Blackout

by Ragnar Jónasson

  ‘Haven’t you heard about it?’

  ‘Well, yes. It was on the news this morning. Was it murder? That’s the impression I got.’ Hákon remained calm. ‘One of my boys?’ he asked finally, and at last there was a tremor of uncertainty in his voice.

  ‘That’s right,’ Ari Thór said. ‘I have to ask you to keep this confidential. We’re not releasing the name of the deceased right away.’

  Hákon nodded, although both he and Ari Thór knew that it wouldn’t be long before the name would become public knowledge, whether Hákon or someone else was the source.

  ‘His name’s Elías. Elías Freysson.’

  ‘Elías? Well…’ Hákon was surprised, or at least seemed to be. ‘And I thought he was a good boy.’

  ‘Good boys can be victims of murder, too.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Hákon mumbled, almost to himself.

  ‘Had he been working for you long?’

  ‘He wasn’t working for me, not strictly speaking,’ Hákon said, almost carelessly. ‘Elías was a self-employed sub-contractor. He’d been working with us in the tunnel for about year and a half. There are … were … four of them: Elías and three boys who work for him. I say boys, but one of them is older than Elías and the others.’

  Ari Thór had already dug up all the information he could find about the victim before meeting Hákon. Elías had been thirty-four, unmarried and childless, his legal residence registered as an address in Siglufjörður.

  ‘I understand he lived here in the town, on Hvanneyrarbraut. Is that right?’ Ari Thór asked, a formality creeping into his voice.

  ‘Yes, that sounds about right. He rented a place there from Nóra, not far from the swimming pool. I’ve never been there.’

  Hákon sipped his coffee.

  ‘Did he live here most of the time?’

  ‘Yes, as far as I know. He took on jobs here and there. The latest was some summer house he was working on … in Skagafjörður. Is that where his body was found? Poor bastard.’

  There was a new note of sympathy in Hákon’s voice, and for the first time it seemed to have dawned on him that his colleague was dead.

  ‘I can’t say too much at present,’ Ari Thór said apologetically. ‘Can you give me details of the men who worked with him?’

  He tore a page from his notebook and passed it across to Hákon, who wrote down three names, consulted his phone and added three phone numbers.

  ‘There you go. They’re all decent men.’

  Not killers, was the unspoken subtext.

  About to stand up, Ari Thór saw that a few passersby had stopped, glancing over to where he sat with Hákon but pretending to admire the little boats at the pontoons or the gleaming cruise liner at the quay. There was no doubt they were wondering why the foreman of the tunnel was chatting to the police. The gossip would start to fly around soon enough.

  ‘Listen, my friend,’ Hákon added suddenly. ‘That artist guy is the one you ought to be talking to. Those other boys wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  Ari Thór sat up straight in his chair.

  ‘Listen, my friend,’ he said coolly, his tone measured. ‘You don’t tell me how to do my job…’

  Hákon looked up in surprise and hurried to interrupt. ‘Hey. Sorry…’

  ‘I don’t care if you used to be some kind of celebrity,’ Ari Thór added. ‘So who’s this artist?’

  ‘His name’s Jói. I don’t know his full name he’s just called Jói. He’s a performance artist, whatever the hell that is. He’s … you know…’

  ‘No, I don’t know,’ Ari Thór said and waited patiently for Hákon to stumble across the right word.

  ‘He’s one of those greens,’ he said, with clear disdain in his voice.

  ‘He and Elías knew each other?’

  ‘Yeah, they were co-operating on some charity concert, in Akureyri. Elías was always doing charity stuff. He’s … he was … setting up a concert for the charity that Nóra runs. Household Rescue, you know…’

  This time Ari Thór knew exactly what he meant. Household Rescue had been set up in the wake of the financial crash to provide help for families and individuals who had suffered due to the economic situation, people who had seen their jobs disappear or who were simply struggling to make ends meet. The charity had been established as a grass-roots organisation by a group of locals, including a few people in Siglufjörður, and it had started well. Ari Thór himself had donated a few thousand krónur at the beginning, and the organisers were always looking for further support.

  ‘What kind of co-operation was this? Was Jói planning to do some kind of performance as part of the concert? Was Elías working for Household Rescue?’ Ari Thór immediately regretted asking quite so many questions all at once, a beginner’s mistake in any interrogation.

  But Hákon didn’t seem concerned and answered carefully.

  ‘Let’s see … Elli … Elías, that is, he offered to organise a concert in the spring, with all the proceeds going to Household Rescue. He did all the preparation. Jói sings and plays the guitar as well. He was going to perform at the concert, but they fell out for some reason and that’s all I know about it. So, to put it in a nutshell, Jói’s the man you ought to be asking the questions, rather than Elías’s workmates.’ He smiled broadly.

  ‘We’ll see.’ Ari Thór stood up. ‘Thanks … my friend.’

  He walked swiftly away.

  8

  After the morning meeting Ísrún visited the Meteorological Office to enquire about the ash that was continuing to settle on the city. She spoke to a young woman, who apologised, explaining that she had only recently graduated and hadn’t worked there long, but seemed to have every fact and figure relating to the ash and to Reykjavík’s air pollution at her fingertips. She would be perfect for an interview, thought Ísrún, but when she suggested it, the young lady’s tone changed immediately. She flatly refused to be involved, and for the first time in their conversation, there was a long silence.

  ‘Can’t you just quote me?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘Unfortunately that never comes across well,’ Ísrún said, and gave her the spiel she knew almost by heart. ‘For a television audience it’s vital that viewers can see who we’re talking to. You won’t even notice the camera,’ she said, adding a white lie.

  Ísrún had to be at her most persuasive to encourage the woman to agree to an on-camera interview, and eventually she succeeded. By then, however, Ísrún was beginning to have second thoughts. Nervous interviewees didn’t perform well for the camera, and even the shortest piece could involve endless retakes – sentences re-shot again and again. Sometimes it was easiest to speak to politicians as most of them had no trouble holding forth in front of a camera. Ordinary people would frequently be able to speak at length but then dissolve into nervous wrecks once a camera was rolling in front of them. Ísrún had a sinking feeling as she recognised the young meteorologist as just one of those people.

  ‘Won’t people notice how nervous I am?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. The camera hides that kind of thing,’ Ísrún lied smoothly.

  ‘If it looks bad, you won’t show it, will you? Just quote me instead.’

  ‘Of course we will,’ Ísrún murmured. Her conscience was beginning to nag her, but she needed an expert, and this woman knew everything there was to know about the subject.

  The details of the ash cloud itself weren’t too interesting and would never make headlines. The ash had been polluting the air in Reykjavík for weeks, although this was a particularly bad day.

  So, following general questions about the ash, Ísrún decided to focus on the danger ahead: the potential eruption of Katla.

  ‘What about Katla?’ she asked. ‘Isn’t there a chance that it will erupt now? It’s way overdue, the last eruption was in 1918.’

  ‘Well … well,’ the young woman stammered, not quite prepared for this line of questioning. ‘Of course there is a real risk, we indeed think it is overdue…�
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  ‘And the impact of a Katla eruption? Total air traffic chaos?’

  ‘Yes, I think so…’ And then she seemed to realise that she had fallen into Ísrún’s trap and given her a great headline. ‘I mean, no, there is no way of telling. It depends on the ash and the direction of the wind, so many variables.’

  ‘Thanks, that was all. We’d better be going now,’ Ísrún said. ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to use some of what you’ve said.’

  ‘Please don’t use that last bit – about Katla,’ the woman replied, shaking Ísrún’s hand. Her palm was damp with sweat.

  ‘Maybe not, let’s see,’ Ísrún replied, fully intending to put a bit of fear into the audience’s hearts by predicting a full-blown Katla eruption.

  Some people just don’t want their fifteen minutes of fame, she decided, shaking her head in frustration. Or even, as in this case, only sixty seconds.

  ‘Things will get worse later in the day,’ the woman added as they left, as if offering something in exchange for the Katla story. ‘The wind’s changing and it’s going to bring a heavier ashfall this way.’

  Good news, thought Ísrún, as it could mean that her piece would be placed closer to the opening of the news bulletin, even if the dead man up north would undoubtedly be their lead story.

  The newsroom was buzzing with talk about the murder case when Ísrún returned.

  ‘We have a name,’ she heard Ívar call to Kormákur. ‘Elías Freysson, address in Siglufjörður. Contractor. Involved in some charity event up north. That might be a smart angle to take. Philanthropist murdered! Something like that. Just find a good angle on it.’

  ‘A good angle? Kormákur replied, looking uncomfortable. ‘The man was murdered.’

  Ívar smiled awkwardly and turned to Ísrún.

  ‘How is your minor stuff going?’ he asked loudly, as if to ensure that everyone could hear.

  ‘Not bad,’ she said, looking away. A few years ago she wouldn’t have let anyone walk over her like this, being given only the most trivial material to work on and then ridiculed in front of her colleagues.

  ‘Ívar.’

  He looked up to see Ísrún standing by the newsroom manager’s desk and wondered what she would be angling for now. Maybe she’d complain about his ‘minor stuff’ quip, twenty minutes after the event.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be finishing that volcanic ash piece?’ he asked sharply. He never bothered to be polite at work, except when dealing with management, of course.

  She hesitated.

  ‘Come on … what is it?’ he asked with a sigh.

  ‘I was wondering if I could work on the murder story with Kormákur. Things are pretty quiet on my patch,’ she said, flushing. She looked unhappy.

  ‘Quiet? That doesn’t sound good.’

  ‘I’m scheduled for shifts over the next few days so it wouldn’t be a problem to follow the murder as well as my usual stories,’ Ísrún said, with an uncharacteristic determination that took him by surprise.

  ‘I can hardly put two people on the story,’ he said. ‘Have you finished editing the summer news piece?’

  ‘Not entirely, but it’s nearly there. Couldn’t one of the summer temps finish it?’

  ‘We’ll see. It’ll probably go into the late bulletin.’ Ívar’s patience was wearing thin. ‘And the ash pollution thing?’

  ‘I did an interview with a meteorologist at the Met Office earlier and we should be able to use some of that,’ she said awkwardly, looking unsure quite how to assert herself. ‘I’d like to go up north,’ she finally added firmly.

  ‘North?’ Ívar replied in amazement.

  ‘Yeah, Skagafjörður. That’s where the body was found. Maybe Siglufjörður as well.’

  ‘Hell, Ísrún, we can’t send you off around the country just like that. We have to watch every penny. End of story.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘End of story.’

  ‘It’s just that…’ she dropped her voice and leant closer. ‘I had a call just now and I think we should follow it up.’

  ‘A call? Explain. Who called?’

  ‘Sorry. I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’ snapped Ívar, catching himself just before his fist hammered the desk.

  ‘It was a friend of mine in Akureyri. He said he knew the victim, but I’m not sure how much I can tell you.’

  ‘Out with it!’ His voice gathered volume.

  ‘You’ll have to let me follow it up.’

  ‘All right. Do what you like.’ Ívar was struggling to maintain his composure, already turning over in his mind the possibility that she might be vying for the desk chief’s job, a post he coveted.

  ‘He told me that Elías had been involved in some kind of drugs ring up north,’ Ísrún suddenly whispered, as if parting with a state secret.

  ‘Drugs? Really?’ His voice registered genuine surprise. ‘See what you can dig up. I can’t promise anything for fuel or accommodation expenses unless you come back with a scoop. And I can’t let you have a cameraman. You’ll have to deal with our stringer up north if you get something worth filming. And if you don’t, just send Kormákur your notes and he’ll use them in his reports.’

  Ívar did his best to emphasise the his; if Ísrún was a rival, he judged it would be better for Kormákur to get the credit if anything came of all this.

  ‘Fine.’ Ísrún smiled.

  It was rare to see her with a smile on her face, reflected Ívar.

  ‘I’ll be on my way this afternoon. Don’t worry about accommodation. I can find a cheap place to stay in Akureyri. I know it well; I worked at the hospital there.’

  ‘Well, you should never have left,’ he muttered under his breath.

  Ísrún left the room without offering a response to his rude remark. She didn’t feel it deserved one. The real reason why she left Akureyri would have come as a shock to Ívar; it was possible that she would have seen him rendered speechless for once. But she was satisfied that she had managed to hold her own and that she would soon be on her way northwards.

  Perhaps she had crossed a line by making up the story about Elías being involved with drugs, but it was a tiny lie, and something had to be done to get herself on the story.

  9

  Southern Iceland – one year earlier

  My holiday had begun. I was hoping to have a week in the south of Iceland to get over the pressure and the overwhelming fatigue I was experiencing.

  I was planning to work on the article about my grandmother, although I was maybe still searching for some sense of what my grandmother had written in her diary, something I had probably been seeking since the moment I watched my grandfather throw the book into the incinerator.

  Of course I had always known that the diary was lost. In my heart of hearts I knew I’d never really know what she had written in it, yet I still found the fact hard to accept.

  Maybe Grandad Lárus, who has been dead for many years now, was right. Ísbjörg had written the diary for herself, not for anyone else.

  I drove eastwards in the rust bucket, on my way to Landeyjar, forced by the car’s modest power to keep to the legal speed limit.

  Finally, as I rounded the last bend of the rutted gravel road, Grandad’s old house looked down at me. It stood on a low hill of its own, with a view over the green lowlands on the landward side, high mountains with snow still crowning their peaks in the far distance and, on the other side, the Westman Islands rising from the sea.

  It had been a boundless playground for a small girl visiting her grandparents. There was always a brisk breeze blowing here, bringing the smell of the sea with it, even at the height of summer – or that’s what my memories of the place told me.

  I drove up the track to the house, opened the gate with its crown of barbed wire, forgetting for a moment that a couple with two small children had bought the house after Grandad died.

  A newish pickup was parked in the yard and a cheerful dog greeted me as I got out of the car.<
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  In terms of my article, it was unlikely that I would gain anything from this visit, but something drew me to this place.

  A young woman came to the door and stood in silence as she looked me up and down, taking in the scar on my face and then averting her eyes, pretending not to have seen it. Her pause was long enough to remind me how much I stood out from the crowd.

  People have suggested exploring plastic surgery, but it’s not something I’ve ever contemplated. I suppose that deep inside I don’t mind being different, taking on the world and swimming against the tide.

  ‘Good morning,’ the young woman said, at last, and with a smile.

  ‘Hello. My name’s Ísrún.’

  ‘Yes. You’re on the news, aren’t you?’ the woman asked, and looked over my shoulder. ‘No cameraman?’

  ‘What…? No, I’m not exactly at work. I’m working on an article about my grandmother,’ I said. ‘She lived here.’

  ‘In this house?’

  ‘That’s right. Do you mind if I come in and look around?’

  She invited me in. I guess it was difficult to say no to someone who was a regular visitor on her TV screen.

  I did my best to enjoy the visit. Memories came flooding back, even though the new owners had made many changes to the place. There was a new kitchen, and the bathroom had been fixed up properly. And, to an extent, the house’s charm had evaporated; this was no longer the familiar ramshackle old house where Grandad had lived, but a smarter, more modern version of it.

  I’d have liked to have spent the night there, if that had been offered. But I had arranged to stay with a cousin who had a farm not far away. I could write my article there, relax and share memories of my family.

  I had also set up some time to meet with two women who had known my grandmother Ísbjörg well. They had said they’d be glad to recall their memories of the old days for me.

  I was buzzing with anticipation for any clues, any tiny details that could give me an insight into my grandmother’s life.