Betrayal

by Sigurdardóttir, Lilja

  ‘I’m a cleaner,’ she said. ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m the minister’s driver,’ he replied. ‘Started exactly a week ago.’

  He moved aside so that people making their way through the lobby could pass them. A crowd of media types had gathered outside, waiting for Úrsúla to appear and make her statement.

  ‘I heard what happened to your mother,’ he said.

  Their eyes met, and he felt himself sinking into the endless depths of those dark eyes. They seemed somehow to have more darkness in them than any other eyes.

  ‘Yeah, she’s in care now, and she has to be medicated up to the eyeballs so she doesn’t go crazy. There was some damage to her frontal lobe, and other injuries.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ he said. ‘I had the feeling that it wouldn’t end well when you both moved back in with him.’

  He remembered his own desperate dismay, standing by the window and watching the two of them get in the man’s car. The guy was a powerfully built giant, and they were so delicate and small, like a pair of elves from another world. The girls who worked at the refuge had tried to comfort him with tales of reunions that had worked out well, when the dad had forsaken the bottle, stopped beating his family and everyone lived happily ever after. But he could see in their faces that no one expected to see that kind of happy ending this time.

  ‘She was so frightened we’d be deported if she left him,’ Stella said. ‘Anyway, what about your parents?’

  ‘They divorced,’ he said. ‘Which is just as well. Mum lives in Tenerife with her cousin, and I don’t know about the old man. We’re not in touch.’

  Gunnar looked her up and down, struggling to see her as a young woman. She had been such a cute child, and even though he had little patience with children when he had been a teenager, there had been something about the two of them shipwrecked together in the refuge that brought them together. He had called her his Curlytop, and they had played endless hands of cards. He just couldn’t see her as a grown woman; all he could see was the strange, delicate child who had leaped from chair to chair in the refuge in endless attempts to fly.

  ‘You’re still casting spells?’ he asked with a wink.

  ‘Yeah!’ she laughed.

  Most of the little girls he had encountered had wanted to be princesses, or Pippi Longstocking, but this one had definitely aspired to become a witch.

  68

  Marita hadn’t slept at all. But now, well into the morning, with daylight ready to assert itself before too long, everything seemed better. She set the percolator to run a second time and cleared the breakfast things away, while Jónatan sat at the kitchen table, reading the weekend papers with interest.

  Every now and again he’d chuckle with satisfaction, before heaving a sigh and getting to his feet. She glanced at the spread he had been reading and saw it was something about the minister of the interior and that homeless guy, but she couldn’t be bothered to read more and wondered why Jónatan had found it so amusing.

  The percolator had done its work so she switched it off, pouring the coffee into a Thermos. This was the last of the coffee, so there would be no choice but to go to the shop. She would either get dressed and drive to Hveragerði to go shopping, or else send Jónatan down to the shop with a list. He didn’t seem to notice the whispers and people gawping.

  ‘What?’ she called out when she heard him saying something in the bedroom. He didn’t reply, but she could hear his voice. ‘What did you say?’ she called again. She opened the door out into the corridor so she could hear him more clearly, and realised he was on the phone.

  ‘Just take a look at what’s in the newspapers, and don’t forget that you owe me one,’ he was saying. Then he turned around, pocketed the phone and looked at her with a smile. ‘Everything all right, love?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. I thought you were saying something to me,’ Marita said.

  ‘No, just on the phone,’ he said and smiled again.

  She looked at him enquiringly. He looked cheerful, as if he had something to be happy, even optimistic, about. She hadn’t seen him like that for a long time; not since this terrible business had begun. He gave her a wink and went into the bathroom where she heard him turn the tap on full blast. He always did that to get hot water to shave. Before long he would reappear, freshly shaved and sweet-smelling, with that cheerful look on his face. and Marita suddenly felt an urge to hit him. She wanted to slap that shaven, silky-smooth face, to knock the happy look from it, to beat it until he could understand, completely and with all his heart, that she would in all likelihood never again be happy.

  69

  Bergmundur, the specialist in Icelandic language and folklore, lived in the Grjótathorp district, in a pretty timber-framed house that had obviously been recently renovated, as the silvery sheen of its corrugated steel cladding hadn’t yet succumbed to the weather and the salt to the extent that it needed a coat of paint.

  On the house’s gable end, red lights flashed at a speed that was out of keeping with the generally relaxed feel of the neighbourhood, which was otherwise like a village in the heart of the city. Gunnar opened the gate and walked up to the house, surprised that the folklore expert had seen fit to put up Christmas decorations in early November.

  Úrsúla had pointed the man out to him, as he had stood at the back of the press pack that afternoon to hear her statement on the ministry steps. She told Gunnar that she had run into him at the Árbær Museum at the weekend, and that he had been disagreeable. He had looked sour, and even angry, as he listened to Úrsúla explain to the assembled journalists that she had not asked for any law to be broken, nor had she any intention of snooping into medical records; all she had been seeking to establish was whether or not Pétur Pétursson posed any danger to her or her family.

  The journalists fired questions at her as soon as she finished reading the statement, then, as her assistant, Eva, brought things to a close, Gunnar saw the man leave with a long face.

  According to Úrsúla, Bergmundur was not connected to any media organisation so had no business being there. Gunnar had to admit that this was suspicious, and also typical of stalker behaviour.

  He stood in front of the door to the little house and peered at the nameplates in the flashing light.

  These announced the names of Bergmundur, a woman – presumably his wife – and a number of associations, all of them concerned with folkloric studies of nature. At the bottom of the brass plate he made out Foss Friends – The Association for the Protection of Waterfalls. It was a name he had heard before: this association fought for the protection of the numerous waterfalls threatened by hydro-electric power projects.

  Gunnar waited for a moment and thought things over before knocking. Could it be that inside this mild academic lurked a violent misogynist? Could he be Fossi?

  Tuesday

  70

  ‘This cannot be allowed to continue!’ Óðinn thundered as he strode into Úrsúla’s office with the slip of paper in his hand.

  It had been delivered to reception downstairs in a neat white envelope stamped with the words ‘by hand’, so someone had clearly delivered it. The receptionists said that it had been handed over by a perfectly normal-looking man who didn’t appear to be a homeless type; they assumed he must have been a taxi driver or a courier. Freyja had innocently opened it, expecting some standard official letter to drop out of the clean, white envelope, and had been taken by surprise.

  The letter itself looked like something Pétur Pétursson would have sent; a piece of greasy paper, the kind used to wrap chips at fast-food places, with a message written in shaky letters:

  The Devil’s accomplice guilty of her father’s death

  ‘So you’ve seen what was waiting to brighten up my day?’ Úrsúla said and grimaced at the sight of it.

  ‘Freyja handed it to me as I was on my way up to see you. I’m terribly sorry, my dear,’ he said, easing himself into the chair opposite her. His voice trembled and Úrsúla stare
d at him in surprise. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped pearls of perspiration from his forehead. Úrsúla thought he looked exhausted. It was as if the grey in his hair had somehow spread to his face, making him appear colourless and drained.

  ‘It’s not your fault, Óðinn. This person is clearly not right in the head,’ she said.

  This note hadn’t given her as much of a shock as the previous ones had. It was as if the initial shock of Pétur’s persecution had now worn off, and had been replaced in her mind by a cool clarity that allowed her to shake off any discomfort. If anything, these notes had begun to spark her curiosity. What did this person mean by sending her these semi-poetic lines, and who was this devil he always referred to?

  ‘It’s completely unacceptable that the ministry can’t shield you from this kind of thing, especially here, inside the building!’

  He raised his voice for the last few words, and as the door was open, Úrsúla figured that this was intended for Freyja.

  ‘Óðinn,’ Úrsúla said gently. ‘It’s all right. It may sound strange, but both these notes and the foul emails I’ve been receiving, on top of the miserable media attention, don’t hurt my feelings anymore. I think I’m becoming immune to this.’

  Óðinn sighed.

  ‘It’s bizarre that anyone would have to get used to this kind of thing,’ he said, and held up the greasy scrap of paper, shaking it as if he was drying fresh ink. ‘But this man has to be taken out of circulation. This can’t go on.’

  71

  Gunnar could feel only sympathy for Úrsúla as he scanned the day’s media coverage. He had been at the press conference when she explained her reasons for enquiring about Pétur, and at the meeting with Boris and Óðinn that had triggered the whole thing, so he failed to understand how this could be twisted into a suggestion that the minister couldn’t trust her own ministry to handle the situation – the conclusion most newspapers had managed to reach.

  Úrsúla had called him in, and as he waited outside her office, looking through the newspapers, he wondered how anyone could be tempted to go into public life. The public had to be the world’s worst employer, and it included individuals like Fossi, whose main aim was to achieve maximum hurt and distress.

  ‘There was another letter,’ Freyja whispered to him as he headed for the minister’s office.

  Úrsúla handed him the crumpled fast-food wrapper on which had been scrawled a threat in the form of a riddle.

  ‘We don’t need to look too hard for the sender,’ he said, examining the misshapen lettering.

  ‘No, it’s pretty obvious that this is from Pétur,’ she said, busy at the coffee machine in the corner. ‘Would you like an espresso, or something else?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. People continued to offer him coffee, even though he always said no, and he wondered how long it would take Úrsúla to realise that he always declined.

  ‘I’ll take this to Boris,’ he said. ‘The commissioner will soon be able to hold an exhibition of Pétur’s artworks.’

  Úrsúla laughed. She seemed relaxed, less tense than she had been.

  ‘Ingimar the Terrorist has agreed to a prison visit at Hólmsheiði,’ she said. ‘He’s there because there’s no room for him at Litla-Hraun. I don’t know how Eva managed to arrange this so quickly, but he’s expecting to see you at visiting time today.’

  Gunnar swallowed, This wasn’t a job he was looking forward to.

  ‘I noted down a few questions that I’d like you to ask him,’ she added, handing him a handwritten note. ‘Is there anything to report on that other matter – the folklore specialist who seems to show up everywhere?’

  ‘I don’t think Bergmundur is Fossi,’ he said. ‘He’s just a sour old guy who’s struggling to accept that the world around him is changing. He’s part of the naming committee, and he obviously revels in it, and sincerely believes that everything that’s Icelandic will turn to dust if people are free to christen their kids Barbie or Boris.’

  They both laughed. Gunnar had looked Boris up in the national registry after his conversation with Bergmundur, and had found that his full name, as the naming committee required, included an Icelandic name as well: Boris Thór.

  ‘So what was he doing there yesterday with the journos?’ Úrsúla asked, now sitting at her desk, shuffling through the papers in what seemed an aimless manner.

  ‘He said that he’d just happened to be passing when you came out of the ministry and started addressing the journalists, so he stopped to listen.’

  The old man had been astonished to find that Gunnar thought this behaviour strange, and had embarked on a long lecture about Iceland being a free country. Gunnar bit his cheek and held back a comment to the effect that freedom clearly didn’t extend as far as the naming committee. But the man’s account had been convincing, and Gunnar didn’t have the feeling that he was someone who would make rape threats.

  ‘So he’s just an eccentric?’ Úrsúla asked.

  ‘That’s it. I passed all the information to Boris, just to be on the safe side. I mean, Boris Thór,’ he added, and Úrsúla laughed out loud.

  72

  Gunnar parked in the practically deserted car park in front of the prison. He had come in his own car so as to minimise the risk of the staff or anyone passing by making the link between the ministry of the interior and this secret visit. A smiling prison warder came up to him in the reception area, checked his identification papers and allocated him a locker for his coat, watch and phone. Then Gunnar followed him into the next room and stepped through the metal detector, and the warder quickly passed a drug detector wand over him, including Úrsúla’s folded note.

  ‘How do you and Ingimar know each other?’ he asked. Gunnar wasn’t sure if this was some kind of interrogation, and his answer would decide whether he would be allowed in or not, but the warder looked as if he was just chatting.

  ‘Just old friends,’ he muttered.

  The warder nodded.

  ‘At sea together?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Gunnar nodded as he hummed. It wasn’t exactly a lie. At least, not as much of a lie as an outright ‘yes’ would have been.

  The warder smiled amiably and opened a door to a long corridor, set with many doors, and told Gunnar to go to room three and to ring the bell if he needed anything.

  Gunnar gingerly opened the door and slowly stepped into the little room. There was a bench at the back, and a chair by a glass partition. Gunnar sat and waited. On the other side of the glass was a tiny room, so small that it was hardly more than a cell. The only thing in there was a chair. He unfolded Úrsúla’s list and read through it again, hoping to imprint some of the questions on his memory, but he had hardly begun before the door of the tiny room opened. Ingimar Magnússon walked in and sat in the chair.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, sounding rather cheerful, almost friendly. His voice was low and slightly hoarse, and Gunnar was surprised at how harmless he seemed, considering the man was a bomber. He had expected some indication of inner madness, something in his eyes or a fury of some kind – an underlying reason why someone would set off a bomb in a public place. On the contrary, this Ingimar came across as relaxed. He was grey, with hair cut short, no more than a trace of stubble to be seen, and somehow it seemed odd that he was dressed in a carefully pressed shirt in prison. Gunnar had imagined that everyone in prison had to wear a track suit.

  ‘I’m a driver—’ Gunnar began.

  Ingimar interrupted him. ‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘We don’t need to mention that again.’

  He lifted a finger and circled it in the air, indicating that they were being watched, maybe being listened to as well. Gunnar felt the sweat break out everywhere. How was he supposed to ask questions without giving away who he was? He hadn’t expected that their conversation would be monitored.

  ‘I have some questions,’ he said, holding up Úrsúla’s note, and Ingimar nodded.

  ‘Hold the paper up to the glass,’ he said to Gunna
r’s relief.

  Gunnar decided not to challenge Ingimar’s suspicions. He thought it was unlikely that anyone would listen in to prisoners’ conversations. But that might not apply to Ingimar. Maybe the police were still keeping tabs on him. After all, this man was Iceland’s only terrorist. Gunnar held the paper flat against the glass, and Ingimar peered at it. He squinted slightly, as if he wasn’t able to see clearly, or it could be because Úrsúla’s handwriting was not particularly clear.

  ‘The answer to the first question is no,’ Ingimar said. Gunnar recalled that this concerned Ingimar’s willingness to back out of the contract for the road and for another investor to be brought in. ‘In answer to the next four questions, I would tell them not to hesitate. The ownership of the investment funds behind this will never be revealed. When people are as satisfied with something as they will be with this road, they won’t start looking for problems.’

  He continued to read from the sheet of paper and then sat back in the chair, arms folded over his broad chest as he looked directly at Gunnar.

  ‘You can tell your boss,’ he said, ‘that if I’m kicked off the project, then the pension funds will be out as well. It’s all or nothing. I have friends in the right places.’

  The last few words were accompanied by a faint smile that for some reason irritated Gunnar. There was something infuriating about this man behind the prison glass, getting on his high horse with Úrsúla. He wasn’t looking forward to bringing her the bad news. As he saw it, she would have no choice but to end the South Coast Highway initiative.

  ‘So you still have strong connections?’ Gunnar said, angry at the sight of the man’s self-satisfied smile. ‘In spite of being a terrorist?’

  Ingimar got to his feet.

  ‘Those who have money will always have friends,’ he said, pressing the button to summon the warder. ‘And those with a lot of money have very good friends.’