Season of the Witch (20 page)

“Um, I’m not at all sure I know. Did he do anything else that night that you didn’t get?”

“Don’t remember. I was a bit wired myself, you know?”

“So…”

Fridrik interrupts: “Hey, yeah, there was one thing. I remember he reached under the robe and pulled out a pubic hair.” He bursts out laughing. “Fuck, man! Reached under the hem and pulled out a pube! What a guy!”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Just that. He was an unbelievable guy, Skarphédinn. Fucking incredible.”

“Yes, it sounds like it. But why would he do that?”

“I dunno. He just did.”

“So wasn’t he wearing anything under the robe?”

“Buck-naked or wearing underpants. How would I know? I didn’t suck his dick that night.”

That night? I thought. Maybe some other night, then. But all I asked was: “And what did he do with this pubic hair?”

“We went into the bathroom. Skarphédinn pulled out an eyelash, put both hairs in a little bowl and set fire to them. Then he swept the ash into the palm of his hand. He went back to the party, walked up to some girl, and slipped the ash into her drink. Hahaha!”

“And…”

“Without her noticing. She had no fucking idea.”

“What girl was this?”

“I don’t remember. Just some bitch.”

“Did you tell the police about this?”

“No. What’s to tell? Skarphédinn was just having a joke. He was always doing weird stuff.”

“So it just slipped your mind?”

“Fucking right. It slipped my mind.”

“Did you know everyone at the party?”

“Don’t remember. To start with, it was just the kids from the play. And that asshole, the director, I can never remember his name.”

“Örvar Páll.”

“Örvar Páll, yeah. And they were arguing, as usual.”

“Örvar Páll and Skarphédinn?”

“And Skarphédinn had the last word, as always.”

“What was the argument about?”

“The play, I guess. The asshole director was nagging that we needed to be well rested for the following day—the first night and all that. He was trying to shut the party down.”

I recall the director saying that he had only seen Skarphédinn arriving when he himself was on his way out. I ask Fridrik, who has grown gradually more agitated as the interview has progressed: “Are you sure Skarphédinn got there before Örvar Páll left?”

“They met at the door and got straight into an argument.”

“Did they argue a lot?”

“Skarphédinn could always shut the old fart up. No problem.”

“Did he argue with anyone else that night?”

“How should I know? I wasn’t breathing down his neck all evening.”

“So everything was peaceful and quiet, was it?”

“Hey, yeah, some guys turned up that I didn’t know. But Skarphédinn knew them somehow. He chucked them out.”

“Skarphédinn threw them out?”

“Fucking right. Chucked them out on their asses.”

“What were they like?”

“Like? How would I know, man? One of them had blond hair, in a ponytail. He was all cuts and bruises, bent over so he could hardly walk. With rabbity teeth.”

“Did you tell the police about them?”

“Yes, I did.”

“When did Skarphédinn leave the party?”

“The hell I know. I was in one of the bedrooms with some bitch. All the rooms were occupied, man. Ágústa fucking in her mom and dad’s bed. Really wild.”

“And who was she fucking?”

“Do you think I’d tell you, if I knew? Forget it.”

“How do you know she was fucking in her parents’ bedroom?”

“I could hear the noises.”

“Couldn’t she have been having sex with Skarphédinn? Since you don’t know when he left?”

Fridrik, about whose reliability as a source I am beginning to have serious doubts, at least at this point in time, says nothing.

“Well,” I say. “It was good to talk to you, Fridrik. Thank you very much.”

He sniffs. What, I don’t know.

Suddenly he seems nervous. “You mustn’t quote me. Nothing. Get it?”

“No problem,” I assure him. Then I ask this student, who appears to be the opposite of the model his principal has described to me: “So how are things at school?”

“Don’t talk to me about that fucking high school. Skarphédinn always got me through tests and assignments.” He falls silent and sniffs again. Maybe he’s just upset. “I don’t know what I’m going to do now. Without him.”

Who was Skarphédinn Valgardsson? The more I hear about him, the further I seem to get from the truth. The more I know, the less I understand.

I try to get this into Trausti Löve’s head. I tell him I’m far from being ready to publish a profile of Skarphédinn, and I’ve no idea when I will be. Trausti’s reaction is predictably predictable.

I get so fed up with the hassle that I call Hannes. Not so much to complain about Trausti, more to get the go-ahead from a higher power to do my work on a sensible basis and not as a pissing contest.

“I’ll have a word with Trausti, sir,” says Hannes. I think I hear him sigh with exhaustion, or as a response to the constant aggravation. “You focus on that case, exclusively. For the time being. Until otherwise decided.”

Considering the state Ásbjörn is in today, I hardly dare call him or go upstairs to ask him to do his usual mediation with Ólafur Gísli. I’m giving some thought to my predicament, with the help of a nicotine hit, when I hear a low whining from the reception area. Ásbjörn appears at my door with Pal on his lead. He looks frazzled, and the little dog too.

“Einar,” he says, “could you smoke a bit less? It’s driving Karó crazy. She says she can’t open a cupboard or lie down in bed without being overwhelmed by the smell of your smoke. She sees it seeping up between the floorboards.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or fly into a rage. “I’m sorry. Have you seen these clouds of smoke yourself?”

He hangs his head. “I’m not sure. But she’s in a very fragile state, Einar. Anything can set her off.”

I chuck my cigarette out the window at the wall next door. “Is there something in particular that’s troubling her? Other than my air pollution, that is?”

“Yes, there is something. But I don’t know what it is. She’s so sensitive, Karó.”

“So I’m being deprived of my last and only pleasure?”

“No, no,” protests Ásbjörn.

“OK, no problem. It’s just one more thing.”

“Just try to be a bit discreet with your damned pleasure. You’re not alone in the world, Einar.”

“Sure of that, are you?”

“A person who’s always ranting on about pollution of the natural environment and the way it’s abused by mankind should
be able to show a bit of consideration for the human beings around him.”

I must admit, I hadn’t thought of it quite like that.

But Ásbjörn has more on his mind than raking me over the coals.

He pats the trembling little dog. “She comes around quite often now, Björg, the girl who found Pal. She drops in to see him. He’s very fond of her. But it upsets Karó. She nearly faints with distress after the girl has gone. I really don’t know…”

I’ve been wondering about the agitation on the upper floor. I’m sure it’s about some emotional issues. It started shortly after Skarphédinn died. I’ve been told that he was a ladies’ man, a magnet for females of all ages. Could Karó have been stepping out? Best to change the subject.

“Ásbjörn, I need to get in touch with Ólafur Gísli, to ask him about something I heard today.”

I tell him about my interview with Fridrik.

I leave out the naughty bit. About the pubic hair.

When I finally get to speak to the chief at about ten that evening, there is no news on the investigation into the death of Skarphédinn Valgardsson. Ólafur Gísli is at home. “It’s the first time for more than a week that I’ve gotten home before midnight,” he sighs and tells me about the delicious meatballs his wife heated up for his dinner and which he is now comfortably digesting.

“My roommate heated up a seed ball for me,” I counter. “Wonderful, this old Icelandic home cooking. Rich in fiber. Keeps you regular.”

He doesn’t respond to that. Just as well. I suspect he’s counting his blessings.

“Ásbjörn told me about your interview with Fridrik. What did you think of him?”

“Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. And I have a feeling he may have been indulging in something a bit stronger than cough drops.”

“I tend to agree,” observes Ólafur Gísli. “But we’re seriously looking into these delinquents from Reydargerdi. We know—and from independent witnesses, apart from our young friend—that they were at the party and got into a scuffle with Skarphédinn.”

“Any idea what that was about?”

“No, that’s still pretty vague. You mustn’t breathe a word of this. We don’t want them to get any hint that we consider them suspects.”

“Are you close to making an arrest?”

“Not just yet. We may be bringing them in for questioning. We’ll see. You won’t be publishing any of this yet. Nothing I’ve told you this evening.”

His last remark is not phrased as an order. More of an indisputable fact.

“Sir, no, sir! I will follow you through thick and thin,” I respond. “May I ask a question?”

“If it’s a bad enough goddamned question.”

“Do you know any more about whether Skarphédinn was on anything when he died? Drunk, drugged?”

“Not at all. He appears to have been as clean as the proverbial whistle. Next question.”

“And I assume you can’t tell whether he had sex shortly before he died?”

“Doesn’t seem to be possible. Not by forensics, at any rate. The body was too badly burned.”

“What was he wearing when he was found?”

“Wearing? Have you forgotten he’d been set on fire?”

“So were his clothes burnt to a crisp?”

“Not quite to a crisp. We found scraps of some kind of coarse-weave black fabric.”

“Which could be part of the dress, or robe or whatever?”

“Entirely possible.”

“Did you find anything else?”

“Also entirely possible. White adhesive tape had been stuck to the fabric, forming some kind of symbol. Crossed lines with tridents at the ends.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Our forensics people put us in touch with an expert on runes, and I spoke to him this evening. He says it’s probably a magical sign of some kind. I faxed him a photo of the symbol, and he called back.”

“And what did he say?”

“He says it’s definitely a magical sign, known as the Terror Helmet.”

“Anything else?” I ask.

“Nothing for the record. We were called out to the scene of yet another suicide today.”

“What suicide?”

“Depression and drugs. Drugs and depression. Same old, same old. A tragedy, as usual.”

“Who was it?”

“A young student at the high school. Sólveig, Sólrún, something like that.”

Sometime before I got to high school I learned the lesson that somehow I can never take for granted, that when you add two plus two the answer isn’t twenty-two. Bearing this in mind, I start my day at work by calling the police station and asking for the officer who is handling the investigation into the suicide of Sólrún Bjarkadóttir, the high school student who answered my
Question of the Day
on Town Hall Square. I am put through to a policewoman who I think I ran into when I was putting in an appearance at the police station the other day.

“She took an overdose,” she explains. “We gather that she’d been using for the last year or so.”

“What did she take?”

“We haven’t got the tox results yet. But we found empty containers for sedatives and some E.”

“Had the pills been prescribed by a doctor?”

“Some of them.”

“What about drugs that aren’t prescribed? Where do they come from?”

“There’s a vast amount of prescription drugs in circulation. No less than the illegal ones. Some doctors are careless about prescribing large amounts to addicts. And a lot of prescription drugs get onto the market illegally. For instance, a few weeks ago a load of medications were stolen from a pharmacy here in town. And drugs disappear from hospitals. And then there’s smuggling. Misuse of prescription drugs is as common now as use of illegal substances.”

“Were there no signs of violence? No indication that it was anything other than suicide?”

“In Sólrún’s case? No, nothing like that.”

“Where was she found?”

“In her room at the student dorm.”

“Was she from Akureyri?”

“No, from Reykjavík.”

I can’t think of anything else to ask, so I thank her for her help. “I won’t write anything about the suicide, naturally. I’m just looking into the drugs market up here in the north.”

“Knock yourself out,” answers the policewoman. “You’ve got plenty to work with.”

So what now? I ponder, and get several possible answers.

Should I call Kjartan Arnarson the high school teacher? Or Björg Gudrúnardóttir, who knew a little about Sólrún, but not a lot? Should I try to track down the other two girls who were with Sólrún on the Day of the Question on the square?

At present, I don’t see much point in continuing down that path. Drugs and suicide. Suicide and drugs. Routine. A waste of time, as dopey Fridrik might say. But I can’t help feeling sad that a lighthearted young girl who made one silly mistake should have been overcome by the conviction that her life was a waste of time.