Nightblind (11 page)

I wrote nothing yesterday.

The whole day was spent lying in bed.

It’ll make you feel better, Dr Helgi had said. That was one of the few things he had to say before he dismissed me from his office.

What a load of shit! I’ve never felt worse. These pills aren’t doing me any good. Quite the opposite. I’m nothing like my normal self. I sleep worse than before and my mouth is dry all the time. You’re supposed to be patient with these drugs and ‘work with your medication’, or so the staff keeps reminding me.

It’s midday. Actually I don’t have a watch so I don’t know exactly what the time is, but we’ve just been called to lunch. That means it’s midday in this little community. I’m not going, I don’t feel up to it.

It’ll pass, or so I’m told, all these side-effects and teething problems that are part of my new relationship with medication.

Nobody needs a watch here. Time passes in a rhythm dictated by an organised timetable; breakfast, morning meeting, lunch, afternoon coffee, dinner. Then it all starts again the next day. The fucking monotony of it would drive a sane man crazy, although I have to concede that there is something soothing about it all. Before, I used to dread each new day, not knowing what it might bring, but that feeling is starting to fade away now. Just like I am.

Kristín was nowhere to be seen when Ari Thór arrived home at dinner time, and he assumed she must be upstairs putting Stefnir to bed. He had brought a pizza home with him, but saw as soon he went into the kitchen that Kristín and Stefnir had already had fish. There were no leftovers for him in the fridge, which was possibly a silent rebuke for having been away from his family so often since the investigation had begun. Or maybe Kristín had simply not expected him to be home for dinner.

He would have liked to have crept up the stairs to take a peek at them, but knew that Kristín would take a dim view of an interruption while she was getting the boy off to sleep. He was probably better off in the kitchen with the pizza while it was still warm. Siglufjördur’s police force didn’t live on doughnuts. The mainstay of their diet was pizza, as well as those cinnamon buns that the local bakery did so well.

Ari Thór had missed the evening news on television and he wasn’t sorry. He had already seen and heard enough news reports speculating the specifics of the attack. An armed assault on a police officer was a major story, unprecedented in the history of the small island, so there wasn’t much else in the news, even though the investigation had made little appreciable progress. He had no need to listen to journalists telling him what he already knew, that the case was still unresolved. They had probably found the owner of the shotgun, Ingólfur the teacher – or he’d found them. The forensic team had searched Ingólfur’s garage without discovering anything that might be relevant to the case. Ari Thór found Ingólfur’s story plausible
and the gun had presumably been stolen. It seemed that the assault weapon was the same type of gun, but a match would not be possible until the shotgun itself was found.

His neighbours had been interviewed to find out if anyone had seen anything, but nothing had emerged. The case remained shrouded in darkness. Ingólfur would have to be considered a suspect, but Ari Thór found it difficult to imagine that he could be guilty of anything other than carelessness.

The police had not yet made this new angle of the investigation public, and deep inside he hoped that Ingólfur could be shielded from the spotlight, although that was probably unlikely. The forensic team’s investigation of his garage in broad daylight would certainly not have escaped notice, and that kind of gossip would spread like wildfire in the small community. It wouldn’t be long before hungry journalists would be sniffing at the trail.

Seeking some company to go with his pizza, he finally switched on the television only to find a studio debate on gun ownership taking place, a subject that rarely attracted any attention in Iceland. It wasn’t difficult to work out what had prompted the discussion.

‘There are sixty thousand registered firearms in Iceland,’ said one of the panel members. ‘Sixty thousand! That means every fifth Icelander has a weapon, and if we only take into consideration the adult population, gun ownership is much higher. A few years ago a survey showed that Iceland has the fifteenth-highest level of gun ownership worldwide per capita. Fifteenth! Chances are these figures are much lower than the reality, too.’

A society of hunters
, Ari Thór thought to himself.

‘Per capita,’ someone else said, interrupting the debate on the screen. ‘You can get all kinds of weird and wonderful numbers per capita…’

‘Excuse me?’ The first one squawked. ‘In fifteenth place. Going by those figures, we must have ninety thousand firearms. What on earth do we need all those guns for? Isn’t it about time the rules were tightened up? And what comes next? Arming the police? It seems that everyone except the police has access to firearms.’

Ari Thór was quietly enjoying the argument, when a loud knock at the door shattered his peaceful meal. He was startled. Putting down his half-eaten slice of pizza, he stood up, gripped by a feeling of unease that he did his best to ignore. He wasn’t expecting anyone and it was most unlike Tómas to call unannounced.

He glanced at his phone to see if anyone had tried to contact him, and to make sure he hadn’t accidentally turned it off or silenced it, but that was not the case. There was not really any reason to be concerned by an unannounced caller, not in Siglufjördur. A more peaceful spot could hardly be imagined. This was a place where, on occasions, the forces of nature were to be feared, but not the neighbours. But now someone had shot one of the town’s two police officers at close range. The remaining police officer was Ari Thór. Was there someone with a grudge against the police? Was Herjólfur just the first victim?

The knock was repeated, loud and determined.

A moment later there was a bang on the ceiling above. The old house was built of wood and sound carried well throughout it. Kristín had undoubtedly heard Ari Thór come home and then the knocking on the front door. Her bang on the floor was a clear instruction for him to answer the door promptly while she was getting Stefnir to sleep.

Ari Thór hurried to the hallway.

The lightbulb by the front door needed replacing so he peered into the darkness to see the face of someone he recognised but had never spoken to. Ottó N. Níelsson stood there, Siglufjördur’s newly elected town councillor, born and raised in the town, and recently returned to his home turf after many years in Reykjavík.

‘Good evening, Ari Thór,’ he said in a deep bass voice, before Ari Thór could open his mouth. ‘I hope I’m not intruding? I’d appreciate a word with you.’

As he had taken the trouble to visit after dark, the errand had to be something urgent.

‘Yes, won’t you come in?’

‘That would be appreciated. Much appreciated,’ Ottó said, carefully wiping non-existent mud from his shoes onto the mat before coming inside and following Ari Thór into the living room. Ottó made himself comfortable in the middle of the sofa. Ari Thór found it awkward having this stranger call on him so late in the day and was relieved that Kristín was busy upstairs.

Ari Thór knew a little of Ottó’s background. He was a high-profile member of Reykjavík’s business community and had done very well for himself with the acquisition of the remnants of a debt-laden car dealership just when demand for new vehicles had dropped to virtually zero. According to rumour, he had been able to sell the company at a considerable profit a few years later once the economy had begun to recover from the financial crash. He had moved back to Siglufjördur, stood in the municipal elections and had been elected. He was also believed to have applied pressure for Gunnar Gunnarsson to be appointed mayor; Gunnar being a close friend of his, but an outsider with little experience.

Ari Thór sat and waited for his visitor to get to the point.

‘How’s the investigation going?’ Ottó asked, his deep voice appearing to well up from the depths of his torso. His gaze didn’t waver from Ari Thór’s face and it was obvious that something more than simple curiosity had brought him.

‘Reasonably well,’ Ari Thór answered, keeping his answer short. Ottó sat silently. ‘Of course, I’m not at liberty to discuss details,’ he said to break the silence.

‘Exactly. Of course,’ Ottó said.

‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ Ari Thór asked, hoping that he would say no.

‘Not for me, but thanks all the same. I’m not stopping.’ He leaned forward. ‘You’ve been speaking to Gunnar, and more than once, or so I understand. Or interrogating him, if that’s the word…’

‘I can’t confirm…’ Ari Thór began, before Ottó interrupted.

‘Gunnar told me himself, so there’s no need for you to confirm anything. And earlier today you were pestering the deputy mayor,
Elín Reyndal,’ he said before Ari Thór could reply. Ottó laid particular emphasis on the word ‘pestering’.

‘As I told you, I’m not in a position to discuss details of the case…’

‘Fine, fine. You and Tómas have spoken to both Gunnar and Elín, and I can’t for the life of me understand why. I know, or at least I’m sure enough, that this was Tómas’s doing. I remember him from the old days. He’s pushy, in his own way. He moves south, gets a smart promotion and then there’s this opportunity to run the investigation here. Of course the old boy’s going to want to make his presence felt. That’s what I’m saying, Ari Thór … I mean that I’m not blaming you for any of this.’

He paused and continued.

‘I decided I needed a quiet word with you. With you, not Tómas. I can trust you and I know you’re a local, or almost a local now, practically part of the landscape. But Tómas has moved away and isn’t likely to be coming back. Do you really believe the mayor could have attempted to murder a police inspector? What do you think?’ He stared hard at Ari Thór. ‘Or the deputy mayor? Be serious now.’

Ari Thór stood up and smiled. He hadn’t been called a local in Siglufjördur before, and was certain that Ottó was only doing it now because he needed a favour.

‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss this with you and I hope you understand. The investigation is at a very sensitive stage. You can imagine how it would look if word were to get out that you were sitting here and I was giving you details of the case.’

Ottó stood up as well.

‘Why should word get out?’

Ari Thór extended a hand.

‘It’s good to meet you, Ottó, and thank you for stopping by. There’s no need for concern because the investigation is in capable hands and I expect the case will be resolved in the next couple of days.’

‘It will be if you stop wasting time on irrelevant stuff. It looks bad for everyone, Ari Thór, if word gets out that the police are repeatedly
interrogating senior municipal officials … and not just the mayor,’ Ottó said, his voice gaining volume, the threat clear.

Ari Thór showed his visitor to the door, outwardly maintaining his composure despite the thoughts now swirling in his mind.

When Ottó had gone, Ari Thór stood for a while in the hall and reflected upon their encounter. Had he been too courteous, considering the circumstances? Or maybe too discourteous?

His gut feeling was that neither Gunnar nor Elín had anything to do with the shooting, and maybe he and Tómas had applied more pressure than was warranted in exploring those avenues. At the heart of the matter was the fact that once the investigation had been concluded, he would have to continue to live in this close little community while Tómas returned to his post in the south. He was in no position to put his job or his family at risk, nor the prospect of a promotion if Herjólfur didn’t make it. Ari Thór would have to take his next steps very, very carefully.

I had a long talk with the nurse today. This wasn’t because I get any particular satisfaction from talking to her, but because, unlike the doctor, she can actually be bothered to listen to me.

Bothered to listen? Well … she listened, at least, but it has to be remembered that she gets paid for looking after the inmates. I tried to turn on the charm, told her she was the only one working here who has any sense. I think she’s actually a bit stupid, but what the hell? She listened.

I didn’t go so far as to tell her the whole story from the start, why I’m the way I am, but I tried to get her to understand that the medication is having a terrible effect and it’s really making things worse. I told her that I don’t have to be here, but with things as they are at the moment, I’ll allow myself to be led by the doctors. All I need is different medication.

She promised to do her best, said that Dr Helgi wouldn’t be back for a while, but that he could be reached in an emergency. Maybe that’s what we need. An emergency.

Ari Thór was up and about early. He felt much better physically than he had over the last few days, as he was finally gaining the upper hand over the flu that had plagued him. Kristín’s odd behaviour was however still cause for concern, but he needed to be able to focus on the investigation.

Ottó’s visit had preyed on his mind all evening, but he had been able to get to sleep easily. He and Kristín were woken by Stefnir at six, but the little boy was persuaded to close his eyes again. With a day off ahead of her, Kristín settled back to sleep, but Ari Thór remained awake, his mind turning over the facts of a case that was evolving in directions that were increasingly interesting. He had mentioned to Tómas that he was interested in speaking to the elderly lady who knew the dark history of the house where Herjólfur had been shot. Her name was Jódís, the sister of the man who had been in the house with the twin brothers Baldur and Börkur when Baldur had lost his life, tumbling from the balcony almost half a century ago.

It had been agreed that the best time to meet her would be over morning coffee at the church hall.

‘It’s a custom that started with the Reverend Eggert,’ said Tómas, ‘opening the hall up every weekday morning at seven and offering coffee. My cousin’s a regular there, and I hear Jódís is as well.’

It was undoubtedly going to be a long, tough day, so it would be good to start with a relaxed chat, making the most of the morning before the phone calls started, the media woke up and Tómas started issuing instructions.

Ari Thór stepped outside into a cold northerly breeze. The
distance to the church was so short it made no sense to drive. It had snowed during the night, and the temperatures was hovering below zero, cold enough to give the pavements a crispness underfoot, with a glistening aura of frost enveloping the town. There was a sharp wind, an indication of the real winter, lurking behind the corner. Ari Thór had seen mild winters in Reykjavík, but here in Siglufjördur the concept of a mild winter was unheard of.

Ari Thór walked briskly up the church steps and went upstairs to the long room that served as the church hall, feeling his strength returning.

He had made a point of wearing civilian clothing, as this wasn’t exactly a police matter and uniform would hardly have been appropriate under the circumstances. But there was no chance of his becoming lost in the throng. In one corner sat a group of pensioners. As Ari Thór appeared, the average age of those present dropped significantly, and the whole group fell silent. The Reverend Eggert was nowhere to be seen, but one of the guests, a man who looked to be well into his eighties, spoke for them all.

‘Good morning. Would you like to join us?’

Not knowing Jódís by sight, he decided to take a shot in the dark.

‘Thank you. I don’t want to interrupt, but I’m hoping to find Jódís.’

One of the women at the table looked up. ‘I’ve finished my coffee and I’ll be interested to know what you want with me, young man.’ She stood up and extended a delicate, bony hand. ‘I’m Jódís. And you are…?’

‘Ari Thór,’ he said, taking her hand. She was much shorter than he was, slightly hunched, her silver hair gathered into a bun, and she was wearing a neat dress in much the same colour.

‘Let’s sit ourselves down.’ She pointed to a table a distance away from the group. ‘Over there?’

‘Fine.’

‘Excellent.’ They sat on either side of the table, the cloying smell of her perfume almost overwhelming, even from several feet away.
‘I had been expecting you, or someone else.’ She pressed her lips together in a prim smile.

‘Me or someone else?’

‘Yes. You’re with the police, aren’t you?’ she asked, a sparkle in her eye. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me about the house?’

‘Quite right,’ Ari Thór said, taken by surprise.

‘And what is it you want to know, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Well, I’m just curious about the history of the place.’

‘And you think, young man, that the history of the house can shine a little light on the events of these past few days? That the past holds the key to today’s mysteries?’

‘You never know.’

‘I must say I’m doubtful, but I won’t avoid your questions. Not that I’m sure I’ll have all the answers. I hope you understand.’

Ari Thór nodded. ‘Of course. This is just an informal chat. Nothing official.’

‘Then we’re on the same page,’ Jódís smiled. ‘That’s always a good way to start.’

‘A man lost his life in the house approximately fifty years ago?’

‘I think you know that as well as I do,’ she said good-naturedly.

‘And your brother was present when this happened?’

‘That’s right. His name was Jónmundur. We were Jónmundur and Jódís. He’s long gone. I imagine you knew this before you came to find me. All three of them are gone: Jónmundur, Börkur and Baldur.’

‘When did this happen, precisely? Around 1960, I was told.’

‘The autumn of 1961, and that was a memorable year for plenty of reasons. It was one of the best herring years. We set a record that summer when we salted seventeen thousand barrels in one day. Seventeen thousand!’ She smiled at the memory. ‘I can say “we” because I was part of it. I don’t suppose that you’ll understand how important the herring was in those days.’

Ari Thór was too young to have remembered the herring era in Siglufjördur, but he had nevertheless read about it, and heard
many herring tales after moving up north. Siglufjördur had been the biggest herring port in Iceland, and had multiplied in size when the herring fishery was at its peak. The first herring factory in the town had been built in the early twentieth century, and for a while herring was one of Iceland’s most valuable exports. Everyone in town – men, women and children – took part when the fish were being landed; working in the factories, salting herring into barrels. There had been no shortage of money floating around, for the people of Siglufjördur as well as all the others who came into town to work in the fish business. Everyone had a role to play to make sure that the silver of the sea was turned into a valuable commodity. But then at the end of the 1960s, the herring had vanished, it left the northerly shores of Iceland. Today Siglufjördur was a completely different place, and although the herring years still held an important place in the memories of the townspeople, it was difficult for a younger man and an outsider to understand fully the atmosphere of a bygone era.

‘Did they all work in the herring?’

‘Yes, certainly. Everyone did.’

‘And was there a party that night when the incident occurred?’

‘We didn’t talk much about parties in those days. But they were good friends, Jónmundur and the twins, and they liked a dram or two when they got together. They were not temperance types, I can assure you.’

‘And were they all together the night Börkur … I mean the night Baldur lost his life?’ Ari Thór asked awkwardly, forced to admit to himself that he hadn’t been sure which of the twins had fallen to his death.

‘It was Baldur who fell,’ Jódís said, a little coldly. ‘Let’s not get them mixed up.’

‘Right,’ he said, with the sudden feeling that he was seated in front of a strict teacher.

‘They were there together, yes. I ask again, do you think these events from so long ago could have something to do with what the police is investigating now?’

‘I understand if you’d prefer not to talk about it.’

‘It was a tragedy. Nothing more.’

‘An accident?’

‘He fell from the balcony and didn’t survive the fall.’

‘Had he been drinking?’

She took her time and thought for a while before answering. ‘I think the darkness was more of a factor than the drink, to be honest.’

‘Did your brother witness it? Did he tell you anything about it?’

‘That’s two questions, young man. You’re going to have to allow me to take them one at a time.’

‘I’m sorry. Did your brother see anything?’

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘Did he ever discuss that night with you? I mean, the events that took place that night?’

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘Could it be possible that Börkur might have pushed Baldur off?’ Ari Thór asked.
Börkur or Jónmundur,
he had wanted to ask, but was reluctant to upset the old lady.

She leaned forward and placed her hand on Ari Thór’s arm.

‘Sometimes the truth needs to rest in peace,’ she whispered and stood up. ‘Thank you so much for the chat, Ari Thór. It was very pleasant to meet you. But let me think things over. Maybe it’s time to blow the dust off a few old secrets. Maybe.’

Jódís walked away with slow, decisive steps to her friends in the corner. She did not look back.

After his conversation with Jódís, Ari Thór walked home to change into uniform before meeting Tómas at the station. It didn’t feel quite as cold as before, but the wind was blowing as hard as ever from the north, as if to ensure that Ari Thór wouldn’t forget where in the world he was. He looked to the skies and saw only dark clouds.

‘It was strange, to say the least,’ he told Tómas, after recounting Ottó’s visit the previous evening. ‘A veiled threat, or so it seemed
to me. He was quite tactful about it, but it’s like nothing I’ve ever encountered before.’

‘You’ll get used to it,’ was the first thing Tómas said. ‘I never got on with Ottó.’

‘Do you know him well?’

‘We know each other well enough, but I don’t have any contact with him these days. He made a lot of money after the financial crash, some business deal or other, but he keeps his cash down south and that’s something that causes ill-feeling up here.’

‘What do you mean, he keeps his cash down south?’

‘He’s involved in some investment business down there but lives here. There are a lot of people who reckon he ought to be investing at home, but not a penny comes this way. He was always a skinflint, the old man, and that hasn’t changed. He likes to live here and sees himself as a local bigshot now that he’s a town councillor. He’ll buy groceries in the Co-op, but that’s as far as it goes. Or so they say. But the fly in the ointment will be the news that emerged this morning. Ottó won’t be impressed.’

‘What news?’

‘On the net, the news article about Elín.’

‘Elín?’ Ari Thór asked in confusion.

‘Someone saw us up in the ski lodge yesterday and there’s a gossip piece about the Siglufjördur deputy mayor being interrogated by the police. There’s a picture of her and everything,’ Tómas said, clearly displeased.

‘The couple who run the ski lodge,’ Ari Thór said. ‘It must have been them…’

‘There are no secrets in a little town like this,’ Tómas said, his face slightly flushed.

‘So what’s Ottó’s interest in this case?’ Ari Thór asked.

‘That’s what I’m wondering,’ Tómas said, grimacing as if he knew something he wasn’t prepared to share just yet.

Ari Thór waited patiently.

Tómas sighed. ‘Well, to start with, I’m led to understand that
Gunnar’s job as mayor is under Ottó’s patronage, that Ottó selected him and pushed for him to be appointed, even when there were other applicants who were no worse, and possibly far more experienced. He got his way, which must have been a bit of a struggle, because Gunnar is an outsider who had never set foot here before. There were two other candidates, from different parts of the town, so you can imagine that there was some rivalry that would split the vote. That definitely gave Gunnar an advantage. And Gunnar brought Elín with him. One thing leads to another.’

‘You said “to start with”.’

‘You’re sharp this morning, aren’t you?’ Tómas said, a smile fleeting across his lips. ‘I was chatting to the teacher – Ingólfur – and his wife last night. They’re devastated, completely distraught that his shotgun might have been – and almost certainly was – used in the assault.’

‘I can well believe it.’

‘It turns out that it wasn’t just the hunting club members that knew about the gun. His wife is a member of a club as well, a group of women who fish for salmon. She said that they had all been in the garage at least once and some of them had suggested the idea of going shooting when Ingólfur’s gun was mentioned. Their son also admitted that he held a party one weekend, when his parents were away, for all the kids who are graduating from the local college with him next spring. They had stored the booze in the garage …
And
they had some people over for dinner, and hunting was mentioned. The guests got up to take a look at his shotgun, and guess who was among them?’

‘Ottó?’

‘Got it in one. It didn’t ring any bells yesterday, as then there was no obvious connection with Ottó. But he’s certainly checked himself in as part of the investigation by paying you a visit.’

‘So what do we do now?’

‘Well, not a lot for the moment. He’s not going anywhere, and it’s stretching the point to call him in for an interview on the basis
that he had one dinner at Ingólfur’s house. But we’ll keep an eye on him …’

Ari Thór looked out of the window. The dark clouds he had seen on his way to work had opened up and a combination of freezing rain and sleet now pounded the small town, puddles forming and freezing on the pavements, and the station windows misting up. Not a day to be outside, he thought, making himself more comfortable in his chair. He couldn’t get Ottó’s visit out of his mind, and he felt as though a line had been crossed, his home life invaded. A stranger, in this case Ottó, had come so close to his family on a peaceful night.
What if it had been the killer
… Ari Thór thought to himself, feeling the horror trickle through his body.