Betrayal

by Lilja Sigurdardóttir

  ‘No, no. I agree entirely,’ Gréta said, picking up her knife and fork again and proceeding to cut her fried bread into small pieces. ‘I’m chasing this woman I met on Tinder, so anything else isn’t on my radar either.’

  Stella was grateful for how well she took it, making the whole thing easier.

  ‘Yes, definitely. And I reckon it’s best for both of us if we keep quiet. You know, no kiss-and-tell? All right?’

  That had to be clear as well. Stella didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself. The gossip among Reykjavík’s lesbians was bad enough as it was. Now it looked like Gréta had lost her appetite; she pushed her plate away. She forced a smile, nodding to indicate that she understood. Stella could see that she had hurt Gréta and she felt sick at the thought; it was the usual sympathy that she felt for Gréta, but now there was something more – something about her forced smile and her tousled mop of hair that stuck out in all directions that gnawed at Stella’s conscience. She felt so sorry for her. Or maybe she simply felt sorry for herself for being such a morning-after-bitch.

  63

  Íris was still in bed and had gone back to sleep. If she hadn’t been so hung over, she would undoubtedly have stormed out by now, banging the door behind her. She had crawled into his bed in the middle of the night, feeling frisky and looking for some fun, but when she woke in the morning she was feeling rough and wanted him to tell her he loved her.

  ‘I like you a lot,’ he had said. ‘I find you sexy and beautiful, and most of the time you’re fun to be with.’

  ‘Tell me you love me,’ she wheedled.

  ‘I like you a lot, little mouse,’ he repeated. ‘But I’ll hold off going further than that until I’m sure I mean it, and that’ll be when I’ve made my mind up for myself.’

  She rolled over to face the wall, while he went into the other room and perched on the edge of the sofa, which was the only way to sit on it without falling through it onto the floor.

  Gunnar finished putting together the week’s security report relating to Úrsúla. There was plenty that needed to be recorded in detail now that they had both spent a week in a new job. First there had been the notes from the homeless man, Pétur Pétursson; it had been necessary to take measures to reduce the likelihood of these and similar messages getting through the front door and being found by the minister’s family. On Friday, cameras had been installed at her home and a police patrol now drove past every hour. This was a temporary measure, just while Pétur was still at large with his cryptic notes. Gunnar checked the photographs the police had sent of other people who’d sent threatening messages to the minister. There had been three this week: one had come through doctors at a psychiatric ward, from a patient who had an obsession with Úrsúla; another was a troublemaker who repeatedly called the ministry; and the third had made some colourful online comments. Gunnar inspected the faces, closed his eyes and tried to visualise them, implanting them in his memory. Two of these reports included car registrations, so Gunnar wrote both of them on his wrist, using an indelible marker that wouldn’t easily be washed off.

  Then there was Fossi’s hate mail. Gunnar opened a new message, attached a copy of the entire conversation with Fossi to it, along with news of the rape case in Selfoss, and addressed it to Boris at the commissioner’s office.

  Take a look at the dates of the news reports about this case being examined by the ministry and compare them to when the first message was received. Coincidence? I don’t think so. Fossi is more than likely from Selfoss. Maybe it’s worth getting a warrant to check the computer owned by that policeman who was charged?

  Maybe it was just that simple, that the redneck cop who had raped the babysitter was sending death threats to the minister in the hope that she’d call off the investigation. It was a childish approach and unlikely to bear fruit, but maybe the wretched man was letting off steam over the rape furore.

  He reached for the kale smoothie he had made in the blender. It tasted foul, but he forced it down as today was a fasting day. He had a day like this every once in a while, sticking to liquidised vegetables and water to clean his body and give him a chance to renew himself. Fasting always left him feeling good. The evenings were difficult, when he longed for food, and right now he’d have been glad to exchange this green gloop for something solid, but tomorrow he would wake up cheerful and refreshed, grateful that he had faith in himself. This was a mental exercise as much as a physical one. Just as Íris was his training ground in keeping his temper, fasting was his way of demonstrating his own strength of will: he could deny himself what his body craved; he was in control of his own body; he was his own master.

  There was no way he was going to be like his father, who caved in to every weakness, whether that was food, drink, or the force of his own temper.

  64

  Marita couldn’t sleep. There was a hard knot in her belly that she couldn’t get rid of, even though she had taken long, slow breaths and spent a whole hour in a hot bath before going to bed. Now that Jónatan had been away so much, it was strange to have him there by her side in bed, as if she had become accustomed to his absence even though she had missed him.

  She rolled onto her side and draped an arm over him. He slept soundly. She had always envied him this. He seemed to be able to fall asleep anywhere and at any time, almost like a child. There was something so innocent about how he could stretch out on the sofa or in an armchair and doze off, as if the whole world stood guard over his security and his rest. Marita could never sleep among strangers as Jónatan could, neither in an aeroplane nor in her own living room when they all gathered at Christmas. Now she was unable to sleep in her own bed in the middle of the night.

  The knot in her belly twitched with its own rhythm, as if it had its own heartbeat that pumped regular doses of fear into her veins. She lay pressed against Jónatan’s back and breathed in the warm scent of him. He was a big man, so she had always felt small and feminine next to him, even though she was quite tall and had put on a few kilos after Klemmi’s birth. She had always seen him as some kind of protector. He was the big, strong man, the cop who protected her from anything evil, the foundation of her security. But all that had changed, and perhaps that was the deepest damage that had been done as she no longer had that sense of security that he had provided. This wasn’t because she was in doubt about his innocence; far from it. Of course he hadn’t raped that girl. Her doubts were about his judgement and the fact that he had placed the family’s security in jeopardy. What had he been thinking, giving beer to a kid of fifteen? He would never have given Kiddi booze, that was for sure, and he and Katrín Eva were the same age – although girls tended to be more mature at that age. And why hadn’t he taken more care, knowing that Katrín Eva had a crush on him? According to what Kiddi had said yesterday, Jónatan was very much aware of this, but had still exchanged flirty messages with her on Facebook, asking if she thought he was better looking than his sons. For a grown man, this had to be a complete failure of judgement.

  Marita turned over, so they lay back to back, and continued to take deep, slow, long breaths all the way down to her core. She was about to fall asleep when doubt pounced on her again, like a predator from the shadows, taking her by surprise with a stab of pain. There was something she had seen in the newspaper, in the interview with Rósa that hadn’t registered on her consciousness until now. In the interview, Rósa said that after Jónatan had raped her daughter, he had rolled onto his back and thanked her, just as if she had given him something of her own free will.

  ‘Thanks very much’, it had said in the newspaper. That was what he habitually did after he and Marita made love. He always said ‘thanks, darling’, sometimes adding how good it had been.

  Thanks, darling, that was great.

  Then Marita would giggle and be happy. She would be glad and satisfied with him, and satisfied with herself, their relationship and their life together. But how could Katrín Eva have decided to say that he had said those words to her? How coul
d she know that was the kind of thing he’d say after sex? Had Jónatan had sex with her? Judging by what Kiddi said, the girl was already sexually experienced. Had she done it with Jónatan, regretted it and then gone home to tell her mother that she had been raped? Were there samples from him in the rape kit that the newspapers had reported?

  Marita stared into the darkness. Her eyes were dry and sore, but she was so shocked that she was unable to blink. Could Jónatan have been unfaithful to her? With this teenage girl? With a child?

  Monday

  65

  Edvard’s vile comment had been a slap in the face – hurtful and humiliating; but somehow it had shaken her out of the dejection she’d felt after all this Pétur business. This new attack had somehow reinforced the armour that Thorbjörn had found his way inside, and which she now found she badly needed to keep in place. She had gulped a cup of coffee while people attending the meeting found their seats, then got to her feet. She had briefly introduced herself, for the benefit of those who didn’t know who she was, and after listing her work experience and the main projects she had worked on, she moved on.

  ‘Just to clear the air, I’d like to make it clear that I’m not a minister because I dropped to my knees for the PM, as someone suggested to me just now.’

  A mutter had passed through the hall, and she could see that Edvard sank deeper into his seat in front of her, as if he longed to drop through the floor. She took care not to look directly at him, or anyone else, as she had no intention of letting anyone know who had made the offending remark. He had every reason to be relieved that she didn’t mention his name, which would have opened him up to the fury of the party members. After the coffee break, his seat had been empty.

  Now, at the morning meeting with Eva to organise the week ahead, she was bursting with energy and enthusiasm.

  ‘First of all,’ she said. ‘I’d like you to organise a short press call so I can make a statement about this Pétur matter.’

  The Sunday papers had certainly spun out of all proportion her ill-considered request for information on whether Pétur might be dangerous, raking over the death of her father and weaving webs of intrigue about why she had wanted Pétur’s medical records.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better to let the media know that you’ll make a statement, rather than have a formal press conference?’ Eva suggested. ‘And we can do it outside. They’ll be less inclined to hang around asking questions in the cold,’ she added.

  Úrsúla laughed and nodded her agreement. Eva had a talent for brilliant ideas.

  ‘Then I’d like you to take the formal route and request a meeting with the prime minister,’ Úrsúla said. ‘I’ve been trying to reach him on his mobile all weekend and he won’t pick up.’

  This had worried her, but she had held on to the thought that he was busy with something else, and not intentionally blanking her. She needed to speak to him, both to explain the furore in the press and to discuss the South Coast Highway. She wanted to suggest the option of finding another source of financing, instead of these foreign funds that were owned by Ingimar the Terrorist.

  ‘Would you make sure there’s space in the schedule this week for me to show my face in parliament every day, and can you knock up a draft of an article about the immigration situation that I can finish off?’

  ‘Is that it?’ Eva asked, getting to her feet. She looked Úrsúla up and down for a moment. ‘I’ll get something for you to wear before you meet the hacks,’ she added.

  ‘What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?’ Úrsúla asked. ‘You chose this blouse.’

  ‘A shirt with a collar is too blokey,’ Eva said. ‘This time you need to appear more feminine, gentler. But not too lightweight. It’s not a problem. I’ll fix it.’

  With a dazzling smile, she was gone. The last week had convinced Úrsúla that choosing Eva had been absolutely right. She worked with the smooth efficiency of a machine, plus she was fun to be around.

  With a few minutes before the next meeting, Úrsúla helped herself to an espresso from the machine Eva had installed in the corner and scrolled through the contacts in her phone to find Rúnar, the former minister of the interior. She hardly knew him, but she’d attended his classes for a semester at university. He had been a good teacher. He was intelligent and had a particular talent for seeing things from an external viewpoint, giving him the big picture.

  ‘I’ve been thinking of you, my dear,’ Rúnar said as he answered the phone.

  ‘Likewise,’ Úrsúla replied. ‘I haven’t wanted to disturb you, what with you being unwell. I hope I’m not intruding now.’

  She couldn’t bring herself to mention what the prime minister had said about Rúnar’s health issues; that in reality there was nothing at all wrong with him beyond losing his nerve for the job.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Rúnar said. ‘I started to feel better the moment I left the ministry behind me.’

  He laughed hoarsely.

  ‘I’d like to ask for your advice on this South Coast Highway,’ she said.

  ‘Hmm. I only wish I could give you some. What does the PM have to say about it?’

  ‘He hasn’t been answering his phone since he called on Saturday to pile on the pressure to cancel the whole thing.’

  ‘Ah. Oh, well.’

  ‘Well, what?’

  Rúnar sighed and cleared his throat. ‘To tell you the truth, I was surprised that you were picked for the ministry. I imagined that Edvard would be next in line, but the more I think it over, the clearer the reason gets.’

  ‘They needed a woman in government…’ Úrsúla began.

  Rúnar snorted. ‘It’s convenient that you’re a woman, but I don’t think that’s the heart of the matter. I have the feeling – I’m not saying I’m right; this is more a hunch on my part – that you were chosen because you have no particular political ambitions.’

  ‘So I get to be the sacrificial lamb – the minister who cancels the South Coast Highway – because I wouldn’t stay in politics anyway? I can afford to be unpopular?’

  ‘That’s it. It’s about sparing Edvard and the other golden boys, who are supposed to be the face of the party when elections come around next year. Of course the Independence Party also has its golden boys and they’re protected carefully.’

  This was far from what the prime minister had said when he had offered her the job, and not exactly in line with the praise he had heaped on her for her previous roles.

  ‘Thanks for confirming my suspicions, but I wish you’d have dropped me a line and warned me off,’ Úrsúla said.

  ‘I’ve more faith in you than I have in myself,’ Rúnar replied. ‘And that’s been my opinion since you graduated with excellent grades, as well as leading the student debating team to victory and organising a national fundraising effort for … what was it – the Red Cross?’

  ‘All the same. You could have warned me,’ she said.

  Rúnar sighed.

  ‘Would you have taken any notice, Úrsúla?’

  She laughed. Of course not. She would have ignored every piece of advice; just the same as she always had.

  66

  ‘I have a special assignment for you,’ Úrsúla said as soon as Gunnar appeared in her office. She gestured for him to take a seat and sat in a chair opposite him, leaning forward and looking him in the eye. ‘I’d completely understand if you don’t want or don’t trust yourself to do it. OK?’

  Gunnar nodded. His curiosity had already been piqued; he guessed it was something to do with her lover, the journalist she sneaked off to meet.

  ‘I know that everything about your job is bound by confidence, but I’m still asking you not to breathe a single word of this to anyone.’

  ‘Of course I won’t.’

  ‘I’m dropping a state secret into your lap, if we can put it that way,’ she said, fixing Gunnar with an intense stare as he sat a little straighter in his chair. ‘The prime minister has asked me to find a way to knock the South Coast Highway on t
he head, because it turns out that one of the individuals behind the financing is Ingimar Magnússon. And nobody wants to have anything to do with that gentleman.’

  ‘Ingimar the Terrorist?’ Gunnar asked, and shivered at the thought. There was something sinister about the name, and while Ingimar hadn’t killed anyone, blowing up a radio station wasn’t something that Icelanders were used to.

  ‘That’s right. Ingimar the Terrorist. This absolutely must not be allowed to leak. The whole government would become a joke overnight. But it would be worse if anyone were to find out that a contract that would make Ingimar even richer is about to be signed. The government would look corrupt. So it seems that the only option left is to ditch the South Coast Highway, as the original tender becomes invalid if the financing package is altered.’

  ‘Oh,’ Gunnar said involuntarily. He had been looking forward to driving along that road.

  ‘The thing is this,’ Úrsúla said. ‘I need to be certain there’s no other way to fix this mess before I call the project off, because, as you can imagine, it’s going to do nothing for my popularity. This is an initiative that people have supported.’

  Gunnar nodded. He could already imagine the furious hate mail that would cascade down on her.

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’ he said.

  ‘I want you to go to the prison at Hólmsheiði and talk to Ingimar Magnússon in person, on my behalf.’

  67

  ‘Hæ, Gunni!’

  He looked at the girl who greeted him so cheerfully, and saw that while her mass of curls had been tamed with something that made her hair shine, and the sides of her head had been clippered short, there was no doubt that this was Stella.