Nightblind (21 page)

He suddenly remembered why the words ‘psychiatric ward’ had nagged at him, refusing to be forgotten in the speed of events. It was that call; the call from the woman who had never finished her story. Hadn’t she been a
nurse
on a psychiatric ward? He checked back to the log, and there it was. Her name and phone number.

‘Ása?’ Ari Thór enquired, when she answered the phone.

‘Yes,’ she replied cautiously.

‘Good morning. My name’s Ari Thór Arason and I’m a police officer in Siglufjördur.’

‘Police officer…?’

‘You called us recently about someone who was on the psychiatric ward? You had something to tell us?’

‘Well, yes … I’m sorry to have bothered you. It wasn’t anything.’

‘No problem. But would you be so kind as to tell me the story anyway? Any information, however insignificant, is always useful.’

‘I don’t doubt that, at least in this instance,’ she said. ‘Anyhow, I was watching the TV news and saw a face there that I couldn’t fail to recognise. The policeman who died.’

‘Exactly. Herjólfur,’ Ari Thór confirmed, recalling that the photograph used in the news coverage was of a much younger Herjólfur, probably dating back several decades.

‘I remembered him from when he was one of my patients, many years ago. I wasn’t sure if I should tell you this, and that’s why I ended the call. We’re bound by confidentiality rules … But it’s important to help. After all, the man was murdered,’ she said and paused. ‘It was all very strange. I found out not long after he was discharged that there were no records of his stay, and I don’t know why. He was quite badly unbalanced at the time, I remember that clearly, and we didn’t get on well together.’ She hesitated before continuing. ‘Maybe that was partly my fault, as well. I was still young and took decisions too quickly.’

‘Thank you, Ása. This is all very interesting,’ Ari Thór said amiably, willing her to continue.

‘Good. Pleased to hear it,’ the woman replied. ‘I was surprised to hear that he had joined the police. I hadn’t expected that he would stay on that side of the law, if you see what I mean? He was quick to anger, a troubled young man. I thought you might like to know, especially as all the records of him disappeared. I thought it was very strange at the time…’

‘Exactly,’ Ari Thór said.

‘Well … yes. I’ve thought of him now and again over the years. I’m sorry to hear how it turned out for him.’

When the call was over, Ari Thór picked up the diary. Tómas had asked him to read it to get as clear a picture as possible before they went in front of the judge in Akureyri to request custody.

It was a dog-eared, old book. The writing was faded but still legible. He felt uncomfortable looking through the man’s diary like
this, even though he was dead. But he had to read it all the same, and he was curious to know what the contents would show him.

He sat down to read.

July 1982

At last they gave me a pencil and a notebook.

It’s an old yellow pencil, badly sharpened, and an old notebook that someone has already used, the first few pages untidily ripped out. Had someone else already tried to put into words their difficulties and their helplessness, just as I’m doing? Maybe there were some pretty doodles there, the unchanging view of the back garden rendered in artistic form, if that could be done. Some things are so grey and cold that no amount of colour on a page could ever bring them to life.

I feel a little better now that I can scribble a few words on paper and I can’t explain exactly why. I’ve never taken any particular satisfaction from writing. It’s only now that I have the feeling that this might save my life.

It probably doesn’t even matter what I write here in this notebook. Maybe something of the background to my being here, my feelings and this monotonous existence here. Whatever it takes to maintain my sanity.

Spring

Sometimes Ari Thór let his heart, and his pride, run away with him, and he was more than aware of this flaw in himself. He’d allow his emotions to gain the upper hand.

The sun had returned to the little town, getting brighter by the day, although as often as not the cold wind off the sea would still overwhelm any warmth that its rays provided.

With the brighter days had come his promotion to inspector; at last, the long-awaited advancement in his career. While everything was quiet these days – a little too quiet – he certainly enjoyed the title, the influence and the authority that had also allowed him to appoint two subordinates. Changes had also taken place at the municipal offices. Elín had been charged with Valberg’s murder, and Gunnar rapidly vacated the position of mayor by ‘mutual agreement’. Rumour suggested that he had moved to Norway to be with his family. Ottó had become the new mayor.

But the wind had swept Kristín and Stefnir away from Ari Thór.

Of course some of the blame was his. Because of that damned jealousy, he found it too hard to forgive, and when his anger had finally abated, she had already gone.

Next weekend was a dad’s weekend.

But he hadn’t given up all hope, far from it.

Their relationship had always been a volatile one.

He needed to sit down with her, find the right moment. He felt an obligation to save his family, if only for Stefnir’s sake. Ari Thór had enjoyed a wonderful family life before he lost his parents, and he
wanted Stefnir to experience the same – to have both of his parents with him throughout his life. Herjólfur’s story of recurring domestic violence through the generations had reminded him how good things were for him – for him, Kristín and Stefnir. He would be a fool to throw that away.

Maybe he would have to tell her about his father, tell her the real story behind his mysterious disappearance. As far as she knew, his father had simply vanished without a trace. But there was far more to it than that, and Ari Thór had uncovered the truth. He had kept it from Kristín, and everyone else, but the time had come for them to have no secrets.

He had hooked her once, and then again, the woman he loved above all else. Why not third time lucky?

As always, I owe a debt of gratitude to the many people who have contributed in one way or another to making
Nightblind
possible. My wife, María Margrét Jóhannsdóttir, and my two daughters, Kira and Natalía (to whom this book is dedicated), provide me with inspiration and support, as do my parents, Jónas Ragnarsson and Katrín Guðjónsdóttir, and my brother, Tómas Jónasson. The kind people of Siglufjördur have also been very supportive, in spite of the growing number of fictional murders taking place in their wonderful town. My warmest thanks also go to my Icelandic publishing team, Pétur Már Ólafsson and Bjarni Þorsteinsson, who have made the Dark Iceland series possible, my publisher Karen Sullivan and translator Quentin Bates, who have both put so much effort into making the series available to English-speaking readers, and my agents, Monica Gram at Copenhagen Literary Agency and David Headley at DHH Literary Agency.

I would also especially like to acknowledge my late grandfather and namesake, Þ. Ragnar Jónasson, who has inspired me through his writing about Siglufjördur. In
Nightblind
, readers hear about the period from mid-November until late January when the sun disappears behind the high Siglufjördur mountains. No one has written about this more beautifully than my grandfather, in a chapter from one of his books on Siglufjördur,
Siglfirskir söguþættir (Stories from Siglufjördur)
, which was originally written in 1980 and published in 1997. I would like to take this opportunity to include the passage below.

‘Spring Returns to the Valley’

by Þ. Ragnar Jónasson (1913–2003)

The winter solstice approaches. The midwinter gloom engulfs the town. As the days pass, it lasts a little longer, but there’s light to work by during the daytime hours. Where the sun can be seen, it has little impact. Its rays are almost horizontal and their brightness lasts only a short while.

The writer of these words sits by the window, watching the afternoon’s darkness. Outside, the snow falls bitter and cold, as it piles up into drifts, where the clean, sharp, soft powder sparkles.

Indoors, it is warm and cosy. These days it is no longer the fire in the hearth and the oil lamps that provide us with warmth, light and peace of mind, but instead the heat comes from hot springs in Skútudalur valley and electricity from the turbines at Skeidsfoss waterfall. Technology adds comfort to our lives.

There is no gleam of sunshine to light up the inside of the high ring of mountains that encircles Siglufjördur. The winter sun disappeared, as usual, behind Blekkilsfjall mountain on the 15th of November. After that there is only a faint glow to be seen on the Hafnarhyrna and Hestsskardshnjúkur mountains, if it is clear enough in the middle of the day. There is only a sudden flash of reflected sunshine that passes between the peaks before the day’s brightness fades up here in the far north of the world.

The high moon shines at night, sending its enchanting brightness over the white winter lands, where there is hardly a blemish to be seen. Midnight-blue shadows fill the fissures and chasms. An endless variety of glittering greys and silvers make the landscape both indistinct and mysterious. The waters of the fjord surge in the light of the moon and the scintillating northern lights adorn the dark blue bowl of the heavens with their magnificent display.

With the passing of the solstice on the 21st to 22nd of December, the light returns, gradually but steadily. The days stretch by a bird’s footstep at a time, until the sun visits again on the 28th of January,
the day of the sun. The bright beauty of the winter sun reaches over Hólshyrna mountain, after an absence of seventy-four days and then the town has cause to celebrate.

The Úlfsdalafjöll peaks to the west, and to the east the headland of Siglunesmúli and the Stadarhóls mountains have long provided shelter for the people of Siglufjördur, when bitter weather rages elsewhere across the land and the northern seas. But during the gloom of the year’s shortest days, when the biting northerly storms fling snow around Nesnúpur and into Siglufjördur, and then further inside the ring of mountains, there are those who feel that the world is closing in around them. Harsh weather and arctic darkness are a trial for everyone’s inner strength. Others relish this time of year, which they feel is the best of all for relaxation, rest and exercising the mind.

After the great flood many years ago, God made a covenant with old Noah. ‘While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease.’ And God put his rainbow in the sky to stand witness to their covenant.

The seasons follow their set course, with sunshine giving way to showers. As always the sweet is blended with the sour. Each follows the other, good and ill, the optimism of spring and the anxiousness that precedes winter, and always lit by the brightness of a new day after the darkness of night, as Freysteinn Gunnarsson says in his poem:

The joys of summer and the delights that nature brings will again be with us in this town so far north. The rays of the sun gild the mountain slopes in the calm weather of the bright season, making the whole fjord a box of sunshine.

The nightless summer months adorn the mountains and the valleys with myriad colours and the sea rests as calm as a pool of golden oil, morning and evening. What can equal the placid stillness and loveliness of an early summer morning when the stately mountains with their slopes so green are reflected in the fjord, so sensitive to beauty?

Then all the ills of winter are swept away.

An exclusive extract from Ragnar Jónasson’s Blackout, translated by Quentin Bates and published in autumn 2016 by Orenda Books.

How do you like Iceland?

That, at the very least, was the kind of question he had come to Iceland to avoid.

The day began well, as the fine June morning dawned. Not that there was any evident difference between morning and evening at this time of year, when the sun stayed bright around the clock, casting blinding light wherever he looked. Evan Fein had long anticipated visiting this island at the edge of the habitable world.

It was this Ohio art history student’s first visit to Iceland. Nature had pooled its energies, as if to add to the woes of the financial crash, by presenting Icelanders with two volcanic eruptions, one right after the other. The volcanic activity appeared to have subsided, for the moment, and Evan had just missed the events. He had spent a few days in Iceland, starting by taking in the sights of Reykjavík and the tourist spots around the city. Then he hired a car and set off for the north. After a night at the campsite at Blönduós, he made an early start, setting out for Skagafjördur. He had purchased a CD of old-fashioned Icelandic ballads and slotted it into the car’s player, enjoying the music without understanding a word of the lyrics, proud
to be something of a travel nerd, immersing himself in the culture of the countries he visited. He took the winding Thverárfjall road, turning off before he got as far as the town of Saudarkrókur on the far side of the peninsula. He wanted to take a look at Gréttir’s Bath, the stone-flagged hot thermal pool that he knew had to be somewhere nearby, not far from the shore.

It was a slow drive along the rutted track to the pool, and he wondered if trying to find it was a waste of time. But the thought of relaxing for a while in the steaming water and taking in both the beauty of his surroundings and the tranquillity of the morning was a tempting one. He drove at a snail’s pace, lambs scattering from the sides of the road as he passed, but the pool stubbornly refused to be found. Evan started to wonder if he had missed the turning, and slowed down at every farm gate, trying to work out if the entrance to the pool might be hidden away – across a farmer’s land, or down a side turning, a country lane. Had he driven too far? Then he saw a handsome house that on closer inspection looked to be half-built. It stood not far from the road with a small grey van parked in front of it. He pulled his car to the side of the road, and stopped. Something looked odd.

The driver, or the house’s owner, perhaps, was lying on the ground near the house. Unmoving. Unconscious? Evan started with surprise, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the door without even turning off the engine. The age-old ballads continued to crackle from the car’s tinny speakers, making the scene almost surreal.

Evan started to run, but then slowed as the man came into view. He was dead. There was no doubt about that.

It had to be a man lying there, judging by the build and the cropped hair. There was no chance of identifying the face, which was erased by a spatter of blood.

Where there had once been an eye, there was now an empty socket.

He gasped for air and stared numbly at the corpse in front of him, fumbling for his phone, the incongruous sound of his Icelandic ballads in the background.

He turned quickly, checking that the man’s assailant wasn’t behind him.
Nothing
.

Apart from the dead man, Evan was alone. Next to the body was a length of timber, smeared with blood. The weapon? Evan retched and he tried to stifle the thoughts that flooded his mind.
Think. Be calm
. He sat down beside the pasture in front of the house, and punched out the emergency number on his phone, wishing fervently that he had picked another destination for his holiday.

Iceland is one of the safest places on earth,
said the travel guide.

Evan’s eyes darted around, taking in the warm summer sun casting her glow across the verdant fields, the stunning mountains hovering in the distance, the glint of her rays on the bright-blue waters of the outlying fjord and its magnificent islands.

Not anymore
, he thought, as the operator was connected.

Not anymore.