Taking the picture into the sitting room, Konrád sat down again in the old man’s chair at the desk, holding the newspaper cuttings in his other hand, his gaze wandering from them to the photograph and then to the book lying open in front of him. A succession of thoughts passed through his head: thoughts of his father, the murdered girl, the military occupation, seances, the tormented souls of the dead, and an old man who lived alone and was found lying on his bed as if asleep — but had in fact been murdered.
8
Konrád was startled out of his reverie by the sound of someone knocking three times on the door. Rising from the desk, he went rather hesitantly into the hall, uncertain how to act. There was another round of knocking, more determined this time.
‘Hello,’ he heard a voice call, ‘is there somebody in there?’
Realising he had to do something, Konrád opened the door. Outside on the landing stood a tallish, middle-aged woman with a cloud of dark hair.
‘I saw someone go inside,’ she said. ‘Are you related to Stefán, by any chance?’
‘No, I’m with the police.’
‘Oh, I see. I haven’t noticed you here before.’
‘No, I was just on my way out,’ said Konrád, without elaborating on the reason for his presence.
‘I’m Thorbjörg,’ said the woman. ‘I live upstairs, in the flat directly above Stefán’s. I’ve spoken to the police, to someone called Marta.’
‘Yes, I know her.’
‘Are you any closer to finding out what happened?’ asked Thorbjörg, not unnaturally curious about her neighbour’s shocking fate. News of his murder had been splashed all over the media.
‘No, not yet,’ said Konrád.
‘Who would do such a thing — attack an old-age pensioner like that? He can’t have had long to live anyway.’
‘Did you know each other well?’
‘No, I can’t say we did — he kept himself to himself. We’ve been here for, what, eight years, but I wouldn’t say we knew him well.’
‘Who lives opposite him?’
‘Birgitta. She’s a widow. I suppose she knew him best of all — she’s been here the longest.’ The woman leaned towards Konrád, lowering her voice. ‘You should talk to her. There was something going on between them — especially, I’d imagine, after her husband died three years ago’
‘Something going on?’
‘Yes, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were more than just friends. Not that I want to spread gossip, you understand. It’s none of my business.’
‘Did you notice if Stefán had any visitors recently?’
‘No, the police have already asked me that. He didn’t have many visitors. Although it’s not like I kept track or anything.’
A few minutes later Konrád knocked on Birgitta’s door. She was short with silver hair, a calm demeanour and a kindly face, though just now she appeared to be in low spirits and was reluctant to talk to Konrád. She had already spoken to the police, she said, and had little to add.
‘I’m sorry to bother you like this,’ Konrád said, hoping to change her mind. ‘It’ll only take a few minutes.’
‘Oh, well,’ she said at last, not wishing to seem unhelpful. ‘Would you like to come in?’
They took a seat in her sitting room and Konrád asked if she had known Stefán long.
‘Ever since he first came here, which must have been about twenty-five years ago,’ she said. ‘He moved here from Hveragerdi where he’d lived for a long time. They got to know each other a bit, my husband Eyjólfur and him, used to pass the time of day on the landing, that sort of thing. After Eyjólfur died, Stefán kindly offered to help me out with odd jobs here and there, and he always used to drop in for coffee when he was going out to our local shop. He never shopped anywhere else.’
‘Didn’t he have any family?’
‘No, he never married and preferred not to discuss it. We had so much else to talk about.’
‘He was able to look after himself, was he? In spite of his age?’
‘Oh, yes, he was very active, and strong as a horse, despite being ninety. He used to say he had no intention of being put in a home.’
‘Did you happen to notice if he had any visitors recently or went out to see anyone? I get the impression he was a bit of a recluse.’
‘That’s right. He kept himself to himself, talked very little about friends or relatives. I don’t remember anyone visiting him recently, though it’s possible I just didn’t notice.’
‘What did he do for a living?’ asked Konrád. ‘Before he retired, I mean.’
‘He was an engineer. He built bridges all over the country. Though of course he retired years ago. What do the police think happened?’
‘Hard to say.’
‘They said on the news that he was smothered. That a pillow was held over his face and he was too weak to fight back.’
‘I’m guessing it was something like that.’
‘What a monster,’ said Birgitta quietly, as if to herself.
‘What about the other neighbours? Any tensions there?’
‘The neighbours? No. Why do you say that?’
‘Just a thought.’
‘No, I believe the police interviewed everyone in the building and ruled out the idea that any of them could have done it. They’re all decent people. They’d never do a dreadful thing like that.’
CID had indeed questioned all the occupants of the three-storey building. The flats, eight in all, were on the small side and most of the residents were elderly people who had downsized after their children left home. The police had also knocked on the doors of the neighbouring houses, but hardly anyone they spoke to had even been aware of Stefán’s existence.
‘Did he ever talk to you or your husband about the National Theatre?’ asked Konrád.
‘The National Theatre? I don’t think he was a theatregoer.’
‘I was actually referring to incidents linked to the National Theatre, rather than plays.’
‘What kind of incident?’
‘During the war, for instance.’
‘The war?’
‘The Second World War,’ Konrád said, anxious not to give away too much, not least because he knew so little himself.
‘What kind of incidents during the war?’ Birgitta asked, puzzled.
‘Was he religious, would you say?’ asked Konrád, changing the subject.
‘He never discussed it. So, no, I shouldn’t think so. I shouldn’t think he was particularly religious.’
‘Interested in the supernatural, then?’
‘No, I very much doubt it. Again, he never mentioned it. Do you mean... What exactly do you mean?’
‘Did he believe in life after death, visit psychics?’
Birgitta stared at Konrád. ‘What did you find in his flat?’
‘Not much.’ He smiled. ‘I just happened to notice that he’d been reading a book of Icelandic folk tales. Were you aware of his interest in them?’
‘No.’
‘Or in Icelandic folklore generally?’
‘He never brought up the subject with me. But...’
‘Yes?’
‘You were talking about the war and asked if he’d received or paid any visits. Well, he did tell me he’d gone round to a nursing home in the neighbourhood. He wanted to refresh his memory of something that happened during the war. When I asked him about it, he cut the conversation short as if he didn’t want to discuss it. I didn’t press him — I knew he’d fill me in later if he felt like it.’
‘So you don’t know what it was about?’
‘No.’