Blackout (18 page)

This wasn’t an opportunity Ívar was going to let slip through his fingers.

He was a pragmatist by nature, and he hadn’t got this far in life by being considerate to others. The station had poached him from a rival company, and paid him well to make the move; he was certainly better paid than most of his colleagues.

He had done well for himself, but he still had his sights set on higher things. Of course, the news editor’s job was what he had his eye on, but the post was already taken by María, a woman with whom he got on well. Like him, she had been head-hunted from a daily newspaper. He guessed that was why they liked each other – both of them outsiders trying to work things out for themselves as they did their best to negotiate the station’s cliques, while still keeping them at arm’s length. She did this because of the position she was in; he did it because he hoped one day to be in that same position. María had a reputation for not staying long in any place and he reckoned that she wouldn’t be here more than three or four years before moving on. Then it would be his turn.

There were a few challenges to be met before then, though. Not least among them was ejecting those news team members who seemed to distrust him. Ísrún was at the top of this list. Everything about the woman grated on his nerves. She was annoyingly independent and competitive, plus she had a long background at the station, despite the extended breaks in her career. She was part of that irritating little clique of colleagues who had been together for years, all of whom trusted her. It was as well that Ívar had managed
to make a few allies of his own, such as Kormákur; but he knew that he would have to isolate Ísrún.

He suspected that she would be bold enough to apply for the news editor’s job herself when the time came. Fortunately he was one of the regular desk editors and she wasn’t. As desk editor he could frequently arrange things to his advantage and her detriment. The desk editor was the person who took decisions on the fly, allocated assignments and had the deciding vote on what news would be included and in what order. This meant he could assign Ísrún minor stories that normally ended up in the late bulletin. And Ívar knew the late bulletin was no route to stardom.

Ever since the unexpected phone call from Siglufjörður, he had been keeping an eye on María’s office, so he noticed the door open and a man he recognised from the accounts department left. Now was his chance, although he knew that María was rarely at her most agreeable after a visit from one of the bean-counters.

‘Not interrupting, am I?’ he asked cheerily, as he put his head around the door.

‘No, it’s all right.’

María took off her reading glasses and her sharp eyes stared at him. He had often thought that she was the last person he would ever want to be interrogated by, especially if she wanted her interviewee to confess to some indiscretion.

‘Sit down.’

With María this was always an instruction and never an invitation. Words were never wasted inviting anyone to take a seat.

‘It’s about Ísrún,’ Ívar said, unconsciously speaking in a lower voice than usual.

María said nothing, but waited for him to continue.

‘She went up north to investigate the murder story.’

María nodded but still said nothing.

‘I wasn’t happy about letting her go; we’re not in a position to allow someone to focus on one story like that, but she said she had a source that linked Elías, the victim, with dope smuggling. I was
hoping she’d come back with some fantastic scoop. Every now and then you have to let the kids off the lead, you know? Not that she’s done all that brilliantly recently.’

He used the word ‘kids’ for good reason, preferring not to remind María how long Ísrún had worked at the station.

‘Really?’

‘Her stuff has been pretty mundane, and I’ve had to put it at the back of the running order. I’ve even had to ask her to go back and re-do some material. She seems to have lost interest,’ he said, trying to assume a look of pained concern.

‘She does look pale on screen,’ María said thoughtfully.

‘Tired maybe, or just bored. I’ve a feeling she’s been hitting the nightlife as well. She’s used up all her sick days these last few months, and it’s as if she’s trying to do as little as she can get away with.’

‘Interesting,’ María said.

‘So, anyway, she went up north. Now I gather she’s working on some item about “the person behind the victim”. That wasn’t what we agreed.’

‘And what do you expect me to do?’

María’s tone was sharp and her eyes bored into him.

‘I reckon she’s lost her enthusiasm completely. Perhaps it’s time to consider letting her go…?’

‘We’ll see.’ María picked up her glasses again.

He decided to let the matter lie there. He could bring it up again soon. A slow drip-feed would do the trick.

Tómas and Ari Thór were back at the police station. Neither of them spoke a word to Hlynur, who sat at his computer, deep in his own thoughts. He didn’t need them, though. They had both betrayed him, made him impotent, as useful and as colourless as the police station’s furniture.

It had been a day of contrasts. Sometimes he had been present,
there at the station, trying to keep on top of things. At other times it was as if he were elsewhere, somewhere Gauti and his mother were still alive and well, where he had been able to atone for his misdeeds, where there were no wretched emails tripping him up; somewhere email hadn’t even been invented.

Now, for what it was worth, he was definitely back at the station, where he couldn’t think of anything other than the message contained in all the emails.

Next time I’ll teach you how to die.

He longed to go home, tell them he was coming down with flu, however unlikely that might sound in the height of summer. But he hardly had the energy to do even that. Apart from anything else, he had no wish to play into Tómas’s hands.

No, he’d stick it out. He’d stay until his shift was over, but try to drift off for as long as he could into the warm, pleasant world where he didn’t have anyone’s death on his conscience.

Ari Thór glanced over at where Hlynur sat engrossed in his computer. He and Hlynur had never hit it off. They had little in common other than the job and he saw no reason to talk to him, to find out what the problem might be. Any conversation was bound to be superficial and uncomfortable.

It was for a similar reason that he had so far avoided calling Kristín. While he desperately wanted to hear her voice, even arrange to meet her, he dreaded the awkward moment when she would pick up the phone.

The awkward moment
. Was this genuinely the only reason he hadn’t called her? Or was jealousy, that old spectre, rearing its ugly head again? Was he scared that he might lose his temper if he called and her new relationship came up in the conversation?

He looked at the phone in his hand, wanting to dial her number, but still holding back.

Then the phone rang.

It was a slow day, the same as every other day at the hospital; far too slow. All the same, there was plenty that needed to be done, even if it was monotonous.

Kristín was looking forward to the evening, a cosy night and a glass of red with him at her place. It was going to be their first proper date at home – away from the neutral ground of a public place. But this wasn’t the main reason time was passing so slowly. Work bored her – it was as simple as that. None of the tasks she had to deal with genuinely sparked her interest, and this was becoming intensely irritating.

Was it too late to change course now? All that study and work would be wasted if she were to give up now. And what would her parents’ reaction be? Common sense would also have to be part of her decision; it would be ridiculous to turn her back on the chance of secure employment and respectable earning potential in the middle of a recession.

Then there was the question of what else she could do. It wasn’t as if there was anything else that particularly inspired her; nothing that set her heart racing. She got up every morning and played a round of golf if there was time; worked like a robot until the end of each long shift; and went home, where she did nothing much other than sleep until the cycle began again. The pattern had been the same all through her student years: wake up, study, sleep.

She knew she had to do something to break free of the routine. Maybe she should follow her instincts, enjoy tonight’s wine and for the moment forget her immediate problems – instead make the most of an evening and a night in the company of that unfamiliar yet fascinating man.

Helga from CID in Akureyri had called Ari Thór to ask him and Tómas to come in for another progress meeting that evening, a
conference to round up the second day since Elías Freysson’s body had been found.

‘You’ll be very welcome,’ she had said, although it was obvious that this was not in the least bit true; in her eyes they were a pair of uniformed bumpkins getting in the way of the work of real police officers. Ari Thór said that he would be there and expected that Tómas would do the same.

On the phone, Helga gave Ari Thór a brief status report, including the information that Elías had been involved in some shady business, which included fencing stolen goods and even organising break-ins. The charity’s accounts were also raising a few eyebrows, with ill-defined costs and revenue from unidentified sources.

All of this meant that Ari Thór would be on his way to Akureyri again.

Maybe this time he would call Kristín, or send her an email. He had nothing to lose, after all. He was already mentally composing it.

Hello
. No.
Hi
. That sounded better.
Hi, hope you’re well. I’m going to be in Akureyri this evening. I’d love to see you if you have time to meet. Do you have a spare ten minutes?
That would do. Ten minutes. She could hardly refuse him that.

He called over to Tómas.

‘Meeting in Akureyri tonight. We’ll have to leave around half-five.’

‘Excellent,’ Tómas replied. ‘And we’ll have time for a burger and a plate of chips on the way back, won’t we, my boy?’

Ari Thór nodded and grinned.