Blackout

by Ragnar Jónasson

  ‘A house with a story to tell?’

  ‘That’s true enough,’ he said.

  ‘And you’re an electrician?’

  ‘That’s right. Been working with Elías and the guys until now.’

  ‘And now you’re out of work?’ she asked in a tone that bordered on caustic.

  ‘Does it look as if I’m out of work?’ he said, his attention on the job in hand. ‘In a way I suppose you could say I am. The murder has really shaken me up. But I’ve been in touch with the foreman at the tunnel and he wants to work things out to keep us on – me, Logi and Svavar.’ She could hear from the tension in his voice that it was important to him that this should come together.

  ‘But now you’re working here,’ she said.

  ‘Well, this is a job that I should have done a while ago,’ he replied and turned to look into her eyes. ‘The problem is that nobody can get hold of Svavar. He was the one who was closest to Elías, and the foreman will only let us continue the tunnel job if he’s part of the team.’ Páll was unable to hide his concern. ‘At the moment Logi’s doing some shifts to keep our side of the work up to date.’

  ‘And you can’t reach Svavar?’

  She resisted the temptation to say that she had spoken to him the night before.

  ‘No. He’s not answering his phone. I might drive over to Dalvík later today and bang on his door. He and Elías were good friends, so I wanted to give him some space. But enough is enough. I didn’t expect it would hit him so hard, but we can’t afford to lose this opportunity. If we drag our heels too much they’ll find other contractors. Unemployment here is just the same as everywhere else. You should know. You’re always telling us on the TV news how deep the recession is.’

  He snorted as his attention went back to his work.

  ‘You said on the phone that you have nothing to hide.’

  There was a surprised expression on his face as he looked up from the wiring, but he still wore the same amiable smile.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What did you mean by that? Did Elías have anything to hide?’

  ‘I can tell you know the answer to that already.’

  ‘I have my suspicions,’ she said, looking away.

  Páll didn’t react, focussing on his work instead.

  ‘I want to know more about him,’ she said when she felt the silence had lasted long enough. She was uncomfortable, unable to stand properly upright, and with no chairs in the room, unable to sit down either. ‘What was he up to? Do you know if he had any tendencies towards … well … violence?’

  ‘Not asking for much, are you? You think I’m going to blab to some reporter from Reykjavík? Does it matter, anyway?’

  ‘It might.’

  ‘I suppose I should be happy that I’m not under suspicion. At least you’re not asking where I was when he was murdered,’ he said lightly.

  ‘So where were you?’ she asked, taking the bait.

  ‘In Reykjavík, on the pull. You hacks probably don’t do that kind of thing, too busy looking for the next scoop.’

  ‘I’ve given that up,’ she said truthfully. And then decided to add a story that had a grain of truth behind it. ‘I gave up when I met a guy in a bar who said I looked like a pitcher.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said I was as pretty as a pitcher,’ she said. ‘He seemed to think it was something to do with Ming vases. What he meant was, “as pretty as a picture”. We argued about it for ages. I gave up going out on the town after that.’

  Páll laughed, but she didn’t join him.

  ‘Did you kill him?’ She interrupted his laughter, hoping to take him unawares. She didn’t succeed.

  ‘No. I’ve no idea who did it. Elías was no angel, but don’t quote me on that. This was a guy who had no conscience.’

  ‘Could you give me an example?’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ he replied and looked away, the smile still on his lips.

  You could get away with anything with the right smile on your face, she thought.

  Every two months Nóra had her hair done at a little hairdresser in Siglufjörður. It was hardly even a salon, just a chair in front of a mirror in the house of a retired lady who cut hair when required; a place that was open by arrangement, as the saying goes. Nóra had been there a month or so ago, but she called and booked an appointment for later that day. The TV journalist could arrive at any minute with a cameraman, and she was determined to look her best.

  Her main concern was that the woman might turn up just as she was having her hair done. If that happened, she could miss her chance, and that would be a disaster. There was no certainty that this woman, Ísrún, would call ahead. After thinking it over, Nóra decided that she would have to get in touch with her, and tell her when to come round.

  Without a mobile number to call, however, Nóra had to dial the newsroom directly. It wasn’t something she had ever done before. Nothing newsworthy had ever happened to her.

  ‘Newsroom. Desk editor,’ a stern voice answered.

  ‘Good morning. My name’s Nóra. To whom am I speaking?’ she asked, absurdly formal.

  ‘Ívar,’ the voice snapped.

  She could almost see him before her. She had seen him many times on the screen; a rotund but handsome man, masculinity personified, she thought.

  ‘I need to get in touch with Ísrún,’ she said at last.

  ‘Ísrún isn’t here at the moment. Can I help?’

  He was already impatient, even though the conversation hadn’t been a long one. But Nóra sympathised. Journalism had to be stressful with the deadlines all day long, or so she imagined.

  ‘No, I just need her mobile number. We were going to meet up later today in Siglufjörður.’

  ‘Oh, right?’ Ívar said, no longer in a hurry. ‘What for, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Well, she spoke to me this morning and was going to come back later with a cameraman,’ Nóra said, pleased with herself.

  ‘Right…’ Ívar repeated. ‘A cameraman, you say. What for?’

  ‘The late Elías Freysson lived with me … that’s to say he was my tenant. I understand that Ísrún is doing a programme about him, looking for a new angle, or so she said. The man behind the victim, that kind of thing.’

  Nóra hoped that she had managed to get everything right. Not that it mattered to her. What was important was that she would be on television.

  ‘Right!’ Ívar said once more, and Nóra detected a note of derision in his voice. ‘The man behind the victim, is it?’ But he didn’t give her an opportunity to reply to his question. ‘I’ll give her a message. What do you want me to tell her?’

  ‘Would you please just tell Ísrún that I won’t be at home until after four today? I’ve an appointment with the hairdresser. It’s something that was booked ages ago and I completely forgot about it when I spoke to her this morning.’

  ‘I’ll let her know. Bye.’

  He had put the phone down before Nóra could say another word.

  6

  She was determined to stay awake. She wasn’t sure how she was managing it, but she was sure that if she allowed herself to fall asleep, she wouldn’t wake up again.

  Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

  She wanted so much for her thoughts to carry her all the way home, where her family would welcome her, and the old puppet that hung from the ceiling in their living room would come to life and do the same.

  She felt so small, alone and abandoned.

  Each time the fear returned, she wept, or tried to, but it felt as if she had no more tears to shed.

  Her head hurt. She would close her eyes for moment, try to relax and make the effort to calm herself. Then she would open them again, determined not to take the risk of falling asleep. She wasn’t sure what was causing the blinding headache, although she suspected it was probably dehydration. That and the smell, which was becoming almost intolerable.

  To begin with she had sat in the corner, the wall at h
er back, and tried to put herself in a position that would ease the cramps in her legs. But frightened of sleep, she moved about, careful not to give herself too much comfort.

  Maybe it was all for nothing, though?

  She knew that death was approaching. She had lived well and honestly. It would be wrong to let fear and fury gain the upper hand now. She had to think of something positive: her family.

  But then maybe it was time to lie down, after all. Time to relax. Time to give in.

  7

  A year before

  I got on well with the old lady, Katrín. I identified something of my grandmother Ísbjörg in her friend – their shared memories, some habits and mannerisms, phrases she used. I let myself dream that for a moment I was sitting with my grandmother, and not with this stranger out here in Landeyjar.

  ‘Can I offer you anything, my dear? I don’t bake anymore, unfortunately.’ She looked down at her bony fingers. ‘I’m not sure I trust myself to do it these days. My hands aren’t as steady or as strong as they once were. That’s what age brings us, I suppose.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’

  ‘Nonsense! You look so pale, washed out. Can’t I even offer you a glass of milk?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ I said, if only to show a little courtesy.

  It was stuffy inside the little house, with all of the radiators turned on even though it was summer. I could feel a tranquillity gradually coming over me. Maybe the old lady was right and I wasn’t well. I had felt a little nauseous earlier, and a few aches and pains, as if I had a bout of flu that refused to go away. Working too hard, I suppose. Bastard journalism.

  All these shifts were becoming ridiculous, all the endless stress.

  Katrín had gone to the kitchen with painfully slow steps. I should have offered to fetch the milk myself.

  ‘Would you like some biscuits with it?’ I heard her call from the kitchen as loudly as those old vocal chords would allow.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  She came back with a glass of milk in one hand and half a packet of biscuits in the other. She sat down at the wooden table with difficulty; the journey to the kitchen seemed to have aged her. The marks of the passing years were clear to see on her face; there must have been hard times.

  ‘Do you remember her diary?’ I asked, in a voice so low that I wondered deep down whether I really wanted to ask the question out loud.

  ‘What did you say, my dear?’ Katrín asked, and leaned forward over the table.

  It was an opportunity to leave the words alone, to pretend they hadn’t been spoken after all. But I decided not to take it.

  ‘Do you remember if my grandmother ever kept a diary?’ I asked again, my voice stronger and clearer.

  ‘A diary, yes, I remember that. She didn’t always write in it, not every day. It wasn’t that kind of diary. But I saw her note things down in it sometimes, normally when something particular had happened – around the time of the eruption, for example.’

  ‘Did you ever see what she had written?’

  ‘Goodness, no. I certainly did not. It was for nobody’s eyes but her own. I did have a glance at the occasional page, but it was written in such tiny handwriting that it was probably not something anyone else could have read.’

  ‘Was it just the one book for her whole life? Or more than one?’

  ‘I’m fairly sure there was just the one book. She didn’t start to keep a diary until she was in her teens and I think she stopped when she was around twenty. But I know she picked it up again when she was taken ill. She used to say that she told the book how she felt,’ recounted Katrín, her voice laden with sadness.

  She gazed into space as if she was being transported back into the past.

  ‘I hope the milk tastes right. It’s not getting old, is it?’

  ‘It’s fine, thank you,’ I said, even though the milk was certainly past its sell-by date. It was good enough to add to coffee, but not much else.

  ‘I wonder where the book is now?’ the old lady said, unexpectedly.

  ‘It’s lost, I expect,’ I said, giving her a half-truth at least.

  We sat on in silence.

  The wind could still be heard outside, blowing half a gale on this summer’s morning. Nothing unusual about that, being so close to the sea and with no hills that could provide even a semblance of a windbreak on these flat lowlands. The only mountains were the distant volcanoes, and they were of no help.

  And then came the thing that changed everything.

  8

  This wasn’t an opportunity Ívar was going to let slip through his fingers.

  He was a pragmatist by nature, and he hadn’t got this far in life by being considerate to others. The station had poached him from a rival company, and paid him well to make the move; he was certainly better paid than most of his colleagues.

  He had done well for himself, but he still had his sights set on higher things. Of course, the news editor’s job was what he had his eye on, but the post was already taken by María, a woman with whom he got on well. Like him, she had been head-hunted from a daily newspaper. He guessed that was why they liked each other – both of them outsiders trying to work things out for themselves as they did their best to negotiate the station’s cliques, while still keeping them at arm’s length. She did this because of the position she was in; he did it because he hoped one day to be in that same position. María had a reputation for not staying long in any place and he reckoned that she wouldn’t be here more than three or four years before moving on. Then it would be his turn.

  There were a few challenges to be met before then, though. Not least among them was ejecting those news team members who seemed to distrust him. Ísrún was at the top of this list. Everything about the woman grated on his nerves. She was annoyingly independent and competitive, plus she had a long background at the station, despite the extended breaks in her career. She was part of that irritating little clique of colleagues who had been together for years, all of whom trusted her. It was as well that Ívar had managed to make a few allies of his own, such as Kormákur; but he knew that he would have to isolate Ísrún.

  He suspected that she would be bold enough to apply for the news editor’s job herself when the time came. Fortunately he was one of the regular desk editors and she wasn’t. As desk editor he could frequently arrange things to his advantage and her detriment. The desk editor was the person who took decisions on the fly, allocated assignments and had the deciding vote on what news would be included and in what order. This meant he could assign Ísrún minor stories that normally ended up in the late bulletin. And Ívar knew the late bulletin was no route to stardom.

  Ever since the unexpected phone call from Siglufjörður, he had been keeping an eye on María’s office, so he noticed the door open and a man he recognised from the accounts department left. Now was his chance, although he knew that María was rarely at her most agreeable after a visit from one of the bean-counters.

  ‘Not interrupting, am I?’ he asked cheerily, as he put his head around the door.

  ‘No, it’s all right.’

  María took off her reading glasses and her sharp eyes stared at him. He had often thought that she was the last person he would ever want to be interrogated by, especially if she wanted her interviewee to confess to some indiscretion.

  ‘Sit down.’

  With María this was always an instruction and never an invitation. Words were never wasted inviting anyone to take a seat.

  ‘It’s about Ísrún,’ Ívar said, unconsciously speaking in a lower voice than usual.

  María said nothing, but waited for him to continue.

  ‘She went up north to investigate the murder story.’

  María nodded but still said nothing.

  ‘I wasn’t happy about letting her go; we’re not in a position to allow someone to focus on one story like that, but she said she had a source that linked Elías, the victim, with dope smuggling. I was hoping she’d come back with some fa
ntastic scoop. Every now and then you have to let the kids off the lead, you know? Not that she’s done all that brilliantly recently.’

  He used the word ‘kids’ for good reason, preferring not to remind María how long Ísrún had worked at the station.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Her stuff has been pretty mundane, and I’ve had to put it at the back of the running order. I’ve even had to ask her to go back and re-do some material. She seems to have lost interest,’ he said, trying to assume a look of pained concern.

  ‘She does look pale on screen,’ María said thoughtfully.

  ‘Tired maybe, or just bored. I’ve a feeling she’s been hitting the nightlife as well. She’s used up all her sick days these last few months, and it’s as if she’s trying to do as little as she can get away with.’

  ‘Interesting,’ María said.

  ‘So, anyway, she went up north. Now I gather she’s working on some item about “the person behind the victim”. That wasn’t what we agreed.’

  ‘And what do you expect me to do?’

  María’s tone was sharp and her eyes bored into him.

  ‘I reckon she’s lost her enthusiasm completely. Perhaps it’s time to consider letting her go…?’

  ‘We’ll see.’ María picked up her glasses again.

  He decided to let the matter lie there. He could bring it up again soon. A slow drip-feed would do the trick.

  Tómas and Ari Thór were back at the police station. Neither of them spoke a word to Hlynur, who sat at his computer, deep in his own thoughts. He didn’t need them, though. They had both betrayed him, made him impotent, as useful and as colourless as the police station’s furniture.

  It had been a day of contrasts. Sometimes he had been present, there at the station, trying to keep on top of things. At other times it was as if he were elsewhere, somewhere Gauti and his mother were still alive and well, where he had been able to atone for his misdeeds, where there were no wretched emails tripping him up; somewhere email hadn’t even been invented.