Season of the Witch (36 page)

“And what was Skarphédinn’s philosophy? It could hardly have been fully formed at that age. You two were only fourteen or fifteen back then.”

He stares at me. His eyes behind the lenses are green.

“It doesn’t matter how old you are when you discover the simple truth that life is to be enjoyed.”

I stare back at him. Neither of us speaks. I sense a hidden antipathy behind his surprised expression.

“So that was the secret of your philosophy, and Skarphédinn’s? That life is to be enjoyed?”

A twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Deep, no?”

“Possibly deeper than it seems.”

He shrugs.

“When did you move up north?”

“Three years ago.”

“To be near your friend?”

“If you like. But you said you were looking for information about him. Not me.”

“Can’t have one without the other. I gather you were his best, his closest friend.”

“From my point of view, he was my best, my closest friend.”

“So were you at high school together?”

“I started there. But then I left and enrolled as an extramural student.”

“Like a true friend, I suppose Skarphédinn helped you with your studies?”

“Absolutely.”

“I understand that he was helpful to others too.”

“I’m sure. Skarphédinn was generous, happy to share his abilities and his feelings.”

I don’t seem to be getting very far here. “Generous, you say. And you lent him your apartment in Akureyri when you moved out here, into the country?”

“Yes, I was happy to.”

“That’s a very nice place you have in Akureyri. And you’ve bought this house too,” I remark, molding my face into a naive smile. “I only wish I had your talent with money!”

“I bought at a good time. I picked up both places dirt cheap, really.”

“And times have certainly changed. The property market’s booming. The value of your properties must have shot up!”

“It’s quiet and peaceful here. For studying and writing.”

I keep up the innocent look. “Are you writing something not related to your studies? A book, maybe?”

“Whether, and what, I’m writing is my business.”

“Well.” I’m starting to feel a bit ridiculous, standing there on the doorstep. “Is it true that Skarphédinn was one of the few people of your generation who didn’t carry a cell phone?”

“He didn’t want one.”

“Yes, I know. But I saw him with one all the same.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

He stands at the door, arms akimbo, steady as a rock.

I clear my throat, trying to think of some strategy.

Then I plunge straight in: “What do you think happened to him?”

Mördur appears, at last, to be thrown by my question.

“I can’t answer that.”

“The police must have spoken to you?”

“I went in and made a brief statement. I couldn’t help them, really. I was in Reykjavík over Easter.”

“Not on Easter Monday, you weren’t. You were at the public meeting, here at the hotel.”

“I left on Wednesday and got back here on the evening of Easter Sunday.”

“Do you go down to Reykjavík a lot?”

“Now and then. My mother lives there. She’s in poor health.”

“So you’ve no idea who killed your friend?”

There’s a glint of something in the green eyes.

“Ideas aren’t evidence. Not until there’s something solid to go on. There’s no point is guesswork. A jealous husband? Who knows?”

“A jealous husband? Now there’s an idea. Skarphédinn was apparently quite the lady’s man, if you’ll pardon the politically incorrect language.”

He’s still standing there with hands on hips, silent.

I bait my hook. “He played the field, didn’t he? Had more than one woman at the same time?”

Another little twitch of the mouth. But he says nothing.

I plunge in. “Was he sleeping with the woman on the floor below your apartment in Akureyri?”

“I’ve got nothing more to say about it. Except that Skarphédinn didn’t see human relationships as commitments. In his view, people had relationships if they wanted to, and they were responsible for that desire.”

“Are you talking about sex?”

“That’s one aspect of human relationships, isn’t it?”

“What about love?”

“Love is a blood tie. It applies only to family. Apart from the relationship between parent and child, love is nothing more than a pretense.”

“So you and Skarphédinn were in agreement, philosophically?”

“Mördur,” says a voice from indoors. “Shut the door, it’s cold.”

Mördur glances back over his shoulder. A young girl wearing only a towel appears in the hall. Startled to see a stranger on the doorstep, she retreats in confusion. But not before I’ve identified the face: it’s one of the girls who was with Sólrún Bjarkadóttir that day on the square.

Unperturbed, Mördur turns without a word and goes inside, shutting the door behind him.

It’s nearly ten in the evening by the time I get back home to Polly. She’s thrilled to see me, which is cheering, as I’m feeling disgruntled after going such a long way for so little.

That’s what I like to see in a roommate. Welcoming me home, however useless I may be.

Or am I? There’s something to it. Some damn thing to it.

I’m considering whether I should try to reach Ólafur Gísli, maybe share some of this stuff with him. But I don’t think I’ve got much for him.

I call Gunnsa to see how she’s doing. She’s studying hard.

Next I call Björg. I can only hope that my plan has worked out. She said I should call her at home at ten thirty. I do so, on the dot.

“It worked,” she says.

“Who did you talk to?”

“Sólrún’s mom.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That I was a friend of hers from high school…”

“Not an absolutely black lie,” I say.

“A white one, anyway.”

“You knew each other.”

“Yeah. Sort of. As you asked, I told her that a mutual friend of Sólrún’s and mine, Rúnar, was searching for his brother Skarphédinn’s phone. I said it would be helpful if we had his number, but Rúnar had lost it.”

“And?”

“She said she knew nothing about it. Then I asked if she had Sólrún’s cell phone. And she did. It had been sent to her with the rest of Sólrún’s things.”

“And?” I ask with rising excitement.

“She looked up the
Contacts
on Sólrún’s phone, and there it was.”

“Great!” I exclaim.

She recites to me the number I’ve been trying to find for so long, then says: “I felt kind of guilty after I talked to her. Sólrún’s mom started to cry. She said that if Sólrún hadn’t gone chasing that boy up north, she’d still be alive.”

“
That boy
?”

“Yes.”

“Who did she mean? Skarphédinn or Rúnar?”

She thought about it for a little while. “I think she must have meant Skarphédinn. She was talking about some movie they were both in—Sólrún and someone she called
that boy
. After that her daughter was never the same again, she said.”

“Did she explain what she meant?”

“No. And I couldn’t ask. Just couldn’t. I was feeling so guilty about tricking her.”

“Don’t go feeling guilty about that. What you did will probably be crucial to revealing the truth about their deaths.”

“I certainly hope so,” sighs Björg.

“Have you ever thought of being a journalist when you’re grown up? Even more grown up, I mean.”

She laughs. “Well, as I’ve recently found out, it could be in my genes, right?”

I don’t play the lottery. That would have been my answer to the
Question of the Day
. Short and clear. Whatever my sins, I don’t gamble. But the old saw is probably true:
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
My bright idea was that a dead person might be the only one not trying to conceal that fact that Skarphédinn had a cell phone. Sólrún has nothing to hide anymore. But what is everybody hiding? And why?

I’ve calmed down again, after the excitement of our little ruse. I look at the number I have finally managed to get hold of. Then
I have a cigarette. And give Polly her bath in the washbasin. And have a shower myself. These small, erotic moments are truly the spice of life.

Around midnight I’m sitting on the sofa in the living room, dressed for bed and deep in thought. I’m wondering whether I should go to bed and finally get a good night’s sleep after reading a few pages of
Loftur the Sorcerer
, or…

Nothing ventured, nothing gained?

I pick up my phone and punch in the number.

It rings.

And rings.

And goes on ringing for a long time.

I’m about to ring off when I hear a click: “Hello?”

The voice resonates with tension and pain.

“Hello?” again.

“Rúnar,” I say. “It’s Einar.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I recognized your number. That’s why I answered.”

“Is something wrong? Where are you?” I ask.

“At the apartment.”

“Skarphédinn’s apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“Answering a phone he didn’t have?” I sarcastically remark.

Silence.

“Rúnar?”

A strange buzzing noise breaks the silence.

“Rúnar!”

The buzz continues, with rhythmic interruptions.

I realize it’s a doorbell buzzing.

“Rúnar! What’s happening?”

“I’ve got to get out of here…They’re—”

“Hello! Rúnar!”

The call is cut off.

I redial.

And again.

And one more time.

Then I start over. Now I ring Rúnar’s own phone, again and again. Nothing.

The phone may be switched off or out of range, or all channels may be busy. Please try later.

Three possibilities:

Phone switched off. Out of range. All channels busy.

That’s no answer.

If the phone’s been switched off: Why?

If it’s suddenly out of range: Why?

And how could all the channels be busy at this time of night?

Do they call this a phone service?

After contemplating these questions for some time without finding any answers, I decide it’s time to stop entertaining myself with my own dumb thoughts.

I’ve been pacing and smoking and calling every five minutes. But now I’ve got to do something sensible. Take action.

As in the case of the phone company, there are three possibilities: Call the police. Call the parents. Go there myself.

Press one for police. Press two for parents. Press three for trouble.

I choose the third option. Of course.

I check all my windows before I leave. Twice. They’re all shut. I leave lights on in every room. Finally I check that Polly is asleep. She is.

As I start the car, I think yet again how nice it would be to be an innocent little parrot. Or an unblemished babe at rest in its mother’s arms.

Too late. Too late.

As things are, a gun in my pocket would probably make me feel safer.

At one o’clock on a Tuesday morning, the streets of Akureyri are all but deserted. As I turn onto Hólabraut, a black cat suddenly materializes in my headlights. I slam on the brakes and pull over a few houses down from Skarphédinn’s place, formerly Mördur’s place, now Rúnar’s. I suppress my superstitious thoughts about black felines and bad luck and take a look at the building. The lower two floors are dark, but a faint glow is visible at the third-floor windows.

There’s no sign of the black Honda, and nobody seems to be lurking around.

I get out of the car, approach the building, and ring the third-floor doorbell. Press it again and again. No response. I go crazy, leaning on the bell. Still nothing. I wonder if I should ring the doorbells on the lower floors, but can’t face the hassle.

Now what?

I go back to the car and call information. I get the address of Rúnar Valgardsson’s parents. They live in the Hlídar district. Like me. I open the glove compartment, dig out my map of the town, and find their address.

Kristín Rúnarsdóttir and Valgardur Skarphédinsson live on the fourth floor of a modern apartment block. I summon up courage and ring the doorbell.

I don’t have to wait long before I hear a woman’s shrill voice on the entry phone:

“Rúnar?”

“No, my name’s Einar. I’m a journalist with the
Afternoon News.
Sorry to disturb you at this hour. But I spoke to Rúnar earlier, and he seemed to be in some kind of trouble. And now I can’t find him.”

A gasp. “What? Isn’t he at Skarphédinn’s place?”

“He was there. But now he’s not answering the phone or the door.”

Silence.

“Can I come in?”

“Yes, come on up.” She buzzes me in, and I walk upstairs. On the fourth-floor landing, one of the two apartment doors stands ajar. I knock quietly at the doorframe.

Kristín comes toward me, wearing a gray toweling robe over a pink nightgown. The oval face, which at her son’s funeral was thickly plastered with makeup, is deathly pale and finely wrinkled. Below her brown eyes are dark smudges. Her graying hair is permed into a rigid helmet.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” I say.

“I haven’t been home long,” the woman replies. “I work shifts at the hospital.”

She walks ahead of me into the kitchen, to the right of the front door. Beyond it is a dining room with a black wooden table and chairs, and on the other side a living room with big, heavy furniture upholstered in dark red. It’s crammed with porcelain and knickknacks. To the left is a passage with three closed doors
and an open door to the bathroom, which is tiled in green. The whole apartment seems to be painted the same muted shade.