* * *
A full six minutes after leaving the office she walked through the revolving doors of the hotel.
Thóra scanned the elegant restaurant. The Art Deco interior had been restored some ten years ago to its original state. The result was a rather gentrified atmosphere, bringing to mind women with bob cuts, Charleston dresses, and gaudy ropes of pearls, smoking from long ivory holders. Since its construction in the Roaring Twenties it had been the grandest venue in Iceland, always full of bright young things and various government officials showing off to foreign dignitaries. The refurbishment had toned the place down a little, Thóra thought as she scanned the elegant restaurant. She realized that, apart from the large windows facing Parliament House and Austurvöllur Square, there was little to recall from the years when she spent most Saturday nights at Hótel Borg with her friendsall of them invariably drunk. In those days she had no worries apart from how her butt looked in the clothes she was wearing that night. The greenhouse effect would not have been on her mind, except perhaps as the name of a rock band.
The German looked about forty. He sat straight as a beanpole on the upholstered chair, his broad shoulders hiding the smart back of the seat. He was just beginning to go gray, which lent him a certain air of dignity. He looked stiff and formal, dressed in a gray suit and matching tie that did not exactly create a colorful impression. Thóra smiled, hoping it would make her come across as friendly and interested rather than idiotic. The man stood up, removed the napkin from his lap, and put it on the table.
"Frau Gudmundsdóttir?" A harsh, cold pronunciation.
They shook hands. "Herr Reich," Thóra muttered, with the best German pronunciation she could muster. "And do call me Thóra," she added. "It's easier to pronounce too."
"Please have a seat," the man said, sitting down himself. "And please call me Matthew."
She took care to sit down with her back straight and wondered what the other guests in the restaurant thought of this upright duo. Probably that they were meeting up to found a society for people with steel spine braces.
"Can I offer you something to drink?" the man asked Thóra politely in German. The waiter clearly understood what he said, because he turned to Thóra and awaited her answer.
"Sparkling mineral water, please." She recalled how fond the Germans were of mineral water. It was becoming more popular in Iceland as wellten years before, no one with any sense would have thought of paying for water at a restaurant where it ran straight out of the tap. Buying carbonated water was somehow more acceptable.
"I presume you have talked to my employer, or rather his wife, Frau Guntlieb," Matthew Reich said when the waiter had gone.
"Yes. She told me I'd get more details from you."
He hesitated and sipped a clear liquid from his glass. The bubbles suggested that he had ordered sparkling water too. "I put some documents together in a folder for you. You can take it with you and look at it later, but there are a number of points I want to go over with you now, if that's okay with you."
"Certainly," Thóra replied at once. Before he had the chance to continue, she hurried to say: "But one thing I'd like to know a little more about is these people I'm going to work for. Maybe it makes no difference to the investigation, but it matters to me. Frau Guntlieb mentioned a surprising figure as my fee. I'm not interested in taking advantage of the family's grief if she can't afford this."
"They can afford it." He smiled. "Herr Guntlieb is the president and largest shareholder in the Anlagenbestand Bank of Bavaria. It's not a large bank, but its clientele includes corporations and wealthy individuals. Don't worry. The Guntliebs are very, very well-off."
"I see," Thóra said, thinking that this explained the servant answering the telephone at their home.
"However, the Guntliebs have not been so fortunate with their children. They had four children, two sons and two daughters. The elder son died in a car accident ten years ago and the elder daughter was born severely handicapped. She died as a result of her condition a few years ago. Now their son Harald has been murdered and the youngest daughter, Elisa, is all they have left. It has been an enormous strain on them, as you can imagine."
Thóra nodded, then asked hesitantly: "What was Harald doing here in Iceland? I thought there were plenty of universities in Germany with good history faculties."
Judging from Matthew's otherwise expressionless face this was a difficult question. "I really don't know. He was interested in the seventeenth century and I'm told he was doing some kind of research comparing continental Europe to Iceland. He came here as part of a student exchange program between the University of Munich and the University of Iceland."
"What kind of comparative research was it? Was it political, something like that?"
"No, it was more in the field of religion." He took a sip of water. "Maybe we should order before we go any further." He waved to the waiter, who approached holding two menus.
Thóra had the feeling that there was more behind his haste than hunger. "Religion, you say." She looked at the menu. "Could you be more specific?"
He put the open menu down on the table. "It's not really the sort of thing you talk about while you're eating, though I expect we'll have to sooner or later. But I'm not sure that his area of academic interest had anything to do with the murder."
Thóra frowned. "Was it related to the plague?" she asked. This was the only idea that occurred to her that fit the time bracket and was too distasteful for table talk.
"No, not the plague." He looked her in the eye. "Witch hunts. Torture and executions. Not particularly appealing. Unfortunately Harald was deeply interested in it. Actually this interest runs in the family."
Thóra nodded. "I understand." She did not understand in the slightest. "Maybe we should save this until after the meal."
"That's unnecessary. The main points are in the folder I'll give you." He picked up the menu again. "You'll also be getting some boxes of his belongings from the police. There are documents connected with his thesis which will provide you with further information. We're also expecting to get his computer and a few other things that may provide some clues."
They looked at the menu in silence.
"Fish," Matthew said without looking up. "You eat a lot of fish here."
"Yes, we do," was the only reply Thóra could think of. "After all, we are a fishing nation. Probably the only one that has managed to regulate its fishing sustainably." She forced a smile. "Actually, fish is no longer the mainstay of our economy."
"I don't like fish," he said.
"Seriously?" Thóra closed the menu. "I do, and I'm thinking of having the fried plaice."
In the end he settled for the quiche. When the waiter had gone, Thóra asked why the family thought the police had the wrong man in custody.
"There are several reasons. First, Harald would not have wasted his time arguing with some dope dealer." He stared at her. "He used drugs now and again; that was known. He drank alcohol too. He was young. But he was no more a drug addict than he was an alcoholic."
"That depends on your definition of addict," Thóra said. "As far as I'm concerned, repeated drug use is addiction."
"I know a few things about drug abuse." He paused, then hurried to add: "Not from personal experience, but through my work. Harald was not an addicthe was doubtless on his way to becoming one, but he wasn't one when he was murdered."
It dawned on Thóra that she had absolutely no idea why this man had been sent to Iceland. She doubted it was to invite her out to lunch and moan about Icelandic fish. "What is it exactly that you do for this family? Frau Guntlieb said you worked for her husband."
"I'm in charge of security at the bank. That includes background checks for prospective recruits, managing security procedures in the company, and money transportation."
"That doesn't involve drugs very much, surely?"
"No. I was referring to my previous job. I spent twelve years with the Munich CID." His eyes fixed on hers. "I know a thing or two about murders and I don't have the slightest doubt that the investigation into Harald's murder was badly handled. I didn't need to see very much of the man in charge to realize he doesn't have the faintest idea what he's doing."
"What's his name?"
Thóra understood who he meant, despite the awkward pronunciation. Árni Bjarnason. She sighed. "I know him from other cases. He's an idiot. A stroke of bad luck having him assigned to the investigation."
"There are other reasons the family doesn't think the drug dealer is connected with the murder."
Thóra looked up. "Such as what?"
"Just before his death, Harald withdrew a lot of money from a fund set up in his name. It's proved impossible so far to establish where the money went. It was a lot more than Harald would have needed to buy drugs. Even if he had planned on staying stoned for years."
"Couldn't he have been investing in drugs?" asked Thóra, adding: "Financing smuggling or something like that?"
Matthew snorted. "Out of the question. Harald didn't need the money. He was independently wealthy. He inherited a fortune from his grandfather."
"I understand." Thóra did not want to press him on this point, but wondered whether there may have been another reason for him to get involved in drug smuggling; maybe for kicks, or just sheer stupidity.
"There's no evidence that the dealer took the money. The only link the police have found between Harald and the drug scene is that he bought dope every now and then."
The food arrived and they ate in silence. Thóra felt a little awkward. This man was clearly not the type with whom silence was comfortable. However, she had never been good at making idle chatter even if the silence was oppressive, so she decided to restrain herself.
They ordered coffee and two hot cups soon arrived with a sugar bowl and silver milk jug.
"This is a very strange country, is it not?" said Matthew suddenly, his eyes following the retreating waiter.
"Well, no. Not really," replied Thóra, suppressing the instinct to jump to the defense of her beloved homeland. "It's just small. There are only three hundred thousand people living here. Why do you find it strange?"
Matthew shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's the cleanliness of the city, or the feeling of being surrounded by dolls' houses, but I think it has more to do with the people. Most locals I have spoken to seem to live by a different logic from the one I'm used to. They answer questions with questions, for example. Maybe it's just a language thing." He went quiet and shifted his gaze to a woman hurrying across the square outside. Thóra sipped her coffee, then broke the silence: "Did you bring a contract for me to look at?"
The man reached for the briefcase that lay beside his chair and took out a thin folder. He handed it across the table to Thóra. "Take the contract with you. Tomorrow we can go over what you want to change and I'll inform the Guntliebs. It's a fair deal and I doubt you'll find much fault with it." He bent down again, fetched a thicker folder, and put it on the table between them. "Take this too. It's the folder I mentioned earlier. I'd like you to browse through it before you make up your mind. There are some gruesome elements to this case that I want you to know about beforehand."
"Don't you think I can handle it?" asked Thóra, half insulted.
"To tell you the truth, I don't know. That's why I'm asking you to look through the file. It contains pictures of the crime scene that aren't exactly pleasant, and all kinds of reading material that's hardly any better. I managed to acquire an assortment of documents from the investigation with the assistance of a man whom I'd prefer not to name."
He put his hand on the file.
"It also contains details on Harald's life. They're not widely known and not for the faint of heart. I trust that, if you decide to back out of the whole matter, you will keep these matters confidential. The family does not care to have them spread around."
He took his hand off the folder and looked Thóra in the eye. "I don't wish to add to their tragedy."
"I understand," Thóra said. "I can assure you that I don't gossip about my work." She stared back and added, firmly: "Ever."
"Good."
"But since you've collected all this materialwhy do you need me? You seem able to acquire information I'm not sure I could get hold of."
"Do you want to know why we need you?"
"I think that's what I said," Thóra answered.
He inhaled quickly through his nose. "I'll tell you why. I'm a foreigner in this country and a German as well. We need to discuss things with certain people who will never tell me anything of importance. I gathered the bulk of the details about Harald's personal life in Germany, but I've really just scratched the surface. I'm not the sort of person that people find it pleasant to discuss uncomfortable and difficult personal matters with."
