‘Shouldn’t we be on our way?’ Hlynur asked.
Tómas stood up and turned to face Ari Thór. ‘I’m going with Hlynur to check the flat. We need to take another look around. I think we also need to consider the possibility that Hrólfur’s death wasn’t accidental, open up a formal investigation but keep it low-profile – can you start working on that?’
Hlynur grinned and preened a little, obviously happy to be working on the more prestigious case.
Being asked to play in the sandbox while the adults deal with the real case, Ari Thór thought to himself. Although he still believed that Hrólfur’s death might not have been accidental, there was no denying that Linda’s case was more important at the moment.
‘No problem.’
Tómas placed a hand on Ari Thór’s shoulder.
Hell. His shoulder wasn’t getting any better.
Tómas accompanied him to the door and spoke in a low tone so that Hlynur would not overhear. ‘That call … on Christmas Eve, we did the right thing, don’t you think? We agreed, didn’t we?’
Ari Thór clearly recalled just how unnerving that call had been, the whispered voice … When he called back, the person, who he now believed to be Linda, had said that there was nothing to worry about. But, all the same …
‘Yes, of course.’
Really?
‘There was nothing we could do,’ Ari Thór added. And what could they have done? The number had been unregistered, and there was no way of finding out who the caller might have been.
There was nothing we could do.
When Tómas and Hlynur had gone, Ari Thór took the opportunity to check the webcam showing the Town Hall Square, watching someone walking across the snow-filled square towards the Town Hall, in real time. It was difficult to identify who it might be on the little computer screen so it wasn’t likely that the webcam would be much help to them, even if there were any recordings from Friday evening. He found the number of the webcam’s owner.
‘Sorry to bother you, my name is Ari Thór, I’m calling from the police.’ He tried to be formal and courteous.
‘Yes, the new guy, right?’ The owner of the webcam was a local man whom Ari Thór had heard of yet never met.
‘I was wondering, your webcam …?’
‘Yes, what about it?’ the guy replied rather grumpily.
‘Is it possible to get access to past recordings?’
‘From my webcam?’ The guy laughed heartily. ‘Do you think I run some sort of surveillance operation? Nothing is recorded, it’s just a live feed from the square. Why do you ask? Is it about Linda, the attack?’
‘Sorry, can’t really comment. Thanks for the help.’
A frustrating dead end. He would really have liked to show Tómas some progress. If only he could call Ugla and get more background information on the theatre group. But that was hardly possible at this point. Since the kiss he had heard nothing from her. That was no surprise considering how quickly he hurried off that night, almost as if he had been bitten rather than kissed. The next piano lesson was on Sunday. Should he turn up as if nothing had happened? How should this relationship be allowed to develop? Kristín was in Reykjavík and he mustn’t forget that or let the distance blur his thinking. It was almost a week since he had spoken to her. He always assumed that she would call, that she wasn’t as busy as he was. And now, after that kiss, how could he speak to her? He had crossed a line, inadvertently perhaps. The kiss wasn’t just a kiss out of the blue, he knew that he had been flirting with Ugla, that he had kept his relationship with Kristín hidden from her. And, worst of all, he thought he might be developing feelings for Ugla … No, he wasn’t prepared to call either Ugla or Kristín at this moment.
He would have to start by approaching other members of the Dramatic Society, starting with the playwright, Pálmi.
Pálmi lived in a smart detached house off Hvanneyrarbraut that was probably too big for a single man and too small for a family. He was smartly turned out, in a checked shirt and grey flannel trousers. He seemed surprised to see Ari Thór.
‘Good morning, Pálmi. Mind if I come in?’
‘What? Yes, but why? I have visitors. Can’t it wait?’
Ari Thór avoided the question and nodded towards the interior of the house. He had been given an assignment and intended to carry it out conscientiously.
‘This won’t take long,’ he said with one foot inside the door and a smile on his face. ‘We’re speaking to everyone who was at the rehearsal on Friday evening.’
Pálmi appeared to be taken by surprise. ‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘Nothing serious. Just some loose ends that need to be tied up so we can close the case.’
A little white lie there.
‘Come inside, then.’
‘I’m sorry for intruding.’ Ari Thór looked around. ‘You have guests, you said?’
‘Yes. They’re staying in the flat in the basement.’
‘I see. Out-of-towners?’ Ari Thór asked, speaking as if he wasn’t a newcomer himself, but not sure he sounded convincing.
‘Yes …’ Pálmi said uncertainly, as if wondering how much information to share with the young police officer. ‘An old friend of my father’s, from Denmark. She’s visiting with her son. A pilgrimage to Iceland.’
‘Your father lived in Denmark?’
A little chat didn’t do any harm and it had worked with Leifur. Pálmi appeared ill at ease and it was probably best to tread carefully if he was going to get him to reveal any secrets regarding Hrólfur and that fateful night.
Pálmi looked visibly more relaxed. ‘That’s right. He moved there when I was very small. I don’t remember him.’
They were now seated in the living room, Pálmi on the sofa and Ari Thór in a matching armchair, both upholstered in eighties-style shiny brown leather and remarkably underused, given their age. In fact, the whole room looked like an advertisement from an old furniture catalogue with little that bore witness to the owner’s own taste, other than the paintings on the walls. On the walls of Ari Thór’s flat, which he shared with Kristín on Öldugata, and which now seemed so far away, there was just one painting. Inherited from his grandmother, it was a magnificent original by the Icelandic master, Kjarval. He recognised the artist’s brushwork in four of the canvases on Pálmi’s walls.
‘That’s a fine art collection.’
‘Thank you. It’s hardly a collection, just a few works.’
‘Good all the same. I have a Kjarval myself. Are these heirlooms?’
‘No, I collected them myself. I put my savings into the house and art over the years. I’m not one for trusting banks.’
‘Quite right, considering what’s been happening.’
‘Well, there’s that, of course, but I’ve never trusted them – something inspired by my mother. She was the type who preferred to keep her savings under the bed, although she died without much to show for it. Maybe that’s not the ideal way to hang on to your pennies.’ He smiled and the atmosphere lightened.
‘I wanted to talk to you about Hrólfur. You knew him well, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, pretty well. But he tended to keep people at arm’s length.’
Ari Thór decided to go straight to the heart of the matter. ‘Do you know of anyone who might have had a reason to, well, push him down the stairs?’
Pálmi looked up, clearly surprised by the question.
‘What? You don’t think that someone might have pushed him?’
‘Actually, no. But it’s a little too coincidental that Linda should be assaulted only a few days afterwards. It’s given us reason to look more closely into the fatal incident at the Dramatic Society. I understand that he and Úlfur were at loggerheads?’
‘No, I wouldn’t go that far, but they weren’t always in agreement,’ said Pálmi, biting his lip. ‘There’s an artistic temperament there, but they normally parted on good terms.’
‘Were you up in the balcony that evening?’
‘I
went up there a couple of times. Most of the time I was watching from the auditorium.’
‘And you came home in the dinner break?’
‘Yes. I needed to make some changes to the script, so I came straight here.’
‘Did anyone see you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is there anyone who could confirm that?’
‘Well, no.’
‘How about your visitors?’
‘No, as I said they’re using the basement flat. I didn’t see them during the dinner break.’
‘Did you and Hrólfur meet often?’
‘Not often. But occasionally he would invite Úlfur and me for coffee, or a glass of red wine. He kept a magnificent wine cellar.’
‘Expensive?’ Ari Thór felt like he was clutching at straws, looking for a motive – but it was better to leave no stone unturned.
‘Quite.’
‘Do you have any idea what will happen to that wine now?’
‘The wine?’
‘Who inherits it?’
‘I have no idea. To tell the truth, I don’t know any of his relatives, or even if he had any living.’
‘Had he made a will?”
‘Not that he ever mentioned to me,’ Pálmi said, with apparent sincerity.
‘Who did he speak to or see regularly in the town, apart from you and Úlfur?’
Pálmi paused, lost for a moment in his thoughts. ‘Hmm. He used to visit an old lady called Sandra every week.’
Sandra. Ari Thór recalled that Ugla had also mentioned her, suggested that he visit her.
‘She’s been in the old people’s home these last few years. She’s not as strong as she used to be, although she’s as sharp as a knife. I think she must be ninety-five, bless her,’ Pálmi paused for a moment. ‘Then there’s the girl.’
‘Girl?’
‘Yes. Ugla.’
Ari Thór felt his pulse quicken. He tried not to catch Pálmi’s eye, fearing that he might give himself away.
‘Ugla. Yes, of course.’ He knew he would have to pursue this line of questioning to counter any suspicions that he knew Ugla better than might be thought appropriate. ‘Did they meet often?’
‘So I gather. She rented his basement but she continued to visit him after she moved out. Now she lives …’ Pálmi thought. ‘Yes, on Nordurgata, I think.’
‘That’s right,’ Ari Thór said without thinking.
Damn.
Pálmi didn’t seem to have noticed his slip, and it was obvious that he wanted to get rid of Ari Thór as quickly as possible.
There was a faint knock on the door and a very old lady appeared, accompanied by a tall man with a full beard, in his sixties, Ari Thór guessed.
These had to be the guests from Denmark. Pálmi switched to Danish to introduce them. ‘Rosa and her son Mads. Ari Thór is from the police.’
Ari Thór stood up to shake their hands and spoke in English, not daring to try his Danish. He had taken Danish at school for many years, but had a hard time speaking it, although he could read it with little effort. The old lady spoke for both of them and her English was excellent although heavily accented. Mads stood behind her in silence.
‘What has Pálmi done?’ she asked curiously and looked deep into Ari Thór’s eyes with a warm smile.
Ari Thór smiled. ‘Nothing. Not a thing. We’re investigating the death of the author Hrólfur Kristjánsson. He lost his life in an accident at the Dramatic Society’s rehearsal.’
‘I had heard that. Pálmi told us. We had intended to go to the theatre at the weekend,’ she said. ‘I met Hrólfur in Copenhagen many years ago. They were friends, Hrólfur and your father, weren’t they?’ she asked, looking at Pálmi.
‘Acquaintances,’ Pálmi replied. ‘They were in Denmark at much the same time.’
This time the old lady’s words were directed at Ari Thór.
‘He was a handsome young man, that Hrólfur, if I recall correctly. He spent a lot of time with Páll, Pálmi’s father, when he was on his deathbed. I don’t think Páll knew many people in Denmark and it can be lonely on your own in a strange country.’ She looked at Pálmi. ‘I hope I was able to make your father’s life easier in the months we had together.’ She smiled. ‘I met Hrólfur at the hospital. I hadn’t seen Páll for a few months as I’d had to go to the country to work with my family. I hurried back when I heard that he had been taken ill, and by the time I made it there he was pretty far gone. I didn’t even have the heart to say goodbye. It would have been too difficult for both of us.’ A tear ran down one wrinkled cheek.
‘Are you treating this as … as a murder investigation?’ Pálmi asked, switching to Icelandic.
‘We are.’ Ari Thór was there on Tómas’s authority, in the pursuit of his duties, so it seemed the most straightforward answer.
Pálmi stood in thought, seemingly unsure of whether or not he should add anything. Then, with fleeting look of guilt in his eyes, as if he were about to reveal some terrible secret, he said, ‘There’s maybe one more thing you ought to know.’ He paused and the silence was heavy with expectation, which even Rosa seemed to sense, in spite of the language barrier.
Mads stood still, an uninterested look on his face, as he inspected one of the Kjarval paintings.
‘I heard it said that Hrólfur had a child, out of wedlock, of course. He never married, but there was a child born after he returned from Denmark, maybe during the war or possibly later. That’s something to look into.’
28
SIGLUFJÖRDUR. FRIDAY, 16TH JANUARY 2009
‘Sweet Brother Jesus’ echoed through the common room, where those senior citizens at the old people’s home who were in robust enough health had come together for the morning gathering. Some joined in wholeheartedly, while others appeared more inclined to take it easy and watch. Ari Thór recognised the young woman who led the singing, remembering her from the theology faculty at the university in Reykjavík; he knew the face but didn’t know her to speak to. So they had both moved north to Siglufjördur? She was presumably in training for the priesthood while he had given up.
The previous day had been quiet. The knife from Karl and Linda’s flat had been sent south for examination. Ari Thór was still in the process of digging for information that could shed some light on Hrólfur’s death, and had stunned Tómas with the news that Hrólfur might have had a child.
Ari Thór stood in the doorway and watched the singing. The nurse he had spoken to had said there was no reason he couldn’t speak to Sandra, but asked him to avoid interrupting the morning gathering. She pointed out an old woman in a wheelchair with a crocheted blanket over her knees, singing with feeling.
Ari Thór hadn’t enrolled in theology because of his strong faith or beliefs, the exact opposite really – maybe more to try to regain his faith, or simply to find a purpose in life. He felt a need to find answers to questions which philosophy – the subject he had previously given up on – could not supply. Or maybe he had simply tried to pick a path as different as possible to his late father’s, who had been an accountant. Plato or God – anything but Mammon. When it became apparent that theology wasn’t providing him with any real answers, Ari Thór had still persevered, stubbornly trying to convince himself that he could finish his studies without any faith at all.
Ari Thór could pinpoint the time that he lost any faith he might have had – it was at the age of thirteen, on the day his father disappeared, and was confirmed later that same year, when he was told of his mother’s death in a road accident.
His theology studies had done nothing to move him closer to the Almighty. The academic debates, the often-bloody history of the church and of religion in general had all helped to reinforce his belief that nobody was watching over him or looking out for him. As he had for much of his life, Ari Thór felt very much alone.
The singing continued, this time a tune that was familiar from Sunday school many years ago. Would it be his fate to be forced to sing hymns again when he
was shipped off to a home in his old age? Would he have to sing hymns without a shred of belief in the words?
Ari Thór’s former fellow student led a short prayer and announced in ringing tones that coffee was ready for those who wanted it.
Sandra had a cup in her hand as Ari Thór introduced himself in a clear, loud voice.
‘Don’t talk so loudly, dear boy. I can hear perfectly well. It’s my feet that are the problem,’ she said and smiled at him. She had a finely chiselled face and a soft voice, speaking clearly and gently. She sipped her coffee delicately.
Ari Thór looked around for a spare chair.
‘We don’t have to sit here, you know. I have a room of my own along the corridor. Can you push?’
He steered the wheelchair slowly.
‘How old are you, dear boy?’
‘Twenty-five,’ he said, adding, ‘later this year.’ It felt wrong to tell the old lady a lie, even if it was just a white one.
Her room was furnished with a drab bed, old chest of drawers and a stool. A few pictures stood on the top of the chest of drawers, some in colour, others faded and old.
‘My late husband,’ she said pointing to a black-and-white photograph. ‘Children and grandchildren in the other pictures. I’ve been very lucky over the years,’ she gave him a thin, understanding smile.
Ari Thór perched on the stool by the bed. ‘Should I ask someone to help you onto the bed?’
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