The Commandments : A Novel (2021)

by Gudmundsson, Oskar

  ‘We need to organise interview with residents in Grenivík, the parish council, parishioners, local authority staff, the mayor, teachers, staff at the Co-op and the café. We also need to track down and interview relatives and friends. Who’s going to do that?’

  ‘I will,’ Fanney said.

  ‘Excellent,’ Salka said, picking up the papers in front of her and squaring them against the tabletop. ‘Tóti, please send me the screenshots of the boys when you’re ready. I know that many of you are pretty shattered. Some of you have been working through the night. But this all depends now on things happening fast. Anything to add, anyone?’ Salka said and stood up as heads were shaken around the table. ‘Then that’ll do for now.’

  19

  ‘Impermanent residence?’ Salka said with a grin as she and Gísli made for the canteen. ‘Is this delightful new expression something you came up with?’

  ‘All my own work,’ Gísli said after a second’s thought and with a note of pride in his voice.

  After the meeting they had talked over the next steps with Valgeir. Salka couldn’t help noticing the change in Valgeir’s demeanour, coming across as more amicable than he had the previous day. He offered to speak to the mayor and other figures in Grenivík, adding that he knew these people well.

  In the canteen Salka noticed Magnús chatting with Tóti at one of the tables. Their eyes met for a moment as she passed by. She sensed the smile, unsure of whether it could be made out. The feeling was that it was being beamed her way, although it was just as likely that this was just her imagination.

  She joined the queue for the coffee machine and looked around the canteen. Tóti stood up and left the room.

  Salka went over to Magnús’s table and took a seat facing him, saying hæ without noticing the awkward silence. She was left with a troubled feeling, verging on discomfort. She was about to say something, but failed to find the words, as if the messages from that part of her brain weren’t getting through.

  ‘Is the meeting over?’ Magnús asked, and Salka felt a relief, as if the ice had been broken.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All well?’

  ‘Just going over the situation,’ she said and glanced over to where Gísli stood in the queue. ‘So…’ she said, looking into Magnús’s eyes. She laughed at the sight of the smile that spread across his face, as if he was reading her thoughts.

  ‘You feel it was a mistake, don’t you?’ he asked in a low voice.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s something that could be called a mistake or not. We’re both adults. Our choice, isn’t it?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Yes, you’re right. Of course what we get up to is our choice,’ he said, picking up his cup by the rim with his fingertips, turning it in its saucer. ‘I have no regrets, but maybe we should…’

  ‘There’s no reason we can’t meet again, talk things over,’ she interrupted, hoping that she sounded calm and collected.

  ‘We could do that. I have one more day on the river and I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘And?’ Salka asked after he had paused for a while.

  ‘Dinner? How does grilled trout sound?’

  ‘I like the sound of that.’

  ‘I got you a cappuccino. Did you want ordinary coffee?’ Gísli said, holding two cups of coffee as he took a seat next to Salka.

  ‘The tackle shop should be open by now,’ Magnús said, getting to his feet just as Fanney appeared.

  ‘Could I have a word, Salka?’ she asked, taking a seat by the window as Salka nodded. Fanney gave Magnús a smile and a cheerful greeting.

  ‘Something new?’ Salka asked.

  ‘Could be. You mentioned Helgi Alfreðsson, who appeared in Hróbjartur’s call log. The name rang a bell and I thought of a friend who used to live here and was familiar with Helgi. We’ve just had an interesting conversation,’ she said, squinting and reaching out to tweak the curtain, deflecting the sun shining in her eyes. ‘She knew Helgi. He was active with young people here in the past and among other things, he ran the amateur dramatics society at Dynheimar. She took part in a couple of productions and he was … creepy, as she put it.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He was very tactile, with a need to touch,’ she said, looking down at notes on a scrap of paper. ‘But not with the girls. He was all over the boys. There was a lot of talk about it. He was also a deacon, and might still be.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but what’s a deacon?’ Salka asked, and Gísli seemed just as keen to know the answer.

  ‘You’re not the only ones,’ Fanney laughed. ‘I had to look it up. A deacon carries out some sort of pastoral care.’

  ‘I'm still none the wiser.’

  ‘Deacons are involved in all kinds of church activities,’ Magnús chimed in. ‘Such as end of life care. They assist those who struggle to help themselves, or have been bereaved. They help people out, visit people,’ he said, and fell silent as the others looked at him in surprise. ‘One of my cousins is a nurse, and she’s also a deacon.’

  ‘That’s right. What I found out is that deacons often work with children and are involved in child and youth activities within the Church.’

  ‘And does he still do this?’ Salka asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea. But here are his address and phone number,’ Fanney said, handing Salka the piece of paper. ‘And she mentioned a particular boy, one who was part of the theatre group. She recalled that he and Helgi had got on badly.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘That’s what I asked her, and she couldn’t be certain of the date, but reckoned it must have been between 1993 and 1995.’

  ‘And who’s the boy?’

  ‘Rafn.’

  There was no answer, even though Salka had hammered four times on the door and called Helgi’s number from where she stood by his front door. He lived in the middle of a row of terraced houses in the Norðurbyggð district.

  She had decided to try and track Helgi down after a fruitless search for Gísli. She hadn’t seen him since they had met in the canteen.

  Salka tried to peer through the kitchen window, without success, as it was too high up and too far to one side from the steps.

  She decided to call Gísli’s number again, but there was no reply. Where the hell is he? she thought, until her consciousness reminded her that normally he was never far from the phone.

  She was on the way down the five steps that led to the front door when the next door along opened. She saw an older woman in the doorway. Salka stopped and sized her up, waiting for a response.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the woman asked.

  Salka was surprised at this question from what appeared to be a concerned neighbour.

  ‘Good question,’ Salka said, going over to her. ‘I was hoping to meet Helgi. He does live here, doesn’t he?’

  ‘He does. And who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Salka. Police. He doesn’t appear to be home. And he isn’t answering the phone. Do you know where he works?’

  ‘Police. Right. He doesn’t work at all,’ the woman said, opening the door a little further. ‘And he’s at home.’

  ‘No. It doesn’t look that way. Nobody’s answering the door.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, opening the door all the way and peering over at the apartment next door. ‘He hasn’t been out today. What do you want with Helgi?’

  ‘Just a chat. How do you know?’

  ‘How do I know what?’

  ‘That he hasn’t been out today?’

  The woman’s mouth opened, and she hesitated.

  ‘I know these things. If he’d left the house I’d have heard him.’

  ‘Really? Can I ask how you could have heard? There’s a bit of a distance between the doors.’

  ‘These places were built on the cheap. You can hear a mouse in the next apartment.’

  ‘Understood. When did you last see Helgi?’

  ‘That was just yesterday when he went down to the
shop. He went out around five and was back round about six.’

  ‘That’s quite something. Neighbourhood watch in action. I wish you lived on my street,’ Salka said with laugh.

  ‘I’m of that generation, my dear,’ the woman replied and finally cracked a smile.

  ‘Isn’t he just asleep? It’s Sunday and it’s not midday yet.’

  ‘Helgi,’ she said with emphasis. ‘He doesn’t sleep late. Let me tell you that, considering I’ve lived here half a lifetime. He’s always up by eight. Spends most of his time indoors and hardly ever leaves the house until afternoon. He ought to watch his health a bit more carefully. Ready meals or baked beans for dinner. Angel Delight and that kind of thing.’ Salka smiled to herself, imagining the woman sneaking under cover of darkness to check the contents of the bins. ‘Helgi’s all right, but this lifestyle’s going to finish him off. That’s what happens when people stop taking care of themselves and their surroundings,’ she said, with what Salka had been waiting for, a snort of displeasure.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Salka asked, now on the bottom step leading to the woman’s door.

  ‘Well, that’s what they say. The back garden’s a reflection of its owner. You ought to take a look round the back, but you’d never find your way if you ventured into that junkyard.’

  ‘Good grief!’ Salka said, laughing at the expression. ‘All right, I’ll be right back,’ she said, ready to set off.

  ‘Won’t you take a look inside?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Salka asked, turning back to face the woman.

  ‘We have a key. I was going to ask my old man, Ævar, to check on him when he gets back from the bakery. I’m really worried about Helgi. I haven’t heard a thing. There was some man who came around nine-thirty yesterday and hung some pictures for him. His visitor was there for about an hour and I haven’t heard a peep out of him since.’

  ‘How come you have a key?’

  ‘Ævar’s the chairman of the residents’ association. We have one of those … what’s it called? Ach, a key that fits all the locks.’

  ‘A master key?’

  ‘Probably. The master that fits everything.’

  ‘All right. Got you.’

  ‘But I don’t really know if it was pictures.’

  Salka gave her a questioning look.

  ‘Maybe something needed fixing, but those were heavy hammer blows.’

  ‘Let’s have the key.’

  20

  It was a windy night and the falling rain danced in the yellow glow of the street lights.

  The couple sat in front of the television, absorbed in Ingvi Hrafn’s news digest on the ÍNN channel.

  ‘Shh,’ the woman hissed, holding out the palm of her hand to her husband, who thought for a moment she was going to slap him. ‘Turn it down.’

  ‘What the hell’s that?’ the husband grumbled, turning down the volume.

  They could hear the muted ping of the doorbell ringing in the terraced house next door.

  ‘I thought as much,’ the woman said, discarding her knitting as she shot to her feet. She marched into the kitchen.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, woman? Do you really have to run to the window every time someone knocks at his door?’

  ‘Don’t be like that. I just want to…’ she said, and fell silent, stretching her upper body as far as she could over the kitchen worktop so she could see who had rung next door’s doorbell.

  ‘And who was it?’ the man asked, without taking his eyes off the screen, as she returned to the sofa and retrieved her knitting.

  ‘Didn’t see. Some bloke.’

  ‘You’re taking this to extremes. As soon as there’s the slightest sound outside, you’re rushing to the window,’ he said, turning up the TV volume again. ‘You'll be wearing out your hips with this Peeping Tom stuff,’ he laughed.

  ‘Pffft,’ she snorted, giving a dropped stitch her attention.

  The signs that greeted Salka as she entered Helgi’s apartment were not what she had expected. Her hope had been that she would find that he had simply overslept. But there was also the possibility that something serious had happened.

  If that was going to be the case, then her expectation was that it would be neat, and no traces left. After taking the keys from the woman next door, opening the door and stepping inside the place, she felt as if her body went into defence mode, anticipating an unknown adversary.

  Coats and a few pairs of shoes were scattered over the tiled floor. A broken coat hook lay in one corner. There was a crack in the glass that protected an embroidered picture of a turf-roofed house and the words Home Sweet Home, which hung slightly askew in the hallway.

  Salka pulled on gloves and wondered what explanation she could give Helgi if she were to meet him.

  From where she stood motionless in the hall, she stared into the apartment, and waited. She listened to the furious, heavy silence.

  She could see that the living room was in darkness. The curtains were drawn and sunlight the colour of cream slipped through the gaps.

  Salka took cautious steps into the lino-floored lobby from where the rest of the place opened out. The kitchen could have been tidier, although there was nothing in there that rang any alarm bells. Dirty crockery stood here and there on the worktop. One of the kitchen cupboard doors had been removed to make space for a microwave oven. It was open and on the worktop below stood a ready meal that had been removed from its packaging. The left side of the plastic film had been pierced in a few places. Salka looked around and glanced into the sink, but no knife could be seen, apart from those in a knife block on the table. The wooden handles stood there in a row, with one missing.

  To the right was a space where two doors could be seen. Approaching it, she sensed the discomforting smell – not so much strong as pungent. She knew this raw, powerful smell. She knew that, for the smell to carry like this, there had to be plenty of what caused it.

  This was the smell of blood.

  She noticed a light switch on the wall and clicked the light on. Looking down, she saw the dark-red, dried-out streaks on the floor and the walls.

  The bedroom door stood open. She put a hand inside the door and felt for the light switch.

  The trail of blood led along the floor to the bed, which stood in a pool of blood. A duvet and two pillows had been dropped on the floor to one side. To the other lay a pile of clothes.

  ‘Is he home?’ called a voice from somewhere behind her. It took Salka a moment to realise that the voice was real. It wasn’t until it called out hello! that she was wrenched from her thoughts and strode to the hallway, where the inquisitive woman from next door stood.

  ‘Is he all right…?’

  Salka marched the woman out of the apartment without a word and shut the door. She turned and looked sadly around the place. She could imagine Helgi going to the door the evening before, opening it.

  Helgi cursed under his breath as the doorbell rang. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He never had unexpected callers. Practically never, at any rate. He seemed to have reached an age at which visitors took care to call ahead.

  He had punched a couple of holes in the plastic film covering the fish ready meal, before putting it in the microwave. He was intent on finishing what he was doing, and then the doorbell rang a second time.

  As he went to the door, he realised that the knife was still in his hand. It crossed his mind to take it back to the kitchen, but instead he opened the front door.

  Before he could register any surprise, everything turned black. Whoever had been out there had thrown a bag over his head. He could feel himself being shoved back into the apartment, a choke hold around his neck so tight that he could hardly breathe. Every sound seemed to have been turned up to maximum volume. He managed to snatch at a coat that hung by the door, and heard the clatter as the coat hook snapped and fell to the floor.

  He remembered the knife in his hand and swung it aimlessly behind him a couple of times. The second time, he w
as sure it met some resistance. He couldn't be sure if it had caught against clothing or flesh. Or maybe something else. But hadn’t he heard the man yelp? He couldn’t be sure, as he could barely sense anything around him. The man caught hold of his wrist and Helgi felt the back of his hand slammed with great force against something hard. His fingers turned numb and he dropped the knife.

  Everything that happened in the next half-minute unrolled at great speed. He could feel how in the space of a heartbeat, he had been deprived of that which was so important – freedom.

  Whoever held him by the neck dragged him into the apartment. His forehead crashed against a door as it opened, and a moment later he was thrown onto the bed.

  Helgi tried to fight back, but knew that the battle was already lost. Someone sat on top of him and he could feel strong legs pinning his arms to his sides.

  ‘Is it hard to breathe?’ a voice close to his ear hissed as the bag was pulled aside. He felt the hot breath and the scorching pain as he heard the words.

  He nodded hard.

  A gloved finger searched out the hollow below his Adam’s apple. If it had been hard to breathe before, now it was out of the question.

  ‘And now?’ the voice whispered.

  Helgi opened his mouth in the hope of drawing in a little of the oxygen that he breathed in twenty thousand times every day. He felt the pain in his throat, an inner voice telling him that these would be his last moments, until the grip on his throat was suddenly relaxed and a hole torn in the bag. Air flowed almost uncomfortably and freely in, he was drawing it in too hard. But it didn’t last, as something was stuffed into his mouth. His first thought was that it was a sock. The sour smell told him that. His nose worked overtime to draw in air.

  The bag was whipped from his head and he looked into eyes that stared back from the holes of a balaclava. They were lively, but dark. If someone had asked him later on what colour they had been, he would have said that they were black. But at that very moment, he had no idea that he’d never be asked that question. He couldn’t know that twenty indescribably painful minutes later, he would be dead.