Authors: Yrsa Sigurdardottir
Understandably Markus had wanted to appeal
the district court’s decision. In fact only three days of the five had
remained when the decision was announced, but she did not blame him. Three days
felt like a thousand: no innocent man wanted to sit behind bars. She looked at
the clock and saw that it wasn’t even eight yet. If she left the house
within the next hour she might have time to find something else that could
rebut the court’s decision. Yet she had no idea what exactly that might
be. Without doubt, it was Alda’s diary from 1973 that had influenced the
district court judge’s hesitation over Markus’s guilt.
Thóra had handed it over to the police immediately after Markus’s
interview. Stefán had reacted angrily and accused her of concealing
evidence from the police, and Thóra had tried unsuccessfully to explain
herself. When the prosecutor had tried to devalue the importance of the
diary in court, the judge took Thóra’s side and said the handover
hadn’t been delayed unnaturally in light of the circumstances. Another
small victory had been won when the judge had asked numerous questions about
the evidence that suggested the three bodies had been placed in the basement
after the eruption had been going on for some time, which meant that Markus
couldn’t have been there. The police didn’t have much on Markus as
far as the bodies in the basement were concerned, if you didn’t count the
head.
Alda’s death was a different story.
Here there was very little in Markus’s favour: both a witness and
evidence suggested that he’d been at the scene. The witness turned out to
be a boy who had been distributing flyers for his sports club’s tin- can
collection on the evening that Alda was murdered. The police had found one of
the flyers in Alda’s house and tracked down the boy, who had given a
description of a man who had shown up there at the same time as the boy had
been walking away from Alda’s house, around seven thirty. The description
fit Markus perfectly, and the boy had then selected a photo of him from a group
of several he was shown. The boy said that the man had walked up to the house,
but he hadn’t seen him get out of a car, nor did he particularly remember
anything about cars on the street that evening. Thóra tried to point out
that Markus’s car was a model that any normal healthy teenage boy would
certainly notice, but to no effect. It was pointed out that Markus could easily
have parked elsewhere, especially if he had come there with criminal
intent and hadn’t wanted anyone to notice him. Thóra’s
objection that Markus had an extremely average appearance and that the
description could easily have applied to countless other men was also of
little use, as, for that matter, was the fact that the boy could have selected
Markus’s photo from the stack at random. However, Thóra hoped this
assertion would find better support after she examined the photos that the boy
had been shown, because the police could easily have given him a selection in
which Markus alone fit the description. She would be allowed to see them later,
and she also hoped that a record of calls to and from Markus’s phone, as
well as Alda’s, would be turned over to her at the same time.
Thóra clung to the hope that this log would reveal that Alda had called
Markus as he was driving eastwards from Reykjavik, as he insisted. That would
strengthen his testimony a great deal; Alda would hardly have rung Markus
if he were at her house.
Thóra had more trouble finding an
explanation for the DNA sample on Alda’s body, which proved to be from
Markus. This was a hair discovered upon combing out the woman’s pubic
hair. It was compared with hair that Markus had provided, and turned out to be
from his head. The autopsy hadn’t revealed any recent sexual intercourse,
so
Alda’s genitals had been swabbed in
search of Markus’s saliva, which had not been found. What his head had
been doing between the woman’s thighs was thus left undetermined, and
Markus could not shed any light on this detail, since he insisted vehemently
that he had not been at Alda’s home, much less between her legs. The only
conclusion that Thóra could reach on this subject was that the hair
could have come from toilet paper, or something else Markus had come into
contact with during his visit the previous evening. Such a thing was not
impossible, but this explanation would not be taken into consideration at this
stage of the proceedings. On the bright side, if it came to trial, the
prosecution would be required to prove unequivocally that the hair had been
brought to the scene that fateful night and in connection with the murder; not
before that night, and by accident.
Markus had taken the court’s decision
incredibly calmly. He was unhappy with it, but understood that he had to
swallow it and wait for the High Court’s decision. Thóra praised
him for his courage and said that she would let his family know, among them
Hjalti, Markus’s only son, who lived with Markus’s ex-wife when he
wasn’t in the Islands with his uncle Leifur. The phone call proved to be
difficult for Thóra: Hjalti was a little older than her son Gylfi, only nineteen
and he seemed very upset at the news. He asked over and over whether his father
would be sentenced to prison, and it didn’t matter how much Thóra
tried to reassure him that this was unlikely - he wouldn’t be convinced.
He only calmed down a little when Thóra gave him Markus’s message
that everything would be all right and not to worry at all. Out of pity for the
poor boy, Thóra told him at the end of the conversation that he could
phone her if he had any questions or wanted to talk to her about his father’s
case. She fully expected him to take her at her word and keep in touch, especially
now that his father’s name was in the papers.
Thóra took another sip of coffee and
stood up. She looked out over the calm swell and shaded her eyes, then closed
them and breathed deeply through her nose. She considered how best she could
spend her spare hours, without reaching any conclusion. Markus’s
detention made it more difficult for her to determine a possible witness. It
was clear that Alda’s mother and sister would hardly welcome her with
open arms. And although Alda’s colleagues hadn’t been as close to
her as her relatives, they would undoubtedly view Thóra with suspicion.
Nonetheless, Thóra decided to start with them. Yesterday she’d
received a message from Dís, one of the plastic surgeons at the office
where Alda had worked, saying she would be willing to meet up. Who knew, maybe
she had some useful information. She might even know the real reason behind
Alda’s resignation from the A&E. Alda’s sister’s theory that
her murderer was a vengeful rapist was starting to sound more convincing, in
the absence of more plausible options.
Thóra reopened her eyes and looked out
at the placid sea, so much nicer to look at than the overgrown garden. This was
the summer that Thóra had intended to sort out her garden, but now it
was almost over. She’d ticked almost nothing off the list, apart from
mowing the lawn. The hedge had grown to the height of a man or taller, which
Thóra wasn’t proud of. Its branches reached up to the sky, utterly
neglected. The flowerbeds had succumbed to weeds. She could certainly see how
entire cities could disappear beneath a rainforest’s lush greenery,
considering how quickly vegetation could sweep over things even in a polar
climate. She went back inside. The garden could wait until next year.
Of the four people in the waiting room,
Thóra felt she was the one who could most use the services of a plastic
surgeon. There were two young women who were attractive by any standards,
although their bleached blonde hair did little for them. The other occupant was
a young man, and Thóra couldn’t think for the life of her what he
might need fixed. On behalf of all Icelandic women she sincerely hoped he
wasn’t planning on having a sex change complete with breast
implants.
The waiting room was plain, but the fixtures
and fittings looked expensive. It made the little closet that served as a
waiting room at her legal firm look ridiculous, which suggested a plastic
surgeon’s time was worth far more than a lawyer’s. That was no
surprise: people were more concerned about their looks than their reputations.
Thóra looked at the clock and hoped that it would soon be her turn; she
was getting uncomfortable sitting there, knowing the others were regarding her
and wondering what work she was having done. She was on the verge of pointing
out to one of them, who had glanced once too often at Thóra’s
chest, to mind her own business, when the receptionist appeared and informed
Thóra that Dís would see her now. Thóra stood up and
followed the slender woman. She was wearing a short dress, and such high heels
that Thóra’s toes ached in sympathy. Again she compared this to
her legal firm’s office set-up, where Bella steered clients into the
harbour of the waiting room like a squat little Gothic tug-boat, the tattered
hem of her floor-length dress trailing behind her.
‘Through here, please,’ said the
dark-haired girl, her snow-white smile gleaming. ‘And I hope it all goes
marvellously for you.’ She opened the door to the office, turned and
left.
Dís was on the telephone but indicated
that Thóra should take a seat before putting down the phone, standing up
and extending her hand. She was wearing a white fitted shirt and black jeans
that hugged her slender waist, as well as a thick belt that clashed with an otherwise
conservative outfit. Thóra thought they were about the same age, and
noticed that the doctor was in very good shape. Her body didn’t look like
it had been sculpted with a scalpel, but rather by blood, sweat and tears
— probably requiring several hours a day with a personal trainer. It must
be important for a plastic surgeon to look good.
‘Hello,’ said Dís, who
seemed aware of Thóra’s scrutiny of her body. She sat back down.
‘I’m sorry to have made you wait; I didn’t expect to be so
busy. It’s usually quite calm here before lunch.’
‘That’s fine,’ said
Thóra. ‘I’m just grateful that you were available to meet me
at such short notice.’
‘I gathered it was important,’
said Dís, smiling hesitantly. Her face was not dissimilar to
Thóra’s, with high cheekbones and a wide mouth. The main
difference was that Dís had nicely styled hair and flawless make-up,
whereas Thóra usually dragged her hair into a messy ponytail and wore
only mascara. ‘Of course I want to do anything I can to help apprehend
whoever did this to Alda. I saw in the paper that a man had been taken into
custody. I hope the sentence fits his disgusting crime.’
Thóra cleared her throat. ‘Ah,
yes. I forgot to mention that I am actually representing the suspect.’
She could see this information was not well received. The doctor’s
friendly face hardened. ‘He says he’s innocent, and it’s
indisputable that the police don’t have much to go on. His custody period
is unusually short given the seriousness of the case, which reflects the
judge’s doubts about my client’s guilt. There is a lot of evidence
that actually supports his plea of innocence. I’m looking for information
to back him up, and at the same time I want to find out
who
actually did murder Alda.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘No one who
cared for her will want to see the wrong man punished.’
Dís said nothing. She gazed
thoughtfully at Thóra, who looked resolutely back. Then
Dís’s expression suddenly seemed to relax. ‘Of course I
don’t want that,’ she said. ‘Nobody wants an innocent man to
be found guilty. So shall we say that I’m prepared to help you in the
unlikely event that this man didn’t do it?’
Thóra decided not to spend any more
time defending Markus to the doctor. She hadn’t come here to argue, and
it wouldn’t strengthen her position to antagonize her informant.
‘Okay, thanks.’ She turned to her list of questions, determined
to make the most of her time since she didn’t have long. One of the
people sitting outside was probably waiting for a consultation with the woman
about some urgent operation. ‘When you heard that Alda had been
murdered,’ she said, ‘did you wonder how such a thing could have
happened, or who could possibly have wanted to harm her?’
Dís didn’t take time to think,
but replied immediately. ‘I must admit, the first time I heard it was
murder was this morning, when I read about the custody order. As you know, I
was the one who discovered Alda, and I thought at that point that she’d
killed herself. Suicides don’t often make it to the papers, so I was very
surprised this morning when I saw her death had been reported. I actually have
no idea what else has gone on since I found her body. No one’s told us
anything about the progress of the investigation.’ She added hurriedly:
‘Of course, we didn’t even think that there was an investigation.’
‘You say we,’ said Thóra.
‘Who do you mean?’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Dís
replied. ‘I mean myself and Agúst, my partner in the clinic.
He’s a plastic surgeon too, and Alda worked with both of us.’
‘I understand,’ said
Thóra. ‘But when you saw this morning that it was a murder
investigation - did anyone come to mind as the culprit?’
Dís’s cheeks reddened slightly
and she muttered a negative, before enquiring: ‘A thief,
maybe?’
‘Well, I don’t know about
that,’ Thóra replied. ‘Would anything in Alda’s house
have been particularly attractive to thieves?’
‘No, nothing I can think of,’
said Dís. ‘But are burglars that picky? I suppose Alda had
everything one might imagine a petty thief would steal - television, stereo
equipment, some jewellery. Maybe these things weren’t top of the range,
but I would imagine anyone poor enough to take others’ property
isn’t very fussy.’