Last Rituals (15 page)

 

 

Hannes, her ex, was an ER surgeon—in other words, he was in a stable and well-paid job. After their divorce Thóra had had to relinquish many things she had begun to take for granted. It was no longer a matter of course to go out for a meal, take a weekend break abroad, buy expensive clothes, or do any of the other typical things people who don't need to worry about money do. Although not all the disadvantages involved money—
no sex
flashed through Thóra's mind—what she missed most was the lady who had come to clean their house twice a week. When Thóra and Hannes divorced she had been forced to let her go, simply in order to make ends meet. So Thóra now stood by the broom closet doing her best to shut the door without crushing the vacuum cleaner hose that repeatedly sprang out and prevented it from closing. When she succeeded at last she heaved a sigh of relief. She had vacuumed all the floors in a house of more than two thousand square feet and felt quite pleased with herself.

 

 

"Doesn't it make a world of difference?" she asked her daughter, who was sitting in the kitchen absorbed in drawing pictures.

 

 

Sóley looked up. "What does?"

 

 

"The floors," Thóra answered. "I've vacuumed. Don't they look nice?"

 

 

The girl looked at the floor and then back at her mother. "You missed this." She pointed with a green crayon at a ball of fluff under one leg of the chair she was sitting on.

 

 

"Oh, sorry, madame," said Thóra, kissing her daughter on the head. "What's that nice picture you're drawing?"

 

 

"It's you and me and Gylfi," Sóley replied, pointing to three figures of different sizes on the paper. "You're wearing a pretty dress and so am I and Gylfi's wearing shorts." She looked at her mother. "It's summer in this picture."

 

 

"Wow, don't I look smart," Thóra said. "I'll definitely get myself a dress like that next summer." She looked at her watch. "Come along. I'll brush your teeth. It's bedtime."

 

 

While Sóley put away her crayons, Thóra went to her son's room. She gave a light rap on the door before opening it. "Isn't this just as good as new?" she asked, again referring to the floors.

 

 

Gylfi did not answer immediately. He was lying on the bed talking on his mobile. Seeing her, he said a quick good-bye and in a half whisper promised whoever he was talking to that he would ring later. He half sat up and put down his phone. Thóra thought he looked dazed. "Are you okay? You look so pale."

 

 

"What?" Gylfi said. "Sure, everything's okay. Great, really."

 

 

"That's nice," she said. "I just came to see if you didn't think the air is fresher since I vacuumed your room. And if I wouldn't get a kiss as a reward."

 

 

Gylfi sat up properly. He looked around vacantly. "Eh? Oh, yeah. Cool."

 

 

Thóra studied her son closely. Something definitely wasn't right. His normal reaction would have been to shrug or mumble something about not caring what the floors looked like. He darted his eyes and avoided looking at his mother. There was something wrong, and a pang shot through Thóra's stomach. She hadn't been looking after him properly. He had changed from a little boy into a half man since the divorce, and she had been too preoccupied with herself and her own problems to pay enough attention to him. Now she did not know how to act. Most of all she wanted to hug him and run her fingers through his unnecessarily long hair, but that would just look silly—that time had passed, it was long gone. "Hey," she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. She had to crane her neck to look him in the face, because he was looking away. "Something's wrong. You can tell me. I promise not to get angry."

 

 

Gylfi gave her a thoughtful look but said nothing. Thóra saw tiny beads of sweat on his forehead and for a moment she thought he might have the flu. "Are you running a temperature?" she asked, stretching out her hand to press the back of it against his brow.

 

 

Gylfi dodged her deftly. "No, no. Not at all. I've just heard some bad news."

 

 

"Oh?" Thóra said cautiously. "Who was on the phone?"

 

 

"Sigga…I mean Siggi," Gylfi answered without looking his mother in the eye. He added hastily: "Arsenal lost to Liverpool."

 

 

Thóra was not born yesterday and was perfectly aware that he had just cooked up this excuse on the spot. She did not recognize the name Siggi from Gylfi's circle—although of course he had countless acquaintances whose names and faces she did not know. But she did know her son well enough to realize that he was not so into soccer that he'd get depressed over the English league results. She wondered whether to press him further or let it go. Given the situation she judged the latter option more appropriate—for the time being. "Oh, dear. Rotten. Bloody Liverpool." She looked him straight in the eye. "If you want or need to talk to me, Gylfi, then promise me you won't hesitate to do just that." Seeing his flustered expression, she swiftly added: "About the game, I mean. Arsenal. You know you can come to me, dear. I can't solve all the problems in the world but I can try to tackle the ones that end up on our table."

 

 

Gylfi looked at her without saying a word. With a wan smile he mumbled something about an essay he needed to finish. Thóra muttered something back, left the room and closed his door. She could not imagine what kind of setback could upset a sixteen-year-old boy—she had never been one, nor could she remember her own adolescence clearly. All that occurred to her was girl problems. Maybe he had a crush on someone. Thóra decided to find out diplomatically—she could pop a few subtle questions to him over breakfast the next morning. This crisis might even have blown over by then. It could all be a storm in a teacup—hormone shock.

 

 

After brushing Sóley's teeth and reading her a story, Thóra settled down on the sofa in front of the television. She called her mother, who was on vacation for a month with her father in the Canary Islands. Constant bickering greeted her whenever she phoned. The last time it was not being able to buy curds for breakfast that was killing her parents. Now it was the Discovery Channel, which her father had become addicted to, on the hotel television—if her mother was to be believed, that is. As they exchanged good-byes, her mother said wearily that she was going to flop down beside her husband and hear all about the mating habits of insects. Smiling to herself, Thóra put down the phone and returned to watching TV herself. Just as she was dozing off in front of a banal reality show the telephone rang. She sat up in the sofa and reached for the phone.

 

 

"Thóra speaking," she answered, carefully choosing a voice that did not betray the fact she had just nodded off.

 

 

"Hello, it's Hannes," said the voice on the other end.

 

 

"Hello." Thóra wondered whether she would ever stop feeling uncomfortable talking to her ex. These excruciating exchanges surely sprang from the transition from intimacy to forced politeness, like when she met old boyfriends or men she had slept with when she was younger—an unavoidable hazard when living in a small country like Iceland.

 

 

"Listen, about the weekend, I was wondering if I could just call round to collect the kids a bit later on Friday. I'm taking Gylfi out for a driving lesson and I think it's better to do that after rush hour, around eight o'clock."

 

 

Thóra said yes, although she knew quite well that the delay had nothing to do with driving lessons. Undoubtedly Hannes had to work later or planned to go to the gym after work. One of the reasons for their endless quarrels after the divorce had been that Hannes never seemed able to take any responsibility; it was always the fault of someone else or fictional circumstances beyond his control. This was not her problem anymore, but his new partner Klara's. "What are you doing over the weekend?" Thóra asked for the sake of saying something. "Should I pack them any special clothes?"

 

 

"We might go horseback riding so it would be good if they have outfits for that," Hannes replied.

 

 

Klara was a horse lover and had dragged Hannes into the sport. It was a source of endless torment for Sóley and Gylfi, who had inherited Thóra's nervous disposition—if anything, the fear genes had doubled from mother to child. Thóra had trouble driving on icy roads, climbing mountains, taking elevators, eating raw food—in fact, she didn't do well with any activity that could conceivably end in disaster. For some incomprehensible reason, however, flying was the one exception. So she understood perfectly her children's horror at the prospect of horseback riding, convinced as they were that each ride would be their last moment on earth. Hannes refused to admit that this condition was permanent and constantly tried to persuade his children that they would get used to it in the end. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asked, although she knew full well that she had little sway over Hannes's plans. "Gylfi's a bit down at the moment and I'm not sure that a riding trip is exactly what he needs now."

 

 

"Rubbish," Hannes snapped back. "He's turning into quite a horseman."

 

 

"You reckon? Try to talk to him, anyway. I suspect he's having girl trouble and you know more about those things than I do."

 

 

"Girl trouble? What do I know about those things?" yelled Hannes. "He's just turned sixteen. You can't be serious."

 

 

"No, maybe not. But keep it in the back of your mind and try to deliver some words of wisdom."

 

 

"Wisdom? What sort of wisdom? What do you mean?" Hannes was floundering, and Thóra smiled.

 

 

"You know, to help him deal with life's challenges." Her smile widened.

 

 

"You're joking," Hannes said hopefully.

 

 

"Actually, I'm not," replied Thóra. "I trust you'll find a way. I'll do the same for your daughter when her boy problems start. You can try taking him aside on the riding trip and having a quiet chat from the saddle."

 

 

They ended the conversation and Thóra had a hunch she had just lowered the odds that they would go riding. She tried once again to reimmerse herself in televised unreality. In vain, though, because the phone rang again.

 

 

"Sorry to call so late, but it occurred to me that you might be thinking about me," Matthew said calmly after they'd said hello. "I decided to let you hear my voice."

 

 

Thóra was flabbergasted—she could not tell whether Matthew was mad, drunk, or joking. "I can't say you caught me doing that." She stretched over for the remote to turn down the television volume so that he would not hear the trash she was watching. "I was reading."

 

 

"What are you reading?" he asked.

 

 

"
War and Peace
. Dostoevsky," Thóra lied.

 

 

"Really," said Matthew. "Is that anything like
War and Peace
by Tolstoy?"

 

 

Thóra clenched her fist, annoyed that she hadn't chosen Halldór Laxness or another Icelandic author he would not know. She had always been a hopeless liar. "I mean Tolstoy. So was there anything special? I'm sure you didn't call to discuss literature."

 

 

"Just as well, because I'd have got the wrong number," rejoined Matthew. When Thóra said nothing he added: "No. Sorry. I called because the lawyer of the man in police custody phoned me just now."

 

 

"Finnur Bogason?" asked Thóra.

 

 

"That's just what I would have said if I could pronounce Icelandic," said Matthew. "He wanted to let me know that we can meet the lad tomorrow if we want."

 

 

"Have we got permission?" asked Thóra, amazed. Remand prisoners were not normally allowed visits from strangers.

 

 

"This Finnur," Matthew said, pronouncing the name as Fie-neur, almost with a French accent, "managed to persuade the police that we were working with him on the defense. Which, of course, we are, indirectly."

 

 

"What made him do that?"

 

 

"Shall we say I gave him a small incentive?"

 

 

Thóra asked no more, not wanting to be party to anything under-hand. She doubted that Matthew had threatened the lawyer, and thought it more likely he had promised a fee for arranging the interview—which would have been unethical at best. She felt better imagining they would be assisting the defense counsel.

 

 

But to hell with ethics. She had to meet Hugi. Maybe he was guilty after all. Nothing could match talking to people in person, looking the speaker in the eye and watching his movements and body language. "Shouldn't we get a move on, then? We need to see this guy."

 

 

"I agree. I just need to let Fie-neur know."

 

 

"Why did he phone you so late?" asked Thóra. "Surely he hasn't just got permission tonight?"

 

 

"No, no. He left a message for me at the hotel but I've only just got back. I don't like handing my phone number around."

 

 

Thóra hated herself for wanting to know where Matthew had been after they parted ways—although the most likely explanation was that he had simply gone into town for something to eat.

 

 

They decided that Matthew would fetch Thóra from her office at nine to drive from the city to Litla-Hraun prison. She looked out the window at the snow tumbling down and hoped with all her heart that he knew how to drive on winter roads. If not, they were in trouble.

 

 

 

CHAPTER 13
DECEMBER 8, 2005

Thóra was sitting at her computer in her office when Matthew showed up at nine o'clock. She was just finishing replying to e-mails that had arrived the previous day, most of which she had passed on to Thór. Bragi was all smiles when he greeted her that morning. He was still toying with the idea that this German job would be their passport to the world—a source of endless business for their practice. Thóra made no attempt to bring him back to earth, relieved at being able to concentrate on the murder riddle without being torn between petty jobs as well.