Betrayal

by Lilja Sigurdardóttir

  There was a silence on the line, and then Jónatan sighed deeply.

  ‘You have to be joking…’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Marita said. ‘This is a long way from being over, and I don’t want to be anywhere near when the next storm breaks. You can pay the price of your own misdeeds.’

  ‘Marita,’ Jónatan said, and now his voice was beseeching. ‘Marita, this will all be sorted out. I have a guy on the inside at the ministry. It’s someone who was with me when I joined the police. It’ll blow over soon enough, woman. Then we can start all over again, bring Klemmi home, and maybe we can have that trip to the sunshine that you were talking about.’

  Marita cleared her throat to stop him, and so that she could get a word in.

  ‘Jónatan.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You can go to hell.’

  She ended the call, set her phone to silent and walked over to the car, where Kiddi had squeezed himself into the back seat with the luggage and her mother sat behind the wheel, ready to drive them to Tórshavn.

  Marita took a deep breath of the damp air, absorbing the greenness around her that warmed her heart. It was remarkable that despite being only a little further south than Iceland, the Faroe Islands were always dressed in green: light green in summer, grey-green in winter.

  115

  The relief at the sound of Gunnar’s voice calling her name was so overwhelming that she almost called out. But Óðinn, who towered over her like a giant as she sat on the stool, put a finger to his lips to tell her to keep quiet.

  ‘Shh,’ he whispered, and backed into a corner of the kitchen, seeming to hope that if they kept quiet, Gunnar would retreat. But Úrsúla knew him better than that. If Gunnar had come looking for her, then he wouldn’t leave until he had searched the house from top to bottom.

  Óðinn stood as still as stone, and she saw his eyes flicker from side to side as he listened to Gunnar’s footsteps go from the entrance hall, along the corridor and into the living room. Her heart began to race as she heard him approach the kitchen, and when she saw his face appear in the doorway, she let out a loud, instinctive sigh that forced itself out of her throat. She felt herself trembling, but when she looked down at her hand on the kitchen worktop, it seemed motionless.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Gunnar asked.

  Úrsúla sniggered hysterically, her voice strangled. She hardly recognised it herself – the laugh seemed so at odds with the palpable tension in the air. Úrsúla coughed and regained her voice.

  ‘Óðinn came here to ask me to do certain things,’ she said slowly, searching for words that would explain things to Gunnar without provoking Óðinn, who seemed about to erupt. ‘I told Óðinn that I wanted him to go now, that we could talk things over later, but he wasn’t agreeable and that’s why I’m sitting here.’

  Gunnar quickly grasped the situation and nodded, just as slowly. It was as if they were both held back, so that their movements were hampered and speech had been slowed right down.

  ‘I understand,’ Gunnar said in a relaxed voice that had an everyday tone, as if he was listening with one ear to something else that was mildly interesting.

  He took one step into the kitchen, and then another, so that it was clear he was placing himself between Óðinn and Úrsúla.

  ‘I think you should go out to the car, Úrsúla,’ he said, still in the same measured voice as he took one more step.

  Óðinn seemed to realise what was happening, as determination replaced the indecision in his eyes and he leaped forward, pushing Gunnar aside so that he lost his balance for a moment. Before Úrsúla could move from the stool Óðinn had snatched a handful of her hair, making her wince, and a strong smell of onion filled her senses as she saw the carving knife had vanished from the chopping board, leaving the pile of chopped onion that Nonni had obviously intended to have with the fish that still lay on the table.

  Óðinn stood behind Úrsúla, and she felt the cold blade of the knife against her neck. She wondered if death would come quickly if he cut her throat, or if the blade would have to be higher up to open an artery. It was sharp, regularly and carefully steeled, like all Nonni’s kitchen knives.

  Óðinn loosened his grip on her hair and took hold of her head, but his hands were so slippery with sweat that they slipped from her forehead as he tried to hold her at the same time as he wielded the knife.

  ‘Relax, Óðinn,’ Gunnar whispered. ‘Let’s not get carried away, eh? Let’s calm down and think things over? OK?’

  Gunnar stood perfectly still opposite them, and Úrsúla found herself thinking that even if Óðinn were to cut her throat, he wouldn’t get Gunnar as well. He would hardly be a match for someone so powerful. She felt some relief at the thought that someone would be left to tell her children how she had lost her life, to recount exactly what had happened in her last few moments. Gunnar would be the witness who accompanied her in those final seconds of life. It was odd that she had never before thought this through. She had never considered that the children could be left with the same deep-felt uncertainty, the same gap left by the loss of a parent in circumstances that could not be accounted for. In Liberia she had only thought that Nonni would be devastated if she were to die of Ebola; she had never imagined that it would make much of a difference to the children.

  They had become so accustomed to being alone with Nonni, she had always imagined that their lives would hardly change much without her. But now she suddenly saw everything in a new light. Her father had been absent from home for so long before he died, but all the same, the sorrow of his passing had been the single most momentous event of her life. Her compulsion and desire to create order where there had been chaos, to do what she could to help people in need, more than likely had its roots in her father’s death. Because she couldn’t save her father, she had spent her life giving aid to others.

  Probably this was what the proximity of death did to people. It opened up an understanding of the law of cause and effect, so that they saw their lives pass by as if projected on a screen. She opened her eyes and little by little emerged from her own deep thoughts as Gunnar’s voice purred, slowly and reassuringly.

  116

  ‘We want the same thing, Óðinn,’ Gunnar said calmly. ‘We both want Úrsúla unharmed. I know you didn’t come here to do her harm, did you?’

  Úrsúla felt a shiver pass through Óðinn’s body as he stood close behind her, and she could hear his fast, shallow breaths.

  ‘It won’t be long before they find out that the car seen by the harbour was rented by the ministry,’ he hissed, his voice taut and his breaths strained, as if coming with an effort. ‘Úrsúla either needs to stop the investigation or say that she asked me to rent the car for her, that she had been searching for Pétur so she could talk to him, and he fell into the water. That way it can be explained as accidental. He’s just as dead either way.’

  Gunnar stepped to one side and Óðinn stiffened.

  ‘Stay still!’ he snapped, and Úrsúla could feel the blade sting as it grazed her skin. A drop of blood ran down her neck to her chest.

  Gunnar raised his hands. ‘I won’t move an inch,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay perfectly still. I’m sure there’s a way to stop the investigation. Don’t you think so, Úrsúla?’

  Gunnar winked, indicating that she should lie – play along and say what Óðinn wanted to hear, so as to not infuriate him.

  The cut to her neck stung like a burn, and the pain of it sent a wave of anger through her. She bit her lip to stop herself from shouting out loud. But then a moment of thankfulness seized her – the knife hadn’t gone deeper – and with that she took her decision. She wasn’t going to play along and take part in Óðinn’s fantasy.

  ‘It’s over, Óðinn. Whatever happens now, it’s over.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Gunnar added. ‘It’s only going to make things worse if Úrsúla is hurt…’

  He was clearly still working on keeping Óðinn calm, but Úrsúla interrupted him. T
he burst of adrenaline rushing through her demanded a release.

  ‘You won’t be working at the ministry ever again, Óðinn! I’ve already seen through you. I saw something today that made everything clear. Jónatan: does that name ring any bells?’

  A look of shocked terror appeared on Gunnar’s face, and Úrsúla could feel Óðinn’s anguish as the knife pressed harder against her neck.

  ‘What do you think you know?’ he hissed.

  ‘I think I know that you beat my father to death in a cell at the police station all those years ago and you got a young colleague, Jónatan Kristjánsson, to cover it up for you.’

  ‘I ought to shut you up—’ Óðinn began, until Gunnar yelled at him.

  ‘Then you need to shut me up as well!’

  ‘And Boris,’ Úrsúla said. ‘I sent him a memo today instructing him to look into all communication between you and Jónatan going back to when the rape charge was raised. I’ve no doubt he’ll find a trail of messages and calls between you.’

  Úrsúla felt Óðinn’s body sag behind her and the hand holding the knife dropped so that the blade now hovered over her chest.

  ‘I’ve known for years this would come back to haunt me,’ he said, his voice slow and dark. Úrsúla thought she caught a sob as he spoke. ‘You can do the right thing your whole life, work hard and try to do better. But when the past catches up with you, all that’s worth nothing.’

  ‘You mean when Jónatan raised his head after so long and started blackmailing you into suppressing the rape charge against him,’ Úrsúla said.

  ‘He was calling in an old debt, as he had every right to,’ Óðinn said. ‘But when you started digging into all this and demanding it be followed up, he was scared stiff. He started calling all the time, going wild, and expecting me to work some kind of miracle.’

  ‘It’s over, Óðinn. Now it’s time for you to let me go,’ Úrsúla said, hoping that the tension she could feel draining out of him was an indication that he was about to capitulate.

  But instead Óðinn stiffened and moved his arm to hold Úrsúla in a headlock. Her chin rested in the crook of his arm and the smell of onion from the blade gave way to the stronger odour of sweat.

  ‘You have influence with Thorbjörn,’ he whispered. ‘You can call him and let him spin a story on all this. Vefpressan takes the lead and all the other media follow.’

  ‘You mean the Thorbjörn you were seen talking to outside the ministry? Didn’t you see the news earlier? The cleaner, Stella, saw you getting out of his car and said it was obvious you had been arguing. What were you and Thorbjörn plotting?’

  ‘We’ve both been plotting with Thorbjörn – each in our own way. Don’t think I haven’t noticed,’ Óðinn snarled, but before Úrsúla could formulate a reply, she saw Gunnar step towards them. Óðinn shouted something, and then Gunnar leaped and all three of them fell to the floor.

  She heard the men struggling beside her as she fought to catch her breath, but she was unable to because of the pain of the knife deep in her chest.

  She didn’t feel fear, but as she lost consciousness she was thankful that Nonni and the children were elsewhere, somewhere safe.

  117

  The knife clattered out of Óðinn’s grasp as he fought back, and as he tried to reach for it, Gunnar landed a punch to his face. The blow left Óðinn dazed. He looked around, gathering his wits, so Gunnar made to pin him down, but he twisted away and was on his feet with surprising agility and looked ready to make a break for the door. Gunnar threw himself into a tackle that brought Óðinn to his knees and a moment later Gunnar had him in an arm lock. Óðinn was heavily built and a powerful man, but was left helpless as Gunnar held him, putting his weight behind him so that Óðinn fell to the floor. With one arm holding Óðinn down, Gunnar felt for his belt and the handcuffs that should have been there – but they had been taken from him by the police after the altercation with Pétur.

  He fumbled for his phone, but it had fallen out of his pocket during the struggle, and he hadn’t put on the hands-free set after leaving the gym to hurry to Úrsúla’s house. For a moment there was silence in the kitchen, and Gunnar wondered how he could keep Óðinn in check while also finding a phone to call for help. He wasn’t sure if it was a moment or longer, as time flashed past with the rush of adrenaline, but gradually his attention was drawn to Úrsúla’s regular gasps. Úrsúla!

  She lay motionless on the floor, silent apart from her unnerving gasps as she fought for breath. He was caught in a quandary. He would either have to release Óðinn to look after Úrsúla, in the hope that he would make a run for it instead of attacking her a second time, or else hold Óðinn down and hope for some miracle that would bring help. He released his grip on Óðinn, who scrambled to his feet and vanished through the door, and a second later Gunnar heard the front door slam shut behind him.

  The holder for the home phone was empty, so the phone itself had to be somewhere else. He wasn’t going to waste valuable time searching for his mobile. So, dizzy with the exertion, he supported himself against the furniture and the door frame and found his way to the front door and pressed the red alarm button. The special unit would be there any minute, armed to the teeth, but Úrsúla also needed an ambulance as soon as possible, so he went outside and ran a few steps along the street to the ministry car. He opened the door, and on his knees in the passenger seat, made a call using the emergency radio.

  ‘Help, now!’ he called. ‘Ambulance! The minister is injured. I think she has a knife wound and is losing blood.’

  He hurried back, fighting to keep his footing on the ice. The GPS locator in the ministry car would ensure that the ambulance would come right to them.

  In the kitchen he dropped to his knees beside Úrsúla, looking for the source of the pooling blood that had turned most of her blouse dark red. He found the wound on the right side of her chest. He put his palm over it and pressed. The hissing sound stopped as he closed the wound, but her breathing was irregular and her eyes closed.

  The next few minutes passed in fits and starts. He heard the wail of a siren, and before he knew it a paramedic was loosening his hands from Úrsúla’s body. He dropped back and sat on the floor, while another of the ambulance crew fixed a drip into her arm and placed an oxygen mask on her face, before they slipped her onto a stretcher and quickly wheeled her out. Then he was sitting on the sofa, telling a detective about what Óðinn had done, and a moment later Boris was there, asking if he knew where Óðinn had gone.

  ‘He’s not right in the head,’ Gunnar said. ‘He’s crazy and desperate. If he’s not on his way to the airport to get out of the country, then he could be heading for Selfoss.’

  ‘Selfoss?’

  ‘That’s right. He might well try and attack a man called Jónatan Kristjánsson. He’s the only living witness to a murder that was committed many years ago.’

  ‘We need the hospital to check you out as well,’ Boris said.

  ‘The worst of it was having to let the bastard go,’ Gunnar muttered.

  Boris laughed. ‘You did the right thing,’ he said. ‘You were the perfect person, in the right place at the right time. You saved her life.’

  Gunnar smiled, and in spite of the thundering headache that pounded in his head, he felt the satisfaction of having done right. He had done what he was supposed to do. He had made a difference between life and death.

  Tuesday

  118

  Gunnar was more cheerful when he woke up, but he’d had a troubled sleep. Úrsúla had undergone an operation, and Gunnar hadn’t been able to relax during the night until he’d found out she was in what the healthcare professionals called a stable condition. He had only minor injuries himself and had come home late in the night from Accident & Emergency, where they had been treated.

  He took a shower, put on clean clothes and picked up a box of chocolates for Úrsúla on his way back to the hospital. She was on a general ward, having been discharged from intensive care. The polic
e officer outside her door sat reading a magazine. He was there primarily to keep the media at bay; Óðinn had been picked up the previous evening as he had driven into Selfoss.

  Gunnar leaned over Úrsúla in her bed and gave her as much of a hug as he could. There was a drip in her arm and an oxygen feed in her nose, but otherwise she seemed buoyant. She put her arms around him and held him for a long time, patting his back and whispering that it was good to see him. He straightened up and sat down at her bedside, and they looked into each other’s eyes for a long, serious, thoughtful moment, until Úrsúla finally smiled.

  ‘It’s pretty wonderful to be alive,’ she said, and he laughed.

  ‘Has Nonni been in?’ he asked.

  Úrsúla shook her head. ‘He was here last night when I came round after the operation, and I had a call from him earlier. He’s not delighted with me right now. With good reason.’

  Gunnar reached out and placed a hand on her arm.

  ‘It’ll sort itself out,’ he said, and Úrsúla was about to reply when there was a knock on the door frame.

  ‘Am I interrupting?’ Boris asked, and they both said no at the same time. ‘It’s luxurious being a minister,’ he said. ‘Private room and everything. Poor old granny’s in the corridor downstairs because there’s no room to be found for her anywhere in the hospital.’

  ‘Oh,’ Úrsúla said. ‘Can’t you bring her up here to me?’

  Boris grinned and planted a kiss on her cheek.

  ‘Good to see you’re all right,’ he said in a low voice. ‘That was a terrible thing to happen.’

  Úrsúla nodded, and Gunnar realised that he had never seen Boris so agreeable. He had always been dry, stiff, decisive, resourceful. But there had never been any warmth to him, until now.

  ‘The situation…’ Boris said. ‘Óðinn is in custody and will be charged with kidnap and your attempted murder.’

  ‘And what about my father’s case?’ Úrsúla asked, making an attempt to sit up, as if her interest pivoted on events in the distant past and not her narrow escape the night before.