north and unleashed a tirade of recriminations against her brother, full of obscure accusations about ‘that seance’ and warning him to keep his nose out of matters he had no business meddling in. That had been almost a decade after the event. Her anger had been sparked by a newspaper obituary for Rósamunda’s adoptive father who had died in hospital after a short illness. Aunt Kristjana had given her brother a crude tongue-lashing about honour and shame and what a good-for-nothing scoundrel he was to treat people like that, until he lost patience and told her if she didn’t shut up she could just sod off back up north.
His father had held no further seances at their flat. He was no longer a member of the Society for Psychical Research, from which he had previously selected his victims, and had ceased all collaboration with mediums. Konrád’s mother had divorced her husband by the time of Aunt Kristjana’s visit, utterly sick of her life with him, of his duplicity, his swindling and the small-time crooks he associated with. Not only was he unreliable and incapable of holding down a job, but he drank heavily in the company of riff-raff, had dared to raise his fist to her and repeatedly humiliated her in front of his friends. One day she announced that she’d had enough, she was leaving him and taking the kids. ‘Do what you like,’ Konrád’s father had yelled at her, ‘you can bugger off and take the girl with you, but you’re not having my boy!’ She hadn’t let this stop her, though she had hoped against hope that he would relent and let her have Konrád. It was not to be, however, and the matter remained a source of bitter conflict between them.
Following Aunt Kristjana’s visit, Konrád had asked his father what she meant about a seance.
‘Don’t you start,’ he said, ruffling his son’s hair. ‘It’s nothing to worry your head about. My sister’s always been half-cracked.’
Konrád went on downloading newspaper pages from 1944 until at last his attention was caught by a headline: ‘Stir at Seance’. It turned out to be a fairly detailed account of a seance recently held in the Shadow District, which had been exposed as a hoax, much to the disgust of those in attendance, especially an older couple who had recently suffered a tragic loss. No names were given, but the article referred to a veteran psychic and his accomplice, a family man whose home was used for the meeting, who had conspired to elicit information from the sitters, then pretended it had been channelled through the medium from beyond the grave. An ugly trick, the newspaper called it, adding that the couple who had sought their services had been distressed in light of their bereavement and...
Konrád had read enough. He closed the page and didn’t search for any other references to the incident. Suddenly he didn’t want to know what the papers had to say. Rising from his chair, he went into the kitchen and put on some coffee. Then he fished out a scrap of paper from his pocket: he had jotted down the name from the margin of the witness statement. It was a woman’s name he’d not heard before and thought was probably uncommon in Iceland. It was almost certainly borrowed from Danish. Settling in front of his computer again, he clicked on the telephone directory and entered the name. There was only one result.
‘No harm in trying,’ he told himself, picking up his phone and tapping in the number.
It rang for a while.
‘Hello?’ he heard a voice that was elderly but clear answer at last.
‘Is that Ingiborg?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Ingiborg Ísleifsdóttir?’
‘Yes, speaking,’ said the woman. ‘Who’s calling, please?’
18
It didn’t take Flóvent long to find the right address, a small house clad in corrugated iron, with a cellar and a tiny attic, which stood on the edge of the Shadow District. He climbed the short flight of steps and rapped on the door. No one answered. There was a small yard behind the house and, rounding the corner, Flóvent saw that the owner had converted it into a vegetable garden. He was turning to go back to the street when the cellar door opened and out stepped a woman in a ragged jumper, dirty linen trousers and a pair of waders, with long woollen socks showing over the tops. Her thick shock of hair made her head seem huge. She was carrying an empty bucket.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, slamming the cellar door behind her and securing it with a padlock.
‘Excuse me, are you Vigga?’ asked Flóvent.
‘What’s it to you?’
‘I’m from the Reykjavík police. I’m investigating the death of the girl whose body was found behind the National Theatre. You may have heard about it. Her name was Rósamunda.’
‘Nothing to do with me.’
‘Is your name Vigga?’
‘Yes, that’s what they call me.’
‘I wondered if I might have a word with you.’
‘I’ve nothing to say to you,’ said Vigga and stumped off up the steps. She obviously had no intention of letting Flóvent interrupt her chores.
‘I hear you know a lot about Icelandic herbs.’
‘What business is that of yours?’
‘And understand their healing properties.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘And destructive powers.’
‘Look, I haven’t got time for this,’ said Vigga. ‘Please get out of my garden.’
She went into the house, shutting the door behind her and leaving Flóvent standing there like an idiot. Determined not to admit defeat so easily, he climbed back up the steps and banged on the door. A long interval elapsed before Vigga appeared again.
‘I thought I asked you to leave.’
‘I understand Rósamunda may have come to you for help. I wanted to know if she had, and, if so, what passed between you.’
He pulled out a photograph of Rósamunda that her parents had given him and showed it to the woman. ‘This is the girl.’
Vigga studied the picture for a while, then regarded Flóvent impassively with small, catlike eyes. Her brow was high under the wild mop of hair, her face narrow with thin, almost invisible lips, her sour expression hinting at a life of hardship.
‘She did come here.’
‘What did she want from you?’
‘She was in a wretched state, poor thing. At her wits’ end.’ Vigga gave Flóvent a searching look. ‘Come in, then.’ She opened the door wider and went back inside. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll be able to get rid of you. But I’m not offering you anything. I don’t have any coffee and it’s no good asking me for booze.’
‘I don’t want anything,’ Flóvent assured her, following her inside.
Vigga led the way through a small hall to the kitchen and gestured to Flóvent to take a seat at the table. He didn’t get a glimpse into any of the other rooms. He sat down and Vigga positioned herself by the old coal range. She appeared to be making a concoction involving dried Iceland moss, reindeer lichen and wild thyme. The kitchen window faced the street and he saw a woman walk past in the gathering dusk, pushing a pram.