Jar City (12 page)

Erlendur didn't immediately understand what the pathologist had said and looked at him as if he hadn't heard. He couldn't fathom what he was talking about. For a moment he looked down at the body, then looked up quickly again when he saw a bone from a little hand protruding from beneath the sheet. He didn't think he could handle the image of what was lying underneath it. He didn't want to know what the girl's earthly remains looked like. Didn't want that image to appear every time he thought about her.

“She's been opened up before,” the pathologist said.

“Is the brain missing?” Erlendur groaned.

“An autopsy was performed before.”

“Yes, at Keflavík hospital.”

“When did she die?”

“1968,” Erlendur said.

“And, if I understand correctly, Holberg was her father, but they didn't live together, her parents?”

“The girl only had her mother.”

“Was permission given to use her organs for research purposes?” the pathologist continued. “Do you know about that at all? Did the mother give her permission?”

“She wouldn't have done,” Erlendur said.

“It could have been taken without her permission. Who was looking after her when she died? Who was her doctor?”

Erlendur named Frank. The pathologist was silent for a while.

“I can't say that I'm entirely unfamiliar with such incidents. Relatives are sometimes asked whether organs may be removed for research purposes. All in the name of science, of course. We need that. For teaching, too. I know of instances when, if there is no next of kin, certain organs are removed for research before the body is buried. But I don't know many cases of organs being stolen outright when the relatives have been consulted.”

“How could the brain be missing?” Erlendur went on asking.

“The head's been sawn in half and it was removed in one piece.”

“No, I mean…”

“A neat job,” the pathologist continued. “A skilled person at work. You cut through the spinal cord, through the neck from the rear here and take the brain out.”

“I know the brain was studied in connection with a tumour,” Erlendur said. “Do you mean that it wasn't put back?”

“That's one explanation,” the pathologist said, covering up the body. “If they removed the brain to study it they would hardly have been able to return it in time for the funeral. It needs to be fixed.”

“Fixed?”

“To make it better to work on. It turns like cheese. Brains take a while to fix.”

“Wouldn't it have been enough just to take samples?”

“I don't know,” the pathologist said. “All I know is that the brain isn't in place, which makes it difficult to determine the cause of death. Maybe we can see with DNA tests on the bones. That could tell us something.”

There was no mistaking the look of astonishment on Frank's face when he opened the door and saw Erlendur standing on the steps again in a torrential downpour.

“We exhumed the girl”, Erlendur said without any preamble, “and the brain's missing. Do you know anything about it?”

“Exhumed her? The brain?” the doctor said and showed Erlendur into his office. “What do you mean, the brain's missing?”

“What I say. The brain's been removed. Probably to study it in connection with the cause of death, but it wasn't returned. You were her doctor. Do you know what happened? Do you know anything about the matter?”

“I was her general practitioner, as I think I explained to you the last time you came. She was under the supervision of Keflavík hospital and the doctors there.”

“The person who performed the autopsy is dead. We were given a copy of his pathologist's report, which is very curt and mentions only a brain tumour. If he did any more studies of it, there's no record of them. Wouldn't it have been enough just to take samples? Did they need to remove the whole brain?”

The doctor shrugged. “I'm not sure.” He hesitated for a moment. “Were more organs missing?” he asked.

“More organs?” Erlendur said.

“Besides the brain. Was that all that was missing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing else was touched?”

“I don't think so. The pathologist didn't mention anything. What are you getting at?”

Frank looked at Erlendur, thoughtfully. “I don't expect you've ever heard Jar City mentioned, have you?”

“What Jar City?”

“It's now been closed, I believe, not so very long ago in fact. The room was called that. Jar City.”

“What room?”

“Upstairs on Barónsstígur. Where they kept the organs.”

“Go on.”

“They were kept in formalin in glass jars. All kinds of organs that were sent there from the hospitals. For teaching. In the faculty of medicine. They were kept in a room the medical students called Jar City. Preserved innards. Hearts, livers and limbs. Brains too.”

“From the hospitals?”

“People die in hospitals. They're given autopsies. The organs are examined. They're not always returned, some are kept for teaching purposes. At one time the organs were stored in Jar City.”

“What are you telling me this for?”

“The brain needn't be lost for ever. It might still be in some Jar City. Samples that are preserved for teaching purposes are all documented and classified, for example. If you need to locate the brain there's a chance that you still can.”

“I've never heard about this before. Are the organs taken without permission or do they obtain the relatives' consent…what's the arrangement?”

The doctor shrugged. “To tell the truth, I don't know. Naturally it all depends. Organs are extremely important for medical teaching. All university hospitals have large collections of organs. I've even heard that some doctors, medical researchers, have their own private collections, but I can't vouch for that.”

“Organ collectors?”

“There are such people.”

“What happened to this…Jar City? If it's not around any more?”

“I don't know.”

“So you think that's where the brain could have ended up? Preserved in formalin?”

“Quite easily. Why did you exhume the girl?”

“Maybe it was a mistake,” Erlendur sighed. “Maybe the whole case is one big mistake.”

Elínborg located Klara, Grétar's sister. Her search for Holberg's other victim, the Húsavík woman as Erlendur called her, had produced no results. All the women she had approached showed the same reaction: enormous and genuine surprise followed by such a zealous interest that Elínborg had to use every trick in the book to avoid giving away any details of the case. She knew that no matter how much she and the other policemen who were looking for the woman emphasised that it was a sensitive case and not to be discussed with anyone, that wouldn't prevent the gossip lines from glowing red hot when evening came around.

Klara greeted Elínborg at the door of her neat flat in the Seljahverfi district of Breidholt suburb. She was a slender woman in her fifties, dark-haired, wearing jeans and a blue sweater. She was smoking a cigarette.

“Did you talk to Mum?” she said when Elínborg had introduced herself and Klara had invited her inside, friendly and interested.

“That was Erlendur,” Elínborg said, “who works with me.”

“She said he wasn't feeling very well,” Klara said, walking in front of Elínborg into the sitting room and offering her a seat. “She's always making remarks you can't figure out.”

Elínborg didn't answer her.

“I'm off work today,” she said as if to explain why she was hanging around at home in the middle of the day, smoking cigarettes. She said she worked at a travel agency. Her husband was at work, the two children had flown the nest; the daughter studying medicine, she said, proudly. She'd hardly put out one cigarette before she took out another and lit it. Elínborg gave a polite cough, but Klara didn't take the hint.

“I read about Holberg in the papers,” Klara said as if she wanted to stop herself rambling on. “Mum said the man asked about Grétar. We were half-brother and -sister. Mum forgot to tell him that. We had the same mother. Our fathers are both long since dead.”

“We didn't know that,” Elínborg said.

“Do you want to see the stuff I cleared out of Grétar's flat?”

“If you don't mind,” Elínborg said.

“A filthy hole he lived in. Have you found him?”

Klara looked at Elínborg and hungrily sucked the smoke down into her lungs.

“We haven't found him,” Elínborg said, “and I don't think we're looking for him especially.” She gave another polite cough. “It's more than a quarter of a century since he disappeared, so…”

“I have no idea what happened,” Klara interrupted, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke. “We weren't often in touch. He was quite a bit older than me, selfish, a real pain actually. You could never get a word out of him, he swore at Mum and stole from both of us if he got the chance. Then he left home.”

“So you didn't know Holberg?” Elínborg asked.

“No.”

“Or Ellidi?” she added.

“Who's Ellidi?”

“Never mind.”

“I didn't know who Grétar went around with. When he went missing someone called Marion contacted me and took me to where he'd been living. It was a filthy hole. A disgusting smell in the room and the floor covered with rubbish, and the half-eaten sheep heads and mouldy mashed turnips that he used to live on.”

“Marion?” Elínborg asked. She hadn't been working for the CID long enough to recognise the name.

“Yes, that was the name.”

“Do you remember a camera among your brother's belongings?”

“That was the only thing in the room in one piece. I took it but I've never used it. The police thought it was stolen and I don't approve of that sort of thing. I keep it down in the storeroom in the basement. Do you want to see it? Did you come about the camera?”

“Could I have a look at it?” Elínborg asked.

Klara stood up. She asked Elínborg to wait a moment and went into the kitchen to fetch a key ring. They walked out into the corridor and down to the basement. Klara opened the door that led to the storerooms, switched on the light, went up to one of the doors and opened it. Inside, old rubbish was piled everywhere, deckchairs and sleeping bags, skiing equipment and camping gear. Elínborg noticed a blue foot-massage device and a Sodastream drinks maker.

“I had it in a box here,” Klara said after squeezing her way, past the rubbish, halfway into the storeroom. She bent down and picked up a little brown cardboard box. “I put all Grétar's stuff in this. He didn't own anything except that camera.” She opened the box and was about to empty it when Elínborg stopped her.

“Don't take anything out of the box,” she said and put out her hands to take it. “You never know what significance the contents might have for us,” she added by way of explanation.

Klara handed her the box with a half-insulted expression and Elínborg opened it. It contained three tattered paperback thrillers, a penknife, a few coins and a camera – a pocket-size Kodak Instamatic that Elínborg recalled had been a popular Christmas and confirmation present years before. Not a remarkable possession for someone with a burning interest in photography, but it undoubtedly served its purpose. She couldn't see any films in the box. Erlendur had asked her to check specifically whether Grétar had left behind any films. She took out a handkerchief and turned the camera round and saw there was no film in it. There were no photos in the box either.

“Then there are all kinds of trays and liquids here,” Klara said and pointed inside the storeroom. “I think he developed the photos himself. There's some photographic paper too. It must be useless by now, mustn't it?”

“I should take that too,” Elínborg said and Klara dived back into the rubbish.

“Do you know if he kept his rolls of film, or did you see any at his place?” Elínborg asked.

“No, none,” Klara said as she bent over for the trays.

“Do you know where he might have kept them?”

“No.”

“So do you know what this photography was all about?”

“Well, he enjoyed it, I expect,” Klara said.

“I mean the subjects: did you see any of his photos?”

“No, he never showed me anything. As I said, we didn't have much contact. I don't know where his photos are. Grétar was a damn layabout,” she said, uncertain whether she was repeating herself, then shrugged as if deciding you can't say a good thing too often.

“I'd like to take this box away with me,” Elínborg said. “I hope that's okay. It'll be returned shortly.”

“What's going on?” Klara asked, for the first time showing an interest in the police inquiry and the questions about her brother. “Do you know where Grétar is?”

“No,” Elínborg stressed, trying to dispel all doubt. “Nothing new has emerged. Nothing.”

 

The two women who were with Kolbrún the night Holberg attacked her were named in the police investigation documents. Erlendur had launched a search for them and it turned out that both were from Keflavík, but neither lived there any more.

One of them had married an American from the NATO base shortly after the incident and now lived in the USA, while the other had moved from Keflavík to Stykkishólmur five years later. She was still registered as living there. Erlendur wondered whether he should spend the whole day on a trip out west to Stykkishólmur or phone her and hope that would be enough.

Erlendur's English was poor so he asked Sigurdur Óli to locate the woman in America. He spoke to her husband. She had died 15 years earlier. From cancer. The woman was buried in America.

Erlendur phoned Stykkishólmur and had no difficulty making contact with the second woman. First he phoned her home and was told that she was at work. She was a nurse at the hospital there.

The woman listened to Erlendur's questions but said unfortunately she couldn't help him. She hadn't been able to help the police at the time and nothing had changed.

“Holberg has been murdered”, Erlendur said, “and we think it might even be connected with this incident.”

“I saw that on the news,” the voice on the phone said. The woman's name was Agnes and Erlendur tried to visualise her from the sound of her voice. At first he imagined an efficient, firm woman in her sixties, overweight because she was short of breath. Then he noticed her smoker's cough and Agnes assumed a different image in his mind, turned thin as a rake, her skin yellow and wrinkled. She coughed with a nasty, gravelly sound at regular intervals.

“Do you remember that night in Keflavík?” Erlendur asked.

“I went home before them,” Agnes said.

“There were three men with you.”

“I went home with a man called Grétar. I told the police at the time. I find it rather uncomfortable to talk about.”

“It's news to me that you went home with Grétar,” Erlendur said, riffling through the reports in front of him.

“I told them when they asked me the same question all those years ago.” She coughed again but tried to spare Erlendur the throaty noises. “Sorry. I've never been able to give up those damn cigarettes. He was a bit of a loser. That Grétar. I never saw him after that.”

“How did you and Kolbrún know each other?”

“We used to work together. That was before I studied nursing. We were working in a shop in Keflavík which closed down long ago. That was the first and only time we went out anywhere together. Understandably.”

“Did you believe Kolbrún when she talked about a rape?”

“I didn't hear about it until the police suddenly turned up at my house and started asking me about that night. I can't imagine she'd have lied about something like that. Kolbrún was very respectable. Thoroughly honest about everything she did, although a bit feeble perhaps. Delicate and sickly. Not a strong character. Maybe it's an awful thing to say, but she wasn't the fun type, if you know what I mean. Not a lot of action going on around her.”

Agnes stopped talking and Erlendur waited for her to start again.

“She wasn't fond of going out and I really had to cajole her to come out with me and my friend Helga that evening. She moved to America but passed away many years ago, maybe you know that. Kolbrún was so reserved and sort of lonely and I wanted to do something for her. She agreed to go to the dance, then came back with us to Helga's afterwards, but she wanted to go home soon after that. I left before her so I don't really know what happened there. She didn't turn up for work on the Monday and I remember phoning her, but she didn't answer. A few days later the police came to ask about Kolbrún. I didn't know what to think. I didn't notice anything about Holberg that was abnormal in any way. He was quite a charmer if I remember right. I was very surprised when the police started talking about rape.”

“He apparently made a good impression,” Erlendur said. “A ladies' man, I think he was described as.”

“I remember him coming into the shop.”

“Him? Holberg?”

“Yes, Holberg. I think that was why they sat down with us that night. He said he was an accountant from Reykjavík, but that was just a lie, wasn't it?”

“They all worked at the Harbour and Lighthouse Authority. What kind of a shop was it?”

“A boutique. We sold ladieswear. Lingerie too.”

“And he came to the shop?”

“Yes. The day before. On the Friday. I had to go back through all this at the time and I still remember it well. He said he was looking for something for his wife. I served him and when we met at the dance he behaved as though we knew each other.”

“Did you have any contact with Kolbrún after the incident? Did you talk to her about what happened?”

“She never came back to the shop and, as I say, I didn't know what happened until the police started questioning me. I didn't know her that well. I tried to phone her a few times when she didn't turn up for work and I went to where she lived once, but didn't catch her in. I didn't want to interfere too much. She was like that. Mysterious. Then her sister came in and said Kolbrún had quit her job. I heard she died a few years afterwards. By then I'd moved up here to Stykkishólmur. Was it suicide? That's what I heard.”

“She died,” Erlendur said, and thanked Agnes politely for talking to him.

 

His thoughts turned to a man called Sveinn he'd been reading about. He survived a storm on Mosfellsheidi. His companions' suffering and deaths seemed to have little effect on Sveinn. He was the best equipped of the travellers and the only one who reached civilisation safe and sound, and the first thing he did after they'd tended to him on the closest farm to the heath was to put on ice skates and amuse himself by skating on a nearby lake.

At the same time his companions were still freezing to death on the heath.

After that he was never called anything but Sveinn the Soulless.