Before she realised what was happening, she had agreed to have dinner with him after her shift the following evening. He had complained amiably that he had no friends in Akureyri, and was getting tired of eating alone. Agreeing to meet him for dinner after their shifts meant that she had left the next move to him. It was just a meal, she told herself. That was as far as it would go.
But she wasn’t going to mention this dinner date to Ari Thór. Just in case he got the wrong idea.
She felt a fluttering of excitement. Always in control, she was quick to push to one side the minor nagging of her conscience. She recalled bitterly that Ari Thór had once had a fling with that girl in Siglufjördur, so he couldn’t possibly complain if she were to share an innocent meal with a colleague, although she knew inside that wasn’t the case and that his frustration at being deceived, even just the perception that he had been deceived, was enough to arouse a depth of anger that she had no wish to see.
Alcohol is rarely the trigger to violence. That in itself is disturbing. Dad occasionally has a glass of red wine with a meal, sometimes a whisky in the evening if he’s not on duty. But the heaviest blows are when he’s stone-cold sober. That’s when the anger bursts forth with added force. Alcohol numbs and soothes. Sometimes I wish, and it’s not a good thing to wish for, that he was an alcoholic. Then life would be easier and better.
I had thought of drinking, but I don’t think it solves anything. I have not wanted to run away, not until I sank into the depths and ended up here in the psychiatric ward. It happened so fast and was so unexpected, and I hope I can make a recovery just as quickly.
What is most painful, if I’m entirely honest, is not being able to have a sincere, warm relationship with my own parents. Dad is so distant. It is as if a gulf has opened up between us, and it is a gulf that becomes wider every time he uses his fists. My mother shows no reaction. She becomes distant in her own way, secreted away inside her shell. She’s given up, and we cannot have that.
31
When the doctor had examined Elín and set her broken wrist in plaster the two police officers were finally able to take her statement. She had been fortunate; there was no need for surgery. Although the hospital had wanted her to stay in overnight for observation, Elín had been adamant that she was fit to leave despite being aware that she ought to have done as the doctor advised.
On top of everything else, she had cracked several ribs, however, these would not require further treatment. The damage to her shoulder was not as serious as she had expected, but every part of her body ached, and she had been given some powerful painkillers to take with her. She was finding it difficult to grasp the fact that Valberg was dead, but she had an overwhelming, instinctive feeling that she was now safe.
She was deeply worried that the matter would be pursued further, that she would be prosecuted for killing a man. The police officers advised her to get a lawyer, but she wasn’t going to do that, not right away. She was the victim here – that much had to be obvious – and she could see that both police officers agreed with that. They believed her, and throughout their interview she had stuck to the truth – mainly the truth, that is. They were courteous and calm; there were no evident attempts to set any traps, and her injuries told their own tale. That vicious man was dead and she sensed that there was a tacit agreement between her and the two police officers to leave matters there.
It had occurred to her that they might take her into custody, given the severity of the crime, but it wasn’t mentioned. Ari Thór suggested that she should spend the night in hospital, which she refused outright. In spite of everything, she could look after herself, with the help of some decent painkillers. There was, however, no way she could return to her home, which was now an official crime scene. Her next best option was to call on Gunnar.
He was the man she loved, but who had let her down just when she needed him the most. Why hadn’t he come that evening? Now she would take him by surprise, stay overnight and tell him the whole sorry story and see him eaten up with remorse that he hadn’t been there to save her, and maybe save a man’s life.
‘Elín?’ Gunnar said, his jaw dropping in disbelief as he took in the battered figure on the doorstep. ‘What? What happened?’
He looked past her to the police squad car in the street behind her. The car drove away as he closed the door behind her.
‘Valberg,’ She said. ‘Valberg is dead. He was waiting when I got home.’
He sat in shock as she told him what had happened, but he kept himself at a distance.
‘You take the bedroom,’ he offered. ‘I’ll sleep down here.’
Elín shook her head.
‘It’s all right. I can sleep here. Not that I expect I’ll get to sleep easily.’
‘Come on. You’re hurt, and you’re not going to be coming in to work for a while. Take the bedroom. I won’t wake you up when I leave in the morning.’
‘If you insist,’ she sighed, too exhausted to argue.
She wasn’t going to sleep right away. She couldn’t bear the thought of lying down and closing her eyes after everything that had happened, in spite of the fact that she was completely exhausted.
Gunnar sat with her in the living room and they spoke openly, like good friends do. No more than that.
It was just a matter of time, she felt, before they would take the next step.
32
After driving Elín to Gunnar’s house, Ari Thór arrived at home just before eleven to find Kristín already asleep. He was almost relieved, as the tension that had been gathering between them had become an unwelcome encumbrance, and he already had enough to worry about.
The ringing of his phone broke the silence. He didn’t recognise the number, but the voice that greeted him – hoarse with decades of tobacco smoke – was both familiar and unsettling.
‘Ari Thór, my friend…’
‘Who’s that?’ he asked, although he already knew the answer.
‘This is Addi.’
‘What do you want?’ Ari Thór demanded, not even attempting to be courteous.
‘Just wondering if you’d meet me for a chat?’
‘Meet you? When? What for?’
‘Well, tonight would be good. I might have some information for you.’
‘Tonight? Do you know what the time is? Can’t you just tell me over the phone?’ Ari Thór could not keep the impatience out of his voice.
‘Take it easy, my boy. This is just business, you get me?’
‘What?’
After a long day, Ari Thór felt the weight of fatigue dragging him down, but he was still curious. He had little trust in this man, but there was a chance that he might have something interesting to say, something that would contribute to the investigation. Addi would have to be made be aware that Ari Thór was not intimidated by him, that any meeting would be on the young police officer’s terms. Ari Thór wasn’t going to be scared of a man who wouldn’t see sixty again.
‘You’re at home, are you? I’ll come to your place.’ Ari Thór said.
There was no way that he would invite Addi into his family home; the mere thought of it was repellent, and he made that clear.
‘Fine. I’m at home, as usual. I’ll be waiting for you.’
‘OK.’
‘And, just one thing…’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t bring Tómas with you.’
Alarm bells rang in Ari Thór’s head. While it hadn’t been his intention even to alert Tómas to this meeting, he wondered why Addi had wanted to set such a condition.
‘Why not?’
‘It’s you I want a chat with, Ari Thór, not my cousin. Deal?’
‘On my way,’ Ari Thór said abruptly, ending the call.
Ari Thór was sure he could smell the stench of stale cigarette smoke before Addi had even opened the door.
‘Come in,’ Addi said. He wore the same tattered sweater he’d had on when they had met before and there was an air of quiet triumph about him.
Ari Thór followed him into the living room, already starting to regret his decision. The filthy old furniture made him feel that he had fallen into a time warp and been trapped in this old house where it felt that nothing had been changed or even cleaned for years as the layers of dust had built up on the old-fashioned furniture left over from a past generation.
‘Sit yourself down.’
Addi sat in the same place he had when Ari Thór and Tómas last visited, in the old, wine-red armchair.
‘I can’t stop long,’ Ari Thór said, remaining on his feet. ‘What do you have to tell me?’
‘Quite right. The family’s waiting. Kristín and Stefnir.’
‘Keep them out of this, will you?’ Ari Thór snapped, his anger and discomfort getting the better of him.
‘Easy, take it easy. You arrested Elín Reyndal just now, didn’t you?’
‘You seem to know more than most people do, Addi. I’m sure you can fill in the gaps for yourself.’
‘Word gets around fast in a place like this, especially when you know someone who works at the hospital … The word is she killed a man, some bastard scum who had been beating her up. Good for her, I say. Good for her!’ Addi said, and grinned broadly.
‘You asked me here to swap gossip?’ Ari Thór was becoming impatient, even as the hairs raised on the back of his neck.
‘I didn’t want to say so over the phone, but I reckon you and I can come to an arrangement.’
‘An arrangement? What sort of a deal do you think I could make with you? Or would make?’
‘I have some info and you can do me a favour in return.’ Addi coughed and the broad smile reappeared. ‘The main thing is that I’d like to help you find out who killed Herjólfur. People shouldn’t shoot cops. This is dangerous ground for all of us…’
‘So what do you know?’
‘Let’s talk about a deal first.’
‘I’m not doing any kind of a deal.’
‘Easy, easy. This just needs to be a gentlemen’s agreement.’ Addi reached over to Ari Thór and extended a hand. ‘Get my drift?’
Ari Thór ignored the hand. ‘What do you want, Addi?’
‘You leave us in peace.’
‘You? What does that mean?’
‘It means my friends and I can carry on with our discreet little business. It’s nothing major – no violence, no smuggling. Just a bit of business, while you concentrate on other things…’
‘Discreet business? Just what are you saying, Addi?’
‘Don’t be stupid. You know well enough.’
‘Are you off your head?’ Ari Thór said, struggling to control his temper, furious that this man should be asking him to betray his own principles as well as break the law.
‘It looks like you’ll be taking over, now that Herjólfur’s dead. Tómas is going back south, so this is none of his business. We need to find a way to work together, you and me. I won’t get in your way, and you turn a blind eye when there’s a little business going on. Keep the peace, Ari Thór. You know what I’m saying.’
Ari Thór sat in silence.
‘Think it over. The offer’s on the table and everybody wins. You might solve Herjólfur’s killing, and my friends won’t be bothered too much by the police.’
‘And this information? You know who shot Herjólfur?’
‘Are you going to think it over?’
Ari Thór hesitated. This was an agreement he could never accept. Siding with, protecting, a known criminal would make him one himself. He would never be able to face Kristín or his son, nor look at himself in the mirror, if he bent or broke the rules like this. He shifted uncomfortably. Would it do any harm to let it seem that he might be prepared to think it over? He had a responsibility to find out who killed Herjólfur. He owed him that, at least. Addi had also mentioned Elín. What did he know about her? How much did he know about the whole case?
‘Well? You’re going to think it over?’ Addi repeated, drawing on another cigarette, and coughing; a layer of smoke had collected, hugging the ceiling.
Ari Thór nodded, immediately feeling a surge of disquiet at the thought of accepting such conditions, making a pact with the devil.
‘That’s all I’m asking,’ Addi said in a relaxed tone. ‘You let her go, the girl?’
‘Elín?’
‘Elín, yes.’
‘Yes, we let her go. Does that matter?’
‘No,’ he drawled. ‘Not really. You’ll just have to go and pick her up again.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s been buying now and again, or so I’m told.’
‘Buying dope? From you?’
‘Ari Thór, my friend,’ Addi said, with his peculiar irritating laugh. ‘I don’t sell dope. I’m an old man drawing his pension. We can agree on that, can’t we?’
His voice became louder and he stuck out his hand again. Ari Thór sat still and could feel a nervous sweat breaking out on his body.
‘Silence is as good as a yes,’ Addi mumbled, and withdrew his hand. He looked recalcitrant, nothing more than a disobedient child.
‘What do you know about Elín?’ Ari Thór asked, his gaze firmly on Addi.
‘No names, understand?’
Ari Thór nodded.
‘And this is an anonymous tip-off, all right?’
‘Anonymous,’ Ari Thór agreed.
‘She sometimes bought prescription stuff.’
‘What sort of stuff?’
‘Heavy-duty painkillers. The sort you can’t get from a chemist without a prescription.’
‘And you think this might be connected to the assault on Herjólfur?’
‘Could be, couldn’t it?’ Addi said cheerfully.
‘Could be? Why’s that?’
‘It’s just that she used to go sometimes to collect her gear at that place. You know, the house where Herjólfur was shot.’
I hate it here. I feel bad, both physically and mentally, and I loathe it. Writing this stuff down does nothing to make it more bearable, seeing it in black and white just emphasises how lousy I feel.
There’s a television in the common room, but it’s summer, so the state broadcaster has closed down for a month. Just my luck to be locked away on a psychiatric ward in July. There isn’t a lot to break up the day. Sometimes there are entertainments in the evenings. To start with I stubbornly refused to attend, but today I gave in.
Evening entertainment. It’s an old expression that conjures up past times. There’s something comforting about the whole thing, something reliable in the monotony of it all.
Sometimes, in fact, quite often, I think of my mother.
If I had a sister, would she be like Mum? Clever and hard working, but without ever having followed her dreams, fulfilled her ambitions?
Do people start growing into their parents the moment they first draw breath, with the similarities becoming successively closer as time goes on? Or is there are tipping point somewhere? If so, when?
Dad has always worked long hours, and that has become worse in the last few years, with more responsibility and longer shifts meaning extended absences. And more. I know now that I am alone in all this.
It’s surprising what you can learn on a psychiatric ward.
33
Even though it was late, Ari Thór rang Tómas as soon as he had left Addi’s house, giving him a rough outline of their conversation, but without mentioning the conditions Addi had set in return for information.
He would have liked to have asked Tómas if there had been such an arrangement in place between the cousins in the past, but he knew it was a question he could never ask, just as he knew that Tómas would never answer it.
They discussed how best to respond to this new information. Was Addi a reliable source? Tómas seemed to think that he was, but they agreed that it would be difficult to keep their informant’s identity secret. If nothing else, it gave them a good reason to speak to Elín again. The question was whether or not it could wait until the followin
g day.
Tómas took the decision to strike immediately. Ari Thór didn’t protest, but he felt a twinge of guilt about interrogating Elín after the terrible experience she had been through that day.
They set off to Gunnar’s house. It had been a surprise to Ari Thór that Elín had wanted to go there, but she had said that she had to be with someone she knew and trusted to talk things through. She didn’t seem to be concerned about what the vicious tongues of the local gossips might have to say.
‘It’s all a myth,’ Tómas said, almost to himself, as they drove. The wind had picked up considerably and a storm had been forecast that night. It was nothing unusual – with winter approaching and the days becoming noticeably shorter, he knew that this time of year could see dramatic changes in the weather, sudden snow or a rapid thaw with driving rain. A sharp wind blew from the north. It was cold, bitterly cold, even in the solidly built patrol car. Ari Thór shivered and tightened the scarf at his neck, digging his hands deep into his pockets.
Ari Thór raised an eyebrow at his colleague, curious to discover what his mutterings meant.
‘A myth,’ Tómas repeated. ‘We imagine that we live in a country where there are no weapons and no violence,’ he said, with an unusually grim expression on his face. ‘The reality is somewhat different. There are far too many firearms here. I heard the figures that were quoted on the radio, not that I needed to be told. Almost every second person I know has a firearms licence. It’s a myth that this place is peaceful. No violence in Iceland? That’s bullshit. Sure, it all looks quiet and friendly on the surface, but behind closed doors there’s an uncomfortable secret. Domestic violence; and nobody wants to acknowledge it, let alone talk about it.’
They stopped outside Gunnar’s house. Tómas switched off the engine and continued speaking. Aware that Tómas had something on his mind, Ari Thór knew it was best to stay silent and let him keep talking.
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