Season of the Witch

by Thorarinsson, Arni

  I’ve asked Ásbjörn to tell his old buddy, Chief Ólafur Gísli, what I’m doing.

  I had to call Ásbjörn on his cell phone. The landline seemed to have been unplugged.

  “Ólafur Gísli has no objection,” he says, leaning against the doorway of my closet. “He says everything we print is our responsibility anyway.”

  “Did you get the impression he thought they’d got the right guys?”

  Ásbjörn writhes against the doorpost, like a horse scratching its itchy back. His puffy face is so flushed and weary that it is almost bluish. “No, I wouldn’t say so. But it sounded as if they were beginning to talk. He wouldn’t say any more.”

  “Not at this point in time?”

  “No, not at this point in time.”

  I observe Ásbjörn. “Hey, Ásbjörn, you’re not looking too good. You almost remind me of me in the mirror on a Monday morning.”

  He shakes his sweaty, disheveled head. “That’s quite possible. Maybe I should start drinking like you used to. Maybe that would make it more bearable.”

  “What’s wrong, Ásbjörn?” I ask, standing up.

  “I think Karó’s having a breakdown,” he says in a shaky voice. “She’s a nervous wreck. She doesn’t sleep. She roams around the apartment all night, crying. Pal’s a bundle of nerves. And I can hardly get any work done. I’ve unloaded everything onto Jóa. I don’t know what I’d do without her. Probably I’d go on such a bender that I’d never come out of it.”

  I feel moved to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Won’t you tell me what’s upsetting Karó?”

  “I only wish I knew that myself. I ask her and ask her and beg her to tell me what’s wrong. But she just cries even more. Isn’t that what they call hysteria?”

  Weird idea, hysteria, I think to myself. Based on the theory that a woman’s womb can drive her mad.

  Ásbjörn shrugs his shoulders in despair.

  “Have those mysterious phone calls stopped?”

  “Yes, they’ve stopped.”

  “Do you think it’s got anything to do with them?”

  He gives me a questioning look. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You said you’d intervened. I suppose you were yanking my chain, were you?”

  “Um, yeah,” I admit shamefacedly.

  “So you don’t know anything?” he asks in an accusatory tone.

  “No, I don’t know anything. You and I are both rather square at the edges, Ásbjörn.”

  He looks at me again, even more bewildered. “Square at the edges? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Have you been unfaithful to Karó?”

  Ásbjörn flushes red. “How dare you? How could you think that?”

  Maybe because I’d have trouble being faithful to Karólína, I think to myself. Or to Ásbjörn, for that matter. But I say: “Well, it just occurred to me. And what about her? Couldn’t the state she’s in indicate that she’s been up to something herself?”

  He claps both hands to his greasy head. “I can’t believe that. We’re not like that, Karó and I.”

  “That’s what a lot of people think, without knowing.”

  “Karó is more interested in Pal than she is in men,” observes Ásbjörn tonelessly.

  “Do you really want to know what’s happening?”

  “Of course I do. This situation is intolerable.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He seems about to explode from the tension. “Yes! Goddamn it! Yes, I do!”

  “Then I’m going to find out how square at the edges my mind really is. But don’t blame me if it turns out to be wrong, or if you don’t like it. But I really shall intervene now.”

  This wheel’s on fire,

  Rolling down the road,

  Best notify my next of kin,

  This wheel shall explode!

  Julie Driscoll is on the radio, singing good old Dylan’s unsettling song.

  I take Thórunnarstræti toward the police station; so far as I can see in the rearview mirror, my wheels aren’t on fire. Not these tires, not my wheels.

  Jóa is out in front of the police station with her photography gear when I arrive. Ásbjörn had woken me at eight o’clock this morning to tell me that the Reydargerdi Three would be released within the next few hours. “All Ólafur Gisli would say was that they didn’t think it would serve the interests of the investigation to hold them any longer.”

  “But the custody order is still valid for another few days?”

  “Yes, but that’s all he said.”

  “Have you seen them yet?” I ask as I get out of the car. The temperature has risen. The morning air is humid, and a veil of mist curls at the foot of Mount Hlídarfjall. “Have they been released?”

  “No,” she replies. “Not yet. I hear they’ll be out in the next few minutes.” Wrinkling her nose, she asks: “Am I really supposed to take a photo of them when they’re released? Is that the kind of picture we’re publishing now?”

  “Yes,” I reply without enthusiasm. “We published their names when they were arrested, although I’m certainly not happy about that. But under the circumstances, we really have to report the fact that they’re being released.”

  “But with pics?”

  “There was a photo of Agnar with the report on the disturbances in Reydargerdi, and we published his name when the arrests were made. It’s old news, really.”

  “But what if they don’t want their photo taken?”

  I shrug. “Well…”

  “Or if they conceal their faces?”

  “There’s not much we can do about that. But I don’t really think these guys are likely to shun the limelight. Let’s see what happens.”

  Fifteen minutes later the doors of the police station open, and three young men emerge.

  Agnar Hansen is in the lead, wearing brown leather pants, a blue denim jacket, and a black T-shirt with the legend Born To Be Wild. His long blond hair is not in a ponytail this time, but sticking out in all directions. With a laugh he comments to his companions, whom I have not seen before: “Fucking assholes. We’ll get them.”

  Catching sight of Jóa and me, he stops dead in his tracks, and the other two crash into his shoulders, one on either side. Ivo Batorac is the darker of the two, wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black leather jacket. He is short in the leg, chunky, with a shaven head and earrings, a scarred, flat face like a pancake, and big, bluish hands with fingers like sausages.

  Gardar Jónsson looks a little older than the other two, twenty-five perhaps. His face is lopsided, and his lanky frame is graceless. He has no coat on, and with his blue jeans he wears a white T-shirt with black lettering: White Power! He too has a shaven head.

  “Well, well! If it isn’t the paparazzi,” sneers Agnar, revealing his long, yellow teeth.

  “Nice of you to turn up.”

  “Morning, Agnar,” I say. “Can we do a short interview with you and take a photo?”

  Agnar Hansen walks slowly over to us, his two sidekicks close behind. The sneer is still on his battered face, and his stance is intimidating.

  “What do you think, guys?” he asks his sidekicks. “Shall we kick the shit out of them or talk to them?”

  “Let’s kill them,” replies Batorac, his voice heavily accented.

  “Surely not?” I observe. “Not when you’ve just been released from jail? You’d find yourself behind bars again in no time. And you might not get out again so quickly.”

  Agnar walks right up to me so the silver tips of his boots touch the toes of my worn shoes.

  He stares coldly into my eyes.

  “I will say, on the record,” he articulates into my face with a blast of foul breath, “that the Akureyri police are a gang of stupid idiots…”

  “Isn’t that a redundancy?” remarks Jóa. She doesn’t generally get involved in my conversations with interviewees, but the scorn in her face is obvious even to Agnar.

  H
e goes up to Jóa and adopts the same threatening pose, right in her face. He must have learned it from watching American movies about bad boys in the hood. “Redun-what? What are you? A she-male? Or just a typical frigid bull dyke?”

  Jóa isn’t intimidated. She’s stronger and more muscular than he is. “How could I be both frigid and a typical bull dyke?”

  Agnar grimaces horribly, but can’t think of a comeback.

  “And,” adds Jóa, “it would be enough to make anyone frigid to smell your stinking breath. Don’t they have toothbrushes at the police station?”

  This is getting out of hand, I think and approach Agnar with a big smile on my face. “Now, now, Jóa. The boys have been held in isolation. Hey, Agnar, wouldn’t you like to say a few words about your arrest and your release?”

  The tension drops for a moment. He walks over to his companions, stands between them with his arms round their shoulders.

  “OK, take a photo of us, bull dyke. And you, motherfucker,” he remarks to me, “you can write under the photo that the Akureyri police are way out of line, bullying innocent outsiders who were just in Akureyri for some fun. We haven’t done anything wrong. We have never done anything wrong.” He claps his friends on the back with a laugh. They respond with guffaws of laughter, as if on command, as Jóa snaps a photo.

  “Well, guys,” says Agnar. “Let’s celebrate. Have a snort and then find something to fuck.”

  Sniggering, they make their way to a brand-new black Honda. I recognize it. I saw Agnar cruising downtown in that car on the fateful night before Holy Thursday.

  “Speeding along on his new Honda…,” as the theme song of Street Rider said.

  Gardar Jónsson takes his place at the wheel, Batorac in the passenger seat, and Agnar in the back, like a VIP with his chauffeur and bodyguard. As they drive past us, Agnar rolls down his window and shouts: “I’ve always wanted to rape a fucking bull dyke. See you later!”

  Jóa and I exchange a look. I’m stunned, but she simply shakes her head.

  There’s a vague uneasiness in my gut as I drive down Oddeyrargata into the town center, past the library, and turn left onto a short street named Hólabraut. This is where Skarphédinn lived. Rattling around in my mind is the little I know about the case, and I am constantly discovering how much I don’t know. I park my car and look up at the three-story white concrete building. This was his home. So?

  After a few minutes’ indecision I take out my phone, ring directory assistance, and ask for the phone number of Skarphédinn Valgardsson in Akureyri. A landline number is recited in my ear. I call it.

  No reply.

  What did I expect? Did I think he would pick up the phone and say: Skarphédinn?

  Perhaps I was hoping someone was in the apartment. Or maybe an answering machine would share some clue with me. At least the phone hasn’t been cut off. I get out of the car and walk over to the building. It’s a stately building, well-maintained. The uppermost doorbell is marked 3rd floor and attic, Skarphédinn.

  Just for the hell of it, I press the doorbell. There’s no response, of course. I’m about to head back to the car when something else occurs to me. I ring the doorbell for the first floor. No answer. I try the second-floor bell. After a short wait, the entry phone crackles and a young girl’s voice speaks.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello. My name’s Einar. Is your mom home?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “Nope.”

  Not much of a talker, this one. “Um…”

  “They’re both at work.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “ösp.”

  “That’s a nice name.”

  “Nope, it stinks.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twelve.”

  “I knew Skarphédinn, on the floor above you…”

  “He’s dead,” the girl says.

  “I know. Did you know him?”

  “Nope.”

  “So…”

  “Well, he used to give me candy sometimes.”

  “So he was nice to you, was he?”

  “He was all right.”

  “Did your parents know him well?”

  “Dad couldn’t stand him.”

  “Really? Why was that?” I ask her, feeling that this entry-phone conversation is getting a bit long—and weird. But I daren’t ask the girl to let me into the building. The way things are today, God knows what deviant urges I could be accused of.

  “Cos Mom thought he was cute.”

  I think about that for a moment. “And what did you think of him?”

  “He was OK. Rúnar’s much hotter.”

  “So you know Rúnar?”

  “He’s going to move into Skarphédinn’s place.”

  “Is he indeed?”

  “Yeah. I’m not going to talk to you anymore.”

  A click and a crackling on the entry phone tell me she’s gone.

  “I hope Ragna was nice to you?” asks Gunnhildur when I call her at the care home.

  “She was fine. Very pleasant,” I say as I count the cracks in the wall outside the window of my closet.

  “Did she make pancakes for you?”

  “She most certainly did.”

  Gunnhildur sighs on the phone. “What a life, my boy. I can’t even make pancakes for my visitors. What kind of a life is that?”

  “But isn’t it a relief? Being free of all that stuff?”

  “Let me tell you, I used to make much better pancakes than Ragna’s.” She falls silent, and her thought fades away as she adds, “Used to.”

  “Gunnhildur,” I say. “Who was your daughter’s doctor?”

  “Why on earth do you want to know that?”

  “Well, I thought I’d ask him about her health.”

  “Health? Ásdís Björk was in excellent health. She was fit as a fiddle. Until Ásgeir murdered her, in…”

  “What’s the doctor’s name?” I interject.

  “It’s that Karl.”

  “Karl who?”

  “Karl Hjartarson. They’ve known each other since high school.”

  I thank her and say good-bye, before she can start grilling me about the progress of my investigation into her daughter’s death.

  Then I look Dr. Karl Hjartarson up in the phone book. My finger is raised, ready to dial, when the phone rings.

  “Good work!” remarks Trausti Löve curtly.

  “Thanks very much.”

  “What about the question?”

  “It’s looking for the answer,” I reply, just to say something.

  “I’ve had it up to here with your clowning around. What…”

  “Why don’t you just spit it out?” I ask. I’ve no idea what he’s talking about.

  “What about the Question of the Day?”

  Oh, that.

  “It was supposed to be in today’s paper, buddy. Is it really so difficult for you to remember?”

  “Talk to Hannes about it,” I reply. “I’m focusing on the Skarphédinn case, with his permission.”

  “You should still be able to find fifteen minutes for the Question of the Day. It’s not as if your investigation into Skarphédinn’s case is giving us daily scoops. I’m beginning to think you must have fallen off the wagon. Gone on a binge.”

  For some reason, I find myself engulfed with rage.

  “Think what the hell you like. I don’t care. You’re an expert in misinterpretation, whether you’re drunk on your vintage wines or stone-cold sober.”

  “Tut, tut,” remarks Trausti. “You’re obviously getting a bit tense, buddy. Isn’t that usually a sign that someone’s fallen off the wagon, or is about to?”

  “You’ll get a piece for tomorrow’s paper about the Reydargerdi gang who were released this morning. And a pic. So you can shove it…” I get a grip. “And next week I’ll remember to send in the answers to the Question of the Day from Akureyri. The Question is: Who’s Iceland’s sexiest moron? Good-bye
!”

  “I can’t talk to the press about a patient,” protests Dr. Karl Hjartarson when he returns my call two hours later.

  “But Ásdís Björk Gudmundsdóttir isn’t your patient anymore,” I point out. “She’s deceased.”

  “That makes no difference. I won’t answer any questions about her.” He stops. “Not without permission from the family.”

  “What family? Would her mother, Gunnhildur Bjargmundsdóttir, be able to grant permission?”

  He thinks about it. “No, I’m sure the permission of her husband and son would be required.”

  I make one more attempt.

  “Her son told me she was ill. That she had hypochondria.”

  “I can’t confirm or deny that. What does it matter, anyway? Why is the press interested?”

  “Well, Gunnhildur got in touch with me. She told me she believed her daughter had been killed.”

  After a pause, the doctor responds: “That would be a matter for the police, surely. But I gather they have no such suspicions. Do you know what hypochondria is?”

  “It’s when you imagine you’re ill, isn’t it?”

  Karl Hjartarson loudly clears his throat, but says nothing.

  “Are you implying that it’s her mother, Gunnhildur, who’s a hypochondriac?”

  “I’m not implying anything of that nature.”

  “Is hypochondria an illness that runs in families?”

  “I’m not implying anything like that, either.”

  “So what are you implying?”

  “I won’t say anything. Not unless Ásdís Björk’s husband gives his permission.”

  And that’s that.

  The Internet, fortunately enough, is more willing than Dr. Karl Hjartarson to divulge its secrets.

  A person with hypochondria is obsessed with thoughts and worries about his/her health, according to an article by an American doctor. A diagnosis of hypochondria can be made if a person has been convinced for a continuous period of at least six months that he/she is suffering from a serious disease, in spite of being assured by a doctor, or even many doctors, that this is not so. The prevalence of hypochondria is equal among men and women, and it is found in all social groups and people of all ages.