Blackout

by Ragnar Jónasson

  Ísrún nodded.

  ‘Come in. Please excuse the mess. I wasn’t expecting anyone today. I’ve been so upset since poor Elías died.’

  Ísrún followed her into a living room looking over the sea, conscious of the mud on her shoes. She tried to see where the mess she had to excuse might be; but as far as she could tell, both the house and its owner were clean and tidy, as if dressed up for Christmas at the height of summer. She couldn’t avoid, however, the powerful scent of perfume. Perfume was something Ísrún preferred not to use herself, while it seemed that Nóra had decided that there was no point applying it sparingly.

  ‘I’m devastated,’ Nóra said with a sigh. ‘Completely devastated. I still can’t believe that it’s really happened. Sit down, won’t you? I’ll see if there’s anything in the fridge.’

  She trotted out of the room, leaving Ísrún to make herself at home in the most comfortable-looking chair.

  ‘I do hope you’re not going to quote me on the news,’ Nóra called to her. ‘But I’d understand if you did. You have a job to do, just like the rest of us,’ she added before Ísrún had a chance to reply.

  There was a silence and Nóra returned, a lavish chocolate cake in her hands.

  ‘I don’t work. I’m retired now, you see. Maybe I gave up work far too early. Anyhow I’ve found a calling, if that’s the right expression, and nowadays I’m up to my ears in charity work. You’ve heard of Household Rescue?’

  ‘I’d like to ask a few questions about Elías if that’s all right,’ Ísrún said firmly.

  Nóra placed the cake on the table.

  ‘I had completely forgotten I had this one. It’s rum and chocolate; quite delicious, if I do say so myself,’ she said in a dramatic voice.

  Ísrún declined to comment, and waited instead for an answer to her question.

  ‘Yes of course that’s fine,’ Nóra said at last. ‘Ask away. I’ll do my best to tell you what I can about Elías.’

  She stood completely still, as if the yellow dress had to remain pristine.

  ‘As you can imagine, I’m working on a report about the murder,’ Ísrún said and paused, trying to squeeze out a smile. ‘But not just the murder. I want to find out what kind of man the victim was. I was hoping you could help me get an angle on that side of all this.’

  ‘Of course. A pleasure and a duty. How do you want to do this? Do you want to take notes and come back for the interview itself?’ she asked, her excitement obvious.

  ‘That’s right. Anyone would think you’d been a journalist yourself.’

  ‘It’s something I used to dream about doing but never did. I trained to be a dentist instead. You’ll have seen my work everywhere down south, without knowing it,’ Nóra said with a laugh. ‘It’s a shame I can’t show you his apartment. He lived upstairs, but the police have sealed it and taken the key away. They found something up there and a policeman took a sports bag away with him. That’s all I know.’

  Wrinkles appeared around her eyes as she smiled.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Ísrún assured her. She looked longingly at the cake. ‘Maybe I’ll have a slice of this, please. You really baked it yourself?’

  ‘Oui,’ said Nóra, the theatrical tone returning. ‘It’s a French recipe that I picked up on my travels.’ She cut a thick slice, laid it on a plate and handed it to Ísrún. ‘Coffee? There’s some already made.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Nóra hurried from the room and returned with a steaming cup.

  ‘You’re clearly ready for anything these days. Plenty of visitors since the murder?’ Ísrún asked. She immediately regretted it; Nóra looked embarrassed. ‘Tell me more about Household Rescue,’ said Ísrún hurriedly.

  It was the best she could come up to salvage the situation. It worked. The pained look on Nóra’s face was immediately replaced by a smile and she launched into a long description of the movement’s background. Only the cake, which was wonderful, made the account bearable.

  Right at the end of this diatribe, when Ísrún had nearly stopped listening, she found herself suddenly interested again. Nóra mentioned how Elías had practically taken over the running of Household Rescue.

  ‘It was all down to his sheer energy and his exceptional concern for those less fortunate than himself,’ she said with great seriousness.

  ‘So yours was just a business relationship? Was there any more to it? Apologies if that’s too personal a question.’

  ‘Good grief, don’t worry about that. I’ve heard all sorts before now,’ Nóra squeaked. ‘The answer is no. The relationship didn’t go in the direction you’re hinting at. Not that it would have come as a surprise.’ Nóra played with a sleeve of the yellow dress. ‘I couldn’t miss him eyeing me up, if you know what I mean, and we were much the same age.’

  Much the same age … Ísrún stared at Nóra. Elías had been in his mid-thirties, while Nóra looked old enough to have been his mother.

  ‘How long did he live here with you?’

  ‘He moved in just after New Year. Before that he had rented a room from his colleague, Logi.’ Nóra paused, thinking. ‘I was wondering,’ she went on, ‘maybe we should record the interview at Household Rescue’s office? With our logo in the background, perhaps?’

  ‘That’s an idea,’ Ísrún said, hoping that Nóra wouldn’t notice her lack of enthusiasm. ‘Was Elías involved with any of the local women?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Nóra answered, seeming a little piqued. ‘I suppose he must have had a girlfriend somewhere. Perhaps he preferred to keep her clear of small-town gossip. Men like him – handsome men, I mean – tend to have a girl in every port.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Ísrún agreed, putting her final forkful of cake down, having suddenly lost her appetite.

  ‘When do you think you might record my interview?’

  Nóra hadn’t even sat down. She still stood like a queen in a yellow dress, overseeing her realm from her vantage point in the middle of the living room.

  ‘I need to work through all the material and check with the desk editor on what sort of angle he wants to take. Then I’ll see if I can get a cameraman here from Akureyri. If I can, then maybe we’ll film it later today, if that’s OK?’

  Nóra smiled again and her white teeth shone.

  ‘Wonderful. Can I have your number, just in case?’

  Ísrún smiled back.

  ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll give you a call later.’

  4

  Ari Thór was at work early the morning after the meeting at Akureyri. It was the second day of the investigation, and judging by the effort that went into the first day, he knew that this one wouldn’t be any easier. At least he felt thankful for the fresh air here in the north, after having seen the news of the ash cloud over Reykjavík and the south. His mind had gone back to his days at school when his class had learned about the famous Skaftáreldar eruption in the 1700s. It had not only caused a mist over Iceland and around Europe as well, with the sun appearing blood-red and temperatures suddenly dropping, but had also resulted in the deaths of perhaps two in ten Icelanders.

  Hlynur was already at the station when Ari Thór arrived, but he seemed as listless as ever, staring at his computer screen as if he were deep in a case, although Ari Thór knew that he had nothing serious to work on at the moment. He hardly seemed to notice when Ari Thór walked in.

  It was almost eleven when Ari Thór realised that he hadn’t eaten, either in Akureyri the night before, or at breakfast time that morning, so he took a walk to the shop to buy himself a bag of dried fish. A fresh sea breeze welcomed him outside, but the sun was nowhere to be seen in the cloudy sky.

  On his way back into the station, Ari Thór met Tómas in the doorway.

  ‘Let’s take a walk,’ Tómas suggested, and headed off down the street, Ari Thór walking in silence at his side.

  ‘I’m ready to give up on all this,’ said Tómas moodily. ‘I can’t get through to Hlynur at all. And Ómar the Skipper w
as here while you were out. He’s only just gone, or rather, I told him that I had a meeting and he finally left. I guess he didn’t want to stick around there with Hlynur, looking like he’s seen a ghost. I’ve had a bellyful of Ómar as well, I can tell you. That man can really talk, you know.’ Tómas sighed.

  ‘He’s pretty harmless,’ Ari Thór said.

  ‘He was a proper hell-raiser in his younger days. My parents knew him. Sometimes he’d come knocking at our door in the evenings, dead drunk. I should have been fast asleep that late, but I clearly remember the damnable racket he made. The old boy’s dried out now, but he’s no less of a pain in the neck.’

  They crossed the street and walked towards a newly refurbished building by the small boat harbour, which was now home to the town’s tourist information centre and a new bistro.

  ‘This place is changing,’ Tómas said, apparently less than pleased at the prospect.

  They sat on a bench by the building and Ari Thór chewed a piece of dried fish.

  ‘There are changes everywhere,’ Tómas continued. ‘Restaurants, maybe a new hotel, more visitors, more tourists, and the tunnel. Siglufjörður will be practically on the main road. We’ll need more officers to cope. There’ll be all kinds of people coming here … drugs and I don’t know what. There are as many cons as there are pros to making the place easier to reach, my boy.’

  ‘What do you make of the Elías case?’ Ari Thór asked, feeling slightly uncomfortable with Tómas’s depressive stance.

  Tómas sighed. An elderly lady walked slowly past, supporting herself with a stick. She nodded to Tómas, clearly surprised at the sight of two of the town’s three police officers sitting on a bench in the middle of the day, and not even a particularly sunny one at that.

  ‘I can’t say for sure,’ Tómas said at last. ‘It strikes me that it’s out of our hands. You’ve done a good job on it and we’ve done what we can. Now it’s up to the crime-busters at the station in Akureyri to see if they can solve the puzzle.’

  ‘Can’t we check on their phones?’

  ‘Phones?’ Tómas asked in surprise.

  ‘Yes. Look at the phone traffic for those who knew Elías best: Páll and Logi, and that Svavar over in Dalvík. And maybe Nóra, and Hákon the foreman. Can’t we check and find out if any of them were over in Skagafjörður that night?’

  ‘Don’t forget Jói,’ Tómas said with a wry smile. ‘But no. We can’t do that. None of them are suspects. We can’t barge into people’s personal lives just because they knew Elías, even if it is a murder investigation. Our lawyers would have a fit if I were to even suggest it.’

  ‘Nothing but trouble, these lawyers,’ Ari Thór said.

  ‘You’re right on that one, my boy,’ Tómas said and yawned.

  ‘Tired?’

  ‘Not really. But I did sleep badly last night,’ Tómas replied, sounding exhausted, despite his denial.

  Ari Thór hesitated, unsure if he should mention the subject that was so obviously troubling Tómas. He was half the man he had been before his wife had moved south to Reykjavík to study. Ari Thór was reluctant to step into what could be a minefield, but decided it had to be done.

  ‘It must be a big change for you…’

  ‘It is, my boy,’ said Tómas, and repeated what he had said earlier. ‘Changes everywhere,’ he said, his mind elsewhere.

  ‘How’s she doing? Your wife, I mean.’

  ‘She’s doing well, or so I hear,’ Tómas muttered. ‘I get a call now and then, and she tells me she’s fine. She’s finished the first year at college. She’s always talking about people I’ve never met. She seems to spend a lot of time with them. Other students, younger than she is. I can’t fathom what made her want to up sticks like this at her age. We had it so good here; everything was just fine.’

  ‘Why don’t you go south as well?’

  There was a long silence. Ari Thór wished he could take his words back, but they hung there behind their silence.

  ‘Perhaps I should. What do you reckon?’ Tómas asked, taking him by surprise.

  ‘Me?’ Ari Thór asked.

  ‘I never thought I could move away,’ Tómas said. ‘But now I’m not so sure. Maybe I could do with a change.’ He lapsed back into silence for a long moment. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I’m too old now. You can’t pull up a tree when its roots have grown so deep.’

  ‘It might be worth thinking it over.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, my boy. I don’t seem to do much more than think this over. And if I go, then you can take my place. The station will be fine in your hands.’

  Ari Thór couldn’t deny that the thought of a step up the career ladder was tempting. An achievement like that in his professional life might go some way to making up for the shambles of his private life.

  But now that he heard Tómas say the words out loud he had the sudden feeling that the mountains were closing in on him, just as they had done during that snow-heavy winter when he had first moved north to Siglufjörður. It was uncomfortable to be reminded of it, just when he had been sure that he had conquered his claustrophobia.

  He’d thought he’d become used to the little town, had even developed a fondness for it. Could it be that he still hadn’t come completely to terms with the isolation and the sparse population; not enough to consider staying in Siglufjörður for good?

  It didn’t take Ísrún long to find the police station. She parked outside and breezed in, as if buoyed on the cloud of confidence that came with a journalist’s job, something that was absorbed with the newsroom coffee.

  The police station seemed quiet, with apparently only one officer on duty. He sat engrossed in a computer screen and didn’t move, even though she had almost slammed the door behind her.

  ‘Good morning,’ she offered, but the man remained immobile.

  She took a few steps closer and repeated her greeting.

  ‘Good morning?’

  Finally he looked round and stared as if he had been woken from a painful dream.

  He gazed intently at her, and for once she saw someone taking in her eyes before noticing the scar on her face. But his look was alarmingly blank and distant. It was as if his soul had been left behind in the computer, she thought, forgetting for a moment that her long study of psychology had banished any belief she might have had in the existence of the soul.

  ‘Are you here about the emails?’ he asked, his voice almost robotic in its monotone.

  ‘Emails?’ she replied, wondering what he was talking about. ‘I’m looking for someone called Páll the Cop.’

  ‘Páll?’ It was as if the policeman had regained consciousness. ‘I’m sorry. My name’s Hlynur. Páll left the police a long time ago. But in a place like this that kind of nickname can stay with you for the rest of your life.’

  ‘Do you know where I could find him?’

  The policeman thought for a moment.

  ‘No idea. His name’s Páll Reynisson. Look him up. He’s bound to have a mobile phone.’

  He turned and his attention went back to his silent study of the computer screen. Ísrún made her way out. She didn’t think it was worth saying goodbye to this man, who had the look of someone who might be dangerously unstable.

  5

  It turned out that Páll Reynisson did have a mobile phone. When Ísrún rang it he seemed happy to announce that he had ‘nothing to hide’, and agreed to meet her.

  Now she stood outside the house on Hafnargata, where he had said he was working. A young man with longish hair, wearing jeans and a checked shirt, peered out from the basement doorway at the front of the house. He had red cheeks and greeted her with a smile.

  ‘Hello there. I’m Páll.’

  ‘Ísrún,’ she said warily.

  ‘Come inside, will you? That way I don’t have to stop work. I don’t get paid for standing around.’

  ‘What are you working on?’

  ‘Re-wiring this old place. A local boy who moved away years ago has just bought it to
use as a summer house. He’s not the first and he won’t be the last. The whole of Siglufjörður is becoming second homes.’

  ‘It’s a magnificent place,’ she said to keep the conversation alive.

  He laughed. ‘That’s not going to win you any bonus points from me. Come on in, or rather, come on down. I have to get back to work.’ And he disappeared back inside.

  She stooped to go through the door. Inside the basement the ceiling was so low she could hardly stand up straight.

  ‘Not the easiest place to work,’ she said, looking around.

  ‘It’s not the worst place I’ve had to work in,’ he replied with a grin.

  There were three rooms in the old house’s basement. The one they stood in was scattered with tools, rusted garden shears, an old lawnmower, a wheelbarrow and even a stack of old paving slabs. In the little room to the right Ísrún saw the glitter of light falling on empty jars of all shapes and sizes. But what caught her eye was the line of old milk bottles that filled one shelf. She had heard about these bottles but had never seen them before, cartons having long replaced milk bottles by the time she had been growing up.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind one of those,’ she said, pointing at the row of empty bottles. ‘It’d make a lovely flower vase.’

  She was half hoping that he would hand her a bottle, so his answer was not what she expected.

  ‘You can probably buy bottles like those in some antique shop down south,’ he said.

  ‘What’s in there?’ she asked, pointing to the left to steer the conversation in a different direction.

  ‘Just some old junk. This was a sort of cowshed in the old days.’

  ‘A cowshed?’ she asked in amazement.

  ‘That’s right. The people who lived here had a cow in the basement, or so I hear. They were allowed to do it when there was scarlet fever about so they could produce milk for their children. That was a long time back.’