Authors: Yrsa Sigurdardottir
Thóra cleared her throat. ‘And
which group does this belong to?’ she asked, pointing at the photocopy of
the Love Sex tattoo Bella had brought with her.
The man looked at Thóra with disdain.
‘That’s fucked up, Grandma.
Absolutely fucked
up.’
Thóra wanted to keep the man in a good
mood, so she didn’t waste any time objecting to being called grandma
— after all, she was one, albeit prematurely. ‘And you remember
this, even though it’s been six months since you… did it?’
she asked, uncertain which verb one used for tattooing. ‘I don’t
see a picture of it anywhere on your wall,’ she added, though it was
impossible to rule out a picture of this particular tattoo being hidden
there somewhere.
‘I’m not about to hang that on my
wall, any more than I would the hundreds of butterflies I’ve put on
girls’ ankles over the years,’ said the man, and he curled his lip
in disgust. ‘If I had to say which I hate most, the butterflies or this
disaster, then I would actually say this one. It’s one of the saddest
ones I’ve ever done - that girl was an absolute
nutter
,
away with the fairies.’
Thóra smiled to herself, thinking she
had made a similarly hasty judgement of him just a few seconds earlier.
‘Did she explain what this was supposed to mean?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I
didn’t ask, either. I tried to talk her out of it, but she wouldn’t
listen. I even spent some time showing her other, much cooler illustrations,
but it was like throwing pearls at swine.’
Thóra thought about pointing out that
one cast pearls before swine and not at them, but changed her mind. Instead she
asked: ‘Did a woman by the name of Alda Thórgeirsdóttir
ever ask you for information about this same tattoo? She was a nurse.’
The man nodded his head. ‘Like I told
her…’ he pointed at Bella. ‘It’s mental that more than
one person has contacted me to ask about this horrible thing. I’ve never
had the same reaction to any of the tattoos I’m actually proud of. If you
want me to put the same one on you, the answer is no.’
‘Did Alda want to get the same
tattoo?’ asked Thóra.
‘No,’ he replied, and smiled to
reveal large teeth, stained brown by tobacco. ‘She wanted to know whether
the tattoo had been done here, and when I said yes she wanted to know when.’
‘And could you answer her?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I keep records of my
tattoos so I just looked it up. The woman was so incredibly excited about
it,
I’d never seen anything like it. She said she was
working on an investigation for the A&E, and this tattoo had turned
up.’ The man stubbed out his cigarette, which had burned all the way down
to the filter. ‘She pointed out that the investigation wasn’t
connected to me or my working methods in any way, not that I thought it would
be, since I’m really careful with hygiene here.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ said
Thóra, avoiding looking at a dirty spot on his black leather waistcoat.
‘Was it long ago that she called?’
‘No, not really,’ replied the
man.
‘Several weeks, two months at most.
She
said she’d been searching for the origin of the tattoo before but
hadn’t known about my parlour, since it wasn’t in the phone book.
She’d recently heard about me from a boy who wanted to get rid of a
tattoo that I did.’ Again the man snarled in disgust.
‘The
little
tosser
.’
‘Could we have that same
information?’ asked Thóra. ‘We won’t use it against
you, any more than the other woman did.’
‘As long as you don’t let it get
around where this crappy tattoo was done,’
grinned
the man. ‘Apart from that it’s no skin off my nose, provided I can
find it quickly. I’m closed now, and I’d rather be on my way
home.’
The same went for Thóra.
Sóley was asleep, her head in her
mother’s lap. Thóra stroked her daughter’s hair as she
reached for the remote and turned off the television. The show that had sent
the little girl to dreamland had also been well on its way to sending
Thóra there. She yawned, placed a pillow beneath the girl’s head
and spread a blanket over her. Sóley murmured a little in protest but
did not wake up. Thóra took out the files that she’d brought with
her from the office. After coming home from the tattoo parlour, Thóra
had whipped up a meal — she boiled some water and poured it over a packet
of ramen noodles. Afterwards Gylfi had disappeared to Sigga’s place, to
spend the evening with her and their son Orri. So Thóra and Sóley
had spent the evening alone together. They had made themselves comfy on the
sofa when Sóley had finished her homework, but the television schedule
was so dull that the little girl had fallen asleep during the first programme
they watched.
Thóra settled into the easy chair next
to the sofa and looked at the top page, where she had written the name of the
girl who had offended the tattooist’s delicate artistic sensibilities: Halldora
Dogg Einarsdottir, 26 February 2007. That was the day the girl had had her
tattoo done, according to the man. This didn’t tell Thóra
anything, so she tried looking the girl up in the electoral register. She was
born in 1982, so had been twenty-five years old at the time. Her name sounded
familiar, so Thóra tried to search for her on the Internet, but found
nothing.
Why had Alda been interested in this girl?
Thóra guessed it wasn’t because of the tattoo itself. For a moment
she wondered if it could have been because of her job at the plastic
surgeon’s office, or for some unfathomable personal reason. She
couldn’t understand how the girl could be connected to Alda’s
murder, even though something told her she must be. Of course, there was one
easy way to discover whether and how the girl knew Alda. Perhaps she would turn
out to be the one Thóra had searched high and low for - the one to whom
Alda had entrusted the secret of the head in the box. Markus really needed that
to be the case. Thóra looked at the clock and saw that it was nine
thirty, not too late for a phone call. She found the number in the phone book
and made the call.
‘Hi!’ The voice sounded young, in
a rather false way, as if the girl were trying to appear childish.
‘Hello. Is this Halldora Dogg
Einarsdottir?’ Thóra asked.
‘Speaking.’
The voice still sounded uncomfortably like a little
girl’s.
Thóra introduced herself and asked
whether she might be able to ask her several questions, since her name had come
up in a case involving her client.
Nothing could be heard on the other end of
the line, but when the girl started talking again her voice was much more
mature. ‘What case?’ she asked, all her cheerfulness gone.
‘It’s a murder case,’
replied Thóra. ‘As I said, your name has come up in connection
with it, and I wanted to take the opportunity to ask you some questions that
might hopefully explain your connection to the murdered woman.’
‘Who’s been murdered?’
asked the girl. Her surprise was evident. Then she added, almost excitedly:
‘I haven’t murdered anyone!’
‘Sorry for not being clear,’ said
Thóra. ‘You’re not under any suspicion, and besides, I
don’t work for the police. I’m simply trying to rule out whether
you’re tied to the case indirectly. In other words, I’m in no
way suggesting that you’re linked to the murder at all.’
‘Did you say you’re a
lawyer?’ asked the girl, still sounding very suspicious. ‘Are you
working for Adolf?’ Her voice turned shrill on the last word.
‘No, not at all,’ said
Thóra, wondering whether to admit she knew his name. She didn’t
take the risk. ‘The man I represent is named Markus.’
‘I don’t know any Markus,’
said the girl angrily. ‘Are you sure you’re not working for
Adolf?’
‘Absolutely sure,’ said
Thóra. She decided to get to the point of the phone call. ‘Did you
know a woman by the name of Alda Thórgeirsdóttir?’ There
was a long silence punctuated only by the girl’s heavy breaths, and
Thóra decided to repeat the question to be certain that the girl had
understood her.
The girl drew a breath so sharp that a
whistling sound could clearly be heard through the phone. Then she spoke again,
her voice betraying her shock at the question. ‘How could you lie?
Lawyers can’t lie.’
Thóra didn’t understand what she
meant. ‘Isn’t it easier to answer this with a simple yes or no? I
haven’t lied to you about anything, if that’s what you
think.’
‘You are working for Adolf,’
hissed the girl. ‘I know you are
,
I should press
charges against you.’
‘Press charges against me?’ asked
Thóra, flabbergasted. ‘I think there may have been a
misunderstanding.’ She didn’t want the girl to think she was afraid
of this threat. ‘The only thing I’m trying to clear up is whether
you knew Alda Thórgeirsdóttir or have heard of her.’
A few moments passed before the girl replied.
Thóra supposed that she was contemplating whether it would be better to
deny this, confirm it or simply hang up. The name obviously rang some bells.
‘I know who she is,’ said the girl suddenly, her voice harsh.
‘Could you tell me where or how you got
to know her, or heard of her?’ asked Thóra, pleased finally to be
making some headway in this peculiar conversation.
‘No,’ replied the girl. ‘I
don’t want to talk about it.’
Thóra rolled her eyes. What now?
‘Did it have something to do with your tattoo?
Love
Sex?’
There was silence on the other end,
then
the girl hung up.
Thóra put down the thick sheaf of
papers. She had had enough of what seemed to be an endless reckoning of every
item that could conceivably have been taken from the houses that had been
excavated. She still hadn’t laid eyes on anything that could make a
difference in Markus’s case, except perhaps the countless broken bottles
that had been found in Kjartan’s garage and Dadi’s shed.
Thóra thought it was obvious that they’d hurriedly tried to hide
the evidence of their stash of grain alcohol when the police investigation had
started to point towards them. The list did not include Markus’s home,
since the house was still to be emptied when the list had been written, but
Thóra hadn’t noticed any bottles there, intact or broken. That
didn’t mean much; they could have been hidden in a part of the house that
she hadn’t seen, although she doubted it. Kjartan had been extremely
convincing when he told her Magnus hadn’t been involved in the smuggling
operation. A flash of pain shot through her shoulders. She had to stand up and
stretch.
She walked across her office and shook her
hands to get the blood flowing better. She didn’t know if this actually
did anything, but she hoped so. In any case she was tired of this work, and bored.
She took her seat again and reached for a piece of paper lying on the coffee
table. On it was scribbled the name and telephone number of the defence lawyer
in Adolf’s rape case. The trial was imminent and Thóra had gone
into the private offices of Reykjavik district Court to look up the defence
counsel’s name. She had hoped it might be someone she knew, so she could
ask them for help finding possible links between the rape and Alda’s
murder. Even though Markus appeared no longer to be under suspicion of
murdering his childhood crush, something told Thóra the cases were
connected. Fortunately she recognized the name of the lawyer; they had studied
together at university. Less fortunately, each time Thóra tried to
call her the line was busy. She was starting to think the woman’s phone
was not turned on, but decided to try one more time before it got too late.
This time the lawyer’s husband
answered, and sighed heavily before he called her name. A thud indicated that
the receiver had been dropped carelessly.
After a short pause Thóra heard the
receiver being picked up again.
‘Svala speaking.’
The woman sounded out of breath.
‘Hi, Svala, it’s
Thóra,’ she said. She added, ‘From the law
department?’
‘Oh, hi,’ said the woman,
cheerful now.
‘Great to hear from you.
How long
has it been?’
‘God,’ said Thóra, trying
unsuccessfully to recall.
‘Far too long.’
They exchanged stories of what had happened in their lives,
then
Thóra got to the point. ‘Anyway, I have an ulterior
motive,’ said Thóra. I’m sorry to be out of touch for so
long then call on official business. I’m working on an unusual case, and
the name of your client has come up
.‘
‘Oh?’ said Svala.
‘Which one?
I have plenty, let me tell you.’
‘Adolf Dadason,’ replied
Thóra. ‘It’s a strange connection, like everything else in
this case, and among other things it concerns a tattoo on a young woman by the
name of Halldora Dogg Einarsdottir. She nearly threw a fit when I called her
just a while
ago,
because she was convinced I was
working for Adolf.’
‘What case is it actually that
you’re working on?’ asked Svala quickly. ‘Not the one about
the nurse?’