Nightblind (4 page)

There was no more that he could do. He was in no position to take any risks or assess the extent of Herjólfur’s injuries.

He felt an instinctive urge to flee, to get himself to somewhere safer, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave Herjólfur. He sat on the ground at his side, shivering uncontrollably. There was nobody to be seen and it was unusually dark over the fjord that morning. It was a gloomy time of year, with sunshine a rare visitor and in a few weeks the sun would disappear behind the mountains for two long months.

In the distance he saw lights and instinctively began rubbing Herjólfur’s hand. ‘They’re coming,’ he said in a low voice. ‘It’s going to be all right.’ His words were sent spiralling away on the wind. It occurred to him that he was probably speaking to nobody but himself.

Just then an uncomfortable thought occurred to him, and he tried unsuccessfully to cast it from his mind, to stifle it before it grew any larger.
If Herjólfur could not return to duty, then the inspector’s position was undoubtedly his.

July 1982

At last they gave me a pencil and a notebook.

It’s an old yellow pencil, badly sharpened, and an old notebook that someone has already used, the first few pages untidily ripped out. Had someone else already tried to put into words their difficulties and their helplessness, just as I’m doing? Maybe there were some pretty doodles there, the unchanging view of the back garden rendered in artistic form, if that could be done. Some things are so grey and cold that no amount of colour on a page could ever bring them to life.

I feel a little better now that I can scribble a few words on paper, but I can’t explain exactly why. I’ve never taken any particular satisfaction from writing. It’s only now that I have the feeling that this might save my life.

It probably doesn’t even matter what I write here in this notebook. Maybe something of the background to my being here, my feelings and the monotonous existence in this place. Whatever it takes to maintain my sanity.

I’ve had practically no sleep for the last two nights. There’s bright sunlight pretty much day and night, and these heavy curtains don’t do much good. The sun sneaks its way past them to keep me awake. The brightness doesn’t seem to bother my roommate and he’s sound asleep all night long. He’s just as quiet during the daylight hours, doesn’t say a lot, the type who is sparing with words. In my innocence, I thought that I’d be happy with that, but on reflection I reckon there’s a lot to be said for having someone to talk to.

I suppose I could have talked more to the nurse, but I don’t really want to. She was the one who found the pencil and the notebook for me, that was good of her. But there’s something about her that discourages me from coming closer. There’s something about her eyes I don’t like, something that tells me not to trust her. Not that I’m claiming my judgement is flawless right now, but I have to go by what my guts tell me.

It’s a good while since the lights went out but I’m still sitting here writing in the half-dark. I pulled the curtain aside to let in a little light. It doesn’t appear to disturb my roommate, any more than the scratching of my pencil does on these pages.

I can feel the weight of my own fatigue growing with every word that I write. At last. It’s a familiar and long-awaited feeling. Maybe I can overcome the night-time brightness by simply embracing it.

No more now. Now I’m going to close the curtain and try to rest.

Gunnar Gunnarsson had pulled a good few strings to get this job.

A few months ago he had been appointed as the new mayor of the joint municipality of Siglufjördur and Ólafsfjördur, and so far he hadn’t committed any serious howlers. He had cultivated an image of himself as a reliable, youthful and energetic official, and he came across well, dressed smartly, and on the job every day, devoting all his energy to running this small community. It went without saying that he had managed to upset a few of the vested interests of the local big shots, but that was only to be expected. The financial wellbeing of individuals and companies don’t always coincide with those of the community, and planning issues often became battlegrounds.

Through the innocent eyes of his own children, Gunnar had seen that there are clear dividing lines between good and evil, right and wrong. People are either bad or good. Then as the years pass, those lines become steadily less clear.

On a fundamental level, he was a good guy, although there probably was a skeleton or two rattling at the back of his closet. That phone call had shaken him badly, woken him out of a daze, and now he knew that he would have to shape up.

He had a few extenuating circumstances. Times were hard. His wife had moved to Norway and taken their two children with her. They weren’t divorced. Divorce was a word they avoided, but every day that passed brought that possibility closer. His wife was a doctor and had been given the opportunity to take up a post at a large Oslo hospital. At the outset, Gunnar had moved with the rest of the family, but he struggled to find work, and was disappointed
that his BA in political science from an Icelandic university didn’t open many doors in Norway. In spite of his wife’s encouragement, he couldn’t face being a house-husband, even though she reminded him that her salary in those precious Norwegian kroner was easily enough to keep them and the children afloat.

Gunnar was awake very early that morning, tired after a difficult night. Some nights, sleep became nothing more than a fleeting, elusive commodity, dipping in and out of consciousness, which was far from restful. But he had had more than one sleepless night without his colleagues at the municipal offices noticing. Of course, he couldn’t hide anything from Elín any more than he usually could, but that wouldn’t be a problem.

Elín followed him like a shadow. They had studied together and then taken their first steps together in journalism. They were the closest of friends and this was a friendship that had not proved to have a positive effect on his marriage. The frown on his wife’s face whenever Elín’s name was mentioned bore witness to the lack of trust, as if it was assumed that he was in love with Elín and they were sleeping together. He had to admit, solely to himself and not to anyone else, that she was pretty magnificent, both smart and charming, but so far he had resisted any temptation. It had never occurred to him that she wouldn’t be available if he were to show an interest, and over the years he reckoned that he had seen plenty of clues to suggest that she might. Self-confidence was something he had never lacked.

Now his marriage was in the worst shape it had ever been. Sixteen hundred kilometres and a whole ocean separated him from his wife, and relations had been difficult, with both of them dissatisfied and easily irritated. Under these circumstances he could hardly be expected to be completely faithful, at least not in physical terms. And it was a fortunate coincidence that Elín happened to be single these days.

He had offered her the deputy mayor’s post the moment the news had come through that the mayor’s job was his. First he had to give
notice to the existing deputy, and Gunnar was happy to take on that battle, as getting rid of someone with close links to the previous majority on the council suited the new majority. He had no intention of moving north alone with no allies of his own to back him up and Elín fitted the bill perfectly.

The appointment to mayor of such a small town wasn’t exactly his dream job, but it would do. It came with power and a decent salary, plus experience that would be useful later on. He had taken the initiative and applied for the post when an old friend had been elected to the council as part of the majority in power. Gunnar contacted him and found that the intention was to employ a professional manager, so Gunnar’s appointment suited them both. Gunnar found himself with a job that plenty of people had wanted and his friend on the council found himself with a mayor he could trust and support behind the scenes.

A little icing had been needed on the cake to seal the appointment. During Gunnar’s six months in Oslo he had applied for an unpaid internship at a Norwegian ministry. His application had been received favourably, although he had the feeling that this was no great achievement as they probably accepted anyone who might be prepared to work for nothing. He was given study facilities at a ministry in the centre of Oslo, among students who were all much younger than he was. The work was far from exciting and the fact that his command of Norwegian wasn’t as good as he had made out in his application didn’t help make his time there any easier. But when it came to putting together a CV for his application for the mayor’s post, his internship became a job and one month became an unspecified period under the loose heading ‘consultation on parliamentary administration’ that had found its way into the text. This experience in Norway clearly had the desired effect when it came to the decision of who should be the lucky applicant, or so Gunnar heard later.

He would never have chosen Siglufjördur if a larger municipality had been available. His family wasn’t from the north and he had
virtually no personal links to the district, although the fact that he was untainted by local tradition, gossip, small-town politics and old feuds was a strong point in his favour.

He was living in rented property in Siglufjördur, a roomy detached house in the newer part of the town, in the shadow of the town’s avalanche defences. So far he hadn’t seen any huge weight of winter snow, but these imposing defensive walls still gave him a feeling of security. Plenty of people had told him how relaxing it must be to have moved to such a close-knit coastal community with the mountains and the sea as his neighbours. Normally he just smiled his agreement, while inside he failed to understand what was so enchanting about loneliness, isolation and cold.

He sat naked at the kitchen table, half asleep and drinking black coffee as he stared out of the window. More wind and pouring rain was the only description that fitted the morning’s weather. There was no way to give it a slightly more romantic edge, even here in this bucolic paradise. These were the days when he had no desire to leave the house. There was no way he was staying here for long; the four years between one council election and the next would be about right and then he’d be able to nail down a better job, preferably somewhere closer to the city and ideally somewhere abroad. But that meant keeping his nose clean and making a decent job of things while he was here. Not that there was much he could mess up in a town like this, surely? No, he told himself. That wasn’t where the minefields were. It was his personal life that he needed to take care of; he absolutely could not destroy this fragile success that he had achieved, and there were a few secrets that must never see the light of day. Sometimes he could be his own worst enemy.

Then that phone call from the police inspector came to mind. He was just the kind of miserable character who could wreck everything for him.

Ari Thór stood in the corridor of the hospital.

Herjólfur had been hit by a shotgun blast at short range. The doctor said it was practically a miracle that he had survived. It was impossible to believe that Herjólfur had been shot on duty; that kind of thing never happened, particularly not in such a close community. But it could hardly have been an accident. There was no hunting in that area and any hunter would have called in to let the authorities know if something had gone wrong. This was unreal, disturbing. The media spotlight would undoubtedly shine on the case and that would make the investigation even more complex.

Ari Thór realised immediately, or at least expected, that someone from outside would have to be brought in to investigate. He was aware that the victim’s subordinate was hardly the best person to handle such a case. An early-morning call to the chief of police in Akureyri had confirmed this.

‘You’re right,’ he had said. ‘We’ll need to appoint someone else to lead this, but I want you to be a part of the investigation, Ari Thór.’

Ari Thór had his own ideas about who would be best suited to deal with the case and took the liberty of putting forward a suggestion.

A police officer from a neighbouring town had been called in to keep watch at the crime scene until reinforcements could arrive.

Herjólfur wasn’t dead. At least not yet. Ari Thór searched the doctor’s face as he explained the severity of the injuries. An emergency medical flight to Reykjavík had been requested.

The chief of police in Akureyri had given Ari Thór an important assignment to carry out; a job he was dreading. He stood indecisively
in the hospital corridor, telling himself that he should wait for more news of Herjólfur’s condition, but deep down he knew that he couldn’t put this off any longer. Tales would find their way around the town quickly enough and he must not allow Herjólfur’s wife to hear dreadful gossip first.

He wondered about contacting his friend, the Reverend Eggert, the local priest. He almost had the phone in his hand when he changed his mind. Herjólfur was still alive and the priest’s presence would send every kind of wrong message to the family.

As he left the hospital the town was just starting to come to life, although the weather was so foul that nobody was likely to be in a hurry to leave home. The all-too-familiar northerly wind was blowing, bitterly cold, something Ari Thór would probably never get used to, with heavy rain to add to the discomfort. Just a few degrees colder and this would have been the recipe for a blizzard.

Ari Thór was almost ashamed that he knew so little about Herjólfur’s family. He remembered his wife’s name, Helena, but hadn’t met her. This morning was the first time he had spoken to her, and under such strange circumstances. How many children did Herjólfur have? He
had
mentioned children, but Ari Thór had no idea if there were two of them or more, or what their ages might be. He guessed they might be teenagers. Herjólfur wasn’t the talkative type but Ari Thór had to admit that he could have made a better effort to get to know him. He knew it wasn’t Herjólfur’s fault that the promotion hadn’t come his way. But Ari Thór had somehow decided, unconsciously rather than deliberately, to keep his dealings with him formal and professional; never discourteous, but equally, not too friendly.

He hesitated by the front door, waiting for a moment before ringing the doorbell. The rain was hammering down with even greater force and the storm had gathered strength. It was on days like this that the undisputed beauty of the fjord and the mountains gave way to forces of nature, and the town looked bleak and very, very wet.

Suddenly he felt overwhelmed and was transported back fifteen years to another wet, windy day. A little boy, Ari Thór had returned
home from school to find a police car in the drive. He had stood and stared at it in the rain, buying himself time, just as he was doing now. The thought had crossed his mind that the police would be bringing him bad news, and he had been right about that. There were two officers, one young and quiet, the other older and clearly the man with experience, with a deep voice and a serious expression on his face, a pair who could just as easily have been Ari Thór and Tómas. Already soaked by the rain, Ari Thór hadn’t been able to hold back the tears.

The memories came back to him and flashed past like a film, frame after frame, and he recalled it all with uncomfortable clarity.

Sometimes it was better just to forget.

He had been sitting on the sofa when he was given the news. Ari Thór had been expecting something like this, ever since his father had disappeared without trace, but what he heard next confused and stunned him. Not his father. His mother. His mother had lost her life in a car crash. The shock was indescribable, and everything he knew and was changed in a flash. Still a child at thirteen years old, he had grown up in a matter of moments. From that point on, he had been an orphan. It was an event, a defining moment, that he was still getting over.

Now, once again, he was soaked through in the punishing wind and rain, but this time playing a different role. He was the bearer of bad news, and once he had rung the doorbell, there would be no way back. Their world wouldn’t be the same again.

The young man who answered the door was unmistakably Herjólfur’s son. Tall, and with a determined countenance, he looked to be around twenty and certainly resembled his father. As if he knew what was coming, he wordlessly gestured Ari Thór inside, his expression dark and serious.

The living room was oddly off-putting, with mismatched furniture
that gave it a cold and impersonal feel.
A house rather than a home.
The only item with life in it was an old, black piano that looked well used, cherished.

A middle-aged woman who could only be Helena, Herjólfur’s wife, sat on a white leather sofa, its newness and incongruity suggesting a hasty, perhaps thoughtless purchase. She did not stand up as Ari Thór came into the room. She sat still, a thick red blanket over her legs, and looked at him with empty eyes.

Ari Thór was silent as he wrestled with the right words, aware of the impact they would have, remembering being in a similar situation himself. His concentration betrayed him; he longed to be anywhere but here, forced to bring this family such terrible news. Finally he blurted, ‘Herjólfur is in hospital … It looks serious. He seems to have been…’ He paused, struggling to find a compassionate way to express the reality of the situation. ‘Shot by accident.’

Helena’s face did not change. Ari Thór looked at the son, who stood stock still, and then sat wordless by his mother, grasping her hand tightly. A spasm of pain flashed across her face as she twisted herself on the sofa to face him, moving one leg awkwardly beneath the red blanket.

Ari Thór waited in the overwhelming silence, cleared his throat and continued. ‘He hasn’t regained consciousness and I expect he’ll be taken to Reykjavík on an emergency medical flight, probably within minutes. They had one ready at Akureyri and it’s probably landed here by now.’ He was silent for a few seconds. ‘Do you want me to find out if you can go with him?’ he added.

Helena shook her head. ‘I don’t think I can,’ she said at last. She looked at her son. ‘You have to call your sister.’

Two children, then.
Ari Thór waited but neither Helena nor her son said anything. It seemed like they wanted him to leave.

He was about to make his excuses when she spoke suddenly. ‘By accident?’ she asked.

‘He appears to have been injured in a firearms incident,’ he said. ‘A shotgun at short range.’

‘And who shot him?’ she asked, her gaze still distant.

‘That isn’t clear at the moment but we’ll find him. Don’t you worry.’

She posed another question in a low voice. ‘Where did this happen?’

‘Outside an old house out by the tunnel, the Strákar tunnel.’

‘Old house?’ She looked at him in disbelief.

‘Yes, an abandoned house.’

‘That old place?’ she asked haltingly. ‘What on earth was he doing out there?’

Ari Thór was silent for a few seconds before he answered.
If only I knew,
he thought.

‘That’s what we’re trying to establish,’ he said, as decisively as he could. He was starting to feel deeply uncomfortable; the memory of the two police officers telling him of his mother’s death was still raw, as was his recollection of longing to be rid of them as quickly as possible so he could deal with his bereavement in solitude. ‘I know this must be extremely difficult for you,’ he said to fill the silence. ‘Please get in touch if there’s anything I can help with … and I’ll let you know the moment there’s anything new to report.’

Helena stared at him sorrowfully, but said nothing. Willowy slim, her face etched with strong lines and framed by raven-black hair, she was arresting even in her grief. This was someone it would be difficult to forget; someone Ari Thór would definitely always remember.

‘I can ask the priest to stop by and see you later,’ he said. ‘He can help you deal with things,’ he added, against his own instincts. Nobody had made the loss of his mother easier, still less the disappearance of his father, not the priest nor anyone else. Any belief in a higher power had definitely been lost that rainy day when he had learned of his mother’s fate.

Now Herjólfur’s son spoke for the first time, his eyes not quite meeting Ari Thór’s. ‘Thank you. It’s appreciated. But we’re not particularly religious.’

Ari Thór nodded and allowed himself a thin smile.

He didn’t say any formal goodbyes, letting himself disappear quietly. No one followed him to the door. He closed it carefully behind him and walked briskly to the car, willing himself not to break into a run.

Then he heard the door open and someone calling quietly. ‘Hey, Ari Thór…’

He turned to see Herjólfur’s son frowning in the doorway, waiting for him to retrace his steps.

He extended a hand. ‘I’m sorry … I’m Herjólfur’s son, and my name’s Herjólfur, too.’

Ari Thór shook the outstretched hand. He was about to say ‘my condolences’ but stopped himself just in time. That would have been too much, as if admitting that there was no hope.

‘It’s terrible. I know how you feel,’ he said instead.

The boy’s expression made it plain that he doubted Ari Thór could understand how he felt.

‘I think I know what Dad was doing up there,’ he said.

‘Really?’ Ari Thór asked, with surprise and interest.

‘He told me about it the other day, said it was to do with a case he’s been working on. You probably know all about it…’

This was news to Ari Thór. ‘Well…’ he said doubtfully, not wanting to admit that there was clearly something that Herjólfur had not trusted him enough to tell him. He decided to let silence work for him and prompt a further answer.

‘It was a dope case,’ the younger Herjólfur said at last.

‘Drugs?’

‘Yes, people meet there to sell dope, you know…’

‘Yes, I see.’

‘Dad thought I might be able to help him, wanted to know if any of the kids at school knew anything about it. I’m at college here, graduating in the spring.’

Ari Thór waited.

‘But I didn’t know anything. People aren’t going to trust a cop’s son with that kind of information.’

‘No, I understand,’ Ari Thór said.

‘There’s something … something sensitive about this case, Dad reckoned,’ the younger Herjólfur added.

‘Sensitive? What do you mean by that?’ Ari Thór asked, unnecessarily sharply.

‘Some political connection, or so I understood.’

Ari Thór waited for Herjólfur to continue, but he appeared to have no more to say.

‘He didn’t explain any further than that?’ Ari Thór asked eventually.

‘No, unfortunately not.’ Herjólfur hung his head.

Ari Thór thanked him for the information, said his goodbyes and walked back to the car. He looked over his shoulder quickly before he got in. The younger Herjólfur had gone and the door of the big house had shut behind him. The sky continued to weep, and the wind continued her howling. Ari Thór was thankful to be out of the house with that particular job behind him, and with the sorrow at arm’s length, for the moment.

He was, however, painfully aware that this was only the beginning.