Blackout

by Ragnar Jónasson

  ‘Unsettling,’ Ísrún said.

  Móna looked up. ‘Yes, very much so,’ she said and then relaxed. ‘It has been very unsettling,’ she agreed, almost as if speaking to herself.

  ‘I’m sure I’d find it really uncomfortable,’ Ísrún said. ‘He lived here in the same house not so long ago. And now … now someone has found a reason to kill him. It’s so hard to fathom. But maybe this isn’t the best topic of conversation for someone who’s pregnant,’ she added, feeling a rare twinge of conscience.

  ‘You get over it; try not to think about it,’ Móna replied with a humourless smile. ‘You push to the back of your mind the mental images that pop up when you hear about such a violent crime.’

  ‘If the reports are to be believed, then it was a very brutal crime. I do have some faith in the news, at least the news my station carries,’ Ísrún said.

  Móna shuddered discreetly but did her best to hide it. Then she yawned, and this time failed to hide her gaping mouth.

  ‘Sorry. I’m tired.’

  ‘That kind of news must keep you awake, especially in your condition,’ Ísrún said.

  ‘It’s kept me awake the last two nights. I was going to lie down today and see if I could get some sleep.’

  Ísrún took the hint, and decided that she couldn’t refuse a pregnant woman her rest.

  ‘I’ll be on my way, then. I’ll drop by later.’

  ‘It’s all right, I didn’t mean it like that. I’ll call Logi.’ She stood up with some difficulty and went into the other room, out of sight. Ísrún could hear the murmur of her voice.

  ‘He’s still at work. He says he’ll be another hour. I hope that’s not a problem for you?’ Móna said when she came back into the kitchen.

  ‘Not a problem. It’ll work out. I’ll drop back later.’

  ‘What about your camera guy? Isn’t he on the way?’ she asked with a touch of suspicion in her voice.

  This took Ísrún by surprise, and reminded her that lies need careful maintenance.

  ‘Of course. I’ll call him,’ she said lightly on her way to the front door. ‘Thanks for the chat.’

  12

  ‘What about Jói?’ Ari Thór asked.

  He and Tómas were sitting in the coffee corner. Hlynur would normally have joined them, but he seemed to be in a world of his own, with no interest in mixing with his colleagues.

  Tómas had asked if Ari Thór had any concrete theory about the murder, anything they could contribute to that evening’s meeting.

  ‘Jói? Forget it, my boy. The man wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ Tómas said, apparently put out by Ari Thór’s suggestion.

  ‘I’m not so sure. I reckon there’s a spark in him. He’s definitely no pushover,’ Ari Thór said to drive his point home.

  Tómas looked doubtful. ‘He and Elías hardly knew each other.’

  ‘He told me they had an argument during the protest about the tunnel. You can never tell how far people can go.’

  ‘I didn’t know about that,’ Tómas said, and his expression darkened. ‘You’re right, you can never tell, can you? You think you know someone, and then…’

  Ari Thór decided to interrupt before Tómas brought the conversation around to his wife.

  ‘I don’t believe that any of Elías’s work colleagues murdered him. To be honest, I don’t imagine that any of them had any reason to. For me, the whole affair is most likely linked to some kind of dodgy business. And I doubt that Páll or Logi would have been involved in anything like that.’

  ‘Good heavens, no,’ Tómas said in a shocked tone. ‘Páll used to be on the force and Logi is my cousin’s brother-in-law. It’s possible that Elías wasn’t the intended victim, I suppose. Maybe the intention was to kill that doctor, Ríkhardur. He’s the one who owns the land.’

  Ari Thór took a deep breath. This was his own theory, and farfetched as it was, he decided to squeeze out Tómas’s agreement as far as he was able.

  ‘That’s what I was thinking. I was going to check this out before I mentioned it to you, but I looked up an old boy in Akureyri yesterday.’ Ari Thór had to try hard to hide his excitement. ‘Ríkhardur murdered his wife, or as good as murdered her.’

  ‘Really? So you think some old chap in Akureyri attacked Elías?’ Tómas smiled cheerfully. ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘So do I. The old boy hates Ríkhardur with every fibre in his body, but I can’t see him committing such a brutal killing.’

  ‘Maybe it’s not up to us to solve this one, my boy,’ Tómas said, sounding paternal. ‘But we have done our best so far, anyway. Perhaps something new will come up at tonight’s conference.’

  Ríkhardur Lindgren had received visitors twice in two days. That was taking things too far. First there had been that unpleasant reporter pretending to be from the police, and today some real police officers had called. He had let them in despite his strong reservations, being cautious after that woman’s visit; and as they were in plain clothes, he had demanded to see their identification. In the end he had no option but allow them inside and try not to think of all the germs they were bringing in with them.

  After their visit, he made an effort to carefully clean the chairs.

  The television was switched off and for once he had no desire to read. Instead, he listened to a violin concerto by Shostakovich.

  The police officers’ questions had been endless; all this fuss over one man who had been murdered. He had hardly known him. One of the two police officers even suggested that Elías had been murdered by mistake, and that he, Ríkhardur, was the intended victim.

  How facile. Someone might put on the wrong coat, but people don’t go so far as to commit murder in error.

  Rikhardur had noticed that the media had mentioned his name in relation to the case. And they had dug up their old news pieces, just when he had thought that was all behind him; hadn’t he paid compensation – and in pretty generous amounts too?

  Clearly, there was no possibility of being able to escape to the house in the north now.

  He turned up the volume and tried to relax in his chair.

  He would never get peace and quiet there, and the place would always be linked to that damned builder.

  All things considered, maybe it would be best if he were to leave the country.

  That way he could perhaps be left in peace.

  13

  There had been no preconceptions about Iceland in her mind; the only things about which she had been certain were that it would be cold, probably snowy, and it might be dark.

  She had moved back to her place beside the wall. She wasn’t sure when she had done that or why, but found suddenly that she could relax and rest her tired bones. That was good.

  Her heart beat faster than she knew was natural. She was uncomfortably hot, something she had never expected to experience in Iceland.

  Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she had the feeling that she was back home.

  She had done her best to break out of her prison. The door was the only possible escape route, but it was dishearteningly heavy and well made. It made no difference that there was a narrow gap at the bottom of the door. All it did was bring her a tiny slither of light and air.

  Her head throbbed with pain and she was nauseous.

  She thought of home, of her family, of the sunshine and the light.

  She was so tired now; she would have to rest for a while.

  It was time to let her mind wander homewards for a few moments.

  It would soon be time to welcome death.

  14

  Svavar couldn’t get her out of his head.

  He was surprised by this. He thought he was stronger, more able to control his own mind.

  He imagined her, locked in, waiting for Elías.

  Everything would have been so much simpler if Elías had never mentioned her. That way she could have died quietly, shut away, and Svavar would never have been burdened with the knowledge that he could possibly have saved her
life. Although he didn’t know exactly where she had been imprisoned, he could at least have let the police know about her, provided them with a reason to search for her and given her a slight chance of survival.

  He knew that chance was now fading fast; he would have to make a decision.

  At first, being involved, if only as a silent partner, in this piece of work with Elías – bringing a young woman to Iceland for a life of slavery – hadn’t troubled his conscience.

  It’s going to happen whether I like it or not, he had told himself. If I don’t do it, someone else will.

  But now, even though he had never seen her in person, in Svavar’s imagination this young woman had become a very real, living person. She was someone who was waiting somewhere to die.

  But his instinct for self-preservation was a powerful one. You have to look after number one. A spell in prison was too high a price to pay for saving her life. His dreams of living somewhere warmer would disappear in a puff of smoke.

  He had tried to sleep, but without success. Now he sat by the window and stared into the sky.

  He wasn’t even sure what time it was. He had switched off his mobile and unplugged the landline. He hadn’t spoken to anyone since the reporter had come to see him the previous evening.

  The reporter – that was it.

  He didn’t know much about journalism, but he knew that a journalist never revealed a source, not ever. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? It was such a simple solution, and so perfect.

  He could regain his peace of mind by shifting the responsibility on to her. She wouldn’t be able to finger him, but she’d be able to tell the police about the poor girl.

  He felt better immediately and stood up from the wicker chair to search for his phone. Now he even felt hungry, and realised he hadn’t eaten all day. He’d take a walk down to the dock later to see if anyone had any fish to sell, something he could cook simply and perfectly, just as his brainwave about the girl was perfect in its simplicity.

  The phone was on the kitchen table. He located the scrap of paper with the journalist’s number on it and switched the phone on.

  It began buzzing straight away with endless messages. He quickly checked through them; most were from Páll and Hákon. He’d speak to them and tell them he felt ready to go back to work, but not until he had been in touch with this woman Ísrún, he decided, punching in her number.

  Ísrún was on her way back to the guesthouse. She stood in the Town Hall Square and looked up towards the church. She was hungry, and was wondering whether or not to sit in one of the snack bars on the main street and order a quick pizza. But first she wanted to take a look at the church and gather her thoughts in peace and quiet.

  She had never been religious, but over the last few months she’d found her feelings changing.

  For some reason, now she wanted to believe, but wasn’t sure how to find some kind of faith after all these years. Maybe going to church regularly might help?

  Never being one for services, she instead enjoyed spending time in a church when nothing was happening, taking a seat on a pew and revelling in the tranquillity of the place.

  Her feet felt heavy as she slowly ascended the steep steps to the church. She was still feeling the fatigue from what had been a long day and was sluggish after an unaccustomed daytime nap. Fortunately the church was open, and thankfully it appeared deserted.

  Ísrún sighed as she sat on the nearest pew but one to the back, finally allowing herself to relax. She closed her eyes and tried to empty her thoughts, steering her mind away from those events of a year and a half before, which had led her to move south to Reykjavík and return to the newsroom. She also tried not to think of that visit to Katrín in Landeyjar a year ago.

  What had happened in Akureyri eighteen months ago had been a shock, a body blow that she had managed to rise from through determination and denial.

  The upset of what had taken place afterwards, in Landeyjar, though, had been little short of a knockout. She tried to seek shelter in the same denial that had worked in Akureyri, but she was painfully aware that that was only good as a short-term solution.

  Straining to take her thoughts away from these two events, she still couldn’t manage to empty her mind or relax properly. Instead she found herself thinking of the conversation with Móna, the sad and tired woman who had been so distant. It occurred to her that there was something in her account that didn’t add up properly; some minor detail that nagged at her.

  And then Ísrún realised just what that minor detail was. She was on her feet with such a start that she was relieved that there was nobody there to see her.

  She ran down the church steps as fast as she dared, knowing she had to find Móna and get an answer, preferably before Logi or Jökull came home from work.

  On the way, her phone rang. She stopped to peer at the screen. It was a number she didn’t recognise. It could wait, she decided.

  Only minutes later she was standing again on the steps in front of Móna’s door. She knocked and didn’t have to wait long before Móna let her in.

  ‘I was half-expecting to see you again,’ Móna said in a tone that seemed to combine apprehension with relief that her secret was finally shared. ‘I let the cat out of the bag, didn’t I?’

  Ísrún nodded.

  ‘Then you’d better hear the whole story,’ said Móna, and it was as if a heavy load had been taken from her shoulders.

  15

  Oddrún thought of Gauti every day.

  She worked for a software company in Reykjavík, where working days were long and standards were high. All the same, occasionally, and despite the demands her work made on her, thoughts of her brother and their mother would break through. Both of them had been snatched away from her far too early, each by their own hand.

  Oddrún’s and Gauti’s father was dead. That had happened before Gauti’s suicide. So it was always Oddrún that Gauti had come to when school had become too painful.

  In fact, school had been painful from the very first day, as he never managed to fit in. Two years younger than her brother, Oddrún had done her best to support him, but she was just a child too. Of course, she should have gone to their parents, but Gauti wouldn’t hear of it. And at that young age, she had failed to work out that he wasn’t guilty of anything and was merely an innocent victim of bullying. She only realised this later as Gauti increasingly confided in her.

  She knew precisely who his most vicious tormentor was; who was the one dispensing mental and physical cruelty. She remembered Hlynur clearly, although he would undoubtedly not remember her. She was repulsed by him, which was hardly surprising, as his brutality knew no limits. Gauti didn’t tell his sister everything and sometimes she found out by roundabout routes what had happened to him. He had told her about the swimming pool incidents, though. Hlynur had held him under again and again, during almost every swimming lesson, always whispering the same words into his ear as he broke the surface, gasping for breath.

  Next time I’ll teach you how to die.

  These words had stayed in her mind and given her nightmares, even though she had never witnessed this torture, let alone had to experience it as Gauti had.

  Gauti had confessed to her that he had always expected the next swimming lesson to be the last one; that Hlynur would take things a step too far and hold him under until it was all over.

  Gauti was a sensitive soul, a fragile character. But Hlynur hadn’t broken him down with a single blow; rather, he had done so with a relentless barrage.

  It was therefore no surprise that Gauti didn’t finish college; he didn’t even come close to it. He gave up after the first term and locked himself away. It had been his first opportunity to start afresh in a new school, with Hlynur nowhere to be seen, yet it had still been too much for him. The damage had already been done.

  He never left home. Oddrún, however, had moved in with her boyfriend as soon as she started university. And it was then that Gauti’s condition began to deter
iorate rapidly, his grip on life becoming increasingly tenuous.

  But the blame was Hlynur’s, not hers. He might as well have appeared at the door that day and murdered Gauti on the spot.

  Oddrún didn’t take action right away; instead she allowed the hatred to build up inside her.

  She knew that Gauti wasn’t Hlynur’s only victim, but he had been the one worst affected by that monster’s brutality. Hlynur had systematically destroyed her brother’s life and with it the lives of the entire family.

  Gauti’s suicide had affected their mother deeply and she had somehow convinced herself that she was to blame. Oddrún had tried her best to talk her out of feeling such guilt, but it was as if she was speaking to someone who couldn’t hear her.

  Finally her mother had given up on life as well. The source of her misery and the reason for Gauti’s death were one in the same: Hlynur.

  Over the years, Oddrún had done her best to smother the hatred inside her, trying to stop herself from descending to Hlynur’s level. And she had been successful for a long time. That was until the middle of a normal working day,

  It wasn’t, in fact, a normal day. It was the anniversary of Gauti’s suicide. And, as if in commemoration, Oddrún let the hatred take hold of her. With the decision she made that day came a deep feeling of relief.

  Oddrún quickly found out where Hlynur was and what he had done in the intervening years. He had become a police officer in Siglufjörður, a long way from Reykjavík; too far for her to drive past his house and throw rocks through his windows. In any case, she had something more subtle planned for him.

  Email gave her direct contact with him, both at work and at home. She set up an anonymous email account and did everything necessary to ensure that it couldn’t be traced back to her. There was never any doubt about what the message would say.

  After the first, she sent another message, with the same words. And then another. Hlynur didn’t reply. She continued to send messages without any knowledge of whether or not they had any effect on Hlynur.