Shrouded E-Book

Sólveig Pálsdóttir

• Herausgeber: Corylus Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 364

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

A retired, reclusive woman is found on a bitter winter morning, clubbed to death in Reykjavik's old graveyard. Detectives Guðgeir and Elsa Guðrún face one of their toughest cases yet, as they try to piece together the details of Arnhildur's austere life in her Red House in the oldest part of the city. Why was this solitary, private woman attending séances, and why was she determined to keep her severe financial difficulties so secret? Could the truth be buried deep in her past and a long history of family enmity, or could there be something more? A stranger keeps a watchful eye on the graveyard and Arnhildur's house. With the detectives running out of leads, could the Medium, blessed and cursed with uncanny abilities, shed any light on Arnhildur's lonely death?

Leseprobe

Shrouded

Sólveig Pálsdóttir

Translated by Quentin Bates

Corylus Books Ltd

Copyright © 2024 Corylus Books Ltd

Shrouded is first published in English the United Kingdom in 2024 by Corylus Books Ltd, and was originally published in Icelandic as Miðillinn in 2023 by Salka.Copyright © Sólveig Pálsdóttir, 2023Translation copyright © Quentin Bates, 2023Sólveig Pálsdóttir has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.All characters and events portrayed in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or not, is purely coincidental.Published by arrangement with Salka, Iceland.www.salka.is This book has been translated with financial support from the Icelandic Literature Center

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

About The Author

Ice and Crime

1

Are you the genius we’re looking for?

Arnhildur put her coffee cup aside, her eyes fixed on the newspaper. It was a full-page advert, with heavy pink letters overlaid on a picture that wasn’t easily made out. She hunched over the table, squinting in the hope of seeing it more clearly. There were fairly clear outlines, but she couldn’t discern the faces. It was a group of people, somehow jumbled one on top of another, almost as if they merged into each other. They all appeared youthful, although there could well be a middle-aged figure or two hiding among them. Arnhildur sat up and sipped her coffee. It was cold by now, and bitter. Why was she fooling herself? Of course the picture didn’t mean anything. These were just some people or other, who could more than likely have been brought in by an advertising agency, she muttered to herself.

She resolved to not think about the picture, but she read the text again. What was this genius supposed to do? Was this person expected to be someone young – or could it be someone already past middle age? Were there any education or skills requirements, apart from simply being a genius? Was it possible that this presumed he could be a she, heading for the third stage of life, as the retirement years were referred to these days?

Arnhildur had difficulty making out the fine print. A mist obscured the letters and she could only hazard a guess at this or that word. She got slowly to her feet, as these days the stiffness in her joints affected her in the mornings when the weather was cold. Her new glasses were on top of the refrigerator and she felt the ache in her shoulders as she stretched to reach for them. Even though she knew perfectly well that the delicate frames were strong, she picked the spectacles up carefully, as she had been taught as a child to treat belongings with respect, especially in the case of something new, or on the expensive side. Glasses were both. She felt a pang of guilt at her own profligacy, as well as a flutter of pleasure deep inside. The frames were dark red, with the upper corners broadening and curving slightly upwards.

‘Your face has just the right contour for cat-eye glasses,’ the amiable man in the shop had assured her with a winning smile. ‘There aren’t many people who can carry off this look as well as you,’ he added with a wink that made her heart beat faster. The day became brighter, her worries flew away for a moment and she gave in to indulgence.

The lenses were grubby now and she went across to the sink. She leaned a hand against the cold steel so that a tight row of lines formed on the back of her hand. A drop of detergent on each lens and she rubbed them carefully before turning on the tap to wash the soap off. The amiable man had given her two cloths to polish the lenses, but she wouldn’t use those right away. They might get dirty and she wasn’t sure if they were washable. It was best to leave them pristine in the spectacle case, at least for the moment.

‘Genius,’ she said out loud, shaking her head. It went without saying that this wasn’t going to lead to a job for her, any more than any of the other job ads would. Her knowledge and skills were of no account – nobody was going to employ a woman who was past seventy. She wasn’t in demand, and maybe she never had been. But she wasn’t going to give up. She’d keep fighting, find a way through it and rid herself of this wretched misfortune. All the same, Arnhildur knew that it would call for a stroke of genius to extricate herself from the difficulties that so tightly enmeshed her, like an unfortunate fly trapped in a delicate but strong spider’s web.

She took a cloth from its hook and polished her glasses with the soft material. There, that’s better. Now she’d be able to see clearly. She glanced at the window and wondered whether it might be time to take down the Christmas lights and maybe run a duster over the furniture, but she couldn’t summon the energy – no more than she had been able to yesterday, or the day before, or during the weeks before that. She had no desire to do anything useful. Her thoughts were all of how to find a way out of the terrible misfortune she faced and what she would have to do to make this happen. A foul feeling of nausea swirled inside her at the thought of tonight’s meeting. She sat down again at the kitchen table and stared at the newspaper. Now she could see the text clearly, but wasn’t able to ​concentrate​.​

2

There were six of them in the little hall and each of them had left an envelope containing a contribution in a basket on the table by the door. Arnhildur could sense from the heavy, dust-filled atmosphere that the place hadn’t been aired properly for days, even weeks. That’s to say, if it had ever been. The walls were hung with black drapes and it didn’t look as if there was a window anywhere that could be opened. In the centre of the room was a small table, and on it stood a three-armed candelabra. She glanced around discreetly, taking care to not stare too long at any of the others. It was quite likely that these people harboured the same inner feeling as she did, a discomfort at being present in this place. Other people could be similarly inclined and she didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. She wasn’t that sort of person.

All the same, she could also sense an expectation, even a spark of excitement in the air as the doors opened and closed again as if by themselves. She shivered and for a moment considered going out to the row of hooks to collect her coat, but decided against it just as a short, bony man took the floor. This was the medium, and she avoided catching his eye. He raised one hand and gestured towards a rack of stacked chairs in one corner.

‘Welcome, dear friends,’ he said quietly, running his fingers first through his mousy hair and then down one pale cheek. ‘Please take your seats in a circle, but not too close to each other.’

Arnhildur placed her chair between a young woman with tattooed eyebrows and a colourful scarf covering her hairless head, and an older man wearing a blue woollen cardigan with large, black buttons of pressed leather that caught her eye. She adjusted her glasses on her nose and caught sight as she did so of the man’s thick moustache and deep blue eyes. He looks lovely, she thought as she patted her grey hair into place. He gave her a faint smile as he shifted his chair a little to make it easier for her to join the circle. The young woman who didn’t look to be a day older than twenty made no move, merely stared as if hypnotised at the carpeted floor in front of her.

She must have cancer, poor thing, Arnhildur thought. She must be going through chemotherapy, or have recently been through it.

She felt a wave of sympathy for the young woman, and wanted to give her an encouraging pat on the shoulder, but didn’t. Instead, she adjusted her skirt and shifted to make herself comfortable. Her ankle-high snow boots were still damp from the walk through the wet snow, and even though she had carefully wiped her feet on the mat by the door, she was disturbed to notice a dirty splash on her thick tights. She discreetly rubbed the stain, but it did no good, simply spreading the mud more widely. She was annoyed at having mud-stained calves now that she had finally gone out to meet people, but reconciled herself with the thought that nobody here in this hall would be paying the slightest attention. Their thoughts were firmly on other things. Arnhildur sighed and furtively sneaked a glance at those present. They included a good-looking couple she guessed to be somewhere between thirty and forty. They held hands and appeared apprehensive. Arnhildur had seen none of these people before, and this was a relief to her.

The clatter of chairs being moved gradually faded away, replaced by an expectant atmosphere. The medium lit the three candles and used a remote control to dim the lights. In a low voice he asked those present to join hands and to focus their thoughts on a collective prayer. He reminded them that he was merely an instrument; a link between two worlds, and once he had entered a trance, he would have no control over what came next.

The man with the handsome eyes and the moustache grasped Arnhildur’s hand. His palm was damp and cold. She reached out a hand to the young woman, who extended her own hand in return. Arnhildur squeezed gently, as if to send her an instinctive message of support, but there was no response. She was about to turn and say something pleasant to the young woman when the medium began to speak. His voice was almost robotic and his prominent Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his scrawny throat. He said that this evening had brought together a remarkably good and receptive group, which would help open the channels. He repeated that he was merely an unwitting and humble conduit. Then he made a plea for all good spirits to be with them, to protect them all and give them strength. Finally, he asked that the powers channel messages between the worlds. Arnhildur felt an inner warmth; despite the discomfort in her belly, she felt this to be a beautiful moment.

A long time passed before anything more happened. The medium sat completely still, staring at the flickering candles. He finally closed his eyes and his head dropped forward onto his chest. Arnhildur felt her heart beat faster and her trepidation grew.

The medium emitted a short, hoarse groan. His body jerked a few times, and then relaxed completely. For a while he made no movement as he sat, until his head lifted, in an almost dramatic manner, his eyes opened and his back straightened. He seemed to swell, becoming more upright and graver than before. The man who now appeared to the people in the hall was very different to the one who had addressed them earlier, and a shiver passed through ​her​.​

3

Arnhildur carefully adjusted the Japanese silk scarf, a retirement present from her colleagues, before putting on her coat and gloves. She tried not to let it show that she was deeply affected, but then most of those present were in a similar state. Some had been on the verge of tears, some had wept, while the young woman with the headscarf who had sat beside her was no longer downcast, but looked around with a broad smile as she zipped up her brightly coloured down anorak. She had been brought hope that everything would turn out well, and simply seeing her expression made Arnhildur feel better.

The couple who had lost their sick little boy after his bitter struggle for life had ended had been told that he no longer felt pain, that he was healthy and his beautiful soul awaited an opportunity to return to earth. They had laughed and wept at the same time. It did her heart good to see them and that sick young woman. All the same, her heart hammered erratically, and she felt out of sorts. The grey-haired man who had sat beside her came over.

‘That was amazing. Yes, just unbelievable,’ he said, his index finger forming a hook as he stroked his moustache.

‘It certainly was,’ Arnhildur replied distantly, tightening the belt of her woollen coat. The man opened the door for her with a gentlemanly gesture that under other circumstances she might have appreciated, and they went side by side out into the winter evening. It had snowed hard while the meeting was taking place, and instead of the slush that had left muddy stains on her tights, a thick white layer had settled on the city.

‘If anyone with doubts had been there, an experience like that would have changed their opinion,’ the man said brightly as he turned up the collar of his dark overcoat.

‘You think so?’ she replied, just so as to say something, and hoped that the man’s route home would take him some other way. On any other day she would have been glad of the company, but not tonight. She needed time to settle her nerves and his presence was almost oppressive.

‘Is it a long time since you lost your husband?’ he asked.

She shook her head quickly, without looking up, giving the impression that she was watching her steps.

The man dug his hands deep into his pockets and shivered.

‘It’s hellish cold tonight. We can expect the frost to harden now that it’s snowed again.’

Arnhildur muttered something to indicate agreement. This pushy man had to have a car parked somewhere, considering he was so poorly dressed for a cold night. He wasn’t even wearing gloves.

‘It’s four years since I lost my wife,’ the man said, offering the information without having been asked. ‘The sorrow is always there. It’s become a constant companion.’

‘What has?’

‘The sorrow.’

‘Oh, of course. I’m so sorry,’ Arnhildur apologised.

‘Only to be expected that you’ve things on your mind, after this evening’s events,’ the man said, looking at her intently.

‘It wasn’t easy,’ Arnhildur said, her voice low, looking into his eyes. That was true enough.

‘I’d have never believed in anything like this, but sorrow sends you in unexpected directions,’ the man continued. ‘My children would be demanding I see shrink if they knew I’d been to a séance. We’re a family of rationalists. Zero tolerance for bullshit!’ He laughed apologetically, as if embarrassed by his own foolishness. ‘But I suppose there has to be something in all this, considering what we witnessed …. As they say, it’s about keeping an open mind.’ He laughed again, awkwardly. ‘Surely you’re in no doubt, after your experience this evening?’ he added, and Arnhildur felt a shiver of cold discomfort run down her back. Why couldn’t this man just go away?

She pursed her lips, said nothing, and walked faster. He did the same. Unbelievable how intrusive this man could be!

‘Was that your grandmother who appeared? The old lady ranting about what became of the silver decoration on her national dress?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Arnhildur mumbled.

‘She must have passed away quite some years ago,’ the man continued, with no let-up in his persistence.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s remarkable that folk should still take an interest in this earthly existence after such a long time. It must be pretty dull over there on the other side,’ he said, his laugh tinged with sarcasm.

What was this boor insinuating? If he didn’t go his own way before long, she would take another route home. She silently counted the steps to the next corner, but before she reached it, the man suddenly said good-bye and turned to walk along a side street. Arnhildur was relieved and sighed out loud as he disappeared from sight. She stood still for a moment as her heartbeat settled. Then she set off again.

The frost nipped at her face and the street lights cast a dim glow into the darkness. There were few people about this late on a Tuesday evening in early February as she crossed Lækjargata, heading for the bridge crossing the lake. The sudden appearance of a bus from the darkness startled her.

‘These wretched electric buses sneak up on you without making a sound,’ she muttered to herself. ‘The old buses were better. At least you could hear them coming and you could pay your fare with money or a ticket, instead of some idiotic phone app that nobody understands.’

As far as she could make out, there was nobody on the bus other than the driver. It went without saying that she couldn’t be the only one who failed to adapt to new ways of doing things. She focused her thoughts on all the things that had been so much easier in the old days, as a way of avoiding thinking about what had taken place at the meeting. That would have to wait until tomorrow, otherwise she wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight.

Arnhildur walked along Skothúsvegur and saw a young man locking a car before taking the steps leading up to a large white house on Tjarnargata at a run. She heard the light sound of his footsteps and the muffled click as the door closed behind him. It was again silent and Arnhildur had the feeling of being alone in the world, just like Palle waking up in a deserted world in the stories every child knew so well. She again felt her own rapid heartbeat and her breath came with difficulty. The events of the evening had certainly been distressing enough to upset her and she felt a deep fatigue that settled on her whole body. Every step was an effort and the snow that clung to her boots seemed to be as heavy as lead. After making her way along Suðurgata, she had no choice but to pause and lean against the graveyard wall. She felt faint, could barely breathe and the weight in her chest was increasing. What was wrong with her? Was this a heart attack? Shouldn’t she feel her arm tingling? Or was this a stroke, but wasn’t a terrible headache a warning of what was to come? Arnhildur pulled off a glove and felt in her pocket for her old-fashioned phone. She was frightened but didn’t know who to call. Now she had the feeling that a brick had been placed on her chest. Terrified, she tried to think of anyone she could call for help, but nobody came to mind. She’d have to call an ambulance. She tried to punch in the emergency number but wasn’t sure if she was finding the right buttons. Now she couldn’t see clearly, and tried to feel for the buttons, but arthritis had robbed her fingertips of any sensitivity. Something crunched in the snow behind her. Now someone would undoubtedly come to her aid. She looked over the graveyard wall, peering among the gravestones and the bare branches, but saw nothing there but darkness. She glanced around, but the street was as deserted as before. Once again, she heard the clear crunch of footsteps coming her way. Someone was coming through the graveyard.

‘Hello? Anyone there?’ she called out as loudly as she could. There was no response and she couldn’t be sure that her voice was audible. ‘Will you help me? Hello? Help, please.’ Her voice was faint but she hoped it would carry through the winter silence.

There was no response, but she could hear and sense more clearly that someone was approaching.

‘I need help…’ She hesitated at the sound of something breaking, a tree branch broken off. What was going on? She pressed herself against the graveyard wall, knowing that she had to support herself while the world spun around her. The sound of panting breaths drew closer, and then there was a voice that said something she was unable to make out clearly.

‘Who’s there?’ The weight in her chest was increasing. ‘Hello!’

There was nothing to be seen across the street, not even the pavement, just the dim glow of lights from houses and along the street by the lake.

‘Who are you?’ Arnhildur whispered, her voice feeble. She was faint and she heard a sound, almost like the howl of a dog, but couldn’t be sure if it came from her or someone else. Was she suffering an attack that distorted her senses? She summoned the last of her energy to ask again for assistance.

‘Could you help me? I can’t see the buttons…’

Before she could say any more, she felt a heavy blow to her head and shards of pain flashed through her nerves. She dropped to her knees. Heavy breaths and gasps could be heard, someone swearing.

This was a voice she’d heard before and she tried to see who was speaking, but saw nothing even though she felt that her eyes were open. Now she sensed that hands were grasping her under the arms and she was being dragged. There was an indistinct scraping sound, panting and her body bumped across the uneven ground, but she no longer felt anything. Then there was another blow, and the ice-cold snow settled to cover ​her​.​

4

A gale had blown through Wednesday night, accompanied by a downpour. The weather’s fury was mostly spent by the time Guðgeir and Elsa Guðrún from Reykjavík CID drove early in the morning through the city to the oldest part of its western district. Unusually, Elsa Guðrún, the one who was habitually cheerful and positive, was under a cloud of gloom that refused to lift. She’d been late for work after a struggle with her twin boys who hadn’t wanted to go to school, on top of which her car was booked for a service. It needed work ahead of its annual inspection, and she hoped fervently that another year of life could be squeezed out of the old rattletrap. She would have preferred to be rid of the expense that went with running a car, but her circumstances were such that a carless lifestyle – as it was referred to these days –wasn’t an option for the family as long as they were living here in the capital region.

Elsa Guðrún had confided in Guðgeir that she doubted it was good for the twin boys to be living alone with her, far from their father, grandparents and a host of other relatives in the north of the country. These days the boys spent two weekends a month during the winter with their dad, and it always took a couple of days for them to return to normal after having been relentlessly spoiled by their relatives in the north.

‘Always dark here in Reykjavík,’ Elsa Guðrún sighed, gazing blankly at the wet tarmac dotted with puddles rippled by the wind.

‘It’s still February,’ Guðgeir replied, peering into the gloom. ‘And now most of the snow’s been melted by that rainstorm, and that means there’s even less light.’

‘Sure. I mean, it’s so dark,’ she replied. A scowl appeared on her broad face. ‘My boys go to school in the dark, and it’s dark again by the time they come home.’

‘People have taken their Christmas lights down. That has an effect as well,’ Guðgeir said in a tone meant to lift the mood.

‘It’s never this dark in Akureyri,’ Elsa Guðrún assured him, a hair tie between her teeth as she pulled her brown hair back into a ponytail.

‘Really?’ Guðgeir grinned. This north country pride that some would describe as conceit had always amused him. ‘All the same, it’s a good way further north than Reykjavík.’

Elsa Guðrún wasn’t going to accept Guðgeir’s straightforward geographical point. She extracted an unwanted hair caught between her lips, and shook her head doggedly.

‘Makes no difference. The weather’s simply better in Akureyri than it is down south. There isn’t this endless howling gale that you get here.’

‘Absolutely, I’ll believe you,’ Guðgeir replied. There was a stronger note of sarcasm in his words than he had intended, and generally he enjoyed the north country attitude that everything there was biggest and best. He could never be entirely sure if she was being serious or making fun of him. ‘There’s a bit of a breeze blowing now, but it’s not a gale. That’s a pleasanter word,’ he said with a smile. ‘Words have characters of their own and that affects our mood. Try saying it slowly.’

‘Shit’s still shit,’ Elsa Guðrún muttered sourly. ‘Even if we call it poop.’

‘Well, it seems to me that you need to spend some time up north, Elsa Guðrún. You’re obviously suffering from incurable homesickness,’ he said amiably. She sighed and nodded.

‘More than likely I’m just tired of this endless stress and constantly being in a rush,’ she said. ‘But that’ll sort itself out, like it always does,’ she added with more warmth in her voice.

No more words passed between them for the rest of the short journey. During Guðgeir’s years in the police force, this was how going to the scene of a death had always been. There would be a conversation about something inconsequential for the first few minutes, followed by silence. Everyday chatter wasn’t only an instinctive way of calming nerves, but it provided a contrast to a scene at their destination that could be overwhelming. They drove along Suðurgata and pulled up next to a patrol car parked across the street at the graveyard end.

‘Time to get to work,’ Guðgeir said, serious now, as he killed the engine and opened the door.

‘How old is she?’ Elsa Guðrún asked.

‘I think she’s around twenty. Her name’s Embla and she’s a student at technical college. She was on her way home from her work experience placement at a hairdressing salon somewhere nearby and took a shortcut through the graveyard, as a lot of people do. Her first week at a new place and she stumbles across a body,’ Guðgeir said.

‘There are a few of them there,’ Elsa Guðrún muttered, her voice so low as to be almost inaudible.

‘What was that?’

‘Bodies in a graveyard,’ she replied.

‘Well, certainly.’ Guðgeir pretended not to notice the black humour. ‘But most of them are long since part of the ground and it’s rare that anyone’s buried in this old graveyard these days. If it happens, it’s normally an urn of ashes in a family plot.’

‘Earth to earth, in the certain hope of resurrection. Isn’t that what the priest says when he drops a handful of earth on the coffin?’ Elsa Guðrún asked, not expecting an answer.

‘As far as I remember,’ Guðgeir said absently. ‘Forensics are here.’ He nodded in the direction of two vans that had been parked on the pavement on Kirkjugarðsstígur.

Leifur stood with the girl at the graveyard gate. As usual, his overcoat was unbuttoned so that his checked shirt could be seen, as well as a blue tie that lay crookedly across a mighty belly that was close to reaching its former size. Leifur had adhered for a whole year to a strict diet, which had undoubtedly been good for his heart, but not for his temper. Now his disposition had improved and he was more like his old self, although its effects on his health were debatable.

The girl had obviously made an effort to be presentable for work, but her carefully done hair was now wind-blown and a short fake fur coat over her green work clothes provided little protection from the cold. The girl had her arms wrapped around herself and she shivered.

‘What’s the old fool thinking?’ Elsa Guðrún snapped, and turned around on the spot. ‘I’ll get a blanket for the girl. There should be one in the car.’

‘Of course,’ Guðgeir said. The same thought had occurred to him – a fraction of a second behind Elsa Guðrún. Leifur waved them over. He was a solid character in every way, a gentle man and very good at his job, but when it came to equality and issues of the day, he was very much at home in the last decade of the previous century.

The girl was grateful for the blanket that Elsa Guðrún placed over her shoulders. Her slim, heavily ringed fingers clasped the corners. Her nose was red with cold and there were smudges of mascara under her deep-blue eyes.

‘Thanks,’ she said, sniffing and squeezing out a grateful smile. ‘I’m freezing. It’s so cold.’

‘That’ll be the shock,’ Leifur said thoughtfully and took a woollen hat from his pocket and pulled it down over his balding head. He had finally got round to reading an article about the psychological effects of shock that Særós, the head of CID, had sent him months before.

‘More likely it’s just this lousy cold,’ Elsa Guðrún snapped, shaking her head.

‘Hello, Embla. My name’s Guðgeir Fransson. Won’t you sit in the car where it’s warmer?’

‘I should be at work by now.’ Her teeth chattered. ‘Can’t I go there now? The salon’s just round the corner.’

‘Unfortunately not. I have to ask you to sit in the car with Berglind.’ Guðgeir pointed to a patrol car. ‘She’ll take you there, or she’ll call your workplace and let them know the situation and that you can’t come right away. You’ll have to go with her to the station and give a statement,’ he continued, and Elsa Guðrún gave the girl an encouraging smile.

‘Do I have to?’ There was a bewildered look on her face. ‘Can’t we just do this now? Look, I was just walking through the middle of the graveyard, y’know, where the path is widest, and I saw a foot … a snow boot by a gravestone a little way away. I thought it was some junkie getting a hit and I was going to keep going,’ she carried on quickly in the hope of escaping this terrible situation as soon as possible. ‘But I thought it was so cold outdoors that I ought to check in case it was some homeless person who didn’t have anywhere to go, but I was a bit frightened and wanted to be quick … It’s my first day. It’s really hard to get a placement at a salon and I didn’t want to be late, but I checked anyway …. Waited to see if the foot was going to move and when it didn’t I called out hello a few times to try and wake the person up and of course I didn’t know whose foot it was. So I thought I’d better take a closer look. I went around the back of the gravestone and she was lying there, just a really ordinary woman. Could have been my granny.’ Embla’s eyes were wide with the shock she had experienced. ‘She was lying there in the mud, poor thing. It was so horrible to see her.’

The girl burst into sudden tears and sobs shook her frame.

‘There, you’ve had a bad shock. I’ll take you to the car,’ Elsa Guðrún said. She put an arm around Embla’s shoulders and led her away. ‘You could make yourself ill if you’re out here in the cold for too long.’

Guðgeir and Leifur watched them, and not a word was said until Elsa Guðrún returned.

‘Was that closed when you got here?’ Guðgeir asked, pushing the graveyard’s black iron gate. Its rusty hinges squealed in protest, and they went in single file along the narrow, rutted path that snaked between gravestones and the bare trees.

‘Yes,’ Leifur replied. He was breathless and stared down to watch his step. The ground was wet and slippery, with scattered patches of ice here and there that the rain hadn’t managed to finish off. ‘Not that it makes much difference. To be honest, I’m not sure we’ll find anything here in the graveyard that’s going to tell us much, considering what the weather’s been like and that the body’s been there more than twenty-four hours. I’d guess the woman lost her life two or even three days ago, judging by the state of rigor mortis and the colour. There are also indications that the body has been moved.’

‘Any CCTV around here?’ Guðgeir asked.

‘The nearest one is on the corner near the hairdresser’s salon, and there’s another one about the same distance away in the other direction. It’s possible there’s nothing to be had from them, but I’m hoping both will have been in working order for the last few days,’ Leifur said.

The forensic team had fenced off the area around the dead woman, and the three of them watched from a distance. They waited in the grey morning gloom as floodlights were set up, illuminating the scene. The woman lay on her side, apparently with her mouth open. A silk scarf was wound tightly around her neck and she was dressed in a brown overcoat, thick nylon tights and fur-lined ankle boots. A skirt that had been twisted and bunched beneath her could be made out. What was laid out before them in this old graveyard was a deeply disturbing sight. A twenty-four-hour downpour had melted a covering of snow that had made walking through the city a challenge, and had left the ground waterlogged.

‘Any visible traces?’ Guðgeir asked with foreboding.

‘We’ve only just started, but it looks like a blow to the back of the head,’ Leifur replied. ‘The scarf is wrapped tight around her throat, so that could have restricted her airway. It’ll all be clear before long.’

‘This is neither suicide nor death by natural causes,’ Guðgeir said, and Leifur nodded, a serious look on his face.

‘Doesn’t look like it,’ he agreed with a sigh. ‘All the indications are murder.’

‘She’s lying not far from the Watchful Woman, and that’s no bad thing,’ Elsa Guðrún murmured, with a meaningful look in her deep-blue eyes as she glanced up at Guðgeir. He looked back at her in surprise. ‘Her name was Guðrún, like me, and she was the first person who was buried in this graveyard. There was a superstition that she would watch over all those who would come after her, but people were still frightened of her and didn’t want to be buried too close. That’s something I find odd, as she was undoubtedly a good woman who endured a great deal. That’s her grave there, I think.’

Elsa Guðrún pointed a large black iron cross.

‘Thanks for the history lesson, but maybe we ought to keep our minds on the job in hand,’ Leifur said drily. ‘But why are you telling us this, Elsa Guðrún?’ he added in a warmer tone.

‘Ach. It just occurred to me. I hope this poor woman lying here had a better life than the Watchful Woman did,’ Elsa Guðrún said, her eyes on the body.

‘Whatever kind of life she had, it certainly didn’t end happily,’ Guðgeir said, beating some warmth into his hands.

The icy morning breeze nipped at him and he shivered with a cold chill of ​foreboding​.​

5

The newest recruit to the forensic team came over to them. Helgi Már Bragason held a brown handbag that looked tiny in the hands of such a well-built man.

‘Let’s see if things are starting to look clearer,’ he said. ‘There’s a good chance that this bag belonged to the victim and either she or someone else dropped it or threw it away. She was lying behind one of the graves not far from the large gate that opens onto Ljósvallagata. We’ll need to knock on the door of every house in the district and ask if anyone noticed anything unusual over the last few days.’

‘I’ll get that going,’ Guðgeir said, took out his phone and took a few steps away from the others while he called Særós, their superior officer. By the time he returned, Helgi had opened the handbag to reveal an old-fashioned keypad phone and a spectacle case. A zipped pocket yielded a set of house keys and a lipstick.

‘If this was a robbery, then the thief didn’t come away with much. A few notes, at most,’ Helgi said. ‘Who kills for small change?’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ Guðgeir said with a sigh.

‘The perpetrator could have been after something other than money. It could have been something that’s gone from the woman’s bag,’ Elsa Guðrún said.

‘Could be,’ Guðgeir agreed. ‘Let’s bear the possibility in mind, before we jump to any conclusions. What about the phone?’

‘It’s a bit of an antique and fortunately there’s no passcode,’ Helgi said, scrolling through the last numbers called. ‘You don’t often see a phone like this any longer. Mostly children have them. This is the cheapest, simplest type on the market. All it lets you do is call and send text messages.’

‘What’s the first number that comes up?’ Elsa Guðrún asked.

‘The last call to this number was almost a week ago,’ Helgi said, holding the phone out to her. ‘Best if you do the talking and pretend you’ve found it.’ He handed her a disposable glove and she pulled it on before taking the phone.

Guðgeir frowned, but stayed out of it.

The woman who picked up did so with a cheerful greeting.

‘Well, hello Arnhildur. It’s unusual not to hear from you for such a long while. Are you somewhere abr…’

‘Hello. This isn’t my phone. I found it and would like to find its proper owner,’ Elsa Guðrún said, sounding completely natural in a way that would have done credit to any trained actor. ‘Well, no. See, I was walking to work and it was just lying here on the pavement in town. Could you give me this person’s address so I can return it? Did you say her name’s Arnhildur? Yes, and what’s her patronymic? So I’m sure I have the right person?’

The pretence played out. Elsa Guðrún repeated the information as it was given to her and Guðgeir punched the name and address into his own phone.

Now the woman in the graveyard had a name and an address. They gazed without speaking at the body and the forensic team at work around it. It was remarkable how much changed by giving the person a name. It brought the victim to life, with a personality, a career and a history.

‘You’ll be busy here for a while,’ Guðgeir said to Leifur. ‘Is it all right if Elsa Guðrún and I take ourselves off for a while? I feel we need to check Arnhildur’s home and try to put together a picture of what we’re dealing with before we approach relatives.’

‘You know how it is with Guðgeir,’ Elsa Guðrún explained helpfully. ‘He always needs to get the feel of the environment and the atmosphere for himself, without any interference.’

Leifur thought to himself before giving his agreement. The look on his face told them that he desperately wanted to tell them to tread carefully, and not disturb anything that could be evidence. But he kept it to himself. If he could trust anyone, then it was this pair.

‘We won’t be much longer here. I’ll send some of the team over once the initial investigation here is complete,’ he said after a pause.

‘Of course,’ Guðgeir replied, already on his way.

6

Elsa Guðrún parked outside a red-painted, two-storey house built on a narrow-windowed basement in the old part of the city’s western district. It was a handsome building, although it showed signs of neglect.

They had switched seats, and now Guðgeir sat on the passenger side, engrossed in finding out what he could about the deceased. He slipped his phone back into his pocket, reached for his work bag on the back seat, and as he did so, noticed a youthful face in the window of the next house along. Curious eyes stared at him from under a set of light-coloured blinds. They followed as he got out of the car and walked the short distance to the house. Their path through the neat garden to the door was lined by trees in pots, hung with multi-coloured lights.

‘See, not everyone’s taken their Christmas lights down. Some people hang on as long as they can,’ Elsa Guðrún said.

‘Quite right, and there’s a decoration up there as well,’ Guðgeir said, nodding in the direction of the upstairs window and an illuminated Christmas star made from gold-coloured paper.

‘Arnhildur Drífa Friðthjófsdóttir,’ Elsa Guðrún read out from the little silver plaque next to the doorbell. ‘She’s unlikely to have a partner, considering her disappearance hasn’t been reported.’ She crouched down, opened her bag and took out protective suits, gloves and shoe covers. ‘We should take all the precautions, shouldn’t we?’

‘Of course. And we’ll have to tread carefully. Did you check who answered the phone earlier?’ Guðgeir asked, leaning against the rail leading to the door as he pulled on the white suit.

‘Yes. The number’s registered to an assisted living place in Árbær that’s for disabled people,’ Elsa Guðrún replied as she pulled the white head covering over her brown hair and zipped up the suit.

‘We’ll check on that later today. There are two apartments in this house and when we’ve checked out Arnhildur’s home, we can have a chat with the people who live downstairs,’ Guðgeir said and took the dead woman’s house keys from his bag.

The entrance hall was barely five square metres and included a closet for coats. There were several hanging there, a black waterproof, a longish waxed coat and a couple of jackets in dark colours. The only item of furniture was a shallow chest of drawers and a slim stool. They exchanged glances as a mutter of conversation carried from inside the flat.

‘Hello! Anyone there?’ Elsa Guðrún called out, pushing a door panelled in dark, patterned glass that was already half open. ‘Hello!’

The entrance hall opened onto a hallway and the other rooms. The place was laid out on the conventional lines of its era, and appeared to have been left completely untouched by changing tides of style over the years since it had been built.

‘Who’s there?’ Elsa Guðrún called out, but there was no reply. ‘I’ll bet that’s steam radio,’ she muttered as she went into a compact kitchen. A conversation about traditional Icelandic cuisine carried from a little radio high on a shelf and a soft female voice asserted that although pickled rams’ testicles and shark both taste vile, their cultural importance could be in no doubt. Elsa Guðrún reached for the radio and switched it off.

‘My parents have exactly the same radio at home and it has a timing setting that they’ve never been able to get the hang of, so it switches itself on at midday and off an hour later.’