Now, for what it was worth, he was definitely back at the station, where he couldn’t think of anything other than the message contained in all the emails.
Next time I’ll teach you how to die.
He longed to go home, tell them he was coming down with flu, however unlikely that might sound in the height of summer. But he hardly had the energy to do even that. Apart from anything else, he had no wish to play into Tómas’s hands.
No, he’d stick it out. He’d stay until his shift was over, but try to drift off for as long as he could into the warm, pleasant world where he didn’t have anyone’s death on his conscience.
Ari Thór glanced over at where Hlynur sat engrossed in his computer. He and Hlynur had never hit it off. They had little in common other than the job and he saw no reason to talk to him, to find out what the problem might be. Any conversation was bound to be superficial and uncomfortable.
It was for a similar reason that he had so far avoided calling Kristín. While he desperately wanted to hear her voice, even arrange to meet her, he dreaded the awkward moment when she would pick up the phone.
The awkward moment. Was this genuinely the only reason he hadn’t called her? Or was jealousy, that old spectre, rearing its ugly head again? Was he scared that he might lose his temper if he called and her new relationship came up in the conversation?
He looked at the phone in his hand, wanting to dial her number, but still holding back.
Then the phone rang.
It was a slow day, the same as every other day at the hospital; far too slow. All the same, there was plenty that needed to be done, even if it was monotonous.
Kristín was looking forward to the evening, a cosy night and a glass of red with him at her place. It was going to be their first proper date at home – away from the neutral ground of a public place. But this wasn’t the main reason time was passing so slowly. Work bored her – it was as simple as that. None of the tasks she had to deal with genuinely sparked her interest, and this was becoming intensely irritating.
Was it too late to change course now? All that study and work would be wasted if she were to give up now. And what would her parents’ reaction be? Common sense would also have to be part of her decision; it would be ridiculous to turn her back on the chance of secure employment and respectable earning potential in the middle of a recession.
Then there was the question of what else she could do. It wasn’t as if there was anything else that particularly inspired her; nothing that set her heart racing. She got up every morning and played a round of golf if there was time; worked like a robot until the end of each long shift; and went home, where she did nothing much other than sleep until the cycle began again. The pattern had been the same all through her student years: wake up, study, sleep.
She knew she had to do something to break free of the routine. Maybe she should follow her instincts, enjoy tonight’s wine and for the moment forget her immediate problems – instead make the most of an evening and a night in the company of that unfamiliar yet fascinating man.
Helga from CID in Akureyri had called Ari Thór to ask him and Tómas to come in for another progress meeting that evening, a conference to round up the second day since Elías Freysson’s body had been found.
‘You’ll be very welcome,’ she had said, although it was obvious that this was not in the least bit true; in her eyes they were a pair of uniformed bumpkins getting in the way of the work of real police officers. Ari Thór said that he would be there and expected that Tómas would do the same.
On the phone, Helga gave Ari Thór a brief status report, including the information that Elías had been involved in some shady business, which included fencing stolen goods and even organising break-ins. The charity’s accounts were also raising a few eyebrows, with ill-defined costs and revenue from unidentified sources.
All of this meant that Ari Thór would be on his way to Akureyri again.
Maybe this time he would call Kristín, or send her an email. He had nothing to lose, after all. He was already mentally composing it.
Hello. No. Hi. That sounded better. Hi, hope you’re well. I’m going to be in Akureyri this evening. I’d love to see you if you have time to meet. Do you have a spare ten minutes? That would do. Ten minutes. She could hardly refuse him that.
He called over to Tómas.
‘Meeting in Akureyri tonight. We’ll have to leave around half-five.’
‘Excellent,’ Tómas replied. ‘And we’ll have time for a burger and a plate of chips on the way back, won’t we, my boy?’
Ari Thór nodded and grinned.
He clicked on his email, wrote his message to Kristín, then quickly pressed ‘send’ before he had time to change his mind.
Ísrún could feel fatigue taking hold of her. It had been a tough couple of days: Dalvík, Akureyri and then Siglufjörður.
Against her better instincts, she decided to call Kormákur to tell him what she had been doing. It wasn’t even as if she had much to say. There was the attention-seeking woman Elías had rented an apartment from; or she could tell him about Páll Reynisson. Páll had said he hadn’t been in Siglufjörður the night Elías had been murdered, but down south in Reykjavík – although he could just as easily have been in Skagafjörður committing a murder. But he didn’t seem like a man with anything to hide. He was a very unlikely murderer and she had no desire to drag him into the news spotlight.
She still had one more person to talk to about Elías, though: his workmate, Logi.
She had found out where he lived. But before paying him a visit, she needed to rest. She took a room at a local guesthouse, mainly to give herself a chance to close her eyes before driving south that evening. With no expectation that the station would reimburse her costs, she opted for the cheapest room available.
Once inside, she drew the curtains and lay down without bothering to pull a blanket over herself. Then she remembered her phone and decided, just for once, to break her own rule. She stood up, picked up the phone and set it to silent. Nobody knew precisely where to find her, nobody could disturb her and that was just how she wanted it.
She lay down again and her eyelids drooped as her thoughts began to wander. But it was not long before they came back round to reality, and she thought about what she was expecting to achieve with this particularly private investigation.
Kristín’s longed-for break arrived and she poured herself a strong coffee, hoping it would be powerful enough to jolt her back to alertness while she leafed through the papers and checked her emails. Taking a seat in front of the office computer, she clicked on her account.
He heart skipped a beat. There was a message from Ari Thór.
She hesitated, wondering whether or not to delete it unread.
He had sent her many messages in the weeks after they had parted company and often tried to call. But she had never replied, adamant that he didn’t deserve a response. Now her feelings were different. She had met another man. It wouldn’t do any harm for Ari Thór to be aware of it – proof, perhaps, that she could stand on her own two feet.
She read his message; it was short and straight to the point, suggesting they should meet.
She chose her words with care as she typed a reply.
‘Sorry, I’m not free this evening. I’m expecting a friend.’
9
How could she have let herself be taken in by the offer of working in Iceland?
She had seen stars, their light so bright that she had not seen the sinister shadow they cast – a shadow she should have taken care to avoid.
She could feel death coming closer.
She didn’t fear it anymore.
Death was simply a part of living, or so she had been brought up to believe.
What worried her most was that her body would probably be buried in the ground instead of being cremated according to the beliefs and customs with which she had grown up.
She tried to stifle her negative thoughts, and fought hard not to dwel
l on her terrible thirst.
10
It was a long time since Ísrún had slept so soundly. Normally she dipped in and out of slumber, waking several times every night. Occasionally she managed something deeper, a sleep of dreams, but then the nightmares they turned into ensured that she still slept badly, waking with her heart beating wildly, her body drenched in sweat, drained rather than rested.
And now she was awake. She stood up, felt a moment’s dizziness so overwhelming that she sat down on the bed again and took a lungful of air, closing her eyes and making an effort to take steady breaths. She checked the time on her phone and saw with satisfaction that she had slept for almost an hour. But she also saw that she had missed a call. From María, the news editor.
What could she be calling about?
Ísrún didn’t have the energy to talk to her right away, so she dropped the phone in her handbag and ventured out into the bright Siglufjörður sunshine. Having already paid for the night, she decided to keep the room.
María sat in her office, contemplating the advantages of being able to shut the door. Open-plan offices were usual for newsrooms, something that journalists had adopted long before the economic boom years had made them standard practice everywhere else – in banks and finance companies, who had taken on huge numbers of staff to fill their open workspaces. It was the magic solution that was supposed to promote tight-knit teamwork, lower overheads and ultimately result in higher profits.
María herself had had a couple of offers from the financial sector, but she had withstood the temptation to leave the media. The money on offer had been very attractive, but news was deeply ingrained in her. When it had come to making a decision, she had been unable to leave behind the environment she had thrived in all these years.
The news editor’s job came with pros and cons, however. She was free to concentrate on the big picture and had the opportunity to put her own stamp on the newsroom, but part and parcel of the job were the endless meetings about staffing, budgets and management. The worst part was having to lay people off; this was something she avoided as much as she could, although if it had to be done, she wouldn’t shy away from it.
She couldn’t help thinking there was something in what Ívar had said. There was no doubt that Ísrún was a talented journalist, but she seemed to have lost her spark. She could be resourceful and determined, sometimes a little too determined, if truth be told. But something had gone wrong. There had been too many absences and, as Ívar had pointed out, she had claimed every available sick day recently and often appeared out of sorts at work. Six months ago María had called her in for an appraisal and asked if everything was all right, tactfully pointing out that she had been off sick unusually often.
‘I’ve just had one cold after another this winter,’ Ísrún had replied. But she’d seemed so uncomfortable that María didn’t need any special insight to see through the lie.
Nothing much had changed after that conversation. On top of which, Ívar didn’t trust Ísrún. This was nothing new; sometimes people just didn’t get on. But Ívar was the more valuable member of the news team, a man with plenty of experience who had been head-hunted from a competing station. She couldn’t afford to lose him. It looked like she was going to have to sacrifice Ísrún.
María knews this situation had been brewing for some months, yet it remained a difficult decision to take, all the same.Once María had made up her mind, though, not least when the decision was a tough one, she habitually wanted to push it through right away. And there would be little that could persuade her to alter her course.
11
The pregnant woman standing in the doorway was around Ísrún’s own age. Ísrún immediately saw there was something troubled about her, though she found herself unable to pin it down. Tiredness? Maybe. A reticence about her? Yes, more than likely. Some kind of pre-natal depression? It was possible.
‘Hello,’ Ísrún said, not yet sure how she was going to talk her way into this house.
‘Hi,’ the woman replied curtly, seemingly intent on showing only the minimum of courtesy.
Ísrún’s plan was an as-yet-uncertain mixture of honesty and white lies.
‘My name’s Ísrún,’ she opened.
You might recognise me from the television, she wanted to say, but saw right away there was no need for that.
‘We’re making a short news item about Elías Freysson, the man who died the other night. He had been prominent in charity work locally, as you probably know, and we thought it would be worthwhile to talk to some of his friends and acquaintances.’
The surprise on the woman’s face was clear; she remaining in the doorway staring, apparently wondering what to say.
‘I’ve spoken to his friend Svavar, over in Dalvík, and with Páll here in Siglufjörður. I imagine Logi would want to say a few words as well, don’t you think?’
‘What? Well, I guess so,’ answered the woman, clearly unconvinced.
‘Is he at home?’
‘No, he’s at work. I expect he’ll be back soon, though,’ she mumbled.
‘That’s great. Could I wait for him? My cameraman is on the way and I asked him to meet me here.’ She put out her hand. ‘My name’s Ísrún,’ she repeated.
‘Yes … Sorry. I’m Móna.’ She tried to smile as she shook Ísrún’s hand. ‘Won’t you come inside?’
‘Thanks,’ Ísrún said, quickly stepping inside before Móna could change her mind. She followed her into a large kitchen where a glass of milk stood on the table next to an open newspaper.
‘Sit down,’ said Móna. ‘Can I get you something to drink? I don’t have any hot coffee right now.’ She patted her swollen belly. ‘I’ve given it up for the time being.’
‘A glass of milk would do fine,’ Ísrún said and thought back to old Katrín in Landeyjar and the glass of milk she had been given there. That was a day she would prefer to forget. ‘How far gone are you?’
‘Five months,’ Móna said, fetching a carton of milk from the fridge and placing a glass in front of Ísrún, as she took her seat back at the table. Ísrún sat down opposite her and looked around the kitchen. The white of the cupboard doors shone in contrast to the black stone of the worktops. The kitchen table was black and surrounded by white chairs. A couple of monochrome photographs hung on the walls. The unwashed dishes in the sink, in rainbow colours, struck a jarring note against their stark surroundings. Everything seemed to be hidden away in cupboards, with little to be seen on the worktops. A row of white cups stood on a narrow shelf above a magnificent coffee machine.
‘Congratulations,’ Ísrún ventured.
Móna nodded and smiled, saying nothing in reply.
‘Do you and Logi have many children?’
‘What? Me and Logi?’ Her voice rose and there was a note of determination in it that made Ísrún quail for a second. ‘This is Jökull’s baby.’
‘Jökull?’
‘That’s right. Logi lives in the apartment upstairs. My husband is Jökull, Logi’s brother.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ísrún said in embarrassment. ‘I hadn’t realised. Should have done my homework better.’ She smiled to try and lighten the atmosphere, but with little apparent success. ‘This is your and Jökull’s first child?’
‘Yes.’ The reply was short and sharp.
‘OK. Some people start having children later in life, or like me, not at all.’
Móna was silent and stared into her glass of milk.
When the silence began to become almost unbearable, Ísrún decided to try and break it.
‘Did Jökull work with Elías as well?’
‘He certainly did not. He works at the Savings Bank,’ said Móna, her voice still sharp.
‘You’re both locals?’
‘Yes.’
‘Born and bred?’
Ísrún glanced at the black-and-white photographs on the walls, all of which looked to be Siglufjörður scenes, landscapes or old pictures taken in the town.
‘Pretty much. When’s this cameraman going to be here?’ Móna asked, her impatience clear. ‘Shall I give Logi a call? He might have been held up.’
‘There’s no hurry,’ Ísrún assured her. Nóra had mentioned that Elías had rented a room from Logi before he moved to her house. Ísrún wanted to get as much information about Elías as she could from Móna.
‘What do you do?’ she asked.
‘I work for the local authority. But the doctor put me on maternity leave early. This hasn’t been an easy pregnancy.’
She sighed.
‘It must be difficult for you. But you must both be excited now it’s getting closer.’
‘Yes. We are,’ Móna said, but her voice sounded heavy.
‘You knew Elías well?’
‘Hardly at all.’ Móna gave a brisk shake of her head.
‘Didn’t he live here for a while?’
She hesitated. ‘Upstairs, with Logi. He rented a room from him. Left at New Year. We didn’t see much of him down here.’
‘I suppose he must have been busy with all the charity work he did,’ Ísrún said lightly, in order to maintain her subterfuge.
Móna snorted, making it clear that she had no faith in Elías’s altruism. She sipped her milk and turned the page of the newspaper in front of her. It was obvious she had no intention of discussing Elías’s affairs any further. In fact her mood was so dark that it was as if summer had not yet penetrated Móna’s house. The view from the kitchen window was also overcast, hardly reminiscent of summer, and, although it was warm, anyone could have imagined that autumn was about to come early. A few conifers at the edge of the garden shivered, as if in a cool breeze.
‘It must be difficult knowing a murder victim,’ Ísrún suggested, determined not to leave right away.
‘Yep,’ Móna mumbled. ‘A bit.’
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