Nightblind (Dark Iceland)

by Ragnar Jónasson

  He and Tómas had sat in stifling silence on the short drive home, the rain outside a premonition of the arrival of winter. Ever since that first winter in Siglufjördur, Ari Thór always felt slightly claustrophobic when the snow started falling heavily, even though the new tunnel meant that it was almost impossible to be snowbound in the town any longer. Kristín was already asleep by the time he returned home, and he didn’t try to wake her.

  The next morning they both woke around six, as usual, when Stefnir began to make his presence felt by crying. At first the sounds he made were soft, and there was still a chance that he might fall back asleep if they left him alone, but eventually he was fully awake and demanding attention. They were both due at work, so Stefnir would be cared for by a childminder who lived nearby, an amiable older lady approved by Kristín. It was never easy to leave the boy with a stranger, but there was no choice in the matter.

  Kristín was unusually reserved that morning, although it was something Ari Thór had become used to over the last few weeks. Exhaustion clouding his usual, uneasy acceptance, he looked out at the relentless downpour, frost tickling the edges of the windows, a smog of condensation veiling their centres and, somehow, he felt, his own relationship.

  ‘Is everything all right, Kristín?’

  ‘Of course, yes,’ she replied, without meeting his eyes.

  He waited a moment for a plausible explanation, glanced at her and looked away. He stirred the cereal in his bowl and pushed this exchange to the back of his mind, as he’d become accustomed to doing.

  Tómas collected Ari Thór and they drove out to the old house by the tunnel.

  ‘I’ve been in touch with the technical division,’ Tómas said as he parked close to where Herjólfur’s car had been found. ‘They have nothing yet to indicate who might be behind the attack.’

  ‘That figures,’ said Ari Thór. ‘I didn’t expect anything so soon.’ He was feeling brighter now; the flu was subsiding, although the fatigue had still not retreated.

  ‘It’s a long time since I’ve been up here to this old place,’ Tómas said thoughtfully as they approached the derelict building, which looked almost like a real-life haunted house to Ari Thór. It must have been an imposing building in the past, but a complete lack of maintenance left it dilapidated and almost menacing. The house seemed to have an aura of death about it, regardless of the shooting, thought Ari Thór. The local kids probably avoided it, but it was the perfect place for shady drug deals. Its location on the edge of the cliff only added to the sense of danger that emanated from its crumbling walls.

  ‘I’m not even sure if I dare work out how many years ago it was. I had to deal with the poor old guy who moved himself in here after the place had been abandoned,’ Tómas continued.

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Around 1980, if I remember correctly. The surviving twin stayed on but I gather he only used part of the house, and then let it fall into disrepair. He was a relatively young man when he died, and after that nobody bothered fixing the place up. It would hardly have been worth it. Property prices in Siglufjördur haven’t been great for decades – you know this, Ari Thór – ever since the herring disappeared. Things are only starting to pick up, and it has never been the most popular part of the town, too far from the centre.’

  It crossed Ari Thór’s mind that although it would need a lot of work, if the place were to be fixed up properly, it could possibly be an attractive place to rent out to tourists. The setting was magnificent, on the outer end of the fjord, and with a wonderful view when the weather was fine enough to provide visibility.

  They went through the front door into a chilly hallway. Ari Thór was slightly reluctant to go inside, but he wouldn’t allow himself to show any weakness. It was just a house, after all, even though it was now the setting of two horrible events, the mysterious death of the twin and the attempted killing of Herjólfur. Ari Thór flicked the light switch, but there appeared to be no power in the building. Then again he hadn’t expected any such luxury.

  ‘Careful, Ari Thór,’ Tómas said, taking a torch from his pocket. ‘The living room’s here to the left. Most of the windows were broken long ago. The local kids had a fine time throwing stones through them after the owner died. This place is in the state it is because of human activity as well as nature.’

  Tómas shone his torch around the living room. Ari Thór could see a rickety table, stained and lacking a coat of varnish, and some worn-out chairs.

  ‘Didn’t anyone take the furniture after the owner died?’

  ‘It doesn’t look like it. I couldn’t say what went on, but I suspect that anything of any value must have been taken.’

  ‘The gunman must have stood here,’ Ari Thór said. ‘Herjólfur was on the ground just outside.’

  ‘Exactly. The technical division came to the same conclusion. There was no evidence of a warning shot or anything like that. Shall we take a look upstairs?’

  Ari Thór followed Tómas up the decrepit staircase that creaked with every footstep, reminding him of ice about to crack underfoot on a frozen pond. He stepped gingerly, intent on avoiding a tumble on the stairs. He held tight to the handrail, quickly letting go of it when he felt it coming adrift from the wall.

  ‘This is where he lived, the brother who survived. His name was Börkur. They were the twins, Börkur and Baldur,’ Tómas said, indicating a small room next to the landing.

  The beam of the torch illuminated a bed and a bedside table next to it.

  ‘This is where the drunk was living the last time I came here,’ Tómas continued. ‘He didn’t seem to be frightened to be bedding down here.’

  ‘Frightened?’

  ‘Yes, this is where Baldur died, or rather, fell off the balcony,’ Tómas said, shining the beam of torchlight to flicker over the balcony doors.

  ‘Can we get out onto the balcony?’ Ari Thór asked.

  ‘No idea. Give it a try.’

  The door’s hinges complained, but gave way all the same. Ari Thór squeezed himself out onto the tiny balcony. He gazed out into the morning and his thoughts inexplicably returned to Kristín. Had he done something wrong? Why was she behaving so strangely?

  ‘How old is this place?’ he called in to Tómas.

  ‘I’m not sure. Built around 1930, I’d guess, and solidly. Their father was a fisherman who did well for himself, but after he drowned, the boys were brought up by their mother. She never remarried.’

  ‘You can tell from the balcony.’

  ‘What?’ Tómas appeared in the doorway.

  ‘The age of the house. Today nobody would dream of building a balcony with a railing that low. It’s an accident waiting to happen.’

  ‘That’s just where he fell off.’

  Ari Thór had no desire to go the same way and quickly shut the doors behind him as he came back inside.

  ‘Are they all dead?’

  ‘All?’

  ‘Baldur, Börkur and their friend. Didn’t you say there were three of them here when Baldur died?’

  Ari Thór tried to imagine what kind of party might have taken place almost half a century ago but found it difficult to visualise.

  ‘Yes, you’re right. They’re all gone now, the brothers and their friend,’ Tómas said absently. But their friend’s sister, Jódís, is still with us. She’s very much alive, at seventy-four.’

  Ari Thór had a strange feeling about this sinister house, and an inexplicable urge to flee. But he was also sure that there was a mystery here to be solved. Whether or not it had a direct bearing on last night’s shooting, he couldn’t tell. Yet…

  12

  Herjólfur’s wife Helena and their son were due to travel south with a police officer. Herjólfur’s condition remained critical, and he was being kept in an induced coma in intensive care.

  ‘We’ll have a word with her before she goes,’ Tómas had suggested, and here they were. They stood at the door for a while. Tómas had already rung the bell twice and knocked hard b
efore a muffled ‘come in’ could be heard from inside.

  They entered cautiously. This was the second time in two days that Ari Thór had been inside his superior officer’s house and he led the way to the living room, reflecting again that the house belonged to a man about whom he knew virtually nothing at all. Helena was still seated on the pristine white sofa and, in the background, Ari Thór could hear a Brahms lullaby – a piece that he knew well.

  Helena seemed to know instinctively what he was thinking, and she looked up through a mask of exhaustion.

  ‘It was Herjólfur’s favourite,’ she said, as if reciting a meaningless fact, her words bereft of any emotion. ‘I’ll have it played at the funeral.’

  Her words took Ari Thór by surprise. She appeared to have given up all hope.

  ‘Do you mind if we sit down?’ Tómas asked politely.

  ‘Of course not. Are you driving us south?’

  ‘No, not me,’ Tómas said in a slow voice. ‘Another officer will drive you. He’ll be here in half an hour. We just wanted a word with you before you leave.’

  She attempted another smile. ‘Of course. I know you,’ she said, pointing at Ari Thór. ‘But who are you?’ she asked, her question directed at Tómas.

  ‘My name’s Tómas. I was the inspector in charge here before your husband took over.’

  ‘Ah, Tómas. Right. Herjólfur mentioned your name. Have you come back to take over again?’

  ‘Far from it. I’m simply here to manage the investigation.’

  The music stopped. There was a short pause and the same piece of music began to play again.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Helena said. ‘He appreciated good music and literature.’ She continued to use the past tense to refer to her husband.

  ‘I understand that Herjólfur was investigating a case linked to the house, the place where he was … assaulted,’ Ari Thór said cautiously. ‘Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘No, I can’t say that I do. We didn’t talk much about that kind of thing, Herjólfur and I. He didn’t talk about his work.’

  ‘Do you recall anything that could give us any clue about his attack?’ Tómas probed.

  ‘Clue…’ she said slowly, as if turning the word over in her mind. ‘I haven’t thought about it. There’s no going back, anyway. Wasn’t it just some terrible coincidence?’ She looked blankly at Ari Thór. ‘It could just as easily have been you,’ she added.

  Ari Thór shivered.

  ‘I’m sorry, but can I ask something?’ she said deferentially. ‘Will I get any compensation? I mean enough to support the family? How does this work in the police? I just don’t know that I could go out and work now…’ She sighed. ‘I stopped working not long after we met and I had a fall from a horse and broke my leg badly. Herjólfur has supported us all since then. I just don’t know…’

  ‘Don’t worry. We look after our own,’ Tómas said encouragingly, and it was as if a burden had been lifted from Helena’s shoulders. ‘And we can also still hope it will turn out for the best,’ he added, but with little conviction in his words.

  ‘Is he in a hurry, the gentleman who is taking us to Reykjavík? It’s just that my son is coming as well and he went out to the shop.’

  ‘That won’t be a problem,’ Tómas replied.

  She forced a smile. ‘Well, that’s good to know. He might be back already. He’s living in the flat in the basement so he can come and go when it suits him. We don’t see much of him. He’s got a girlfriend now, and he’ll have flown the nest before we know it,’ she added sorrowfully, with the same wan smile.

  ‘Your husband had been on leave for some time before you moved here. Is that right?’

  For the first time, Helena hesitated for a second.

  ‘I’ve been ill,’ she said slowly, as if unwilling to discuss the matter. ‘I was suffering from depression. Herjólfur took time off to look after me.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Tómas said, sounding awkward. ‘I hope you’ve made a full recovery.’ He stood up.

  She smiled at him again, a somewhat meaningless expression. Ari Thór wondered whether she had actually made a full recovery from her depression, or whether the shock had perhaps caused her to relapse. She shifted uncomfortably on the white sofa, moving one leg awkwardly and grimacing as she tried to make herself comfortable.

  ‘Thank you for coming. Since yesterday everything has been very unreal. Not many people have called and nobody has been to see us. People don’t want to intrude. Not that we know many people here. It was good to see you. I’m sorry if I haven’t been much help.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll look after things. We have a big team working on this, our best people, and you can be sure that we’ll get to the bottom of it,’ Tómas said firmly, leaving no doubt that he was completely serious.

  ‘I should have offered you some coffee…’ Helena apologised. ‘I’m sorry, that was thoughtless of me.’

  ‘Don’t even think of it,’ Tómas said. ‘I just hope the news is better when you get down south.’

  Ari Thór had no such optimism. He was certain that it was only a matter of time before this would turn into a murder investigation, and he felt that he somehow owed it to Herjólfur’s family to put all his efforts into trying to find the killer.

  To tell the truth, today has been something of a difficult day. It’s not easy being shut up in here in this heat. It certainly wasn’t my intention to spend the summer like this, now that my year off is starting. This is the time I had planned to use to travel and to decide on a direction in life. I can see easily enough what the conclusion is likely to be and I don’t have a lot of choice in the matter. But there’s no harm in having dreams.

  Speaking of dreams, last night I dreamt that I was learning to play the piano. I haven’t played since I was a child. I’m not sure if I heard the tune in my dream or not; probably not, but of course I know it well. When I woke up, the tune was echoing in my head and it appears to have taken root there. It’s a pleasant sensation, having a melody on your mind all day long. It’s a piece of music that has long been a favourite of mine, but everything’s best in moderation.

  Nobody has come to visit me yet. I know that Mum couldn’t handle it, so I couldn’t make any demands on her. She’s not always been strong. Dad made it crystal clear when I was admitted that he wouldn’t be visiting for a while. He said I’d need time to get over it. Then he glared at the doctor and asked if that was sensible. The doctor just shrugged carelessly and glanced at the clock as if he had run out of time for me.

  Hanna won’t be paying me a visit, that’s for sure. I don’t imagine she’ll want to see me again. I guess she’ll be pleased when she hears I’ve been locked up in a psychiatric ward. Good lord … locked up in a psychiatric ward. It doesn’t look good when it’s written down, but that’s the way it is.

  But I can take comfort in knowing that I don’t belong here…

  On the other hand, don’t all the inmates think that?

  Dinner was fairly tasteless, which isn’t all that bad considering what it looked like. At some point this unappetising stew was fish, although I couldn’t tell what sort of fish it had been, or how long ago.

  Maybe I ought to try and read during the day. There are a few books available, but I’ve made a point of not making myself too comfortable here. This isn’t going to be a long stay. I doubt there’ll be much there that’s to my taste anyhow. I have good taste, a refined taste that’s undoubtedly unusual for someone of my age. Thórbergur Thórdarson, Halldór Laxness, Ernest Hemingway, those are my guys.

  I wanted to study literature at university but I don’t have a choice in the matter. There’s a path already carved out for me and I fear what the future will bring. I have to break out of myself, if that’s the right expression. I don’t even know if I can, and have even less idea whether or not this is the right place to do it.

  I’m tired now. I expect to meet Dr Helgi tomorrow to talk about how bad I feel. Maybe things will ge
t better. It’s good to be optimistic.

  The book can go to its usual hiding place under the mattress. No one sees it. It holds my secrets.

  13

  Elín didn’t bother to knock any more. She opened the door carefully and peered around it.

  Gunnar noticed her straightaway. He didn’t let this over-familiarity irritate him, although he would have preferred her to maintain a more professional distance during working hours.

  ‘How are things, Elín? Take a seat,’ he said amiably.

  She shut the door behind her.

  ‘I just wanted to see how you are,’ she said warmly, her eyes searching his face as she sat opposite him. He was behind his desk, the mayor’s desk. It was a magnificent piece of furniture, totally out of keeping with every other item in the office, which might have been ordered from a clearance sale catalogue in the mid-nineties, and never replaced.

  ‘Not so bad. Keeping busy.’ He averted his eyes.

  In fact, the police visit had preyed on his mind to the exclusion of almost everything else all day. But he wasn’t going to admit it.

  He leaned back in his chair and lifted his feet to rest them on the desk, emphasising the fact that he wasn’t concerned, and to remind himself that he was still a young rebel at heart, even though he now wore a suit.

  ‘Come on, you’re not fooling me,’ she said softly.

  ‘I’m not trying to fool anyone.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Have they spoken to you?’ he asked eventually.