‘Do you beat your wife?’ Tómas’s voice was louder and harder.
Ari Thór glanced sideways at him.
‘Are you out of your mind? Of course not.’
Before Tómas could ask his next question, Karl interrupted, as if he could see it coming and wanted to head it off. ‘She took a tumble yesterday, she was dusting something in the living room and slipped, or so she said. Is that what you’re asking about?’
Tómas didn’t answer directly. ‘There are clear bruises on her back, as if from a heavy blow or a fall.’
‘Exactly,’ Karl said coolly.
‘Is that the first time you’ve done this to her?’
Karl rose to his feet and looked hard into Tómas’s eyes. ‘I’ve never laid a hand on her. You hear that?’
Tómas remained still. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d sit down. You’re telling me you’ve nothing to hide?’
‘Nothing at all,’ Karl said, sitting down, his anger cooling, leaving him pale.
‘Wait here a moment.’
Tómas stood up slowly and a look at Ari Thór told him he wanted a word in private.
‘He beat her,’ Tómas said when they were outside. ‘He hit her, or pushed her, but we can’t be sure of that without talking to her. I want you to go to Hlynur and find out how he’s getting on. There might be something there that could give us an idea of what happened. Karl has given us permission to examine the property.’
‘Exactly because he gave us that permission, there’s not likely to be anything there to find,’ Ari Thór said.
‘You’re probably quite right, unfortunately.’
Ari Thór stood in the driving snow outside the house on Thormódsgata. It was late in the evening, but there were lights on in both upstairs and downstairs flats. He went straight to the back garden, where Hlynur was bent over as he searched in the snow, looking for the weapon or any other clue. Ari Thór tapped him on the back. There was no point in calling out to him in this weather.
Hlynur looked up.
‘Nothing. Nothing so far,’ he yelled through the storm.
Ari Thór nodded acknowledgement and pointed towards the house.
Hlynur came closer. ‘Take a look inside. I’ve been through the flat and taken pictures. Didn’t find anything there except her shirt – a red T-shirt on the floor,’ Hlynur said. ‘It’s in an evidence bag in the car.’
The shirt she was wearing when the attack took place?
Ari Thór stepped into the warmth of the flat through the back door, and it was as if he’d gone back a couple of decades, judging by the quaintly colourful furniture and fabrics. There was nothing here that went properly together, at all – although, in a weird sort of way, it did make some kind of cohesive whole. Had she been attacked inside or outside? Could it have been someone she knew, someone she had invited in?
There was no sign of a struggle inside, nothing to be seen in either the living room or the little kitchen. The bright yellow paint on the kitchen walls and cabinets screamed at him, as if it had been cut from some over-the-top, mid-seventies magazine. There was a cheap set of tired kitchen knives next to the stove, with slots for five knives, three small and two larger ones. There were only four knives to be seen; maybe a coincidence, or maybe not.
Ari Thór looked into the bedroom, pausing at the picture of Jesus that hung above the old double bed and letting his mind wander back to his days studying theology. The Reverend Ari Thór. He was certainly better off in the police force. What had God ever done for him, other than take away his parents before there had been a chance to get to know them properly?
He looked out of the window.
The snow had stopped falling, as if a tap had been turned off.
That was when he saw the phone, a small, red mobile phone next to the pillow on the unmade bed. Her phone? Probably. He was gripped by a sudden discomfort, a sudden stab to the guts, and his heart beat faster. He put the phone in an evidence bag and placed it in his pocket.
Could it be what he thought it was?
No, hardly. Damn it.
Ari Thór went out through the front door, up the steps and rang Leifur’s doorbell.
Leifur looked tired, but not surprised to be getting a visit from the police so late in the evening.
‘I’m sorry it’s late,’ Ari Thór said. ‘I won’t keep you long; I imagine you have work in the morning.’ He smiled, making an effort to be amicable. The Reverend Ari Thór would undoubtedly have been on the best terms with his parishioners.
Leifur’s voice was dark and low. ‘It’s all right. I have a day off tomorrow.’
A labrador barked at the sight of Ari Thór and came over to greet him. A pleasant, friendly dog, he thought.
There was a smell of freshly sawn wood in the hall, and Ari Thór could smell it again in the living room, reminding him of woodwork classes at school and the things he had knocked together for his parents. The living room was sparsely furnished and had a cold energy – a blank, soulless room almost the diametric opposite of the explosion of colour downstairs. Nothing hung on the walls. A single photograph, of a youngster dressed for his confirmation, stood in a frame on top of the television.
‘Coffee?’ asked Leifur.
‘Tea, if you have it.’
He didn’t feel the need for any overblown courtesy in this place, in this raw, everyday environment with no room for any shred of ceremony.
‘You made the table?’ Tómas had told him that Leifur was a carpenter.
‘S’right.’
Ari Thór could sense there was something on Leifur’s mind.
The tea soon arrived and Leifur sat on the grey couch, the dog at his feet.
‘You’ve been home all evening?’
‘I came home around six. I work at the petrol station.’
‘And you’ve been here since then?’
‘Yes. I was working on something, like I do most evenings. I have a workshop in there and get some jobs now and then to bring in a little extra cash.’
‘It doesn’t bother the neighbours?’
‘It might well do, but I try and finish before ten. The television drowns out any noise before that.’ He took a sip of the tea that he’d made for himself to keep Ari Thór company. ‘We have a tacit agreement. I pretend I don’t hear their rows and they let me work in peace.’
‘Rows?’
‘Yep. A hell of a racket, and it happens all the time. Mostly Karl, you get me? He makes the noise and Linda doesn’t often shout back.’
‘Was there an argument yesterday?’
‘They were at it hammer and tongs yesterday, not that there’s anything unusual about that. There was some damage as well, or so it seemed.’
At last, a step in the right direction, although an account of an argument wouldn’t be enough. It certainly now appeared less likely that she had fallen, but still … it wasn’t enough.
‘Do you think he knocked her down?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. But listen, I don’t take a lot of notice any more. I just reckon it’s an ordinary enough argument. To tell you the truth, Karl doesn’t strike me as the type to beat his wife,’ he said, and lapsed into silence. ‘So what happened tonight?’
‘Did you see anything?’
‘No. Nothing. I was in the workshop and there’s no window looking out onto the garden. I’m in a world of my own when I’m in there. Of course I had a look from the kitchen window when things started to get busy, when you appeared, and then I saw something about it on the web,’ he said, and repeated his question. ‘Do you think Karl did it?’
‘No, there’s nothing to indicate that.’
‘Is she going to make it?’
‘It’s impossible to say… Speaking of arguments …’ it was as well to make use of the opportunity, and Tómas had practically given him carte blanche. ‘I hear there was an argument during the rehearsal when Hrólfur died. Were you aware of that?’
The question about the Dramatic Society didn’t seem to take
Leifur by surprise, either.
‘Did I ever! Nobody could have missed it. They had a proper row, Hrólfur was a little drunk and Úlfur was argumentative. Nothing unusual there.’
‘Well, Hrólfur falling to his death was something out of the ordinary.’
‘Of course. But it’s not as if anyone would have given him a push.’
’Did you leave during the dinner break?’
‘I did.’ A touch of fear now appeared in Leifur’s eyes, as it seemed to dawn on him that he could be a suspect in two police investigations. ‘I always do that, take a walk and go home. I went out that back door and had a word with Nína before I went. She said she was going to clear up in the basement during the break.’
Ari Thór stood up. There was little more to be found from this visit and he felt it might be best to leave on friendly terms, as the Reverend Ari Thór would have done.
‘Thanks for the tea,’ he said; then pointed at the confirmation photograph. ‘You haven’t changed’
Leifur looked stunned. ‘That’s my brother,’ he said and hesitated. ‘He’s dead. Died in a car crash.’
‘A long time ago?’ Ari Thór asked, the sympathetic clergyman coming out again.
‘Twenty-three years,’ Leifur answered without having to think about it. ‘Twenty-three years tomorrow. That’s why I have a day off. I always take the fifteenth of January off.’ He was silent, but it was obvious that he had something to add. ‘You never caught him.’
Me? We? Was Ari Thór supposed to be responsible for the sins of others?
‘Caught who?’
‘The driver. A friend of my brother’s was a passenger in the car. He survived, just, and he described what had happened. He said that there was a car coming the other way, in the middle of the road, that’s why their car rolled over. It wasn’t my brother’s fault. The weather was bad … and this …’ Leifur was clearly struggling to control his fury. ‘… this man forced them off the road. The car rolled over.’
Silence.
‘The police never found him. It was difficult for my brother’s friend to identify the car, other than that it was dark – red, perhaps, hard to be sure. Nobody came forward and the case was closed. It’s probably at the bottom of some drawer at the police station.’
Ari Thór stood in silence. There was nothing he could say.
He offered his hand. Leifur grasped it with his own calloused hand, a carpenter to his boot heels.
Outside there was a carpet of snow over everything and the town felt peaceful. A small cat scampered from under the car, hurrying home to somewhere warm. A few flakes still fluttered down, so light that they could hardly be seen. Ari Thór looked up and took a deep breath.
Maybe everything will work out for the best.
He heard Hlynur calling as he was getting into the 4×4.
‘Ari Thór!’
He turned round.
‘The knife. Found it.’
The knife had been behind a shrub in the garden of the house next door. There was no doubt that it was the missing kitchen knife.
‘He must have hidden it as he ran off,’ Ari Thór said.
So, he had been right about the knife.
Well done.
He hoped he wasn’t right about the phone.
Tómas had no idea when he would next get a chance to sleep. All he knew was that he wouldn’t be going home that night. He wanted to take the opportunity to lie down at the station, which would show his wife what things would be like once she moved south. Then she’d have to sleep alone, or so he hoped.
‘I don’t imagine there’ll be any prints on the knife,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Send it to Reykjavík anyway, just in case.’
He poured hot, strong coffee into a mug.
‘We’ll have to let Karl go soon, won’t we?’ Hlynur asked, yawning.
‘There’s an emergency flight on the way. It’s just as well the weather’s clearing so they can land. Linda still hasn’t regained consciousness and we can’t be sure that she’ll be able to tell us anything. What’s your take on all this, gentlemen?’ Tómas looked at Hlynur, who seemed too exhausted to reply.
‘It doesn’t look good,’ Ari Thór said.
‘You two go home and get some sleep. We’ll meet in the morning and go over everything again. Ari Thór, you keep an eye open for anything to do with the Dramatic Society, just in case. Maybe you ought to have a word with Pálmi tomorrow if you get a chance. He knew Hrólfur well and he’d know if there’s any aspect of this we ought to look into.’
Ari Thór nodded.
‘I found her phone,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had a chance to find out what number she was using.’ He showed Tómas the red mobile. ‘All right if I use it to call my phone?’
Tómas nodded his agreement.
Ari Thór pulled on gloves and punched in a number.
His phone began to ring. He picked it up.
‘I think I recognise the number,’ he said. ‘I think it was her who called me.’
Tómas frowned, he didn’t understand the connection. ‘Called you?’
‘Yes, on Christmas Eve.’
‘The prankster?’ Tómas’s stomach flipped over, as he suddenly realised what Ari Thór was implying.
‘Maybe it wasn’t a prank.’
‘Look it up,’ Tómas instructed.
‘Right away,’ Ari Thór said and went to the computer. He came back a moment later. ‘Same number.’
Tómas took a deep breath. Had he made a mistake? He had assured Ari Thór that it wasn’t anything to worry about, just someone playing a joke on the police.
‘I think we’ll have to keep Karl here overnight,’ Tómas said decisively. ‘The plot thickens by the minute. Of course he’ll want to go to Reykjavík with the emergency flight, but in light of what you’ve just shown me, I don’t think we can release him right away. First the assault on Linda and now this damned phone call. Let’s see if he makes a clean breast of it in the morning.’
Tómas tried to sound confident, but privately felt certain that Karl would do no such thing.
It was a perfectly ordinary kiss; gentle, soft, short and pleasurable. Ari Thór sat stunned for a few seconds, the taste of the kiss on his lips, delighting in the moment. He sat still and thought of Kristín. What the hell had he done?
Had he really done anything? He sat motionless, tired after the long day, his shoulder still sore. He had only meant to stop by for a coffee or a cup of tea and a pastry after a tough day.
It wasn’t his fault. She had kissed him. She had kissed him. He didn’t even get a chance to voice an opinion on the matter.
Kristín would go wild if she found out.
Ugla had sent him a message as he was walking home from the station, asking after Linda. He had called her and she invited him to drop by for a coffee. No, I mean tea, she corrected herself with a good-natured laugh. The pain in his shoulder was obvious, so she offered to massage it for him. He said yes, which of course he shouldn’t have. He shouldn’t have agreed to drop by at all.
Then she had kissed him, and he didn’t return the kiss, only stood up clumsily. He didn’t say a word about Kristín, just said that he had to go. Ugla stared at him in astonishment and disappointment, but didn’t say a word.
He had felt guilty all the way home; guilt over the kiss, and also for having discussed Linda’s and Hrólfur’s cases with Ugla. He was painfully aware that Ugla was, strictly speaking, a potential witness, and might even be seen as a suspect, if it was indeed a genuine investigation. He wasn’t sure that it was. On the other hand, she had been extremely helpful, telling him about the argument between Úlfur and Hrólfur, and this time she had mentioned that it might be worthwhile paying a visit to a lady called Sandra at the old people’s home. Sandra was in her nineties, as strong as a horse, relatively speaking, and had known Hrólfur longer than most people. He had made a habit of visiting her once a week, Ugla said.
Ari Thór tried to convince himself that Ugla’s information was
enough to balance out the fact that he’d disclosed and discussed official business with someone outside the investigation.
But he didn’t try to use the same logic to justify the kiss.
He went to sleep, not sure whether Ugla or Kristín would feature in his dreams.
27
SIGLUFJÖRDUR. THURSDAY, 15TH JANUARY 2009
He was at the pool, deep below the surface with the warm water coursing around him, a little breath left in him and a few more strokes to go. Two more, then one more. He had to breathe, fill his lungs with air, get up to the surface. He swam upwards, higher and higher, his eyes and face emerging to see snow everywhere, thick, heavy snowflakes that peppered his face, filling everything, snatching the oxygen from him; he could find no refuge, nowhere to take a breath. He had to dive back down. Back down deep into the pool, with no air in his lungs and the water smothering him. Up again, still snow and no air. He jerked upright, felt for a moment that he was unable to breathe in bed, could see nothing out of the snow-caked window. And, at last, a little oxygen. His heartbeat slowed and he breathed steadily as the increasingly familiar nightmare faded away.
It had snowed heavily in the night. Ari Thór had overslept and it was already half-past nine. He skipped breakfast and hurried to the station.
Tómas and Hlynur were there before him.
‘Just as well the Reverend shows up at last,’ Hlynur said with a smile. ‘Tómas has been here all night, looking after our guest.’
Tómas was clearly in no mood for joking, even though the joke had been at the new boy’s expense. His tone was serious: ‘We’re going to have to release him. He’s not going to do her any harm now that she’s been taken to Reykjavík. The flight finally went last night. No change to her condition. The whole thing is inexplicable. There’s every indication that he had subjected her to violence and threats, but he has witnesses who confirm that he simply could not have assaulted her unless he was in two places at once.’ Tómas leaned dangerously far back in his chair. ‘We’ll have to release him,’ he repeated and it was clear that this was far from being to his liking. ‘I asked him to stay in town, otherwise I’d be looking for custody. He agreed to stay, but if Linda’s condition worsens he said he’d want to go south. Truth is, he’d struggle to get to Reykjavík at the moment. The roads are terrible, practically impassable.’ Tómas paused and mopped his head, his frustration evident, before continuing. ‘I went to see the lad this morning, the little boy who found Linda. Nothing new there. I’ve seen better witnesses. He’s just a little boy, after all.’
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