Authors: Yrsa Sigurdardottir
Stefán took a deep breath and counted
to three in his head. He couldn’t spare the time to count up to ten.
‘Might you consider telling me about this amazing discovery, or do I have
to guess?’ he asked calmly.
‘Guess?’ repeated the doctor,
laughing. ‘You could never guess this, my friend. The woman’s
tongue was injected with Botox and then shoved down her throat.’ When
Stefán said nothing he added, ‘Tasteful, don’t you
think?’
Stefán spoke up again:
‘Botox,
isn’t that anti-wrinkle medicine?’
He wasn’t particularly interested in plastic surgery, but his wife ruined
all the television shows they watched with a running commentary about this or
that
actress
having surely had Botox injections.
‘Paralyzes the skin or something like that?’
‘It actually paralyzes the
muscles,’ the doctor replied. ‘This drug, if you can call it a
drug, is closely related to botulism, or food poisoning, but it can also cause
lethal paralysis. Botox prevents messages being sent from the nerve ends of
muscles to the upper part of the face, thus inhibiting it from contracting. The
muscles in question are technically paralyzed, so they can’t form
wrinkles in the skin. It only lasts for a few months at a time, so people need
to repeat the injections if they want to maintain their youthful
appearance. It’s an ingenious substance, although in this instance it has
been used in a very unpleasant and unconventional manner.’
‘So her tongue was paralyzed?’
asked Stefán, even though the answer was obvious. ‘It fell back
into her throat and choked her, did it?’
‘That was the idea, I imagine,’
said the doctor. ‘However, the problem is that it takes Botox several
hours to work perfectly, even up to a few days, although muscle movement is
restricted almost immediately. I think the murderer got tired of her
struggling, so he shoved her tongue down her throat. She wasn’t able to
pull it back up again because the tongue’s muscular actions were impeded.
She had a faint bruise on her upper arm that could suggest she’d been
held down.’ The doctor stopped. ‘I need to go over everything again
in the light of this new information. It may well be that I’ll find other
evidence that can be used to get a good picture of what happened.’
‘But you’re convinced that this
was murder?’ Stefán asked. ‘She was a nurse, and could have
done this to herself. People do strange things when they’re
unbalanced.’
‘It’s out of the question that
she could have done this herself,’ said the doctor stubbornly. ‘The
marks on her arms don’t suggest that she intended this conclusion for
herself. I have the feeling that someone wanted to make this look like suicide,
but panicked and wasn’t careful enough. The drugs themselves might have
been enough, but the vomit found in the room suggests that her stomach
couldn’t bear them and tried to expel the poison.’
‘And then it just happened that the
murderer had Botox in his pocket,’ said Stefán. His head was
spinning.
‘As you say, she was a nurse and no stranger
to plastic surgery, judging by her body,’ replied the doctor.
‘Maybe she had the Botox at home, which the murderer used to his own
advantage. Maybe the idea was to prevent the vomiting by blocking its way
out.’
‘I don’t know whether you
realize, but she worked at a plastic surgeon’s office,’ said
Stefán. ‘Maybe she got the Botox from them, to keep in her
first-aid kit if wrinkles suddenly appeared.’
‘Maybe,’ said the doctor
thoughtfully. ‘I think it’s rather doubtful that she got her own
supplies from them, though. This isn’t a substance to be used at home. On
the other hand you never know, maybe the plastic surgeon she worked for dropped
by?’ He snorted. ‘Now is not the right time, nor is it my job, to
ponder who may have done this. My task is to uncover the cause of death, and I
now think I know what that is.
Premeditated murder by a most
unorthodox form of choking.
My report will be on your desk by noon
tomorrow. I’d better get to work on it.’
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.
Thursday
19 July
2007
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.’
‘At what time, do you suppose?’
asked Stefán.
‘Around seven, a
little earlier.
I don’t
know,’ replied Markus,
then
added in irritation:
‘Can’t you see it on my credit card account? I pay for almost
everything by card.’
Stefán did not reply, but Thóra
knew that the use of a card in a self-service petrol station didn’t
amount to an alibi. ‘Sorry,’ she interjected. ‘Couldn’t
you show that Markus was present at the scene rather than make him struggle to
remember an evening from eleven days ago? I’m sure he would have paid
better attention if he’d known what that evening had in store.’ Now
it was Thóra’s turn to give Stefán a sarcastic smile. It
felt good, but not for long.
‘That’s precisely what we think
we can do,’ said Stefán. ‘Prove that Markus was at the scene
on the evening in question.’ He looked from Thóra to Markus.
‘What?’ gasped Markus, completely
deflated. ‘That isn’t possible,’ he said simply. He seemed
too astonished to be angry. ‘That just isn’t possible,’ he
repeated.
‘And yet it is,’ said
Stefán. Thóra hoped he was referring to the bottles of tablets in
Alda’s home, or something else Markus had already explained. She was out
of luck. ‘We have a witness who claims to have seen you there around the
time that Alda was murdered, as well as biological evidence on her body.
Comparison of this evidence and your DNA, which you gave willingly in
connection with the corpses in the basement,
proves
it unequivocally.’