A society of narcissists, I think. Ancient mythology thriving in the reality of the modern world. What was it Jóa said?
Who knows when we may rediscover Atlantis.
And what was it that brought Atlantis down?
“Why are you always asking about that accident?” inquires Ólafur Gísli when I eventually make contact with him via Ásbjörn.
I decide it’s time to tell him about Gunnhildur and her suspicions.
“Oh, that,” says the chief. “I’ve talked to the old lady myself. Immediately after the accident, she was on the phone all the time. But there’s nothing to it. Not the slightest trace of anything. Surely you’re not planning to write about these wild delusions of hers?”
“I’m working on an article about this illness Ásdís Björk had, hypochondria. I’m planning to publish it at the weekend.”
“But the woman didn’t die of hypochondria. She died of injuries sustained when she fell in the river. Full of a mixture of all sorts of pills.”
“All sorts of pills? I’ve been told that she was only on Prozac at the end.”
“Who says so?”
“Her doctor. Karl Hjartarson.”
“Oh, yes. That’s what he told us too. But druggies tend to get their pills from more than one place. They have lots of sources.”
“And do you know what drugs she’d taken when she fell in the river?”
I hear a rustle of papers. “It was quite a cocktail, I can tell you. Yes, there’s Prozac. But there were also sedatives like Valium. And sleeping pills…Hang on, I can hardly make out the names…Oxazepam…Triazolam…Zopiklon…I’m not even sure all this stuff is available on prescription in Iceland. She’d even taken Ritalin. And then she’d drunk beer on top of it all.”
“And what did her husband have to say about it?”
“He just said, as the families generally do in these cases, that he’d had no idea his wife was taking so many drugs, let alone where she got them from.”
“Were the pills packaged legally?”
“We didn’t find anything like that. But that’s often how it is. Illegal pharmaceuticals are rarely in the proper packaging. And never with a doctor’s prescription.”
“Did the autopsy reveal any signs of physical disease?”
“No. The woman was physically fit as a fiddle—apart from the effects of drug abuse.”
“Have you found the can, or whatever she was drinking from on the wilderness tour?”
“No. We’ve searched high and low. But they were drinking out of throwaway containers, which have gone without trace. Straight to the dump.”
“No hope of finding them there?”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“So you don’t think there’s anything fishy about the case?”
“Anything fishy? What’s fishy about this case is that goddamned drug peddlers are cashing in on unfortunates and their urge for self-destruction.”
And now I must undertake a difficult conversation. So difficult that I decide to go in person to the Hóll care home, rather than making a cowardly phone call.
“My dear Gunnhildur. Her doctor says she had that illness, and lots of specialists back him up.”
Gunnhildur is enraged. We are sitting in the niche, an irritating buzz from the television in the background.
“It will be interesting, educational, for people to read about it. It will make them more aware—”
“And to think I was happy to see you, young man,” Gunnhildur interrupts. She seems to be speaking more to herself than to me. “I thought you’d finally got to the truth. And then all you have to say is that you’re going to do a hatchet job on my Ásdís Björk.”
“No, not at all. It won’t be a hatchet job. Just an article about the disease and an interview with Ásgeir about the family’s experience of—”
“An interview with that goddamned man will only blacken my daughter’s name,” shrieks Gunnhildur. People turn to see, and the Guiding Light mafia prick up their ears.
“Gunnhildur,” I say, placing a reassuring hand over hers, “it won’t blacken your daughter’s name simply to report on her illness.”
She jerks her hand away. “She wasn’t ill. She was just unhappy. She didn’t have any disease, apart from that awful, evil man. That goddamned Ásgeir was her illness.”
“But I can’t write that. You must understand.”
“Oh, you can’t, can’t you? You believe him, and write what he says. You don’t believe me, or write what I say.”
Once again, I’m lost for words.
“I’m just a batty old woman!” she shouts. Her eyes rest on me with such pain and reproach that I have to force myself not to look away.
“Not at all,” I quietly reply, hoping that she will also lower her voice. “And I’ve made a real effort to find out whether you’re right about your daughter’s death. But the fact is no one else believes it.”
Gunnhildur seizes her walking cane and rises painfully to her feet. “I should never have gotten in touch with you, young man. It’s just made things worse,” she mumbles. “Just made things worse.”
I stand up and place my arm around her shoulders. “The article I’m writing,” I whisper in her ear, “is certainly not going to blacken Ásdís Björk’s name. You’ve got to face up to the fact that she had this illness, Gunnhildur. The article will simply help people understand it better.”
She shakes off my arm and will not look at me.
“But,” I add, “I’m far from convinced that the illness was really the cause of her death. The only way I was able to approach the case was on the pretext that I wanted to find out more about the hypochondria. I had no other option.”
Gunnhildur turns toward me, her eyes filled with tears. “What exactly are you trying to tell me, you young rascal?”
“I’m trying to tell you that I’m going to go on looking into the case.”
She shuffles off, leaning on her stick.
“I’ll do as much as I can,” I say to her retreating back, which expresses neither friendship nor trust. It’s the back view of a person who feels utterly defeated.
I feel awful as I sit down in my little closet to start writing my informative feature about hypochondria. I couldn’t bring myself to tell the old lady that her daughter had been an addict who swallowed handfuls of prescription medications before she went into the water. Nor could I say that I had no idea where to look next.
I get a grip on myself and continue writing the article. By late afternoon I’ve finished the feature, together with an interview of a family member of a hypochondriac—Ásgeir Eyvindarson. He’s read the article and approved it. I send it in, along with a photo of Ásgeir taken by Jóa in his office and another of him and Ásdís Björk with their son when he was a little boy. A happy family snap. Ásdís Björk was a very attractive woman, dark-haired, slender, with a brilliant smile on her face.
Hannes is pleased with the feature for the weekend edition. “But what else is new, sir? Aren’t there any developments about the murder of the high school boy?”
“Not at present, Hannes. The investigation seems to be running out of steam. I’ve got an excellent informant in the police. All thanks to Ásbjörn, I must admit.”
“Really? Well, I’m delighted to hear that our former news editor, and your dear friend, is participating fully. The Odd Couple seem to be getting along famously.”
“I won’t argue with you there.”
“But it’s certainly becoming a problem that he’s been off work so much lately. We weren’t planning for Jóa to stay up in the north this long.”
“Yeah, he’s having some family problems. But I hope that will all be settled before long. He was at work this morning.”
“Excellent. So Jóa can be getting back to Reykjavík before long?”
“I wouldn’t care to say. She…” I think about this for a second. “She’s enjoying being here so much, I think she’d like to stay on a little longer.”
“That’s all very well,” replies Hannes. “But we can’t afford to keep our staff here, there, and everywhere just because they like it.”
“I don’t think it would be wise to recall her just yet. We’ll be plunged into chaos if anyone gets ill. And Jóa’s doing a great job. She’s familiarized herself with the local area and the office. And someone has to take the pics. It takes time to get settled here.”
“Hmm,” muses Hannes. “We shall see. Let’s wait and see for a little longer. You’ve all made a good start, I’m happy to say. But another scoop would be very welcome. As soon as possible, please.”
“Well, I’ll do what I can. I’ve been researching a piece about the dead boy, as you know.”
“Yes, I know. Trausti feels you’re taking a long time over it. And I’ll admit I’d like to see some copy myself.”
“The problem is that the more I learn about Skarphédinn, the less I feel I know about him. The victim is even more of an enigma than the identity of the killer.”
“And when that puzzle is resolved, will it also solve the other?”
“I don’t know, Hannes. I have a feeling that the mystery of the killer will be resolved before the question of the victim’s character is clarified. Maybe his death is the last piece of a puzzle that is never supposed to be solved.”
“Very philosophical, my good sir. But I would prefer some copy.”
“How are things?” I ask Ásbjörn, closing his office door behind me. He sits hunched at his computer, but as he turns to face me I detect a new energy. The dark smudges under his eyes tell their tale of sleepless nights, but in his eyes there is some spark of life that wasn’t there yesterday.
“The situation is unclear,” he replies.
I perch on a chair in the corner. “Do you mean the past or the future?”
“The future. Karó is absorbing what’s happened. Me too, for that matter.”
“And what has happened?”
“Yesterday evening we both went over to see Gudrún and Björg. And I must say it’s been a huge relief.”
“So was it Gudrún who asked Karó for directions the other day?”
He nods.
“To distract her while Björg grabbed Pal and took him home?”
“Yes.” He shakes his head, as if he can’t make sense of the events.
“Why?” I ask, although I suspect I know the answer.
Ásbjörn continues to shake his disheveled head. “It was her way of making contact with me. Through Pal.”
“Whose way? Gudrún’s or Björg’s?”
“Björg’s. Or maybe both.”
“Are you her father?”
“Yes,” answers Ásbjörn with a trace of a smile. His weary face expresses something like pride.
“Didn’t she know about you until recently?”
“When we opened the new office here, we published a piece about it in the paper, with a picture of me. And you.”
I frown, recalling my opposition to that photo.
“But why did Gudrún never get in touch with you all those years ago? Why didn’t she let you know you were the father of her child?”
Now Ásbjörn frowns. “That’s the thing. All the time we were together—which wasn’t long—she kept going on about not wanting any commitment. She meant to go abroad to study. To learn about life, she said. She didn’t want any man spoiling her plans. The last thing she said to me was, Thanks, Ásbjörn. Now forget all about me. And it took me a long time to forget her. So when she found she was pregnant, she felt there was no going back. And really, I think this is the way she wanted it. On the rare occasions when Björg asked about her father, Gudrún gave her the impression that she had been conceived after a one-night stand with some foreigner. But now she felt she couldn’t conceal the truth any longer. Gudrún told us that Björg’s been going through a difficult time lately. She dropped out of high school, and she was always asking about her father. Gudrún’s in a new relationship now, and she’s pregnant. And the upshot was that when the photo of me was published in the paper, she told her daughter…” He corrects himself: “…our daughter that I was her father.”
“So the mysterious phone calls, day and night, were from Björg?”
“Apparently she became quite obsessed with what she had learned. It was all she could think about. Her mom knew nothing of the phone calls until she caught her one time. Then Björg admitted she’d been calling me.”
“But she never said anything? She hung up every time?”
“Yes. I understand why. She really wanted to make some kind of contact. Hear my voice, as she told her mom. She couldn’t just blurt out: Hi, my name’s Björg, and you’re my dad.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Karó remembered that Björg had come into the office once, to buy a copy of the paper—although they have a subscription to the paper. Karó asked why she’d come all the way here instead of buying the paper in a shop, and Björg hurried out. She started spying on us, without our noticing, when we were out and about. And Pal. That’s how she got the idea.”
“To pretend to rescue a lost dog?” I ask. Pal is the closest thing Ásbjörn and Karólína have to a child of their own.
Ásbjörn is shaking his head again. “The poor, dear child,” he says, drying his eyes. “She sat there, while her mother told us the whole story, in a state of shock!”
“And she got her mother to help her fake the rescue?”
“Gudrún said she had no choice, really. Björg was so determined to make our acquaintance by doing something good for us. Then I—her father—would appreciate her.” He buries his face in his hand. “Poor, sweet girl.”
“And how did Karó take it all?”
A flood of tears cascades from Ásbjörn’s bloodshot eyes.
“Karó had sensed something. Not me, not the Tin Man, so square at the edges—as you put it, Einar. All Karó’s distress, the tension and agitation, especially after young Björg started dropping in, ostensibly to see Pal—it all sprung from Karó feeling that something was not right here. I think she sensed it, although she never said it explicitly. I even talked about hysteria, didn’t I? But when she heard the truth, a calm came over her. She took the initiative. Stood up and hugged Björg. I just sat there, dazed and confused. Like the Tin Man of Oz I am.” He dries his eyes on his shirt sleeve. “The two of them stood there in Gudrún’s living room, crying and hugging. Before I knew it we were all in tears.”
He looks up at me and smiles. Ear to ear, through his tears.
“Now,” I say to Ágústa, chair of the drama group, on the phone. “I hear you’ve set a new date for the premiere, after the exams?”
“Yes. We didn’t want all our work to go to waste. And we plan to put on more performances in the fall semester.”
“Have you found a new Loftur the Sorcerer?”
“No. Örvar Páll will be here at the weekend, and we’ll consider the possibilities. We’ve got an idea about it.”
She doesn’t seem keen to talk. “And there’s no progress on the case? The guys from Reydargerdi were simply released?”
“Not my problem.”
“No, of course not. Was there something between you and Skarphédinn that evening?”
I pose the question baldly. It seems to take her by surprise.
“Who said so?”
“Just a rumor I heard,” I lie, freely interpreting what Fridrik said about sex antics in her parents’ bedroom.
“Is it Agnar and Co. saying that?” she snaps. “Are they trying to drag me into this mess?”
“So you know Agnar Hansen and his merry men?”
She cools down. “I know who they are.” Ágústa says nothing for a while. Then she speaks: “Skarphédinn threw them out long before anything happened in any of the bedrooms. They know nothing about who was with who.”
“And who were you with?”
“None of your business.”
“What about Skarphédinn?”
“I don’t remembe
r.” Amnesia to the rescue, again.
“All right. Sorry. By the way, have you got Skarphédinn’s cell phone number?”
“What kind of a question is that? He’s dead! What do you want his phone number for?”
“It’s just that I saw him with a cell phone when I interviewed him, but according to the police he didn’t have one.”
“That’s right. He didn’t have a cell.”
“Why not? Everyone—especially everyone your age—has a cell these days.”
“Have you considered that maybe he just didn’t want one?”
“No doubt. I tend to feel the same way. So what cell phone was it that I saw him with?”
“Dunno.”
“OK. Well, I mainly wanted to check up on what was happening about the play. Won’t it be difficult, without Skarphédinn?”
She seems to breathe more easily. “Yes, of course it will. It was his baby, really.”
“His baby? Who picked the play Loftur the Sorcerer?”
“He suggested it. He felt that it was the obvious choice. He had read a lot more than the rest of us.”
“I see. And he was the Main Man in the production?”
“Well, we all had our own tasks. But most of the ideas came from Skarphédinn. And I’m sure he wouldn’t have wanted us to abandon the production.”
“Probably not. And you’d raised funding for the production, found sponsors and so on…”
“Yes, we don’t want to let the sponsors down. Especially because we want to go on with the drama group next year. Skarphédinn wouldn’t have wanted that.”
“Was it Skarphédinn who found the sponsors?”
“He was the only one in the drama group who had connections. And he made a good sales pitch.”
Season of the Witch Page 22
