Nightblind (7 page)

According to the nurse, Dr Helgi won’t be here until tomorrow. She’ll find out if he can see me then.

It’s not easy to work out her age, and I can’t bring myself to ask her. Maybe around forty. She has a slightly pudgy face; too much red wine and too many steaks over the years. Her eyes are tired and she never smiles. I can’t get on with people who don’t smile.

It may well be that she’s not even forty, and if that’s the case then she hasn’t looked after herself. She’s not my type, that’s for certain.

There’s something about her that I don’t like, a coldness behind her eyes.

I can’t write much about my roommate because he never says a thing and doesn’t do much other than sleep. The only good thing about having him in front of me all day is that he’s a sort of encouragement to shake off the lethargy. Yes, I’ll go to tomorrow’s morning meeting. Maybe I’ll find out the truth.

The mayor lived in a detached house on a new estate on the landward side of the fjord.

It was a while before anyone came to the door and when he did, the mayor was dressed in a white dressing gown and matching slippers. There was a look of astonishment on his face when he saw the two police officers, but he hastily rearranged his features into an expectant, friendly expression.

‘Gunnar?’ Tómas asked, with his usual courtesy.

‘That’s me,’ he said, with a standard-issue politician’s smile on his lips.

‘My name’s Tómas and I was the inspector in charge of the local force here for many years. That was before your time, of course.’ His voice was laden with authority. ‘I expect you’re already familiar with Ari Thór?’

‘Of course. Come in, boys. Apologies that I’m not dressed for the occasion, but I wasn’t expecting guests. This is how it is when you live alone.’

They followed him into the living room. The television was on and the remnants of what looked to be a forlorn microwave meal were on the table.

‘I’d offer you something, but I have to admit that the cupboard is pretty bare. This is a sort of bachelor existence,’ he said, his apology sounding artificial. ‘My wife’s working abroad. She’s a doctor.’

He offered them the sofa, without taking a seat himself.

‘What’s the news?’ He asked. ‘How is Herjólfur? He’s still … with us?’

‘He is,’ Tómas replied, and paused.

‘Thank God for that. It’s a terrible thing to happen. It’s hard to understand it. The atmosphere at the Town Hall today was very subdued, to say the least, and most people left early. Damn it…’ he swore, his voice rising. ‘I can’t believe that a police officer has been gunned down here in Siglufjördur.’

Ari Thór looked at Tómas, hoping that he would interrupt before Gunnar broke into a political rant about the safety of police officers on duty. Tómas didn’t let him down, and went straight to the point.

‘Why did Herjólfur call you two days ago?’

‘We’re both on the traffic safety committee,’ Gunnar answered quickly, almost before Tómas had finished his question, like a well-prepared contestant in a quiz. ‘There were a few things he wanted to discuss.’

‘Such as?’ Tómas asked, adopting the same carefree tone.

‘Mainly the roundabout and a few other matters that we need to discuss at the next meeting,’ Gunnar replied smoothly, without apparently needing to think. ‘I don’t recall precisely what was said, as I have a lot on my plate. It’s a busy job.’

A roundabout? Ari Thór wondered if the man couldn’t have come up with a more convincing lie.

‘What roundabout?’ Tómas asked. ‘There’s a roundabout in Siglufjördur now? That’s some impressive progress in the short time since I moved south.’

Ari Thór kept himself deliberately to one side. He preferred to maintain a decent relationship with the mayor, and this conversation looked like it was going to end badly.

‘Well, not exactly. It’s more about building roundabouts, to improve road safety. You understand?’

Tómas’s expression demonstrated that he saw no point in building a roundabout in such a small town.

‘It reduces speeding,’ the mayor added haughtily, back in election mode, as he did his utmost to convince his audience.

‘Speeding was never a problem when I was inspector here,’ Tómas muttered, a little too loudly.

‘No, maybe not. But now the town is opening up, with more through traffic, maybe a higher crime rate…’

‘Why was this so important?’ Tómas asked, his tone sharper than before.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Discussing roundabouts. It was after ten at night when Herjólfur called you.’

This time Gunnar hesitated.

‘I couldn’t say why the man decided to call me so late. I recall that I found it intrusive at the time. As you can see, I’m not much of a one for staying up late.’ He smiled and looked down at the dressing gown. ‘I didn’t say anything to him about it, of course. I was just my usual courteous self. We had built up a good working relationship.’

‘Did you discuss any other matters?’

‘I honestly don’t remember.’

‘Was that the last time you and he spoke?’

‘Yes, yes, it was. But I couldn’t have known at the time what was about to happen, so it wasn’t an especially memorable conversation. And I hope it doesn’t turn out to have been our last conversation.’

A pretty weak hope, Ari Thór thought to himself, recalling the harrowing scene upon which he had arrived only that morning. It seemed days ago now, the horror of it still thrumming away at the corners of his mind, muted only by his determined effort to keep it there.

‘Did he say anything about the house?’ Tómas asked.

‘The house?’

‘The house where the shooting took place.’

Tómas’s voice was measured. Gunnar appeared increasingly agitated.

‘Well, why would he have done that?’ Gunnar asked. Tómas’s silence was deafening. ‘Of course he didn’t mention that house,’ Gunnar snapped at last.

Tómas rose quickly to his feet and Ari Thór followed his lead.

‘Thank you for the information and apologies for the intrusion.’

‘What? Yes, of course. A shame I can’t be of more help.’

‘Maybe later.’

‘Well, precisely. Yes.’

‘Don’t hesitate to get in touch, Gunnar, if there’s anything that occurs to you.’

They left the mayor in his dressing gown, standing in his living room.

‘Now I’m taking you home,’ Tómas said when they were in the car.

‘That would be kind,’ Ari Thór said, unable to keep the fatigue out of his voice.

‘What did you make of your mayor’s performance?’ Tómas asked, glancing over at his dishevelled colleague.

Ari Thór paused. ‘I’ve never seen him lie so obviously,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s something he’s not telling us, and I have a feeling it has more than a little to do with Herjólfur’s shooting.’

Gunnar sat still for a while after the police officers had gone. He had expected questions about that phone call, but not right away and not with such vigour.

He had kept himself dry for twelve years but there were still occasions when he felt that a drop would help; just enough to settle his nerves. This wasn’t the first time he had been tempted, nor was it the worst situation he’d faced over those twelve years, and he knew he would get over it.

Loneliness had become more of a burden that he liked to admit. The days at work weren’t a problem, but in the evenings when he came home, the cold, empty house, far too big for him, was all there was to receive him. The job was demanding and he relished the involvement in municipal politics, working out the cliques and establishing how people would form alliances on particular issues. It was certainly an advantage for the municipality to have an outsider in his position, someone with no allegiances. In the same way it was a clever move to bring in an outsider to manage the investigation. He was sure that Ari Thór on his own would never have dared to push his way into the mayor’s residence to make veiled accusations so late in the evening.

He stood up and drew the curtains, an unconscious reaction to the police’s invasion of his home. He also managed to shut out the darkness outside, but there was no hiding from the sound of the rain. What a miserable day this had been, in every respect. The low pressure that was bringing them all this October rain also had a negative effect on Gunnar’s mood that he felt very deeply.

He switched on the espresso machine. Normally he avoided coffee in the evenings, but he suspected he wouldn’t sleep much anyway.

He wanted to call his wife, not to tell her about the visit from the police, but more to make some kind of contact. It wasn’t too late for a call to Norway, but the relationship had become so strained that phone calls for no special reason had long ago been consigned to the past. She would be surprised to hear from him and would want a reason for the call, and then there would be silence on the line between Siglufjördur and Oslo.

Instead he called Elín. He wanted to go and see her, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. An evening visit could result in all kinds of awkward misunderstandings. There was no point in boosting the inevitable gossip that was undoubtedly already being whispered about the mayor and his deputy.

She answered quickly, as she did everything. Sharp-witted and astute, Elín responded rapidly to anything he asked her to do at work.

‘I just had a visit from the police,’ he blurted out, not bothering with any courtesies.

‘A visit? At your place?’ Elín asked.

‘Yes.’

‘And … what did they want to know?’ she asked, her voice guarded.

‘Why Herjólfur called me the day before yesterday,’ he replied, trying to hide his worries.

There was silence on the line.

‘And what did you tell them?’ Elín finally asked.

‘What we decided, of course.’

‘And they believed you?’

‘Well, I think so. Yes, I’m sure they did.’

The silence deepened. He knew what was at stake, and how unlikely it was that this was the last they would hear of it.

This is the first day that nobody has been sitting outside my room.

Of course they were checking that I didn’t do myself any harm. Fortunately they let me have a little elbow room. The door was kept ajar and I was able to go to the toilet and the shower by myself.

I wouldn’t have tried anything, even with nobody watching. At the moment I want to continue to live, in spite of being frightened, as always.

I seem to be past the worst, judging by the fact that I’m not being watched every moment of the day, like a small child.

This morning’s meeting wasn’t too bad. The staff and the inmates all talked as equals, on the surface, naturally. There wasn’t a doctor to be seen, any more than any other day. Doctors seem to be a rare sight on the ward. There were nurses, medical staff and some auxiliary staff there. I’m not quite sure who does what. Nobody wears a uniform but you can normally tell the staff by the keys they have in their hands all the time.

I didn’t say anything at the meeting, just listened. The discussion was mostly about the programme for the day. It’s the height of summer and most of them wanted to be out in the gardens. I have to stay indoors for a few more days, or so I’m told. All the same, I’d have liked to have gone outside in the warm weather. It’s hot, stuffy – airless in here. There’s a balcony, a smart little one, at the end of the corridor. I’d love to be able to go out there, breathe the fresh air and enjoy the sunshine for a little while, but the doors are kept locked. That balcony is like a mirage in the desert.

The meeting became almost amusing this morning, when the other inmates started complaining about each other. One asked to be moved to another room as the man he was sharing with is bad-tempered and borderline violent. The other guy answered right back, so forcefully that it confirmed the first one’s point. They carried on for a while without reaching any conclusion. The staff didn’t seem concerned about chasing the inmates’ minor complaints, but an argument like that must serve
some purpose. It clears the air, gives people an opportunity to air pent-up grievances without coming to blows. The blows come later.

Ari Thór slept badly that night. He woke up more than once, finding it hard to fall asleep again with the heavy rain beating on the roof of the old house. His home was usually warm and cosy, a safe haven, but now it just felt cold and menacing.

The flu was to blame as much as the assault on Herjólfur. The incident had been a shock, but the thought of how narrowly he had avoided being the target … If he hadn’t been ill…

It wasn’t just his concern about Herjólfur that kept him awake. If he was honest with himself, he had not been able to create any real relationship with his new superior. Of course he hoped that the inspector would make a full recovery, and at the very least survive. It was unthinkable that any police officer should lose his life under such circumstances, and it didn’t matter who the victim was. And now that he had met Herjólfur’s wife and son, Ari Thór felt a bewildering set of new sympathies for his colleague’s family.

He and Tómas had sat in stifling silence on the short drive home, the rain outside a premonition of the arrival of winter. Ever since that first winter in Siglufjördur, Ari Thór always felt slightly claustrophobic when the snow started falling heavily, even though the new tunnel meant that it was almost impossible to be snowbound in the town any longer. Kristín was already asleep by the time he returned home, and he didn’t try to wake her.

The next morning they both woke around six, as usual, when Stefnir began to make his presence felt by crying. At first the sounds he made were soft, and there was still a chance that he might fall back asleep if they left him alone, but eventually he was fully awake
and demanding attention. They were both due at work, so Stefnir would be cared for by a childminder who lived nearby, an amiable older lady approved by Kristín. It was never easy to leave the boy with a stranger, but there was no choice in the matter.

Kristín was unusually reserved that morning, although it was something Ari Thór had become used to over the last few weeks. Exhaustion clouding his usual, uneasy acceptance, he looked out at the relentless downpour, frost tickling the edges of the windows, a smog of condensation veiling their centres and, somehow, he felt, his own relationship.

‘Is everything all right, Kristín?’

‘Of course, yes,’ she replied, without meeting his eyes.

He waited a moment for a plausible explanation, glanced at her and looked away. He stirred the cereal in his bowl and pushed this exchange to the back of his mind, as he’d become accustomed to doing.

Tómas collected Ari Thór and they drove out to the old house by the tunnel.

‘I’ve been in touch with the technical division,’ Tómas said as he parked close to where Herjólfur’s car had been found. ‘They have nothing yet to indicate who might be behind the attack.’

‘That figures,’ said Ari Thór. ‘I didn’t expect anything so soon.’ He was feeling brighter now; the flu was subsiding, although the fatigue had still not retreated.

‘It’s a long time since I’ve been up here to this old place,’ Tómas said thoughtfully as they approached the derelict building, which looked almost like a real-life haunted house to Ari Thór. It must have been an imposing building in the past, but a complete lack of maintenance left it dilapidated and almost menacing. The house seemed to have an aura of death about it, regardless of the shooting, thought Ari Thór. The local kids probably avoided it, but it was the perfect place for shady drug deals. Its location on the edge of the cliff
only added to the sense of danger that emanated from its crumbling walls.

‘I’m not even sure if I dare work out how many years ago it was. I had to deal with the poor old guy who moved himself in here after the place had been abandoned,’ Tómas continued.

‘When was that?’

‘Around 1980, if I remember correctly. The surviving twin stayed on but I gather he only used part of the house, and then let it fall into disrepair. He was a relatively young man when he died, and after that nobody bothered fixing the place up. It would hardly have been worth it. Property prices in Siglufjördur haven’t been great for decades – you know this, Ari Thór – ever since the herring disappeared. Things are only starting to pick up, and it has never been the most popular part of the town, too far from the centre.’

It crossed Ari Thór’s mind that although it would need a lot of work, if the place were to be fixed up properly, it could possibly be an attractive place to rent out to tourists. The setting was magnificent, on the outer end of the fjord, and with a wonderful view when the weather was fine enough to provide visibility.

They went through the front door into a chilly hallway. Ari Thór was slightly reluctant to go inside, but he wouldn’t allow himself to show any weakness. It was just a house, after all, even though it was now the setting of two horrible events, the mysterious death of the twin and the attempted killing of Herjólfur. Ari Thór flicked the light switch, but there appeared to be no power in the building. Then again he hadn’t expected any such luxury.

‘Careful, Ari Thór,’ Tómas said, taking a torch from his pocket. ‘The living room’s here to the left. Most of the windows were broken long ago. The local kids had a fine time throwing stones through them after the owner died. This place is in the state it is because of human activity as well as nature.’

Tómas shone his torch around the living room. Ari Thór could see a rickety table, stained and lacking a coat of varnish, and some worn-out chairs.

‘Didn’t anyone take the furniture after the owner died?’

‘It doesn’t look like it. I couldn’t say what went on, but I suspect that anything of any value must have been taken.’

‘The gunman must have stood here,’ Ari Thór said. ‘Herjólfur was on the ground just outside.’

‘Exactly. The technical division came to the same conclusion. There was no evidence of a warning shot or anything like that. Shall we take a look upstairs?’

Ari Thór followed Tómas up the decrepit staircase that creaked with every footstep, reminding him of ice about to crack underfoot on a frozen pond. He stepped gingerly, intent on avoiding a tumble on the stairs. He held tight to the handrail, quickly letting go of it when he felt it coming adrift from the wall.

‘This is where he lived, the brother who survived. His name was Börkur. They were the twins, Börkur and Baldur,’ Tómas said, indicating a small room next to the landing.

The beam of the torch illuminated a bed and a bedside table next to it.

‘This is where the drunk was living the last time I came here,’ Tómas continued. ‘He didn’t seem to be frightened to be bedding down here.’

‘Frightened?’

‘Yes, this is where Baldur died, or rather, fell off the balcony,’ Tómas said, shining the beam of torchlight to flicker over the balcony doors.

‘Can we get out onto the balcony?’ Ari Thór asked.

‘No idea. Give it a try.’

The door’s hinges complained, but gave way all the same. Ari Thór squeezed himself out onto the tiny balcony. He gazed out into the morning and his thoughts inexplicably returned to Kristín.
Had he done something wrong? Why was she behaving so strangely?

‘How old is this place?’ he called in to Tómas.

‘I’m not sure. Built around 1930, I’d guess, and solidly. Their father was a fisherman who did well for himself, but after he drowned, the boys were brought up by their mother. She never remarried.’

‘You can tell from the balcony.’

‘What?’ Tómas appeared in the doorway.

‘The age of the house. Today nobody would dream of building a balcony with a railing that low. It’s an accident waiting to happen.’

‘That’s just where he fell off.’

Ari Thór had no desire to go the same way and quickly shut the doors behind him as he came back inside.

‘Are they all dead?’

‘All?’

‘Baldur, Börkur and their friend. Didn’t you say there were three of them here when Baldur died?’

Ari Thór tried to imagine what kind of party might have taken place almost half a century ago but found it difficult to visualise.

‘Yes, you’re right. They’re all gone now, the brothers and their friend,’ Tómas said absently. But their friend’s sister, Jódís, is still with us. She’s very much alive, at seventy-four.’

Ari Thór had a strange feeling about this sinister house, and an inexplicable urge to flee. But he was also sure that there was a mystery here to be solved. Whether or not it had a direct bearing on last night’s shooting, he couldn’t tell. Yet…