According to another reference: A patient with a headache, stomachache, dizziness, or fatigue may misinterpret, or over-interpret, those symptoms as indications of a far more serious illness than is actually the case. To the patient, a headache may be a sign of a brain tumor, not simple stress or migraine. Chest pain means a heart attack, not stiff muscles. And any discomfort is seen as another confirmation of life-threatening cancer.
An article in a British medical journal states that risk factors for hypochondria include mental conditions such as depression, anxiety, and personality disorder, as well as childhood physical, sexual, or emotional abuse and, last but not least: a family history of hypochondria.
Hypochondriacs, I learn, may consult doctors over and over again—sometimes even several times in one day—and undergo repeated tests of the same symptoms, seeking medical confirmation of their fears by consulting more and more specialists. In some cases, unscrupulous people will exploit the hypochondriac’s fears for profit. The patient tends to become withdrawn—which is consistent with what Ragna told me about Ásdís Björk’s behavior toward the end of her life.
Hypochondria, apparently, is curable. But it’s a long process and not always successful. Medication can be helpful, especially antidepressants. And cognitive behavioral therapy is sometime effective. Many specialists in the field are of the view that the condition of the hypochondriac, and the obsessive thinking, are an unconscious response to stress factors.
It’s all very interesting. I’ve learned something about hypochondria. But I know absolutely nothing about Ásdís Björk’s medical condition. And I have even less idea where to go or what to do now. The Internet is no help there.
I have the impression that Chief Ólafur Gísli is in much the same position.
“The stupid little dimwits were at least clever enough to deny, deny, and deny everything,” he says when we speak on the phone in the evening. “They’d obviously agreed among themselves to get their story straight and stick to it. They say they were thrown out of the party and then went drinking in town. They don’t remember where.”
“But don’t you think at least one of them would have broken down under questioning, if they were involved in Skarphédinn’s death? That Gardar Jónsson looks pretty ineffectual to me.”
“Gardar? Totally brain-dead.”
“But why didn’t you hold onto them until the custody order expired? You had a few more days, didn’t you?”
“Yes, we did. The main reason we released them was that a witness came forward yesterday evening saying he’d been with the little idiots from about 3:00 a.m. on Holy Thursday until about eight that morning.”
“Who’s the witness?”
“Our old friend, Fridrik Einarsson.”
“Well, well. He must have pulled all the stops out to manage to remember what he said he’d forgotten.”
“True. He says he remembers bumping into the Three Stooges somewhere downtown, after he left the party. He says he got into their car and invited them back to his place to carry on partying. They had plenty of booze, he said.”
“But why do you believe him? Fridrik struck me as a twerp and a tweaker.”
“I quite agree. The problem is that he still lives at home with his parents, and his mom, who’s eaten up with worries about her little darling, hangs around at the kitchen window until he comes home.”
“And she corroborates his story, does she?”
“That’s not all. She didn’t get a wink of sleep all night because of her worries and also because of the noise they were making in the basement, with music blaring at full volume. About eight o’clock she woke her husband up, and he went rampaging down to the basement and threw the idiots out. They were pretty much wasted.”
“And he corroborates the story?”
“Yes. It was the parents who made Fridrik come forward. And that left us with nothing to use against the Three Stooges.”
“Did they say anything about what went on between them and Skarphédinn that night?”
“Only that he insulted them at the party. Made racial slurs against the Croatian boy.”
“That’s odd. I’ve never heard anything to indicate that Skarphédinn was a racist. He seems to have been an old-style nationalist. A patriot. But racism? That strikes me as highly unlikely. He was far too mature and intelligent for all that nonsense. And Gardar Jónsson himself was wearing a White Power! T-shirt this morning. What little I thought I got, I really don’t get.”
“You’re not the only one.”
“But what’s their motive supposed to be? Why would they want to kill Skarphédinn?”
“Idiots like that don’t need a motive. They’re completely out of touch with reality. They think they’re living in an American crime movie. And if they’re drunk or high, there’s even less need for a motive. We see it a lot. In the past, the present. Here, there, and everywhere.”
“Do you know whether they’re involved in distributing or peddling dope or debt-collecting?”
“We have reason to believe they are. But there’s no solid proof. Our witnesses, who are their clients, of course, somehow develop amnesia. They won’t testify. Or are afraid to.”
“So what’s next?”
“Next we’re going to go back over all the evidence. Trawl through everything yet again.”
____
As I’m turning off my computer to head for home and Polly, I notice a photograph in the pile of stuff on my desk. It’s an enlargement Jóa has made for me. As I emerge onto the landing, I hear Karó shrieking upstairs and Ásbjörn’s soothing responses. I decide that the next step in the case can wait until tomorrow.
The photograph of a young girl and a middle-aged woman is added to the large collection of unanswered Questions of the Day in Akureyri.
“Oh my God!”
Ásbjörn drops the photo I show him on my desk and seizes his puffy face in both hands.
I say nothing.
“Oh my God!”
I continue to say nothing.
He picks the photo up again in trembling hands and gazes at it, transfixed.
“Do you know the woman?” I ask.
Ásbjörn is standing in my closet-office, unable to tear his eyes away from the photo of Björg, intrepid savior of Pal, with her mom, Gudrún. The photo’s a bit blurry. Jóa used her magic tricks to enlarge it from a photo she took of Björg and Pal in front of the piano where framed photographs were displayed. But the pic is obviously clear enough to Ásbjörn.
Clutching the photo, he sways. I stand up from my desk chair.
“Have a seat, Ásbjörn, before you pass out.”
He collapses into my chair.
“Who’s the woman?” I ask after a lengthy silence.
Ásbjörn looks up. His forehead is pouring with sweat, and his eyes are brimming with tears. “It’s Gudrún,” he groans. “Gudrún.”
“But you knew Björg’s last name was Gudrúnardóttir, so her mother’s name was obviously Gudrún.”
“But I didn’t make the connection. I’d forgotten…”
I wait. He clasps his hands together and looks down. “We were together for a little while here in Akureyri. Shortly before we graduated from high school.”
“And?”
“We just went our separate ways. I moved down south to Reykjavík to work as a journalist on the People’s Press—as you know. She got a place at some university abroad to study architecture. I never heard from her again.”
I wait.
He shakes his head, downcast.
“You do realize, don’t you,” I remark, “that based on Björg’s age you could be her father?”
He says nothing. I hear a quiet barking in the reception area. Maybe Pal isn’t Ásbjörn’s only baby.
“You could be. But it’s not necessarily so.”
“But why didn’t Gudrún tell me?” Ásbjörn sighs. “Why did she never get in touch?”
“I’ve got no answer to that. But the two of you obviously need to make contact no
w.”
“Do you think that the mysterious phone calls, and the way Pal…”
“What about it?” we suddenly hear from the doorway.
We spin around. Karólína is staring hard at Ásbjörn, who sits hunched, still holding tight to the photograph.
“Karó dear,” falters Ásbjörn.
She walks over to her husband and gives him a searching look. Then she spots the photo and snatches it away from him.
“What on earth…?” she exclaims. Then the blood drains from her face. “That woman…”
Ásbjörn gets shakily to his feet.
“What woman?” asks the husband.
“It’s the woman who asked me for directions, up by the church, while Pal was running about in the grass. Before he vanished.”
Ásbjörn and I exchange a look.
“Ásbjörn Grímsson,” says Karólína, who is now trembling as much as he is. “Who is that woman?”
Before Ásbjörn Grímsson answers her question, I feel it wise to withdraw from the scene.
As I stroll down the near-deserted street toward the Bautinn Grill, I consider my next move…The road seems to be long, with many a winding turn…
The investigation into the death of Skarphédinn—my inquiries and the police work—seems to be getting nowhere. And what about the death of Ásdís Björk?
At Bautinn I sit down at a table and order a coffee and a phone book.
Once I’ve looked up the Yumm candy factory and made a note of the number, I light a cigarette. I’m instantly informed that this is a nonsmoking zone. I finish my coffee and flee the scene. I feel like a refugee from my own life. As I stand outside on the corner, I’m seized by an overwhelming need for readmission. So overwhelming is the feeling that I crumple the damned cigarette pack and stuff it into the nearest trash can.
While I make my call, I perch on the low stone wall below Hotel KEA. I ask for Ragna Ármannsdóttir.
“Yes, hello. How are you today?” she warmly greets me.
“Can I ask you something about that wilderness tour? Going on what you told me about Ásdís Björk not being around much recently, wasn’t it unusual for her to go along on that sort of trip or attend the company dinner?”
“Yes, it was. I don’t remember seeing her on any of the company jaunts for at least three years.”
“And how did she seem? Was she her usual self?”
“Not like she used to be. Back then she was lively and cheerful. But she’d become quite withdrawn, hardly said a word anymore.”
“Did she seem to be drunk or anything like that?”
“It’s hard to say. We were in the same vehicle, but she sat at the back with Ásgeir. She was wearing sunglasses. She didn’t speak.”
“Did she take part in the cliff-jumping or water sports and whatever?”
“No. But she got out of the SUV and watched. And I did get the impression she was walking very slowly and with difficulty. I thought she must be ill. But then she went on the white-water rafting with us. It was so unexpected that we all gave her a round of applause. And Ásgeir gave her a kiss and…”
She falls silent. I think she’s on the brink of tears. I reach into my pocket for my cigarettes.
“I’m sorry,” I say as my hand comes up empty. “I shouldn’t have asked you to go over it again.”
She’s regaining control. “It’s all right. It just happened. There’s nothing to be done about it.”
“Did Ásgeir seem to be pressuring her to join in?” I venture to ask her.
“I don’t know. They were sitting at the back of the SUV, and they were talking before they got out. That’s all I know.”
“Um,” I mumble as I stride across the street to the trash can. “Is Ásgeir in today?”
“Yes, he is. Do you want to speak to him?”
I reach down into the bin. “Hmm, I’m not sure.”
“I’ll put you through to his receptionist again. I’d better not put you through to him myself. I don’t want him finding out…”
The damned cigarette pack is a long way down. “No, I see. I’ll call again. In a little while.”
I thank her and abandon the idea of retrieving the cigarettes. As I withdraw my hand, a hundred-krónur coin is pressed into my palm. A well-dressed elderly lady smiles at me as she passes, with an expression that combines pity and encouragement.
“No, excuse me, madam, there’s no need!” I call after her.
Too late. She waves a gloved hand, without looking back.
I head for the nearest store to buy another pack of cigarettes. I never claimed to be perfect, did I?
In the industrial district north of Glerárgata is the Yumm candy factory, an uninspiring white-painted two-story building in the low-key style-less style so beloved of Icelandic builders. Build fast. Build cheap. And start cashing in.
I sit in my car in the parking lot, guiltily smoking and counting the minutes until half past three.
Surprisingly, Ásgeir Eyvindarson has agreed to meet me during his coffee break.
It was, admittedly, not quite that simple. I’d called his son, Gudmundur, and assured him yet again that it had never been my intention to make a fuss about his mother’s tragic death. But, I told him, her history of hypochondria had got me interested. And the Afternoon News too. People in Iceland didn’t know much about the condition, and I wanted to find out more about it. The question was would he or his father be willing to talk to me about the experience of a family member of a hypochondriac—in order to inform the public about the disease? He said he would talk to his father about it, and shortly afterward he called back and said Ásgeir was prepared to meet me for half an hour.
The Yumm offices are on the upper floor of the building and the factory on the ground floor. A sweetly mouthwatering chocolate fragrance wafts around the entrance and stairs. The reception desk is piled with samples of the company’s wares: chocolate bars and chocolate cookies, crème-filled confections, bags of hard candies, liquorice, and a multicolored array of gummy shapes.
There is no receptionist at the desk, and three offices stand with open doors, apparently deserted.
I knock on the reception desk. “Hello! Einar here!”
“Come on in. I’m in the end office,” I hear from beyond. I follow the direction of the voice.
At the eastern end of the building is a large, bright office with a stunning view of the fjord and the mountains. Ásgeir Eyvindarson puts down his square gold-rimmed glasses, stands up from his mahogany desk piled high with papers, and offers me a seat on an imposing mahogany sofa, upholstered in pale yellow to match the curtains. On dark wood-paneled walls hang paintings by the luminaries of the modern Icelandic art world: Tryggvi Ólafsson. Tolli. Helgi Thorgils. So far as I can tell.
“I’m sorry,” he says, gesturing toward reception. “They’re all on coffee break.”
“No problem,” I answer with a big smile as I sink into the depths of the sofa. “I’m just grateful that you’re willing to give up your own break.”
Ásgeir sits facing me in a matching armchair and gives me a searching look. He’s quite a dashing-looking man of middle age, wearing neatly pressed black pants and a freshly ironed shirt in light blue with a dark red tie. He’s tall and well-proportioned, putting on just a little weight around the waist. His facial features are strong, with a pointed nose and gray mustache. His graying hair is combed forward over an almost unwrinkled brow, and as he leans forward I see that his hair is thinning slightly on top. A confidence-inspiring figure, in short.
“That’s absolutely fine,” he replies, pushing toward me a bowl of candy. “I may have been a little hasty the other day. I do apologize.”
“Nothing to apologize for,” I assure him, helping myself to a chocolate cookie and thinking: My goodness, what a polite conversation. Really civilized. A credit to us both.
“I’m sure you realize that people who’ve been through such a painful experience as we have, in our family, can be rather touchy about pry
ing, not least from the media.”
“I quite understand. And I didn’t mean to cause you any more pain. But I’d had that phone call from Gunnhildur and…”
He makes a face and waves my excuses away. “Not a word more about that. No more about all that nonsense. My son tells me that the positive side of all this is that you’re interested in learning more about hypochondria?”
“That’s right.”
“And that’s why I agreed to meet with you. People simply can’t imagine how difficult it is for the family of people who suffer from that bizarre disease.”
“Surely it’s most difficult for the patient?” The words pop out of my mouth as I switch on my tape recorder.
Ásgeir apparently isn’t listening—which is just as well.
“But I want to read the interview before it’s published. And I may prefer to remain anonymous.”
“All right,” I say. “But this kind of interview generally has greater impact if people are willing to be named.”
“Perhaps,” he answers thoughtfully. “But it has to be my decision.”
I nod.
He starts telling me about hypochondria in general terms, stroking his mustache from time to time, as if to focus. He adds nothing to what I’ve already learned from other sources.
I try to steer him in the right direction: “When did Ásdís Björk first start to display symptoms of the illness?”
Without missing a beat, he continues in the same helpful tone: “It was soon after the birth of our son. In fact, she had already shown a tendency to obsessive behavior during the pregnancy. It was all she could think about. She was always worried that something might be wrong, whether the baby was normal, whether she should avoid some particular kind of exertion, go out in a car, eat a certain food. But I gather that it’s not uncommon for first-time mothers to have such concerns. After Gudmundur was born, her anxieties became more focused on herself. She was always tired, complaining of stomach cramps, shortness of breath, insomnia. She started going to the doctor every week for a checkup, then twice a week. And when he assured her that she was fine, she couldn’t accept it. She maintained that only she knew how she felt. She thought our doctor was careless—or incompetent. But he was an old friend of ours from school, and she’d had complete confidence in him until then.”
Season of the Witch Page 20
