“It worked,” she says.
“Who did you talk to?”
“Sólrún’s mom.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That I was a friend of hers from high school…”
“Not an absolutely black lie,” I say.
“A white one, anyway.”
“You knew each other.”
“Yeah. Sort of. As you asked, I told her that a mutual friend of Sólrún’s and mine, Rúnar, was searching for his brother Skarphédinn’s phone. I said it would be helpful if we had his number, but Rúnar had lost it.”
“And?”
“She said she knew nothing about it. Then I asked if she had Sólrún’s cell phone. And she did. It had been sent to her with the rest of Sólrún’s things.”
“And?” I ask with rising excitement.
“She looked up the Contacts on Sólrún’s phone, and there it was.”
“Great!” I exclaim.
She recites to me the number I’ve been trying to find for so long, then says: “I felt kind of guilty after I talked to her. Sólrún’s mom started to cry. She said that if Sólrún hadn’t gone chasing that boy up north, she’d still be alive.”
“That boy?”
“Yes.”
“Who did she mean? Skarphédinn or Rúnar?”
She thought about it for a little while. “I think she must have meant Skarphédinn. She was talking about some movie they were both in—Sólrún and someone she called that boy. After that her daughter was never the same again, she said.”
“Did she explain what she meant?”
“No. And I couldn’t ask. Just couldn’t. I was feeling so guilty about tricking her.”
“Don’t go feeling guilty about that. What you did will probably be crucial to revealing the truth about their deaths.”
“I certainly hope so,” sighs Björg.
“Have you ever thought of being a journalist when you’re grown up? Even more grown up, I mean.”
She laughs. “Well, as I’ve recently found out, it could be in my genes, right?”
I don’t play the lottery. That would have been my answer to the Question of the Day. Short and clear. Whatever my sins, I don’t gamble. But the old saw is probably true: Nothing ventured, nothing gained. My bright idea was that a dead person might be the only one not trying to conceal that fact that Skarphédinn had a cell phone. Sólrún has nothing to hide anymore. But what is everybody hiding? And why?
I’ve calmed down again, after the excitement of our little ruse. I look at the number I have finally managed to get hold of. Then I have a cigarette. And give Polly her bath in the washbasin. And have a shower myself. These small, erotic moments are truly the spice of life.
Around midnight I’m sitting on the sofa in the living room, dressed for bed and deep in thought. I’m wondering whether I should go to bed and finally get a good night’s sleep after reading a few pages of Loftur the Sorcerer, or…
Nothing ventured, nothing gained?
I pick up my phone and punch in the number.
It rings.
And rings.
And goes on ringing for a long time.
I’m about to ring off when I hear a click: “Hello?”
The voice resonates with tension and pain.
“Hello?” again.
“Rúnar,” I say. “It’s Einar.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I recognized your number. That’s why I answered.”
“Is something wrong? Where are you?” I ask.
“At the apartment.”
“Skarphédinn’s apartment?”
“Yeah.”
“Answering a phone he didn’t have?” I sarcastically remark.
Silence.
“Rúnar?”
A strange buzzing noise breaks the silence.
“Rúnar!”
The buzz continues, with rhythmic interruptions.
I realize it’s a doorbell buzzing.
“Rúnar! What’s happening?”
“I’ve got to get out of here…They’re—”
“Hello! Rúnar!”
The call is cut off.
I redial.
And again.
And one more time.
Then I start over. Now I ring Rúnar’s own phone, again and again. Nothing.
The phone may be switched off or out of range, or all channels may be busy. Please try later.
Three possibilities:
Phone switched off. Out of range. All channels busy.
That’s no answer.
If the phone’s been switched off: Why?
If it’s suddenly out of range: Why?
And how could all the channels be busy at this time of night?
Do they call this a phone service?
After contemplating these questions for some time without finding any answers, I decide it’s time to stop entertaining myself with my own dumb thoughts.
I’ve been pacing and smoking and calling every five minutes. But now I’ve got to do something sensible. Take action.
As in the case of the phone company, there are three possibilities: Call the police. Call the parents. Go there myself.
Press one for police. Press two for parents. Press three for trouble.
I choose the third option. Of course.
I check all my windows before I leave. Twice. They’re all shut. I leave lights on in every room. Finally I check that Polly is asleep. She is.
As I start the car, I think yet again how nice it would be to be an innocent little parrot. Or an unblemished babe at rest in its mother’s arms.
Too late. Too late.
As things are, a gun in my pocket would probably make me feel safer.
At one o’clock on a Tuesday morning, the streets of Akureyri are all but deserted. As I turn onto Hólabraut, a black cat suddenly materializes in my headlights. I slam on the brakes and pull over a few houses down from Skarphédinn’s place, formerly Mördur’s place, now Rúnar’s. I suppress my superstitious thoughts about black felines and bad luck and take a look at the building. The lower two floors are dark, but a faint glow is visible at the third-floor windows.
There’s no sign of the black Honda, and nobody seems to be lurking around.
I get out of the car, approach the building, and ring the third-floor doorbell. Press it again and again. No response. I go crazy, leaning on the bell. Still nothing. I wonder if I should ring the doorbells on the lower floors, but can’t face the hassle.
Now what?
I go back to the car and call information. I get the address of Rúnar Valgardsson’s parents. They live in the Hlídar district. Like me. I open the glove compartment, dig out my map of the town, and find their address.
Kristín Rúnarsdóttir and Valgardur Skarphédinsson live on the fourth floor of a modern apartment block. I summon up courage and ring the doorbell.
I don’t have to wait long before I hear a woman’s shrill voice on the entry phone:
“Rúnar?”
“No, my name’s Einar. I’m a journalist with the Afternoon News. Sorry to disturb you at this hour. But I spoke to Rúnar earlier, and he seemed to be in some kind of trouble. And now I can’t find him.”
A gasp. “What? Isn’t he at Skarphédinn’s place?”
“He was there. But now he’s not answering the phone or the door.”
Silence.
“Can I come in?”
“Yes, come on up.” She buzzes me in, and I walk upstairs. On the fourth-floor landing, one of the two apartment doors stands ajar. I knock quietly at the doorframe.
Kristín comes toward me, wearing a gray toweling robe over a pink nightgown. The oval face, which at her son’s funeral was thickly plastered with makeup, is deathly pale and finely wrinkled. Below her brown eyes are dark smudges. Her graying hair is permed into a rigid helmet.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” I say.
“I haven’t been home long,” the woman replies. “I work shifts at the hospital.”
Kristín switches a kettle on. “Would you like some tea?”
She doesn’t seem at all disconcerted by my turning up here in the middle of the night.
But people’s reactions to the unexpected can be unexpected too.
I sit down on a wooden stool by the small plastic-covered kitchen table. “If you’re having one.”
She takes two cups from the dish rack.
“Were you expecting Rúnar here tonight? Since you thought it was him at the door?”
“I wasn’t sure,” she replies. “But I was hoping he’d come.”
“Have you heard from him in the past few hours?”
“You just don’t know what your kids are getting up to when they reach his age,” she says, as if she hasn’t noticed my question. “I suppose you have to be grateful if they stay in touch.”
I think of Gunnsa and count my blessings yet again.
“I’m sure you’re right. Skarphédinn had moved out long ago, hadn’t he? First into the student dorm, then to his friend Mördur’s place. You and your husband must have been upset when he flew the nest?”
“There are so many things we have to deal with in life,” she says, her back still toward me. She places tea bags in the cups and rests her hand on the kettle, as if it will boil faster like that.
“Skarphédinn seems to have been a remarkably independent young man, according to what I’ve been told.”
“Yes, he changed when he became a teenager.”
“Was that when he went down south to be in the movie?”
“It was then, yes,” she slowly replies.
I say nothing.
“But,” she adds, turning toward me and leaning against the table, “he’s not my concern now. Rúnar is.”
“Of course,” I mumble. She has a strange way of putting it.
Her expression is severe, almost harsh, as she stands with her arms crossed, glaring at me.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
“Because I think there are some nasty characters out there who are out to get Rúnar.”
“And what do you think that has to do with you?”
I’m floored by her question. “Well, there’s the fact that they busted into my home on the night before last and raised hell. They said it was because they couldn’t find Rúnar.”
The kettle’s boiling. She turns away and pours water into the cups.
“Milk and sugar?”
“Just sugar, please, if you’ve got it.”
Kristín pushes the sugar bowl and spoon toward me and places the cups on the table. I notice that her fingernails are bitten to the quick. She takes a teaspoon and prods the tea bag with it for a long, long time.
“Why were they after you?”
“I don’t really know,” I tell her as I stir the sugar into my tea. “They’re nuts. High most of the time. And they can be dangerous.”
“They came here that night, looking for Rúnar. What did they want with him?”
“I can’t answer that. You’ll have to ask him. Or them.”
“Is it anything to do with his brother?”
“I’m not sure. It may be.”
She gazes into space.
“Have they been here tonight?”
“I only just got home. My husband doesn’t answer the door.”
Silence reigns for a while at the kitchen table. We sip our tea, which has a refreshing lemon flavor.
I break the silence. “What does your husband do?”
She looks up from her teacup. “He’s disabled. An invalid.”
“So you care for the sick at work, then come home and do more of the same?”
No comment.
“What did he do before he was ill?”
“He was a pharmacist.”
“And you’re a nursing graduate. Did you meet at college?”
She lifts her cup as if in confirmation and takes a sip.
I’ve had enough of this stalling. “Where do you think Rúnar could be?”
“Couldn’t he be at the apartment?”
“That’s possible. But he’s not answering the phone or the door.”
“Could be asleep.”
“I don’t think that’s likely. He sounded pretty upset when I spoke to him less than an hour ago.”
“I have the feeling,” she says after a brief pause for thought, “that Rúnar’s all right.” She goes on: “We reap what we sow.”
“Was that true of his brother?”
She says nothing. But an undefined tension is added to her obdurate expression.
“Shouldn’t we contact the police?” I ask. Down the corridor, I hear a door opening.
“This is none of your business. You ought to go home and get some sleep. Me too. My days are long and my nights short.”
She stands up.
I do the same.
“Thank you for your concern about my boy,” she says hastily as she sees me to the door.
On the way out we run into her husband, Valgardur Skarphédinsson. Blue-striped pajamas flap on his wasted frame like laundry on a clothesline. His thick hair is sticking out in all directions and his unshaven face bristles darkly. Lethargically he walks toward us. His bony face is expressionless, lifeless. The eyes, concealed by dark glasses at his son’s funeral, are blue, dead. It’s as if he doesn’t see us.
As his wife propels me out of the door, I hear her say: “Valli, dear, you should be in bed.”
After my rather unsettling encounter with Skarphédinn and Rúnar’s parents, I have a better idea of why the two brothers wanted to move out as soon as they could. Not a happy home. By three thirty I’ve driven around most of Akureyri, calling both cell phone numbers every fifteen minutes. I decide to call it a night and head home. When I get there, everything seems fine. Before going indoors, I make a final attempt.
Skarphédinn’s phone is answered.
“Einar?” asks a strangled voice I recognize as Rúnar’s.
“Where are you?” I ask.
A pause. “At the dump,” he murmurs.
“You mean the junkyard?”
No answer.
“What are you doing out there?”
“I knew they’d never find me here.”
“Wait there. Don’t move. I’m on my way right now.”
And with that, my phone is off, out of range, or all channels busy.
____
The night is cold and bleak as I step out of my car in front of the padlocked gate of the junkyard. With the engine running, I flash the headlights three times, then walk to the gate. Almost at once a hunched figure looms out of the darkness, wearing blue jeans and a leather bomber jacket. Rúnar stands for a moment silent and motionless in front of the gate, then swings himself up and climbs nimbly over. He’s shaking like a leaf, either from the cold or sheer terror.
“You could have found a less extreme hiding place,” I remark as I sling an arm over his shoulders and steer him toward the car. He obediently goes with me like a well-brought-up little boy. Back in the car, I light up.
“I wanted…,” says Rúnar.
“What?” I ask, rolling down the window and blowing my smoke out.
“If they…if they found me and killed me…” He falls silent.
“Are you trying to say that, if that were to happen, you wanted to die here, in the same place as your brother?”
Rúnar nods, gazing straight ahead at the mountains of rusty iron, garbage, and tires.
I drive off.
“What happened after I spoke to you earlier?”
“They’d been coming over all evening
, again and again, calling and ringing the doorbell…”
“You mean Agnar and his thugs from Reydargerdi?”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t let them in. I threatened to tell the police…”
“And?”
“They said I could try that, if I dared.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He hesitates. “I have my reasons.”
“That you’re not going to tell me?”
Silence.
“OK. Then what?”
“I knew they’d just hang around outside until I came out. I’d have to go out sometime…so I called ösp downstairs on her cell and woke her up. I went downstairs and she let me into their apartment, and I climbed down into the back garden from her bedroom window.”
“There was no one there when I arrived about one o’clock,” I say.
“Yeah, I asked ösp to wait for fifteen minutes after I left and then wake her dad up and tell him there were some suspicious people lurking around outside.” A faint smile lights up the handsome face. “I called her afterward, and she said her dad woke up with a shock and went ballistic. He ran downstairs and gave them a good yelling at. She said they didn’t stick around.”
“So you walked all the way out here to the dump, did you?”
“I flagged down a taxi and it took me out to the Glerá bridge. Walked from there.”
“Why didn’t you go to your parents’ place instead?”
Rúnar gives me a grave look. “Not possible.”
“You don’t want to add to their troubles?”
He looks away.
“Rúnar, what do those guys want?”
No answer.
“Why are they after you?”
Still no answer.
“They told me they were going to make you pay for ratting them out to the cops.”
Rúnar shrugs.
“That’s not why, is it?”
No response.
“Because you didn’t rat them out. Someone else did. You weren’t at the party. Not officially, anyway. Didn’t you want to be questioned like the rest of them?”
He shrugs again.
I park the car outside my place and Polly’s and turn to face him. “They’re after you because they want Skarphédinn’s phone.”
No question mark at the end of that. But he answers with a muted, “Yes.”
“Why don’t you just hand it over to them?”
Season of the Witch Page 28
