‘The one furthest back. I think it must have been the priest’s residence.’ Garðar’s voice betrayed a hint of pride. ‘You actually can’t see it from here in the dark, but otherwise it’s quite prominent.’
‘What? Are you sure?’ The skipper looked surprised. ‘No priest lived in this village. When there was still a church here, it was served from Aðalvík. I think you must have been given the wrong information.’ Garðar hesitated and various thoughts crossed Katrín’s mind, among them the hopeful notion that this was all a misunderstanding: there was no house, and they could turn right round and go home.
‘No, I’ve had a look at it and it clearly used to be a priest’s house. At least, there’s a rather nice cross carved into the front door.’
The skipper seemed to have trouble believing Garðar. ‘Who else owns the house with you?’ His brow had furrowed slightly; it was as if he suspected them of having come into possession of the house by some criminal means.
‘No one,’ replied Garðar, frowning. ‘We bought the house from the estate of someone who died before he could renovate it.’
The captain tugged on the rope and then jumped up to join them on the pier. ‘I think I’d better find out what’s going on here. I know all the houses in the village and generally each of them has several owners, usually siblings or descendants of the previous inhabitants. I don’t know of any house that could have belonged to one individual.’ He wiped his palms on his trousers. ‘I can’t leave you here unless I can be certain that you’ve got some shelter and that you haven’t been fed a load of nonsense.’ He set off down the pier. ‘Point me to the house when we get to the top of the beach; we’ll be far enough there from the boat for its lights not to blind our view.’
He strode off and they followed, forced to take larger steps than they were used to in order to keep up with the man, who walked with a fast, loping gait that belied his short stature. Then he stopped as suddenly as he’d started, and they barely avoided knocking into him: they’d come to where Líf was sitting miserably. It looked to Katrín as if the colour was returning to her cheeks. ‘I think I’ve stopped vomiting.’ She tried to smile at them, without much success. ‘I’m frozen. When can we get inside?’
‘Soon.’ Garðar was unusually curt but then obviously regretted it, since he added in a much gentler tone: ‘Just try to bear up.’
He pushed Putti aside as the dog greeted their arrival by fawning over him. Irritated, he brushed sand off his trouser leg.
The skipper turned to Garðar. ‘Where did you say the house was? Can you see it from here?’
Katrín positioned herself next to the men and watched as anxiously as the old captain. Although Garðar’s description of the village was vivid in her mind’s eye, it was difficult to reconcile it with what she saw now. The little cluster of ten houses and their accompanying storage sheds was more spread out than she’d expected, and it struck her how much distance there was between them. She would have thought that in such an isolated community people would have wanted to live closer together, to draw strength from each other in times of trouble or hardship. But what did she know? She actually had no idea how old the village was. Maybe the people there needed large gardens for keeping livestock or to plant vegetables. There could hardly be a shop there. Garðar finally spotted what he was looking for and pointed. ‘There, furthest out, on the other side of the stream. Of course, you can only see the roof – on the other side of the hill with the spruce trees, which block the view a bit.’ He dropped his hand. ‘You don’t think a priest lived there?’
The old man clicked his tongue, and stared up at the innocuous-looking roof where it rose over the yellowed vegetation on the slope. ‘I’d forgotten that place. But no, it’s not the priest’s house. The cross on the door doesn’t have anything to do with a priest. The person who lived there was a follower of the Heavenly Father and his Son and thought it was a fitting tribute.’ He pondered for a moment and appeared to be about to say something, but stopped. ‘For years the house has gone by the name of Final Sight. It’s visible from the sea.’ The man looked as if he wanted to add something, but again did not.
‘Final Sight. Okay.’ Garðar tried to look nonchalant but Katrín could see through him. One of the things he had found most attractive about the house was that it had once been inhabited by one of the most important figures in the village. ‘I guess it would have been a lot to ask to have a rectory in a place this size.’ Garðar looked over the houses, most of which were fully visible from where they were standing, unlike the partially hidden one they now owned. ‘But weren’t there more houses here at one time? Some of them must have been torn down over the years.’
‘Yes, yes, quite right.’ The old man still hadn’t turned back to face them and appeared distracted. ‘There were more houses here. Of course there were never many people living here, but some took their houses with them when they left. Only the foundations remain.’
‘Have you ever been in there? In our house?’ Katrín had the feeling that something odd was going on, but that the man couldn’t express it for some reason. ‘Is the roof about to collapse or something like that?’ She lacked the imagination to come up with anything else. ‘Will it be safe for us in there?’
‘I haven’t been in there, but the roof is probably all right. The previous owners were quite enthusiastic at first about patching the place up. Everyone starts off well.’
‘Starts off?’ Garðar winked at Katrín conspiratorially and grinned. ‘So it’s high time someone got down to business and completed the repairs.’
The man ignored Garðar’s attempt to lighten the mood; instead he turned away from the little cluster of houses that could hardly be called a village and prepared to head back down to the pier. ‘I’m going to get something from the boat.’ Katrín and Garðar hesitated, taken aback, not knowing whether they should wait there for him or follow; finally they decided on the latter.
‘Where are you going? You’re not leaving me here alone!’ Líf scrambled to her feet.
Katrín turned back towards her. ‘We’ll be right back. You’ve been sitting there for over half an hour, so a few minutes more won’t make a difference. Just rest.’ Before Líf had a chance to object, Katrín hurried to catch up with Garðar and the skipper.
The skipper disappeared into the boat, then reappeared a moment later with an open plastic box containing various items she couldn’t make out. From it he pulled out a key ring holding an ordinary house key, and another that was much more old-fashioned and grand-looking. ‘Just to be sure, take these keys to the guesthouse in the doctor’s residence.’ He pointed at one of the most respectable-looking houses, clearly visible from the pier. ‘I’ll let the owners know I’ve loaned them to you. The woman who looks after it is my wife’s sister; she’ll probably be glad to know that you have somewhere else to go if anything should come up. You don’t need to worry about staying there.’
Something unspoken hovered in the air between Garðar and Katrín: they hadn’t told the man about their plans to create competition for the guesthouse to which they were being given the keys. Neither said anything. Katrín held out her hand and took the key ring. ‘Thank you.’
‘You should also keep your phone batteries charged, and don’t hesitate to call if you have any trouble. In decent weather I can make it here in under two hours.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’ Garðar put his arm around Katrín’s shoulder. ‘We’re not quite as hopeless as we look, so I doubt it will come to that.’
‘It’s nothing to do with you. The house doesn’t have a great reputation and although I’m not superstitious, I’ll feel better knowing that you have somewhere else to go and that you’re aware you can call for help. The weather here can be dangerous sometimes, that’s all.’ When neither of them responded he wished them good luck and said goodbye. They muttered farewells in return and stood rooted to the spot, waving, as the man steered the boat carefully off the pier and sailed out into the fjord.
When they were alone, anxiety overwhelmed Katrín. ‘What did he mean by “the house doesn’t have a great reputation”?’
Garðar shook his head slowly. ‘No idea. I suspect he knows more about our plan than he was willing to admit. Didn’t he say his sister-in-law runs the guesthouse? He was just trying to scare us. I hope he doesn’t start spreading rumours about the house.’
Katrín said nothing. She was sure Garðar was wrong. Apart from Líf, no one knew about their plans. Neither she nor Garðar had discussed them with their families for fear of jinxing the project. It was bad enough that their families pitied them because of Garðar’s unemployment. Their relatives thought they were taking a trip out west for Katrín’s winter holiday from school. No, the old man hadn’t said what he did to scare them; there was something else behind it. Katrín sorely regretted not having pressed him for more details in order to prevent her imagination from running wild. The boat receded into the distance faster than she recalled it arriving, and in an incredibly short amount of time appeared only as big as her fist.
‘It’s awfully quiet here.’ Garðar broke the silence that the boat had left behind. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been in such an isolated spot.’ He bent down and kissed Katrín’s salty cheek. ‘But the company here is good, that’s for sure.’
Katrín smiled at him and asked whether he’d forgotten their Lazarus, Líf. She turned away from the sea, not wanting to see the boat disappear completely, and looked along the beach and up towards the land. Líf was on her feet, waving at them frantically. Katrín raised her hand to wave back but dropped it when she saw something move quickly behind their white-clad friend. It was a pitch-black shadow, much darker than their dim surroundings. It disappeared as soon as it appeared, making it impossible for Katrín to distinguish what it was, but it looked a bit like a person, a short one. She gripped Garðar’s upper arm tightly. ‘What was that?’
‘What?’ Garðar peered towards where Katrín was pointing. ‘Do you mean Líf?’
‘No. Something moved behind her.’
‘Really?’ Garðar gave her a puzzled look. ‘There’s nothing there. Just a seasick woman in a ski outfit. Wasn’t it just the dog?’
Katrín tried to appear calm. It could well be that her eyes had deceived her. But it wasn’t Putti, she was certain of that; he was standing in front of Líf, sniffing the air. Maybe the wind had blown something loose. But that didn’t explain how quickly it seemed to have gone by, although there could have been a sharp gust. She let go of Garðar’s arm and focused on breathing calmly for what was left of the walk down the pier. Nor did she say anything after they’d reached Líf. There was a rustling noise and a cracking in the dry, yellowed vegetation behind them, as if someone were walking through it. Neither Garðar nor Líf seemed to notice anything, but Katrín couldn’t avoid the thought that they weren’t alone there in Hesteyri.
Chapter 2
‘I don’t know who could have done this, but I doubt it was kids or teenagers. Although it’s certainly possible.’ Freyr stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at the destruction in front of him once more. Tattered teddy bears and rag dolls were strewn across the floor, the limbs torn from most of them and the eyes pulled out. ‘My first hunch is that we have every reason to be concerned about this person or persons, although it’s difficult to make a complete diagnosis based on this mess. If it helps, I’m leaning more towards the idea that whoever did this worked alone. I’m sorry I can’t be more precise.’ He stared at the yellow wall and the remnants of the drawings made by the Ísafjörður schoolchildren, which consisted only of the corners where they had been fastened to the wall with Blu-tack. The remainder of the drawings lay on the floor, torn and tattered; thick white paper covered with brightly coloured pictures. At first glance it appeared that the vandal had torn them down hastily in order to make room for his message. Upon closer inspection, it was clear that he’d taken time to tear the pictures up. Clumsy letters covered the wall. He had gone over each one repeatedly, scrawling them in violent strokes with crayons, which lay in pieces among the shredded drawings. There was no way of guessing the age of the person who had written the message on the wall, if it were in fact a message: DIRTY.
The wall was illuminated for a moment and Freyr was blinded by the flash. ‘Have you got anything to say about this graffiti?’ Dagný removed the bulky camera from her face without turning towards him, and instead continued to inspect the inscription.
‘No, nothing.’ Freyr studied her profile. Although it conveyed a particular kind of toughness, her short, messy hair brought out the femininity in her face – which was no doubt the opposite of what she intended. He hadn’t worked out whether it was her role as a policewoman that made her try to conceal her sex appeal, or whether it was down to her lifestyle. Dagný was unusual in this regard; generally he could read people like a book, and this uniqueness of hers attracted him, even though he received little or no response to his feeble attempts to deepen their relationship. She seemed comfortable in his presence on the rare occasions that they met, yet their friendship never seemed to have a chance to intensify. Either he was ready for it and she wasn’t, or else the few times she had shown some interest, he was immediately racked by doubt and backed off. His doubts had nothing to do with her, but with himself; deep within him dwelt the suspicion that he wasn’t worthy of her, that he was too broken and burned to make a connection with her or with any other person. But then his doubts would evaporate and she would retreat, leaving them permanently caught in this ridiculous vicious circle.
This was the first time for many years that he hadn’t known how to go about handling a relationship with someone, and it had awakened in him memories of his life before he’d become a specialist in human behaviour. These memories were probably the root of his attraction to Dagný, but he made a point of not wondering about this or drawing conclusions for fear of obliterating his feelings and ending up all alone, as he had been before. He turned away from her and focused on the word scribbled on the wall. He shook his head and blew out slowly, as he always did when he was thinking. ‘Of course, various things come to mind, though none of them are particularly helpful.’
‘For example?’ Her voice was devoid of feeling, reminding him of the bored girls who worked in his local bakery when they asked whether he wanted them to slice his bread.
‘Well, dirty money, dirty laundry, dirty politicians, dirty cops, dirty movies. Something along those lines, though I don’t see how they could possibly be connected to the vandalism.’ Dagný’s expression didn’t change. She raised the camera to her eyes again and snapped a photo. It was hard to see what that one photo would add. After taking a photo she always examined the image in the little screen to make sure she’d captured what she’d intended, so she could hardly be worried she’d messed up the ones she’d already taken. He wondered if she used the camera as a mask to hide behind.
‘I thought psychologists studied these things. Don’t you need to know the motivation behind what people write when they’re in an agitated mental state?’
‘Yes, but usually we have more to go on than a single word. Maybe I missed the class on people who break into schools, go berserk and write mysterious messages on the wall.’ As soon as he said this, Freyr regretted it. Why was he letting her sarcasm get on his nerves? It wasn’t as if he was trying to be a comedian, or making light of the situation. ‘I recommend you try to find the culprit the traditional way, then if you do, I’ll speak to him and give you my opinion as to what might have made him do this. For the moment I can’t add much to your investigation.’ In fact, he didn’t know why she’d called him out; his job description at the Regional Hospital in Ísafjörður didn’t include giving advice to the police, and she hadn’t behaved as though she expected his opinion to mark a turning point in the investigation. ‘Unless you want me to look up similar incidents elsewhere and see what conclusions I can draw from them? I don’t know if that would be useful.’
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��No, no.’ Dagný’s tone was brusque, but softened when she hurriedly added: ‘Thanks, but that won’t be necessary.’
The sound of children’s voices carried in through the window. Under normal circumstances they would probably have been in this room, playing or drawing more pictures to adorn its walls, but this morning was far from ordinary. The teacher who had turned up first had been stunned, and had immediately called the police to report the break-in. Dagný and an older officer had been sent to the scene; Freyr supposed she’d been sent because she reported for work early. The normal day shift for police officers didn’t start until eight, but Dagný habitually woke around six, regardless of whether she was working. The only difference was that she was generally out of the door at seven o’clock on work days, apparently too restless to hang around at home any longer. This he knew only because she lived across the road from him, and his morning routine was much the same. In this respect they had something in common: neither of them liked wasting time doing nothing. This appealed to him; in the few relationships he’d had in his life, the women had always wanted to cuddle in bed for as long as possible and hadn’t understood his urge to jump out of bed as soon as he opened his eyes, preferably before the paper came through the letterbox. He could happily imagine a relationship in which he would have company in the kitchen while it was dark and quiet outside and others slept. He had no other ideas as to what he was looking for in a life companion; too little time had passed since his divorce. He couldn’t work out whether his memories of his previous relationship before everything went wrong were a realistic reflection of what he was looking for, or whether he was viewing them in a rosy light. In fact he knew the answer; he just didn’t want to face it.
I Remember You Page 2
