“Do you mean the Akureyri police are investigating Agnar Hansen and his gang for political motives?”
“No, I’m not suggesting anything myself. And the police don’t get into politics. I just heard a rumor that people think it’s likely that the political opponents of the bosses here in Reydargerdi are exploiting the opportunity to cast suspicion on those young men.”
“Why on earth would they do that?”
“To muddy the waters about the alleged disorder and strife that’s taking place here as a result of the industrial development. Could be convenient now, just before the election.”
“It sounds far-fetched to me,” I say.
“Perhaps. But why have they picked on those kids while the rest of the people at the party get off scot-free?”
“Because they were gate-crashers and made trouble?” I ask.
“Or because one of them is the son of the head of the town council and one a foreigner, to boot?” retorts Höskuldur.
But none of that gets into my rather threadbare piece for the Monday edition on the progress of the Skarphédinn investigation. My article concludes:
Skarphédinn’s funeral will take place today at
Akureyri Church.
“Bullshit,” says Trausti Löve. “It’s just the same old bullshit.”
“I’m just saying what the chief of police at Reydargerdi told me last night,” I object, sitting in my closet, shortly before midday.
“And the guy is Ásgrímur Pétursson’s brother,” Trausti irritably snaps. “It’s a desperate attempt to distract the public and the media from the real issue. Political conspiracies, my ass! Now do you see why it was so important to cover events in Reydargerdi properly?”
“There’s every chance you may have been right there.”
“Every chance? You should have the grace to admit I was right, without reservation, buddy. I was man enough to own up to my mistake the other day, about the Question of the Day…”
“Only because you were forced to.”
“…and you should be man enough to do the same about Reydargerdi.”
So it’s back to the old tug-of-war. “All right,” I say. “You were right. But I warn you, the Afternoon News had better not make a big splash about this Reydargerdi gang, Agnar Hansen and his buddies, being guilty. They haven’t made any admissions, and there’s no proof they did anything at all. All the police have got is that they were there, at that party, for part of the evening—like plenty of other people. We can’t jump to conclusions—it’ll come back to bite us.”
“We’ve got to report what happens. All three of them are in custody, aren’t they?”
“Yes, two of them were picked up this morning. But they can only hold them for four days.”
“Then you have to provide more information about these guys in tomorrow’s paper.”
“Are we supposed to publish the names and personal details of people who haven’t been convicted of anything?”
“I say again: we report what happens. The guys are in custody. No one else. We should say who they are.”
I don’t like this. “Surely you’re not expecting me to identify Agnar Hansen by pointing out who his dad is?”
“Of course I am. Jóhann Hansen’s a public figure. Our readers have a right to know about the relationship.”
“But Jóhann’s not a public figure in this specific case. He’s head of the town council in Reydargerdi, who happens to be the father of the young man who’s in custody here in Akureyri. Do I have to spell it out to you, as news editor?”
“No need to spell anything out to me, buddy,” rages Trausti. “Just do what I tell you.”
“No, I won’t,” I firmly reply. “If we do that, we’re only going to encourage the idea—even confirm it—that someone’s trying to make political capital out of a completely unrelated matter. And it’s a serious matter. A murder investigation. Are you completely off your goddamned head again, Trausti?”
“Just do it. For days on end you’ve been doing your own thing, snooping around Skarphédinn’s background and character, without producing a single bit of copy. Not one line.”
“It’s a complex case.”
“What isn’t complex, so even you ought to be able to understand it, is that our readers have a right to information about a case that’s on everybody’s mind and everybody’s lips. And that’s that. So fuck you!”
I must admit, I’m beginning to feel like a little kid who’s always running to Daddy to tell tales on his big brother. “Hannes,” I say, after having explained the situation, “Trausti’s way off base, again. And I won’t do as he says.”
“My dear Einar,” pronounces the editor.
This doesn’t look good.
“My dear Einar, you must see the bigger picture here. The young men are in custody because they’re suspected of being involved in this case. And the fact that they’re being held has led to some political strain in Reydargerdi. The Afternoon News had nothing to do with that. Surely we have an obligation to report on it?”
“I’m not at all sure that it’s led to any political strain in Reydargerdi. It may just be some personal speculation by a few individuals, perhaps just one or two. Isn’t it likely that someone’s got their own agenda? That they’re trying to lead the paper into a political trap? To make these kids into political martyrs? And confuse the readers? Shouldn’t we stick to the facts of the case instead of repeating rumors and inventions from people who have nothing to do with the case?”
“Rumors and inventions can be worth reporting too, sir.”
I decide to change my tactics: “If you had a son, Hannes, or if Trausti Löve had a son—God forbid—and if that son were to be arrested in connection with a major criminal case, would you regard it as normal and correct for other media, or even the Afternoon News itself, to publish his name and add that he was the son of the editor or news editor of this paper—which is completely irrelevant? Do you find that a comfortable prospect?”
He doesn’t seem to need any time to think it over: “Facts are facts, whether or not we find them comfortable. It isn’t our job to sort out the comfortable ones from the others, which aren’t. This is an ugly world, Einar. Do you think we should be prettying it up?”
“So you’re on the side of the idiotic news editor?” I ask, disappointed and annoyed.
“I agree with him in principle,” Hannes replies. “But the principle can’t always be applied in exactly the same way.”
“What on earth is that supposed to mean?”
“Just this, sir. If we can get hold of the names of the three men, we should publish them. If we can find some Reydargerdi people who are willing to be named saying that there’s a nasty political smell about the case—and preferably more than just two of them—then we should publish what they say.”
I think about his arguments for a moment.
“I had a phone call last night,” the editor says, interrupting my chain of thought. “From someone called Ásgeir Eyvindarson. You know the name, I take it?”
“Oh, yes,” I reply. I tell Hannes about my side of my conversation with Ásgeir and why he had called me.
“The man was seething with rage. I told him you were a journalist who wouldn’t be tempted into libel nor sensationalism and that threats would not impress you. Nor the Afternoon News.”
“And?”
“He was a little less agitated by the end of our call.”
“I find it very strange,” I remark, “that both he and that Reydargerdi crowd blame political persecution. What nonsense is that?”
“Well, isn’t it always the way? People who find themselves in a position of weakness—often due to their own mistakes—will claim they’re being victimized. Either personally or politically. It’s human nature to blame others for our own misfortunes.”
“All right. But what about this Reydargerdi nonsense? Isn’t that exactly what you were talking about? What am I supposed to do about that?”
“I’
ve told you where I stand, sir.”
“Trausti seems to have the IQ of a radish. He dismisses the political allegations as bullshit, to quote his exact words. But we’re still supposed to report on them. So are we meant to publish what we know is bullshit?”
“We can’t tell,” replies Hannes. “We should simply report on what people think, whether or not we personally think it’s bullshit.”
“I’m having serious doubts, Hannes, about whether I belong on this paper anymore.”
“Perhaps your doubts are, in the end, a matter of whether we belong in this society anymore. I sometimes have doubts about it myself, sir. Even serious doubts. But we can’t pretend it’s not happening. Then where would we be?”
The elegant church on its hilltop site above the town center is crammed with people by the time I arrive, ten minutes late, for Skarphédinn’s funeral. I scuttle out onto the steps and wander back and forth for a while in the chilly wind before giving up and strolling down the hill into the arty Listagil district. I go into a café, and for half an hour or so I think things through over a cappuccino, then take my phone out of my pocket and make four calls. The first is to the Akureyri police station: I am informed that the names of the three men in custody will not be released to the press.
Good.
The other calls are to Reydargerdi: to the police station, the hotel, and the Reydin bar. Nobody is willing to be quoted about political overtones to the case.
Good.
What is not quite so good is that I get the three names from the innkeeper and from Elín, the bartender at Reydin. And Chief Höskuldur confirms that information—but off the record: Agnar Hansen, Gardar Jónsson, and Ivo Batorac, who is of Croatian origin.
What the hell am I going to do with these names?
I can’t just sit there. I climb the hill back up to the church and hang around for five minutes until the doors open. The pall-bearers are six young people—three boys, three girls. I recognize one of them—Ágústa Magnúsdóttir, chair of the drama group, deathly pale and stony-faced. The others must also be schoolmates of the dead boy. Maybe one of them is Fridrik. Following the coffin out of the church is a stricken trio—a middle-aged couple with a teenage boy. The man is gaunt-faced and emaciated, wearing a suit that is far too big for him, with a white shirt and black tie. His thick dark hair, swept back in a wave from his face, is graying at the temples. His shaven face shows dark stubble, and dark glasses are perched on his straight nose. The woman, tall and sturdily built, is wearing a black coat. Her oval face is thickly coated in makeup and painted with a red slash of a mouth, like on a mask. Wearing black high-heeled shoes, she seems unsteady on her feet, or perhaps she’s simply unaccustomed to heels. The boy has long hair and heavy brows like his brother, but he is not as tall. On his handsome face are round glasses. He appears uncomfortable, walking awkwardly alongside his parents with his head bent. No doubt he would rather be anywhere else than here.
As the coffin is placed in the hearse, I observe the mourners leave the church.
Jóa is here with her camera, taking photos of the procession. I was reluctantly permitted to take her out of the office, where she has been hard at work doing Ásbjörn’s job for him.
The whole high school appears to be here, plus half the town. Skarphédinn was clearly a popular young man.
But are those responsible for his death safely behind bars?
Or are they here—right here—to see him off?
I recognize some faces in the crowd.
Here’s the principal of the high school.
Örvar Páll sees me, but pretends not to.
Kjartan Arnarson nods gravely to me.
I manage to have a word with him before he disappears out into the cold. I ask if there will be a funeral reception.
“Yes, the school’s holding a reception in Kvosin.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s the assembly hall in the Hólar building.”
The rituals we’ve developed to deal with death have always been hard for me to grasp. Funerals, eulogies, obituaries, fine. Showing the deceased respect and dignity—deserved or undeserved—at the final hour. But the wake? Doesn’t the compulsion to see the dead person lying in a coffin betray some kind of guilty conscience? Or masochism? Doesn’t it imply a lack of imagination? Surely it should be enough for us to say our farewell in our minds? Think about the person, thank him or her for happy times—or even not so happy ones? I just don’t know. But what I do know is that I have never met anyone who found it good, or helpful, to go to a wake. And no one asked the dead guy.
Funeral receptions are much the same. Unlike the wake, the reception’s a public event, a sort of celebration of the deceased. The bereaved have to pretend they’re coping, thank the guests for their sympathy, chat about their dead relative, how they’re doing, and generally share. Then coffee is drunk, cakes and sandwiches are devoured, and every single person is desperate to make their escape.
I just don’t know. But what I do know is that funeral receptions make me feel as if I’m stuck in the coffin with the dead person and everyone he or she ever knew in life. There’s not much room to breathe in there.
I hover restlessly at the edge of the spacious assembly hall. What am I doing here, anyway? I’m a gate-crasher. I didn’t know the guy at all. But I’m striving to write about him and his demise. That’s probably what I’m doing here.
I’m very far from happy with it.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice Skarphédinn’s brother, who is standing away from the crowd. Next to him, Ágústa from the drama group is bending his ear. He seems distracted or uninterested in what she is saying. In among the guests his father sits like an insensate object, all alone, white as a sheet, staring into space, or possibly asleep. He’s still wearing the dark glasses, so it’s hard to tell. His wife is close by, surrounded by guests and trying to take part in the conversation. Then she leaves her guests, goes over to her husband, and whispers in his ear. There is no reaction. I’m wondering if I should seize the opportunity to try to speak to her. But there’s something in her weary yet stony expression that deters me.
I’m about to leave when a young man walks past who seems as uncomfortable as me. Skarphédinn’s brother strides off in the direction of the toilets. I follow, and before I know it we’re standing side by side at the urinals.
Today’s Morning News devoted nearly a whole double-page spread to obituaries in praise of his brother’s manifold talents and virtues. From them I gleaned the information that the younger brother’s name is Rúnar, and he’s a high school student too. Since he’s sixteen, he’s presumably in his first year.
I glance over at him, desperately trying to give the impression that I’m not just pretending I have to pee. He stands there in his black suit, white shirt, and black tie, head bent, absorbed. I think of running water. Nothing happens. I think of billowing, gushing waterfalls. Still nothing. I think about the Jökulsá River. A trickle.
Thank you, God.
He’s drying his hands as I walk over to the sinks.
I automatically offer my hand as I say: “Sorry, Rúnar. I just wanted to…” Then I realize what I’m doing and pull my hand away. “Sorry,” I say again. “Better wash first.”
He can’t help smiling as he finishes drying his hands. Then he hovers awkwardly by the sinks as I wash and dry my hands.
I offer my hand once more. “I’m sorry for your loss. I only knew your brother slightly. I just met him once, in fact. But he made an impression on me. My name’s Einar. I’m with the Afternoon News.”
We shake hands, moistly.
Initially Rúnar says nothing, but observes me from under his heavy brows. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
“I interviewed Skarphédinn over at Hólar, at few days before he died. About the production of Loftur the Sorcerer.”
He says nothing, heads for the door.
I follow. When we get into the corridor I summon the courage to say: “As I’m s
ure you’re aware, your brother’s death has made him a public figure, because it’s the subject of a criminal investigation.”
He stops dead, staring down at the floor.
I have the impression he’s about to speak. I wait a moment.
“Skarphédinn was determined to become what you call a public figure,” he slowly says.
I nod. “But not like this?”
To some extent Rúnar strikes me as a typical insecure teenager in pain. But in other ways he gives the impression of being mature beyond his sixteen years.
“I’ve been assigned to find out about your brother and write an article about him and his life,” I quietly tell him. “I’ve talked to various people who knew him. But I must admit I haven’t managed to put together a full picture of him.”
Rúnar looks toward the assembly hall.
“Until now, I haven’t felt I should approach your family. And really I feel it’s inappropriate to be ambushing you here. But would you mind meeting me? We can just talk. I won’t quote you, if that’s what you prefer. But I need some reliable information.”
Head bent, he makes no response for a while. Then he says: “All right. But don’t call me at home.”
I make a note of his cell phone number, and promise not to get in touch for a few days. Then he returns to the assembly hall, to try to survive his brother’s funeral reception.
____
AKUREYRI CASE—THREE IN CUSTODY
Three young men, all residents of Reydargerdi, have been placed in police custody in connection with the investigation into the death of high school student Skarphédinn Valgardsson in Akureyri…
That is how I start my article. My conscience is not at ease when I conclude the piece by giving the names of the three young men. I state in my article that their involvement in the case remains unclear and that the period of custody is short. My conscience isn’t clear, but it could be worse. Not a word about political spin.
In order to ensure that my piece gets into print in that form, without any artful editing or editorializing by Trausti Löve, I call Hannes and ask him to keep an eye out. He gives me his word. He also gives me permission to continue to focus on my article about the dead boy.
Season of the Witch Page 18
