“Were there no signs of violence? No indication that it was anything other than suicide?”
“In Sólrún’s case? No, nothing like that.”
“Where was she found?”
“In her room at the student dorm.”
“Was she from Akureyri?”
“No, from Reykjavík.”
I can’t think of anything else to ask, so I thank her for her help. “I won’t write anything about the suicide, naturally. I’m just looking into the drugs market up here in the north.”
“Knock yourself out,” answers the policewoman. “You’ve got plenty to work with.”
So what now? I ponder, and get several possible answers.
Should I call Kjartan Arnarson the high school teacher? Or Björg Gudrúnardóttir, who knew a little about Sólrún, but not a lot? Should I try to track down the other two girls who were with Sólrún on the Day of the Question on the square?
At present, I don’t see much point in continuing down that path. Drugs and suicide. Suicide and drugs. Routine. A waste of time, as dopey Fridrik might say. But I can’t help feeling sad that a lighthearted young girl who made one silly mistake should have been overcome by the conviction that her life was a waste of time.
____
“The Terror Helmet? Why on earth is the sensationalist press suddenly taking an interest in ancient magical signs? Haven’t you got any real news to report?”
On the phone is an aged professor emeritus of Icelandic language. I got his name after making a load of phone calls to members of the academic community.
I do get tired of the sensationalist press thing. “I’m just looking for some information.”
“Why?” demands Professor Ingimundur Kjaran. “Is anyone interested in anything these days, if it’s not about money?”
“Well, I don’t know that there’s any money in magic. Not these days. But I’m asking because some high school students here in Akureyri have apparently shown an interest in the Terror Helmet symbol. And shortly after declaring that interest, one of them was found murdered.”
Ingimundur says nothing for a moment.
“Do you mean the young man they found at the dump at Easter?”
“That’s the one.”
“Good heavens above.”
Yep. Fucking shit.
“So what can you tell me about this sign? The Terror Helmet?”
“Well, there’s quite a lot, if you’re interested.” Ingimundur speaks slowly. “In the first place, the Terror Helmet is not necessarily a magical sign. The word can also be used to mean, quite literally, a helmet or mask that strikes terror into the enemy. But a magical sign named Terror Helmet is mentioned in many sources, especially in the seventeenth century. A variety of different powers and qualities are attributed to it. But as a rule the Terror Helmet consists of two crossed lines, each ending in three points. What did this poor schoolboy do with the Terror Helmet?”
“Unfortunately, I don’t know precisely. But at a party he declared that he bore the Terror Helmet above all the rest.”
“Did he, indeed?” The professor titters. “Now that usage has nothing to do with the magical sign. The phrase to bear the Terror Helmet over others simply means to excel, to be better than others or superior in some way. Is that all? Was that all you wanted to ask me about?”
“I know the phrase and what it means,” I say, “but I’ve got some more questions. He was dressed in some kind of robe or gown, onto which he had stuck the magic sign.”
“What nonsense is this? Some boy dressing up for a joke?”
“No, there was more to it than that. It wasn’t as if he put on a Santa suit or a Superman costume.”
He waits. I’m not at all sure he knows who Superman is.
“He reached under the robe and pulled out a pubic hair.”
The professor’s breathing becomes ragged.
“Then he pulled out an eyelash, set both hairs alight, and slipped the ash into a girl’s drink.”
Silence.
“Without her noticing,” I add.
“Now that is more interesting,” comments Ingimundur after a pause for thought. “But it seems likely that the young man was using some superficial knowledge of magical signs as a party game for his own purposes. So far as I know, the boy’s acts, as you describe them to me, would be some kind of aphrodisiac spell, with the intent of attracting or seducing a girl.”
“Like the way people will spike drinks today?”
“I wouldn’t know about that. I don’t move in such circles,” sniffs Ingimundur, who seems to think he’s being asked the question as an expert witness on contemporary social mores. “For such purposes, the Terror Helmet was used quite differently and in a more complex manner. A person who wished to use magic to seduce a woman was supposed to fast and then draw the sign with his own saliva in the palm of his right hand. Then he was to shake the girl’s hand, and the power of the sign was supposed to work through the physical exchange of humors. It has been suggested that the saliva signifies semen, so that the handshake symbolizes sexual intercourse. So you can see that the boy was no expert. Or at any rate, he chose to do something showier. He probably thought it was cool, as they say these days. But the intention of the ritual was probably the same.”
“To hook up with a girl?”
“If you want to put it that way. Just a moment while I look it up.”
I wait a few minutes while Ingimundur does his research.
“Here it is. The Book of Magic, as it is called, a seventeenth-century manuscript, says the following about the Terror Helmet: ‘Item, make with thy fasting saliva this sign in thy palm, when thou greetest the maid thou wouldst have. It shall be the right hand.’ Yes, it’s as I remembered. But your young man didn’t follow that formula?”
“Not so far as I know.”
“There are many more examples of ancient aphrodisiac spells, but I won’t go into that. But the Terror Helmet was regarded as a uniquely potent magical sign. Not only for such aphrodisiac effects, but also for the more general function of breaking down resistance for the sorcerer’s purposes. It might be the resistance of an evil power or an enemy, no less than the resistance of a woman he wished to enjoy. So the Terror Helmet was not simply a way to induce lust,” he continues. “It was also said to be used for medicinal purposes. I remember there was a man who claimed to have used the sign to cure disease in livestock. In fact, he wound up being burned for what they called forbidden medicine in the seventeenth century—poor fellow. These days they call it alternative medicine and rake in the cash.”
“Burned at the stake?”
“Oh, yes, burned at the stake. That’s how they used to send witches and warlocks over to the other side.” The professor titters again. “I don’t suppose it will be of any assistance in solving your present-day murder case. But…”
“Yes…?”
“It is undeniably remarkable, if that young man really believed in the potency of magic in general and the Terror Helmet in particular—a magical sign that had the paradoxical powers of inducing fear or passion or curing the sick. But he was probably just having fun, as they say.”
“He was actually due to play the lead in a production of Loftur the Sorcerer with the high school drama group.”
“I see. That could explain his interest in the old lore. Very likely. That makes more sense.”
But I’m far from sure.
Finally he inquires, “Just as a matter of interest: How did things go for the boy? With the girl?”
That afternoon, news spreads from the police station that a twenty-year-old man from Reydargerdi has been brought in for questioning in connection with the death of Skarphédinn Valgardsson. It’s Agnar Hansen.
“He denies everything,” says Ólafur Gísli. “Naturally.”
“But surely he doesn’t deny being in Akureyri or at the party?”
“No. He can’t deny that. But he denies any involvement in Skarphédinn’s disappearance and death.”
<
br /> “How did Agnar know Skarphédinn?”
“He hasn’t said anything about knowing him. He claims that he and two others heard there was a party there, at Ágústa Magnúsdóttir’s place, and simply crashed it.”
“So they just followed their noses?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“What about the other two?”
“Agnar’s still refusing to tell us who they are. Claims he’s forgotten.”
“So he’s the only one who’s been identified? As a gate-crasher at the party, I mean.”
“So far. But we’ve got some leads on the other two. We’ll be bringing them in within a few hours.”
“Are they from Reydargerdi too?”
“Yes, indeed. It’s a little clique of Agnar’s. A sort of wannabe gang.”
“Will you be taking Agnar into custody?”
“We’re working on it. We should be ready to go this evening. And not a word until then.”
“No, of course not. What does Agnar say he remembers from the party?”
“He says he sang some song for the other partygoers: Who put broken glass in the Vaseline? Or some such.”
“Who put broken glass in the Vaseline?”
“Yep. Good question, isn’t it? Who the hell put the broken glass in the Vaseline?”
We allow ourselves a brief, dry laugh.
“Is that all he says he remembers?”
“Selective amnesia, I think they call it,” quips the laughing policeman. “But he does say he got in Skarphédinn’s face. Making fun of him about that robe or dress or whatever it was he was wearing.”
“Was this after the Vaseline business?”
“Yes. And he says that’s why Skarphédinn threw them out.”
“Could he be telling the truth?”
“I don’t believe a word of it. But with luck we’ll find out more, once we put some pressure on him and his hangers-on.”
“He seems to have been rather a complicated person, this Skarphédinn Valgardsson,” I say. “I’ve been trying to put together a proper picture of him, and all I get is more and more fragments.”
“Same here.”
“What about his parents? I’ve been reluctant to contact them. It’s still too soon, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I think so. They’re grieving, and they haven’t even buried their boy yet. Apparently they didn’t have much contact recently. But it’s still a huge shock.”
“Maybe even worse because they were estranged?”
“Yes, you may well be right. They’re just a quiet middle-aged couple, who can’t grasp what happened to their son. What kind of violence led to his death.”
“What do they do?”
“He’s disabled. I don’t remember what he used to do. But they got into some kind of difficulties, ten or fifteen years ago, and lost everything. She’s a nurse. A hard worker, so I hear. And of course she’s supporting the whole family.”
“Was Skarphédinn an only child?”
“No, they have another son. Younger. About sixteen, I think.”
We don’t speak for a while.
“Can I ask a bad question?” I ask.
“Absolutely.”
“Have you looked into this Örvar Páll at all?”
“The director of the play?”
“Yes. He got into some kind of spat with Skarphédinn at the party.”
“I know. Örvar said he’d been trying to convince the cast that it was good idea to do the first performance without a hangover. So there wouldn’t be too many disasters onstage or vomiting into the audience. Understandable, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes. Have you got any witnesses that confirm he left the party at about ten, as he claims? And that he got back to his hotel shortly after that?”
“The witnesses from the party are unreliable, as you know. And at the hotel nobody noticed him in the lobby. They were very busy, with all those people who came here for the skiing and found there was no snow. He says he had his room key in his pocket, so he didn’t need to go to the reception desk. Sounds reasonable enough, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose.”
“Out with it!”
“It’s just that I found out that Skarphédinn’s and Örvar Páll’s paths had crossed before, about five years ago. Skarphédinn played the lead in a kids’ movie, Street Rider. Örvar Páll had a small part. He played a cop, actually.”
“Street Rider?” echoes Ólafur Gísli, and suddenly bursts into song: “Speeding along on his new Honda, helmet shining like fire…”
“That’s the one.”
“Tearing up the tarmac, shakin’ and wakin’ up the neighborhood…”
“My goodness, you’re quite an expert on the golden oldies.”
“I’m an expert about everything of importance. But, with all due respect, how is that relevant?”
“It probably isn’t. I spoke to the director of the movie, and he told me that the leading lady, a young girl, Inga Lína, died a few years back.”
“How did she die?”
“He didn’t remember exactly. But he thought he’d heard she’d been depressed, or got into drugs.”
“That’s not the only young life lost to those.”
“No. I’m just trying to get a handle on it. The two youngsters who starred in the movie are dead, and Örvar Páll is the only person involved in this case who knew both of them.”
“In this case, true. But the death of the young girl a few years ago is another matter. Let’s keep the two separate, shall we? I can’t see any tangible connection.”
“No, nor can I,” I mumble stubbornly.
After dangling my leg almost out of the window of my work-closet as I exhale my noxious fumes, in an effort to be a good conservationist, but even more to avoid offending Her Upstairs, I reach the conclusion that my only option at present is to wait for confirmation that Agnar Hansen is to be taken into custody. I shuffle through the papers piled on my desk and arrange my notes into some semblance of order. I come across the name of Gudmundur Ásgeirsson, economist.
He’s Gunnhildur’s grandson, the son of the late Ásdís Björk and her husband, Ásgeir Eyvindarson. For something to do, I look him up in the phone book. He isn’t listed in Akureyri, but in Reykjavík.
A small child answers.
“Hi. Is your daddy there?”
“Daddy! Daddy! Man on the phone!”
After assorted crashes and bangs as the kid drops the phone on the floor, a man’s voice says: “Gudmundur.”
“Hello. My name’s Einar. I’m a reporter for the Afternoon News in Akureyri.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I’m sorry to disturb you. And my sympathies for the loss of your mother.”
“Thank you,” he replies, surprised or wary. Or both.
“The thing is I had a phone call the other day from your grandmother, Gunnhildur.”
“Oh?” he says again.
“And, at her request, I visited her at the care home where she lives.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Um, I don’t quite know how to say this. But what she wanted to tell me was that she believed the death of her daughter, your mother, wasn’t an accident. That she was killed.”
No reply.
“I haven’t known what to make of what she told me. But I haven’t been able to put it out of my mind. So I decided to call you.”
I have the impression than he says nothing for a full thirty seconds.
“Is this an interview? Are you going to publish what I say?”
“No. I’m simply trying to get a clearer idea of what’s going on here. Or, perhaps, if anything’s going on here.”
“Look, what’s going on is that dear old gran has lost her marbles. She can’t face the truth.”
“What truth is that?”
“The truth that my mother suffered from an illness. Hypochondria.”
“What does—”
“Daddy! Daddy!” a shrill little voice calls. “I’ve gone poo!”
“Excuse me. I’ve got important work to do here,” Gudmundur babbles hurriedly. “But that’s all you need to know about my gran.”
“Do you mean Gunnhildur is a hypochondriac herself?”
“No…Not exactly. I’m not sure…”
“Daddy! Poo on the floor!”
“Sorry, I’ve got to go,” he says. “Did Gran say Dad killed Mom?”
“Well, she implied as much.”
“For goodness’ sake, take no notice of her. She’s a poor old worn-out, bereaved woman.”
“OK…”
“Ooooh,” the little voice resounds. “Poor poo.”
“Good-bye,” says the economist. “Dirty work to do.”
“Look, Daddy! I’m drawing with the poo…”
There’s dirty work, and then there’s dirty work.
In the evening I try to persuade Trausti Löve to stop the front page and redo the layout to make room for a report that a twenty-year-old man has been remanded in custody in connection with the investigation into the death of Skarphédinn Valgardsson in Akureyri. He explains to me, quite gently, that it is Saturday evening. There is no paper tomorrow.
After Friday comes Saturday, followed by Sunday. I learned that once upon a time, even before I went to high school. But it seems to have slipped my mind in the busyness of my new life, exciting personal affairs, and vibrant social life. It’s not so very long ago that weekends and days off were what I most looked forward to. Sometimes they were all I looked forward to. Now they don’t seem to matter anymore.
I start that Sunday by changing the newspaper in the bottom of Polly’s cage and giving her a cracker to peck at as a Sunday treat. Then I stand at the kitchen window for a long, long time, with a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, contemplating what to do. It still looks wintry outside, and I think I even spot the odd snowflake drifting down, just as a reminder that in these times of prosperity and optimism we’re still living in chilly old Iceland. Times may change, but place remains the same. In the neighboring gardens there are no children playing ball today. I look through the CD collection left behind by the owner—I didn’t think to bring my own music with me. There are a lot of operas and symphonies. Then I come across a CD of R.E.M. As Man on the Moon fills the room, I feel I’m home. On my own private moon:
Season of the Witch Page 16
