‘Good grief, no. I’ll sit here as long as I can with my handsome young visitor.’
Ari Thór gave her a polite smile, anxious to get down to business.
‘How are the roads?’ she asked. ‘You didn’t have any trouble walking up here?’
‘I drove here,’ Ari Thór said. ‘In the police jeep.’
‘Tell me something,’ she said, looking straight into his eyes with a serious expression on her face. ‘Why does everyone in the town now have to have a big jeep? I don’t understand it. In the old days people didn’t have these huge cars. Hardly anyone even had a car, and we managed well enough.’
‘Hmm. I suppose people want to be able to leave town, even if there’s snow on the roads.’
‘What for?’
’What do you mean?’
‘What do they need to leave town for?’
He had no suitable reply to this question.
‘You’ve come to ask me about Hrólfur?’ she asked eventually.
Ari Thór nodded.
‘I thought as much, dear boy. The poor old fellow. He didn’t have many friends. Maybe I was his closest friend, these last few years.’
‘Did he visit you often?’
‘Every week at the same time. He lived not far from here – on Hólavegur, a decent walk for him.’
‘What sort of a man was he?’
‘Why do you ask?’ She looked at him with suspicion dawning in her eyes. ‘It was definitely an accident, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s what we’re investigating. I don’t expect it to have been anything other than an accident, but we have to make sure.’
‘Hadn’t he … well … had the old fellow had a drink?’
She had guessed shrewdly. Ari Thór decided there was no point hiding it from her. ‘Yes, he appears to have drunk a small amount.’
‘A small amount. Yes, well … Hrólfur was a complex man, I can tell you, and I could never fully understand him. I remember him from the old days, before he left Siglufjördur. Then he became this world-famous author and that went to his head. There was so much ambition there, a determination to stand out from the crowd and see the world, and that’s just what he did. He travelled a lot after his book had been published.’ Her tired eyes closed as she rested for a moment. ‘Then he came home again. People always return home, don’t they? By then he was better known here than in the south. Have you read the book?’
‘Actually, no. I have a copy that has been lent to me.’
‘Then read it. You won’t regret it,’ she said. ‘Anyway, you’re not a local boy, so what did you move up here for? There’s no herring anymore.’
‘I was offered a job here.’
‘Talking to old women in rest homes about dead authors … is that exciting? You should have been here when there was herring. Those were the days, I can tell you. I started work in the herring when I was thirteen; salting herring was what I did. My children started even younger – the youngest was eight when she started salting. That wouldn’t be allowed today, would it? It was like an adventure when the herring came, and it was a nightmare when it didn’t.’
There was a faraway look on her face and her gaze was no longer on Ari Thór but on the past; it was as if the old Herring Waltz had started playing in the background.
‘I was twenty minutes salting a barrel of herring when I was at my fastest, just twenty minutes. There were plenty of people who were envious of that. I was worth something back then.’ She smiled. ‘You should have seen the boats as they were coming in, loaded to the gunwales, so full of herring that they were only just afloat. That was a wonderful sight. Have you been up to the mountain, Hvanneyrarskál?’
Ari Thór shook his head, relieved that she fixed her eyes on him again, after being lost in memories of the herring boom all those years ago.
‘I’ve heard the songs about it,’ he said sheepishly, regretting not having found the time to go there himself.
‘Go up there in the summer. Plenty of romantic adventures started up there.’
He nodded dutifully. ‘Tell me, about Hrólfur …’
‘Of course. I’m sorry, my boy. I forgot myself completely there.’
‘That’s all right,’ he smiled. ‘Tell me if there’s any reason you can think of that someone could have wanted to push Hrólfur down the stairs? Did anyone hold a grudge against him?’
‘Yes and no. I can’t imagine that anyone wanted to do him harm, although there were plenty of people he didn’t get on with. There was an arrogance about him and he could be awkward when he had been drinking, he wanted everything to be done his way. I can well imagine that he was pretty overbearing as the chairman of the Dramatic Society,’ she said, and hesitated. ‘Please excuse me for speaking ill of the dead. But I do want to help, if it’s the case that someone may have pushed him.’
‘Understood,’ Ari Thór said, falling quiet again to give her an opportunity to continue.
‘Actually … there’s one thing that could be important. He mentioned to me before Christmas that he was on the track of some secret. I think that’s how he worded it – “some secret”. Some members of the Dramatic Society were keeping something from him. He grinned when he told me and it sounded like he was delighted that he had unearthed this secret. He had eyes like a hawk, the old boy.’
‘A secret?’
‘That’s it, a secret,’ she said, her voice dropping almost to a whisper.
‘Do you have any idea of what this secret was?’
‘Not exactly. But I gathered from him that it was … that it could be something …’ she said, winking. ‘If you get my meaning.’
‘Something romantic? Adulterous?’
‘That’s the impression I got, or something along those lines.’
Ari Thór made rapid notes. There might be something in what the old lady had to say.
‘Do you know if he made a will?’
‘It’s not something he ever mentioned to me. But he should have made one. I don’t know that he has any close living relatives, just distant cousins, but I do know that he will have left quite a number of worldly goods behind. Not like me – all I have left is this old chest,’ she laughed, and gestured towards an old wooden casket, the wood discoloured and polished smooth with use, probably dating back to a period before Sandra had even been born.
‘It’s my understanding that there might be a child.’
‘A child?’ she squinted as she peered at him in amazement.
‘Yes, it’s been suggested that Hrólfur fathered a child after the war.’
‘Good heavens, that’s a story I’ve never heard. Where did you get that from?’
‘From Pálmi, Pálmi Pálsson.’
‘I know him, of course. He and Hrólfur were good friends, so maybe it’s something they talked about. I have to say it’s a revelation to me. But that’s life, it keeps taking you by surprise. The poor old fellow.’
‘Hrólfur?’
‘No. Pálmi. He lost his father so young, a real tragedy. His father was a special character, very artistic, and struggled to put down any roots. He left his wife and young son to go to Copenhagen, but then he caught tuberculosis and died. I have a suspicion that he got to knew a few ladies before he met his end. He wasn’t the type not to stray.’ Again, Sandra winked suggestively.
‘An old friend of his from Denmark is staying with Pálmi at the moment.’
‘You don’t say?’ Sandra said. ‘Pálmi has done well enough for himself, the dear boy. His mother died far too young, only sixty-five or sixty-six; a stroke,’ she said and asked suddenly, ‘You eat herring?’
‘Well … no.’
‘Those were good years,’ she said, and the distant look was back. ‘And in the old days people certainly knew how to cook it.’
She smiled as her eyes focused somewhere in the past, and Ari Thór waited patiently.
‘Those were good years,’ she repeated. ‘I always have this, just in case,’ she said, and reached for a book from the chest of drawers. It
was an old notebook, creased and much used. ‘We didn’t buy recipe books in the old days. There were no pennies to waste then. This is where I wrote down my recipes.’ She handled the book as if it were precious, and opened it at the middle. ‘See, my boy? These are herring recipes. Food fit for a king.’
Ari Thór peered with difficulty at the small, careful handwriting.
‘Tell me. What happened to Linda? How is she?’ Sandra asked, as she laid the book in her lap.
‘Did you …?’ He stumbled and started again. ‘Do you know her?’
‘I know who she is. She works at the hospital. A lovely girl, but I can tell you there’s always some kind of sadness in her eyes.’
‘She’s in intensive care in Reykjavík. She’s still unconscious.’
‘I heard you arrested Karl.’
‘No, that’s not right. We needed to speak to him as he was the one who found Linda after the assault.’
‘He’s innocent. I’m sure of that.’
‘Really?’
‘Such a sweet boy.’
‘You know him well?’
‘I knew him well in the old days, before his parents decided to move to Denmark. I often used to meet him in the Co-op when I was working there. He came across so well, and I have no doubt he still does. He was working for Pálmi’s mother then, helping her with housework for pocket money. He did anything, whatever she needed doing – went shopping for her, fixed things around the house, even turned himself into a rat catcher when needed; whatever. A lovely boy.’
We’ll see about that.
Ari Thór just smiled, keeping quiet about a terrified Linda having called the police on Christmas Eve; keeping quiet about the rows and the bruises.
‘Did Hrólfur have any other friends? Close friends, I mean?’
‘He always spoke highly of Úlfur and said he enjoyed a good argument with him, said there was some real character there. But he also said that Úlfur ought to stick to directing and tear up that play of his.’
‘Play?’
‘Yes, play. He supposedly wrote a play,’ she said with a smile, and then a yawn. ‘Well, my boy. I’m starting to get tired.’ She sipped her coffee, which had to be cold by now. ‘That’ll do for now, won’t it? Come back and see me again another time.’
Ari Thor looked over at the elderly woman, her eyes starting to close as her head tipped back in her seat. His heart was beating quickly. There was certainly more to the Hrólfur story than met the eye.
29
SIGLUFJÖRDUR. SATURDAY, 17TH JANUARY 2009
Saturday was another day of relentless snow. It formed icy crags in gardens and the knee-high drifts in the town made it almost impossible to navigate the streets without wading.
Ari Thór felt that the snow had given the town a cosy feel in the weeks leading up to Christmas, almost a holiday atmosphere, while in Reykjavík December was normally a month of rain. But now this endless snow was becoming oppressive. Granted, it did lighten up the darkest period of the year in this northerly fjord, but it made everything difficult. Even the police 4×4 sometimes struggled in the streets, and walking around would guarantee wet shoes, wet socks and wet trousers.
Ari Thór stood outside Siglufjördur’s imposing church with Tómas and Hlynur, who were both on duty that weekend. At the station they had talked over his interview with Sandra, with plenty of speculation over what Hrólfur’s secret might be, but no conclusions. Ari Thór was not in uniform, but wore a suit as a mark of respect for Hrólfur, a man he had never met. Sandra had hit the nail on the head when she described him as a complex man. He had reached respectable heights in his own career, but refused to fade away when his fame dwindled. He had friends and acquaintances, as well as those who envied him. He had been an awkward customer when the mood took him, but could be a kindly and amiable personality on other occasions. His relationship with Ugla was case in point.
Ugla.
Ari Thór thought of the book he had borrowed. He would have to take a look at it soon; it might give him a little insight into the dead author’s thoughts.
They sat on an empty pew in the centre of the church. Once inside, the church seemed small compared to its towering height. It was a peaceful place with its stained glass windows, a shelter from the snow. Ari Thór had bumped into Ugla outside; they had exchanged glances but no words. Since the kiss they had not spoken, and it continued to worry him.
He had slept badly, struggling to nod off. Now he was careful always to lock the outside door. Nobody had admitted to the breakin and Tómas had pushed it to one side while they were concentrating all their efforts on Linda and Karl. But Ari Thór always felt a twinge of trepidation as he closed his eyes; the horror of waking up to find someone in his house meant that he felt far from safe there. The nightmares, the panic attacks that he had been experiencing before the intruder had visited, became darker and longer. At work he felt the effects of the lack of sleep, but still gave it everything he had. On top of it all, he was worried that his relationship with Kristín seemed to be gradually fading away. Although they had been together a relatively short time, he had been sure she was the one, and in a way he still felt the same, but his attraction to Ugla was confusing.
The church was gradually filling with people, many of them now familiar faces. Úlfur and Pálmi both sat on the front pew with the other pallbearers. Leifur was near the front, clearly alone and his mind on other things, as if he were wishing he could be somewhere else; working, maybe, anywhere but at a funeral.
Karl sat two rows in front of Ari Thór, next to Anna. Ari Thór wondered if he should try and speak to her at the reception after the funeral; he intended to speak to everyone who had been at the rehearsal, but it was taking longer than anticipated to fit it all in.
Jealous. That was how Ugla had described Anna, jealous at having missed out on the lead role. Ari Thór reminded himself that he was apt to treat everything Ugla said as completely truthful, and wondered if he ought to doubt some of what she had to say, or simply be thankful that he had access to an insider at the Dramatic Society – someone whose word he felt he could trust.
The church was practically full when the service began. It was possible that not everyone present had known the author personally, but his unexpected death had gone some way to breathing new life into his reputation, a reminder of his past fame. Everyone who was anyone was among the congregation. Ari Thór had heard that two former government ministers had meant to attend to pay Hrólfur their respects, but they had not made it. Travel was still treacherous, and the road into Siglufjördur was nearly impassable, with a blizzard raging on the high ground above the town.
The funeral service was formal – Icelandic folk songs blending with classics, while there was a reading from Verses for Linda. The magnificent altarpiece by Gunnlaugur Blöndal, of Jesus appearing to sailors in peril on treacherous waters, made a poignant backdrop, a reminder of Siglufjördur’s losses over the years and the proximity of the merciless sea. The requiem was dramatic, but Ari Thór was not able to see any evidence of tears. Hrólfur may have been respected by many, he thought, but missed by few. The question was, had he been really hated by anyone?
Life hadn’t been easy for Nína Arnardóttir. For reasons she could never understand, she had never managed to march in time with her contemporaries, or perhaps they had been out of tune with her. Now she had more or less missed the bus, the years had swept past her, leaving her alone in this dark little flat. She often wondered why she had never pushed herself forward and taken life by the scruff of the neck – built relationships, had a family, lived like other people lived, surrounded by others. She had fallen in love once, only once, and it was a pure love. The man, who was older than she was, had rejected her, had very kindly, warmly, said that it wasn’t meant to be, but that he still felt affection towards her. She had really only loved him more after that, but never acted on it again – and she never really opened up her heart again, either; never gave herself the chance to fall in love for the
second time. And now she just spent her days at home in the dark and read by the light of the lamp or watched the television. The years had passed in a tedium of routine existence, and suddenly she was sixty.
At the moment she was without a proper job, living in social housing and relying on benefits for her entire income, while doing voluntary work for the Dramatic Society. That was easy and convenient, simple enough to look after the ticket sales and the occasional odd job. Being part of a crowd wasn’t something she had ever been comfortable with, but she was prepared to put up with the people for the chance to be part of the Dramatic Society.
Nína was robustly built, stout and big-boned. She was well aware that advancing age hadn’t robbed her of her strength. In her youth her physique had made her the butt of numerous jokes at school. But in spite of her physical strength, she had never fought back when her step-father raised a hand to her, never daring to do anything other than cover her head and take the blows as they came. It was worse when he stopped beating her; that was when she began to feel real fear. Sometimes he’d leave, or lie on the sofa and pass out in a drunken stupor. Sometimes he would be quieter, and instead of the rain of blows there would be groping hands. Then she would close her eyes and disappear into her own darkness. Those were the years when she had always felt best in the dark, under the bed or in the wardrobe, where she could be in peace. That was where she went when she heard him, learning to recognise the smell of booze and the clink of bottle and glass. She developed an instinct, knowing within seconds when she needed to flee, hide herself away. She knew that the other children at school played hide-and-seek, but never for the same high stakes. When she had grown up she could never understand why nobody had ever come to her aid. Why had her mother, a victim herself, ignored the violence that took place? Nína had once tried to complain about him, but her mother had looked the other way and said it was bad to tell lies about people. After that she never again broached the subject.
It puzzled her still that the teachers never said anything when she turned up at school up with bruises. Did they really believe she had just ‘fallen over’ yet again? Why did nobody lend a hand or even notice when she stopped wanting to speak to any of the other pupils, withdrawing deeper into her dark, lonely little world?
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