Burned out and traumatised by her horrifying experiences around the world, aid worker Úrsúla has returned to Iceland. Unable to settle, she accepts a high-profile government role in which she hopes to make a difference again.
But on her first day in the post, Úrsúla promises to help a mother seeking justice for her daughter, who had been raped by a policeman, and life in high office soon becomes much more harrowing than Úrsúla could ever have imagined. A homeless man is stalking her – but is he hounding her, or warning her of some danger? And why has the death of her father in police custody so many years earlier reared its head again?
As Úrsúla is drawn into dirty politics, facing increasingly deadly threats, the lives of her stalker, her bodyguard and even a witch-like cleaning lady intertwine. Small betrayals become large ones, and the stakes are raised ever higher…
Exploring the harsh worlds of politics, police corruption and misogyny, Betrayal is a relevant, powerful, fast-paced thriller that feels just a little bit too real…
Betrayal
Lilja Sigurðardóttir
Translated by Quentin Bates
CONTENTS
Title Page
Pronunciation Guide
Friday
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Saturday
8
9
10
Sunday
11
12
13
Monday
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
Tuesday
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
Wednesday
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
Thursday
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
Friday
50
51
52
53
54
Saturday
55
56
57
58
59
Sunday
60
61
62
63
64
Monday
65
66
67
68
69
Tuesday
70
71
72
73
Wednesday
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
Thursday
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
Friday
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
Saturday
99
100
101
102
103
104
Sunday
105
106
107
Monday
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
Tuesday
118
119
120
121
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Translator
By the Same Author
Copyright
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
Icelandic has a couple of letters that don’t exist in other European languages and which are not always easy to replicate. The letter ð is generally replaced with a d in English, but we have decided to use the Icelandic letter to remain closer to the original names. Its sound is closest to the hard th in English, as found in thus and bathe.
The letter r is generally rolled hard with the tongue against the roof of the mouth.
In pronouncing Icelandic personal and place names, the emphasis is placed on the first syllable.
Úrsúla – Oors-oola
Óðinn – Oe-thinn
Rúnar – Roo-nar
Gunnar – Gunn-nar
Kátur – Kow-tuur
Eva – Ey-va
Gréta – Grye-ta
Freyja – Frey-ya
Herdís – Her-dees
Ingimar Magnússon – Ingi-mar Mag-noos-son
Thorbjörn – Thor-byortn
Katrín Eva – Kat-reen Ey-va
Jónatan – Yo-natan
Pétur – Pye-tuur
Guðmundur – Guth-mund-uur
With the benefit of hindsight, it was clear that Úrsúla’s promise, made on her very first day in office, was her downfall. At the same time it cracked open the armour that had encased her heart for far too long.
The night after accepting the keys in front of the press, she had dreamed terrible things. Her dreams were of fevered bodies, open sores, despair in the eyes of those bringing sick relatives to the camps, and then explosion after explosion, as if her former roles in Liberia and Syria had merged into one seamless nightmare.
The next morning she was still dazed and exhilarated after the previous evening’s reception at the ministry, and the cards bearing messages of goodwill and the flowers that had been presented to her were still piled high in her office. But the dream had left her feeling raw, so she was ill-prepared for the heartfelt rage of the woman who sat opposite her, begging her to help bring to justice the police officer who had raped her fifteen-year-old daughter back home in Selfoss.
The girl had hardly spoken a word since, didn’t want to leave the house. She had lost herself completely, the woman said as the tears flowed down her face. She wiped them away, whimpering with frustrated fury, and asked where the case had got to. She had asked the police, the state prosecutor’s office and her lawyer, but nobody seemed to know anything. So Úrsúla made a promise. She promised to make it her business to find out. She took the woman’s hand, who clasped it in her own, looked into Úrsúla’s eyes and thanked God that the minister of the interior was a woman.
Friday
1
He was still full after the hot porridge at the Community Aid canteen, and the snow was deep, reaching halfway up his calves, so he ambled rather than walked. The snow was still coming down hard, so he decided to shorten his usual walk today. He wouldn’t go all the way down to Kvos as coming back again would be heavy going.
He started at Hlemmur, always at Hlemmur. There was a kind lady there at the bakery who always pushed a pastry his way. He’d usually keep it in his pocket so he had something for later on, when he’d feel the need of it. Sometimes he was hungry and would eat it the same day, and at other times he’d save it and have it a day or two later. Danish pastries kept well. Normally they were just as good after a couple of days. He left this time with both a twisted doughnut and some kind of fancy, nutty pastry in his pocket. It was a comfort to know that he had something to fall back on, in case he couldn’t make it to the Community Aid canteen but was still hungry, ju
st like that summer when he had broken his leg. He had been properly in the shit then, living on his own in the bushes up at Öskjuhlíð, unable to walk and find himself anything to eat. It would have been great to have had something in his pocket then.
The next place was the kiosk. Sometimes he’d get coffee there, and sometimes small change, depending on who was behind the counter.
‘Good day, and may it bring you joy,’ he said as he pushed open the door. The cheerful response to his greeting told him that today there would be a handful of coins, so he may well be going all the way to Kvos, where he could visit the booze shop and buy beer.
‘G’day, old fella,’ said the pleasant young man who was there a couple of days a week. ‘What do gentlemen of the road have to say today?’
‘It’s snowing,’ he replied.
‘Proper snow,’ the lad added.
‘A proper winter,’ he said, and winked roguishly. ‘Any chance you could slip me a few coins, my friend?’
There was a ker-ching as the boy opened the till and scooped a palmful of hundred-krónur coins from the drawer.
‘There you go, old fella,’ he said. ‘Go and get yourself a bite to eat.’
‘Yep, I sure will,’ he lied. ‘A burger.’ He could see from the young man’s expression that he didn’t believe him; not that it mattered. ‘What’s your name again, my friend?’
‘My name’s Steinn,’ the boy laughed. ‘As I tell you every time you come in here.’
‘Names don’t matter,’ he mumbled on his way out. ‘Just eyes. The eyes tell you everything you need to know about someone.’
This Steinn had friendly eyes, with a spark of mischief behind them; the eyes of a man rebellious enough to steal from the shop’s cash register. But at the same time, friendly and charitable enough to give an old drunk small change. He strolled along Laugavegur, the snow settling on his head as he walked, forming a crown that melted until his thin hair was soaked and he began to shiver with the chill of it.
At the corner of Snorrabraut he crossed the street and went into one of the tourist shops; the thin, miserable man who worked there immediately threw him out. He tried to mutter that he only wanted to warm himself up a little, but that made no difference. The skinny guy was adamant that this wasn’t the place for him, and glared at him with his blank eyes, threatening to call the police. That would be something, being pulled by the law in a shop in the middle of the day, as sober as a judge and without even losing his temper. That would be a waste of a ride in a car and an overnight stay, so he left and walked briskly down to Kjörgarður – the heating under the pavement along this part of the street was easily enough to melt the falling snow – and before he knew it he was indoors with a mug in his hands. He hadn’t even needed to spend any of his stash of coins; the Asian lady who sold noodles there just handed him a mug and told him to sit down. She was loud and he didn’t understand a word of what she said, but she had kind eyes. He could see in them that she missed her parents, in a distant land far away, so she was happy to do a favour for an old guy with no home to go to.
He sipped his coffee, which gave him a glow of warmth inside, and leafed through the newspaper on the table in front of him. On the first spread, there she was, Úrsúla Aradóttir, with the news that she had become a minister. Somehow it didn’t seem quite right that she could be as grown up as she appeared in the picture, but there was no doubt that it was her. Once again he had the odd feeling he sometimes got – that the lives of other people moved ahead along straight lines while his own time went in circles. He took out his notebook and was about to write down these thoughts when his eyes strayed to the man at Úrsúla’s side in the photograph. They both smiled as they looked at the camera. But while her eyes were lively and cheerful, as they always had been, his were as cold as ice. These were the coldest eyes in the whole world. He stared at the picture and failed to understand how Úrsúla, now a minister, and whatever else she might be, could stand there and shake the hand of this man, the devil incarnate.
2
They had just left the marriage guidance counsellor’s office that Monday when Úrsúla’s phone had rung and the prime minister gave her two hours to make up her mind about taking on the role of interior minister for a year, a post combining the Ministries of Justice and Transport. Her eyes were still red with tears after yelling at Nonni in front of the counsellor, and she was sure her voice betrayed her upset as she told the PM that she would call back before the deadline. But she didn’t really need two hours, and she didn’t need to discuss it with Nonni before reaching her decision. She knew that she would make the call in good time and that she would take the job.
Nonni became weirdly excited and dropped his voice almost to a whisper, as if he was now party to some kind of state secret. His hand cupped Úrsúla’s elbow, steering her towards a coffee house on Skeifan, where he took her to a corner table by the window.
‘So just what did the PM say?’ he whispered, taking a seat opposite her.
‘Well, that it’s for one year, because the current minister has to step down for health reasons.’
‘Wow.’
‘It’s a bit awkward,’ Úrsúla said. ‘Appointing a minister from outside parliament and from neither of the two parties means they haven’t been able to agree on which of them should get the ministry.’
‘It’s a smart move to take a third option,’ Nonni said, falling silent as the waitress appeared.
Úrsúla had ordered a coffee, but Nonni had asked for a beer, which was unusual for him in the middle of the day. He had to be more upset than he appeared.
‘You’ll do it,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s exactly what you need; what you need to be able to put down roots here again. Maybe this is something that’s exciting enough for you.’
Úrsúla nodded and they sat in silence for a while. Nonni took a long swallow of beer, which emptied half his glass.
He was probably right. She hadn’t been happy since they had come home; she felt out of touch – in a daze while life passed her by. This wasn’t the way she had foreseen things unfolding. She had expected to spend her whole life in charity work, somewhere sandy and hot, where the burning heat on her body would show her that she was making a difference.
‘What about the children?’ Úrsúla asked, although she didn’t expect anything would change for them, whether she became a minister or not. Nonni had looked after them mostly and would continue to do so.
‘I’m only teaching part-time and I can arrange my hours so I can do more preparation at home, so this isn’t a bad time.’
‘I should be able to help people out there,’ Úrsúla said and looked absently out of the window. It was snowing again, and a fresh layer of white was covering the grey that already lay on the ground. That was what she desperately wanted: to make a difference. To turn chaos into order, to make a difference to someone’s life, somewhere. Nonni reached across the table and laid a hand on hers.
‘It’ll be good for us as well,’ he said quietly, looking into her eyes. The argument in the counsellor’s office just now was already forgotten and the sparkle of humour had returned to his gaze. ‘A happy Úrsúla means happy kids and a happy Nonni.’
‘You’re sure about that?’ she asked. She wanted to hear his words of encouragement said out loud, to hear him speak his mind, to voice his decision to support her. She wanted to be reassured that things wouldn’t go back to the way they had been, with him criticising her decision to take on a demanding role, feeling sorry for himself for getting too little of her attention, turning his back on her.
‘Quite sure,’ he said. ‘It’s no coincidence that an opportunity like this should pop up right now. This is supposed to happen. I’m a hundred per cent behind you, my love.’
Úrsúla squeezed his hand in return. It was a relief to hear his unequivocal support, although it didn’t affect her decision. She had already made up her mind. She had done that before the conversation with the PM had ended. This was what she had been wai
ting for, something that sparked a desire inside her. This would be something that would wrench her out of the daze she had been in since she had left Liberia, on her way to the refugee camps in Syria.
3
The meeting with Óðinn, the permanent secretary, was a relief after the stiff formality of that morning’s State Council session. She had struggled to sit still while one minister after another had got to his feet to list his achievements in parliament to the president, who had been surprisingly successful in feigning a real interest in these long lists. Úrsúla had been badly nicotine starved and puffed the smoke of two cigarettes out of the car window as she hurtled back to the ministry to meet Óðinn.
He was impeccably turned out, a waistcoat buttoned under his jacket and his tie neatly knotted at his throat. As soon as the doors closed behind them, he shrugged off the jacket and hung it on the back of a chair; Úrsúla allowed herself to relax too, kicking off her heels beneath the table and drawing her feet under her chair. Óðinn started by passing her a little bottle of hand sanitiser.
‘Make sure you use it all the time,’ he said. ‘Over the next month you’ll have to shake more hands than you’ve shaken in your whole life so far, and the flu season’s almost on us.’
She laughed, squirted it into one palm and handed it back to him. Then they sat each side of the conference table and kneaded the gel into their hands. The sweet menthol aroma from her palms reminded Úrsúla of how safe she was now. There was no infection here that an ordinary sanitiser couldn’t cope with. In Liberia they had washed their hands in bleach.
He took care to work the gel in between his fingers. His hands were large, as was his whole frame. He had to be at least one metre ninety, and with a barrel of a chest, although he was slim with it, which indicated either manual labour in the past, or that he had been a sportsman. Once he had finished rubbing the sanitiser into his hands, he waved them a few times to dry them off. Úrsúla wanted to laugh – he resembled a giant, clumsy bird – but she held back.
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