Snowblind (15 page)

Saturday was another day of relentless snow. It formed icy crags in gardens and the knee-high drifts in the town made it almost impossible to navigate the streets without wading.

Ari Thór felt that the snow had given the town a cosy feel in the weeks leading up to Christmas, almost a holiday atmosphere, while in Reykjavík December was normally a month of rain. But now this endless snow was becoming oppressive. Granted, it did lighten up the darkest period of the year in this northerly fjord, but it made everything difficult. Even the police 4×4 sometimes struggled in the streets, and walking around would guarantee wet shoes, wet socks and wet trousers.

Ari Thór stood outside Siglufjördur’s imposing church with Tómas and Hlynur, who were both on duty that weekend. At the station they had talked over his interview with Sandra, with plenty of speculation over what Hrólfur’s secret might be, but no conclusions. Ari Thór was not in uniform, but wore a suit as a mark of respect for Hrólfur, a man he had never met. Sandra had hit the nail on the head when she described him as a complex man. He had reached respectable heights in his own career, but refused to fade away when his fame dwindled. He had friends and acquaintances, as well as those who envied him. He had been an awkward customer when the mood took him, but could be a kindly and amiable personality on other occasions. His relationship with Ugla was case in point.

Ugla.

Ari Thór thought of the book he had borrowed. He would have
to take a look at it soon; it might give him a little insight into the dead author’s thoughts.

They sat on an empty pew in the centre of the church. Once inside, the church seemed small compared to its towering height. It was a peaceful place with its stained glass windows, a shelter from the snow. Ari Thór had bumped into Ugla outside; they had exchanged glances but no words. Since the kiss they had not spoken, and it continued to worry him.

He had slept badly, struggling to nod off. Now he was careful always to lock the outside door. Nobody had admitted to the breakin and Tómas had pushed it to one side while they were concentrating all their efforts on Linda and Karl. But Ari Thór always felt a twinge of trepidation as he closed his eyes; the horror of waking up to find someone in his house meant that he felt far from safe there. The nightmares, the panic attacks that he had been experiencing before the intruder had visited, became darker and longer. At work he felt the effects of the lack of sleep, but still gave it everything he had. On top of it all, he was worried that his relationship with Kristín seemed to be gradually fading away. Although they had been together a relatively short time, he had been sure she was the one, and in a way he still felt the same, but his attraction to Ugla was confusing.

The church was gradually filling with people, many of them now familiar faces. Úlfur and Pálmi both sat on the front pew with the other pallbearers. Leifur was near the front, clearly alone and his mind on other things, as if he were wishing he could be somewhere else; working, maybe, anywhere but at a funeral.

Karl sat two rows in front of Ari Thór, next to Anna. Ari Thór wondered if he should try and speak to her at the reception after the funeral; he intended to speak to everyone who had been at the rehearsal, but it was taking longer than anticipated to fit it all in.

Jealous.
That was how Ugla had described Anna, jealous at having missed out on the lead role. Ari Thór reminded himself that he was apt to treat everything Ugla said as completely truthful, and
wondered if he ought to doubt some of what she had to say, or simply be thankful that he had access to an insider at the Dramatic Society – someone whose word he felt he could trust.

The church was practically full when the service began. It was possible that not everyone present had known the author personally, but his unexpected death had gone some way to breathing new life into his reputation, a reminder of his past fame. Everyone who was anyone was among the congregation. Ari Thór had heard that two former government ministers had meant to attend to pay Hrólfur their respects, but they had not made it. Travel was still treacherous, and the road into Siglufjördur was nearly impassable, with a blizzard raging on the high ground above the town.

The funeral service was formal – Icelandic folk songs blending with classics, while there was a reading from
Verses for Linda
. The magnificent altarpiece by Gunnlaugur Blöndal, of Jesus appearing to sailors in peril on treacherous waters, made a poignant backdrop, a reminder of Siglufjördur’s losses over the years and the proximity of the merciless sea. The requiem was dramatic, but Ari Thór was not able to see any evidence of tears. Hrólfur may have been respected by many, he thought, but missed by few. The question was, had he been really hated by anyone?

Life hadn’t been easy for Nína Arnardóttir. For reasons she could never understand, she had never managed to march in time with her contemporaries, or perhaps they had been out of tune with her. Now she had more or less missed the bus, the years had swept past her, leaving her alone in this dark little flat. She often wondered why she had never pushed herself forward and taken life by the scruff of the neck – built relationships, had a family, lived like other people lived, surrounded by others. She had fallen in love once, only once, and it was a pure love. The man, who was older than she was, had rejected her, had very kindly, warmly, said that it wasn’t meant to be, but that
he still felt affection towards her. She had really only loved him more after that, but never acted on it again – and she never really opened up her heart again, either; never gave herself the chance to fall in love for the second time. And now she just spent her days at home in the dark and read by the light of the lamp or watched the television. The years had passed in a tedium of routine existence, and suddenly she was sixty.

At the moment she was without a proper job, living in social housing and relying on benefits for her entire income, while doing voluntary work for the Dramatic Society. That was easy and convenient, simple enough to look after the ticket sales and the occasional odd job. Being part of a crowd wasn’t something she had ever been comfortable with, but she was prepared to put up with the people for the chance to be part of the Dramatic Society.

Nína was robustly built, stout and big-boned. She was well aware that advancing age hadn’t robbed her of her strength. In her youth her physique had made her the butt of numerous jokes at school. But in spite of her physical strength, she had never fought back when her step-father raised a hand to her, never daring to do anything other than cover her head and take the blows as they came. It was worse when he stopped beating her; that was when she began to feel real fear. Sometimes he’d leave, or lie on the sofa and pass out in a drunken stupor. Sometimes he would be quieter, and instead of the rain of blows there would be groping hands. Then she would close her eyes and disappear into her own darkness. Those were the years when she had always felt best in the dark, under the bed or in the wardrobe, where she could be in peace. That was where she went when she heard him, learning to recognise the smell of booze and the clink of bottle and glass. She developed an instinct, knowing within seconds when she needed to flee, hide herself away. She knew that the other children at school played hide-and-seek, but never for the same high stakes. When she had grown up she could never understand why nobody had ever come to her aid. Why had her mother, a victim herself, ignored the violence that took place? Nína
had once tried to complain about him, but her mother had looked the other way and said it was bad to tell lies about people. After that she never again broached the subject.

It puzzled her still that the teachers never said anything when she turned up at school up with bruises. Did they really believe she had just ‘fallen over’ yet again? Why did nobody lend a hand or even notice when she stopped wanting to speak to any of the other pupils, withdrawing deeper into her dark, lonely little world?

Instead, her teachers repeatedly reported she had a problem with concentration, suggesting that she couldn’t learn. She did poorly in exams. For a long time, indoctrinated by her teachers’ beliefs, she believed that she didn’t have an intellect suited for study. Her fear of books grew, and it soon became clear that college would be out of the question, as would any thoughts of university. Her teenage years were the toughest, staying in Siglufjördur and watching her contemporaries disappearing – some to Akureyri and some to Reykjavík, off to exciting futures. She spent long hours alone in her room, in the dark, even when
he
was finally dead, courtesy of the bottle.

Eventually her mother gave way under the pressure, the strain of seeing her daughter spending wordless hours alone in the dark. Nína was placed in an institution in Reykjavík and those two sequestered years remained a blur. She recalled the identical days melding into one, without a single visit from her mother. But when she finally came home to Siglufjördur, Nína didn’t ask her why she never visited. She discovered that her mother had explained her absence by saying that she had been with relatives in the south for those two years. Nína never knew if anyone in the town found out the truth, and she didn’t really care.

After this terrible upbringing she never thought she could find true love, but when it presented itself, she clung to it, even after the object of her affection had gently dismissed her approaches. She kept loving him from afar, staying close. Loving him.

‘There have been some stories about Nína,’ Tómas said to Ari Thór before the funeral. ‘Try and talk to her at the reception. She disappeared for a couple of years when she was quite young, sent to Reykjavík. I recall my mother and her friends talking about it at the time. Her father was a heavy drinker and she was always very introverted.’

Ari Thór wondered what tales would be told of the Reverend Ari Thór once he had moved away. Or were there stories already being told? Gossip about him and Ugla? He would presumably be the last one to hear it.

Nína sat at a table in the upstairs hall of the church, enjoying traditional twisted doughnuts with a glass of orange juice. She was looking across the hall at Pálmi and Úlfur, who stood together in conversation. She was startled as Ari Thór came and sat by her side.

‘Looks like it’s slippery underfoot,’ he said, pointing at Nína’s right foot, which was in plaster.

She looked back at him solemnly. ‘There’s ice on the ground,’ she agreed.

‘It pays to tread carefully,’ he said cheerfully, unwilling to jump straight in with questions about Hrólfur. He cast his gaze around the assembled guests. Nobody would be going home hungry, as the tables groaned under the weight of cakes, doughnuts and pancakes.

She didn’t comment, but looked at the assembled people in the hall.

‘Did you speak to Hrólfur often?’

‘What? No. He’d spit out orders now and again. That was about it,’ she replied, obviously uncomfortable with the thought of speaking ill of the deceased right after his funeral.

‘He liked to give the orders?’

‘Yes. He could be difficult with some people. Not everyone. Either he liked you or he didn’t,’ she said.

He took it as a simple statement of fact, considered and without any regret or bitterness. ‘Do you think he liked you?’

‘I don’t think he had an opinion. It doesn’t matter now, does it?’

It was clear that she wasn’t expecting a reply.

‘I gather that Hrólfur was curious. Could he have come across something that he ought not to have heard about? Maybe to do with someone at the Dramatic Society?’

‘Someone who might then have pushed him down the stairs?’

Her directness took Ari Thór by surprise, although it made a pleasant change. She appeared to be the first person he had spoken to in connection with Hrólfur’s death who didn’t have something to hide, apart from Ugla, of course. Ugla wouldn’t hide anything from him, even though he hadn’t been as open with her as he could have been.

He hadn’t mentioned Kristín.