Season of the Witch (16 page)

“You seem to be doing your usual thing, Einar,” observes Jóa. “Crime scoops, when you’ve only just arrived in this sleepy little town. Where you go, trouble follows.”

“So far as I can tell, there’s plenty of trouble to be found all over the place. I can’t be everywhere.”

“But I can tell you one thing, if you haven’t heard,” says Heida. “Several sources have told me that a link is being suggested between Skarphédinn’s disappearance and that Reydargerdi gang.”

“His disappearance?” I ask in astonishment. “But what about his death? Are they supposed to have killed him?”

“No one’s saying that, not yet. But they were here in town over Easter.”

“Yeah, I know,” I reply. “I heard that over in Reydargerdi yesterday. And shortly after our dinner on Wednesday evening, I caught a glimpse of the gang leader, Agnar Hansen, in a car cruising on Strandgata.”

“Did you?” exclaims Jóa. “Did you see who was with him?”

“No, unfortunately not. He was in the back of the car. That’s all I saw.”

“Have you told the police about this?” asks Heida.

I’m taken aback. “No. Actually I haven’t. It wasn’t until yesterday evening that the body was identified, and it was said to be a suspicious death—as they say when they don’t want to commit themselves to murder, manslaughter, or other variants of carnage.”

We remain silent for a while.

“And in fact nobody suggested a connection between the Reydargerdi gang and the murder. Not to me. Not until you mentioned it just now, Heida.”

“I’m not suggesting anything. Just passing on what I’ve heard.”

“So you haven’t got this from the police?”

“No, not at all. Just the classic rumor mill.”

“The classic rumor mill can be unreliable, not to say slippery. It’s always easy to lay the blame on outsiders when something unpleasant or unusual occurs.”

Trausti Löve had better not hear this rumor from Akureyri. That would really put the fox in the henhouse.

Heida puts down her coffee cup, stands up, and makes ready to go on with her work.

“Yes. When the news is vague, not all of us can resist the temptation to speculate,” she observes. Then she adds with a smile: “But here at the
Akureyri Post
, we never do that. We show responsibility without falsifying you-know-what.”

In the afternoon I go and hang around the police station. I’m not expecting to get much out of it. I’m there mostly to show myself, see and be seen. Divert attention from a certain channel of information and make it known that I’m talking to more than one or two police officers. I’m muddying the waters.

I don’t get any more out of my efforts. At the police station the atmosphere is so tense you could cut it with a knife. The police
here haven’t had to deal with a case like this for a long, long time. Some officers are polite but reserved, while others are brusque and skeptical of me and of the
Afternoon News
. When I’ve been loitering in the reception area for nearly an hour, trying to accost passing police officers, I decide that it’s time to move on.

Chief Ólafur Gísli didn’t pass through the reception area while I was there, so I decide to call on Ásbjörn’s goodwill a second time.

“No, we have no suspects at this point in time,” is Ólafur Gísli’s answer to my first question.

“Any clues?” I try to elicit more without referring to the gossip about the Reydargerdi gang.

“There are always clues. We’ll follow up on all information we receive. But it takes time. People must understand—especially you in the media—that investigation of a criminal case of such a serious nature is inevitably time-consuming.”

I’m not quite ready to back down. “Isn’t there a lot of gossip around town?”

“Of course. But we’re not going to devote time to that, now are we?”

“No, no, God forbid,” I reply.

He says nothing. I realize I’ve got my work cut out.

“Was our article in today’s paper all right?”

“All right? Nope. It was not all right, let me tell you!”

Oh, hell. What did I do wrong now?
“What was wrong with it?” I nervously inquire.

“There wasn’t a damn thing wrong with it! That’s what was wrong with it! I’ve been flailing around here, trying to find out who leaked that information. It’s absolutely intolerable.”

Someone must be overhearing him now.

“It’s intolerable for the police not to be able to carry out their work without leaks that may endanger the progress of the
investigation. You media people should take account of other interests than…”

I wait until he runs out of steam.

He half covers the mouthpiece, and I hear him say, “Yes…OK…Yes…Do that…Fine…” to someone who has entered his office. “No, I’ll be with you in a minute…. Just need to finish this…”

I’m still waiting.

“Are you there, you bastard?” he asks.

“Mhmm.”

“What we’re trying to do now is to retrace the last hours of Skarphédinn Valgardsson’s life. But I won’t say anything about it now. At present, we’re simply working on the case.”

“So there’s no news at this point? Nothing new?”

“Like what? What can you think of?”

“Er…” I try to think of something.

“Ask me something. Or I’ll have to stop this bullshit.”

“We reported today that Skarphédinn’s body is believed to have been moved after he was killed.”

“Yes. Call this journalism?”

I think the chief is having a laugh.

“Where do you think he died?”

“Good question,” chortles Ólafur Gisli. Now he sounds like a politician trying to win time so he can avoid answering the question and answer another one instead.

“Were you thinking of answering it?”

“No, I won’t. Not for now. Next question.”

“Do you know any more about the cause of death?”

“Not quite such a good question. But indications are…I reiterate, indications are—as the final autopsy findings won’t be available for another two days—indications are that he died as a result of head trauma, arising from a fall.”

“So he had a fall? It wasn’t a blow to the head?”

“You heard me right. He suffered brain trauma on the opposite side to the frontal injury. That indicates that his head struck an obstacle at considerable speed. So his head was not motionless, as it is when someone is struck on the head as they stand. In the case of a blow to the head, the internal brain trauma is generally in the same location as the external injury.”

“Any broken bones, other injuries?”

“No fractures. The rest is still under investigation.”

“Could he have fallen rather than have been pushed?”

“He either fell or was pushed.”

“So it could have been an accident or suicide?”

“What did that goddamned article of yours in the
Afternoon News
today say?”

Hang on, I think. What’s he talking about? “Do you mean the body had been moved?”

“Have you ever heard of someone falling to his death, by accident or design, then getting up, moving to another place, and setting fire to himself?”

“No, I don’t think I have,” I reply and find myself smiling inappropriately.

It’s not easy to write an update on the investigation into the disappearance and death of Skarphédinn Valgardsson. I know, going on what my source has told me, that a number of police, forensics personnel, and other experts are aware of the facts I now know. Also the dead man’s family. And no doubt others. But it’s difficult to write the piece without getting into trouble. My continued access to information depends upon my writing this piece in such a way as to conceal the source of my information while displaying tact for the feelings of Skarphédinn’s family.

After an hour at the computer, I think I’ve managed the task and send in my piece. Although it’s cold out, I open the window and light a cigarette. Then the phone rings.

Expecting some new hell from Trausti Löve, I gently lift the phone and speak: “You have reached Einar’s phone at the
Afternoon News
. I’m busy carrying out important reporting assignments on fashion shows and wedding receptions for news editor Trausti Löve, but if you leave…”

“Hi, Dad. Stop messing around.”

“Gunnsa, sweetheart! Welcome home. Have you just landed?”

“Yeah, I’m calling from my cell. We’re on our way into town from the airport.”

“And how was it?”

“Ab-so-lute-ly awe-some!”

“Was it?”

“In-cre-di-bly cool!”

“Oh, I am glad. I thought you’d be bored stiff.”

“I even saw loads of Danish houses.”

“Well, well.”

I can hear some muffled chatter between Raggi and his mom and some goddamned guy.

“I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow. How have you been?”

“Awesomely cool, as always. I’ll tell you more later.”

“OK. Speak to you tomorrow.”

Akureyri suddenly seems brighter—and Iceland too. Scandinavia, Europe, the world, the universe.

As I lie down to sleep, tired out, with Polly around eleven o’clock, for some reason another parent and another daughter enter my mind: Gunnhildur Bjargmundsdóttir and Ásdís Björk Gudmundsdóttir.

The last hours of Skarphédinn’s life?

On my way into town on a wet and windy morning, I can’t think of anything better to do than retrace the police’s footsteps.

“What do you think?” I ask Ásbjörn as we sit over a coffee at the
Afternoon News
offices.

He slurps his inky black beverage and frowns. “I don’t know why you’re asking me. News is nothing to do with me anymore.”

“Yeah, but I’m asking mainly because your contact with Ólafur Gísli is crucial to our keeping ahead of the pack in coverage of the case. I mean, do you think he’ll take offense if I start getting information elsewhere? Do you think he’s expecting me to wait here patiently for him to feed me tidbits about the investigation?”

“He knows perfectly well who you are. How you work.”

“So?”

“So you must do what you feel is right.” He hesitates, then continues: “But I think you should keep me informed about what you come up with. Then I can pass information along to Ólafur Gísli if necessary. It’s all the better if it can be a two-way street.”

“All the same, I doubt I’ll find anything out that the police don’t already know. I’m sure they’ll be a step, or several steps, ahead of me. It’s inevitable.”

“We’ll see,” says Ásbjörn, who’s unusually cheery today.

I lean forward and take out a cigarette, without lighting up: “Do you miss being news editor, Ásbjörn?”

He waves an angry finger at my cigarette. “Don’t you light that thing in here! I know you’re always smoking in your office. And you know I don’t approve. But I can’t be bothered to argue with you anymore about your urge for self-destruction. Provided you leave the rest of us alone!”

“OK, OK, OK,” I say, slipping the cigarette into my breast pocket. “I sometimes forget myself.”

“And I’ve got nothing to say about the news editorship. You know that the matter was handled disgracefully.”

“There’s no honor left in modern business, Ásbjörn. Surely you know that.”

He snorts.

“But let me tell you,” he resumes. “I’m going to show how unfair and unjustified it was. I’m going to prove myself here in the north.”

“Hannes told me they’re already seeing results. Sales in the north are up—both retail and subscriptions. And they’re selling more advertising to local businesses.”

Ásbjörn wriggles. “I’m well aware of that.” Then he gives me a straight look. “And we’ve got to keep up the good work.”

I realize that Ásbjörn Grímsson is not entirely free of guile himself. He’s helping me in order to help himself. And Chief Ólafur Gísli is repaying an old favor for the same reasons: he’s helping me to help Ásbjörn to help him.

____

In my smoky little room, my head is filled with ideas. Where can I find out about the last hours of Skarphédinn’s life? It would be inappropriate to contact his family so soon after his death. And since he had a place of his own, the family probably can’t tell me much anyway. I can see no better option than to start with Ágústa, chair of the drama group. But first I must, reluctantly, make another call.

“Trausti.”

“Hello. Einar here, in Akureyri.”

“Buddy!”

“I just want to be clear that we’ve agreed that I can focus on the Skarphédinn case for the next few days and forget the trivial stuff for now.”

“Depends what you call trivial. But the case is good for sales. So you can concentrate on that, as long as nothing more important comes up.”

“OK.”

“What have you got lined up for tomorrow’s issue?”

“I don’t know. I’m going to try to find out what Skarphédinn was doing before he vanished on Wednesday evening.”

“Sounds good.”

“But I may not have enough for a story for tomorrow’s paper.”

“Oh, yes, you will. And don’t forget the police investigation. The autopsy. The crime scene. All that.”

All that
yourself, you trivial little moron.

Energetic little Ágústa is less perky than she was at the rehearsal at Hólar. She lives with her parents in a rather dilapidated detached house on one of the narrow streets off Strandgata. Facing me
across the laminated kitchen table in the dead gray light with a glass of water in front of her, she seems to have aged several years since I saw her. The freckles that enlivened her face have faded into the pale skin.