Rupture

by Ragnar Jónasson

  ‘I’d have to run it past my superior,’ he answered shortly. However, he admired the fact that she hadn’t been knocked off balance by his abrupt manner. ‘It shouldn’t be a problem, though.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Speak to you tomorrow, then.’

  9

  The basement flat Snorri Ellertsson rented in the Thingholt district of Reykjavík belonged to an elderly widow. She was now well over eighty but still lived upstairs. Her late husband, a psychiatrist, had fitted out the basement flat as his office sometime around the middle of the twentieth century, and when Snorri was bored, he amused himself by recreating the conversations that must have taken place there over the years – trying to sense the presence of their ghosts, using his vivid imagination. A strong imagination was essential for any artist, especially for a musician like him. What use was an artist without creativity?

  Snorri was sitting at his keyboard in the half-darkness, trying to get a new composition to work. He found it hard to concentrate – he was too excited about that evening’s meeting with a record company. At last, after all the years of struggling, the endless, poorly attended gigs in shabby bars, all the attempts to get airplay, he could finally see a brighter future ahead of him. He had been in seventh heaven after the phone call and this evening represented another step towards a recording contract.

  There hadn’t been much to be proud of in his short life, but now he was desperate to share the news with someone. He would have liked to have told his parents, but he knew that wasn’t the right thing to do.

  His father, Ellert Snorrason, was a well-known politician, now retired, with a long and successful career behind him, both in Parliament and as a government minister. Ellert had always enjoyed the respect of both his own party and his political opponents, but he hadn’t reached what Snorri knew to be his highest aspiration – to sit in government as Prime Minister. That looked to change, however, when, a little over two years before, the financial crisis had resulted in the decision to set up a national administration with all parties forming a coalition. There was little doubt as to who would be the most likely candidate to take the role of Prime Minister: Ellert was a remarkably uncontroversial figure, in spite of his long career, and also had more experience behind him than anyone else in Parliament. And, what was most important – other members of Parliament appeared to trust him.

  For years Snorri had brought his parents one disappointment after another, as he sank deeper and deeper into alcohol and drugs. His dependence on the bottle and harder drugs had spiralled out of control just at the time when his father looked set to take the country’s top job. His father’s dream of being Prime Minister was snatched away, just as it was about to become a reality. Ellert had retired ‘for personal reasons’ and the real story was never made public.

  Snorri’s mother, Klara, had never gone out to work, yet she had still held all the political strands in her own hands. Snorri had no doubt that his father’s success in politics was largely due to his mother’s shrewdness and determination; and the dream of the Prime Minister’s office had been Klara’s as much as Ellert’s. So when his career came to its sudden end, her disappointment was deep and unmistakeable.

  Her reaction had been harsh. She closed every door on her son. On the rare occasions he called, she would not talk to him, and he had not been invited into his childhood home for more than two years. Snorri suspected that Ellert would be willing to welcome him back, but Klara had always been the one who ruled the household with an iron hand.

  His mother’s coldness towards him proved conclusively what he’d always suspected: politics was no place for the kind-hearted. That was why it had never even crossed Snorri’s mind to follow in his father’s footsteps.

  So, his father had missed out on the opportunity to lead the government. What difference had that made, in the end? He still had a successful and unblemished career behind him. And the party had hung on to the Prime Minister’s office without him. Its undisputed crown prince, Marteinn – a family friend and a childhood companion of Snorri’s – had taken up the baton. The party had romped home in the elections that followed the coalition, with Marteinn at the helm – a leader for a new generation with a great future ahead of him. Snorri had every reason to believe that the old man didn’t have the energy to go through another election campaign, let alone become as successful as Marteinn had been.

  But perhaps Snorri did have reason to feel guilty. These bloody drugs.

  Maybe he ought to speak to his sister, Nanna, about his success.

  She was always so busy, but she’d talk to him sometimes; did her best to keep the peace with her brother, although that husband of hers wasn’t always supportive. On one occasion, when Snorri had run into Nanna and her husband in the street, the conversation had been short and sharp, and as he walked away, he’d heard her husband comment – undoubtedly intended for his ears – that they shouldn’t allow a dope-head like him anywhere near the family ‘for the children’s sake’. What a bastard.

  But Snorri had now left all that stuff behind him, and his music career looked like it was about to take off.

  He opened his laptop and typed a message to his sister, asking what was new, and telling her that he had some good news; he was hoping to get a recording deal. Meeting tonight, in Kópavogur. We’ll see what happens, he wrote, knowing that Nanna lived in a large detached house in Kópavogur. Thinking of you while I’m at the studio. Hope it all works out. Love to the family, he added; he was fond of her two little ones, even though he rarely got to see them.

  It would have been good to have been able to talk his news over with his childhood friend – and now Prime Minister – Marteinn; a chat over a coffee to reminisce and celebrate their successes. But getting to speak to the young man who now occupied the Prime Minister’s office was easier said than done, particularly as their lives had taken such different paths.

  They had both shown great promise as youngsters, but while Snorri had found himself in dubious company, Marteinn had never lost sight of his own objectives, showing an ice-cold shrewdness that was completely alien to Snorri. However, despite his ambition and focus, Marteinn hadn’t given up on his old friend. When Snorri had fallen through the cracks into an underworld of drugs, Marteinn still took care to maintain contact with him through all those dark years. But while their friendship was no secret, like any conscientious politician, he was cautious, making sure that they didn’t meet anywhere that might be crowded.

  After those dramatic days in February two years ago, however, Marteinn had taken care to avoid Snorri. He could understand that – it was hardly fitting for the Prime Minister, even of a small country, to have a friend like him. And it made no difference that Snorri had done his best to straighten his life out – undergoing treatment, with the help of his sister; keeping himself dry; and going back to his first love: music.

  It was past nine in the evening. He had called a cab as he had no car of his own and needed to get to a studio in an industrial area of the town of Kópavogur – a ten to fifteen-minute drive from the centre of Reykjavík. He had promised to be there at nine thirty.

  He shivered at the prospect of going all that way. He felt most comfortable in town, and hoped that he’d be able to get a lift back.

  Snorri glanced in the mirror on his way out, knowing that he needed to look the part. What he saw looked acceptable, he thought, running his fingers through his hair, which was starting to thin alarmingly for such a young man.

  He dropped a CD into the pocket of his black overcoat and hurried out to wait for the cab on the corner. There was nobody to be seen on this damnably wet evening. He watched the raindrops pattering hard into a puddle in the street, the motif from a classical piece running through his mind – a beautiful waltz, although he wasn’t sure who had composed it. Probably one of the Strauss family, he decided.

  The cab turned the corner, water from the puddle spraying towards him from under its wheels; he managed to step back just i
n time to avoid being soaked. He felt this was his lucky night.

  10

  It was the middle of the night, but Róbert was still awake.

  Nothing unusual had happened that evening. Kjartan had fallen asleep early and nothing seemed to be troubling Sunna when she came in from work. Over dinner – fragrant Arctic charr – Róbert told her that the locksmith had been. She nodded and smiled.

  ‘And you weren’t rude to Breki when he brought Kjartan home?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course not, sweetheart,’ he lied.

  She was soon asleep – tired after a strenuous rehearsal routine.

  It wasn’t just the thought of the unwelcome guest that was keeping Róbert awake. The same old nightmare had made a comeback. For some reason, it had been absent for a while; but recently it had returned with a vengeance.

  Now he lay in bed, looking at Sunna where she lay, so peaceful and so beautiful, in between staring at the ceiling. Kjartan slept soundly in his own little bedroom down the hall.

  Róbert decided to check on him, just to be sure. The peace and quiet of their home had been disturbed and he was struggling to come to terms with it.

  He carefully got out of bed and went to the boy’s room with sure, quiet steps, taking care not to touch anything in the darkness. The door was ajar but he couldn’t see if the boy was in his bed or not. Suddenly, he had the oppressive feeling that the lad was gone, and hurried over to his bedside.

  He felt a wave of relief as he saw Kjartan turn over in his sleep. Everything was fine.

  Róbert padded back to the bedroom, and was just about to lie down when he thought he heard something breaking the silence – a movement outside their bedroom window.

  The curtains were drawn, so he couldn’t see anything.

  Róbert stood still and listened. There was no mistaking it. There was definitely someone outside.

  He went to the window, checking Sunna was still sound asleep, carefully pulled back the curtain and peered out.

  While he had been sure he would see someone out there, what he saw still took him by surprise.

  A figure in black stood in the middle of the garden. He, or she, was dressed in a raincoat of some kind with the hood pulled up; the person’s head was bowed and their hands covered their face.

  Róbert stood stock still, unable to move. His heart had almost stopped for a second, but now it was hammering. He was terrified.

  Almost unable to control himself, he shut his eyes, convinced that his imagination was playing tricks on him. But when he opened them again the figure was still standing there. Róbert thought he could feel its eyes on him; or maybe even that was his imagination.

  A few seconds passed – so slowly they felt like a lifetime. Finally, he began to think logically. His first instinct was to smash the window and hurl himself at the bastard. But he wanted to avoid waking Sunna and Kjartan; and he wanted to do something sensible and realistic. Something not governed by his fear.

  The figure remained outside, as still as stone.

  Róbert rushed from the bedroom, hurried to the front door and opened it as quietly as he could. But unhooking that damned security chain held him up before he could get out into the garden. It had taken him only a few seconds to get there, but that was enough. It was deserted.

  He cast his eyes in every direction but could see nobody. The churchyard gate across the street, leading into the old Hólavellir graveyard, swung slightly as if someone had pushed it aside in passing.

  For a moment Róbert was ready to run over the road and into the vast, dark cemetery, but he was well aware of just how much of a labyrinth the place was, and he had no intention of going that far from home.

  He went back inside, shivering, every hair on his body seeming to stand on end.

  11

  Ísrún’s old red banger of a car was still doing sterling service, although she knew that it could give up the ghost at any moment. It had managed to get her to work on this overcast March morning, at least.

  The weather mirrored her mood – the constant lethargy that had dogged her since her illness had begun to take hold. It was undoubtedly a result of her constant worry about the progress of the disease, which preyed on her mind every single day. It was there while she was at work; it was there in the evenings; and even at night it lurked in her mind when she could not get to sleep.

  After she had won the award for outstanding journalism the year before, there had been no shortage of interesting assignments. María, the news editor, had taken the decision, undoubtedly against the wishes of desk editor Ívar, that Ísrún should oversee any crime-related material.

  However, having to deal with the endless series of horrific events that came across her desk had done nothing to help her low mood. At the beginning of the year there had been the news about an attempted murder in the north of Iceland in which the drunken, would-be killer had attacked an old acquaintance in a disagreement over an inheritance. After that a girl had been raped at a Kópavogur nightclub by an unknown assailant who still hadn’t been caught. The victim hadn’t been able to get a proper look at his face, which had been partly hidden behind a balaclava; she had only heard the vicious taunts he had whispered into her ear as he held her down. Ísrún found this story a particularly harrowing one to cover, having herself been a rape victim a few years earlier. She had done her best to live with the experience, but had only been able to talk about it with one person – a victim of the same man. She repeatedly tried to convince herself that she had finally got over it, that it was behind her, but flashbacks could appear from nowhere without any warning.

  Only a week ago, a young woman had died after spending two years in a coma following a brutal and apparently motiveless attack with a baseball bat in her own home in Reykjavík. Her husband had been at work on the evening of the assault, so she had been in her house alone. This was yet another unsolved violent crime. Little Iceland was becoming more dangerous almost by the day.

  Ísrún did her level best not to let it all get under her skin, but it wasn’t easy. She tried to sleep as much as she could to keep up her strength. But this week wasn’t going to be an easy one, with a late shift last night and day shifts the rest of the time.

  She was ahead of the game, though – having set up an interview with the Siglufjördur police officer, Ari Thór. He came across as unusually open during the telephone call the night before, and it had been interesting to chat with him, even for just a few minutes. Out of habit, right after the call, she had looked him up on the internet, wanting to know what he looked like. But there was no search result; he was a real mystery man.

  Ísrún’s father had called as her evening shift was coming to an end. He had heard about her visit to the Faroes and wanted news of her mother. Too proud to ask straight out if Anna was coming home, he circled around the subject as cautiously as a fish circling a hook. Ísrún felt half sorry for him, and did her best to cheer him up by telling him she was sure it was a temporary situation, although she had nothing but her own conviction to base that assurance on.

  Later that evening her mother had called from the Faroes, ostensibly asking how the trip home had gone. It was obvious to Ísrún that, in reality, she was fishing for news about Ísrún’s father – although she didn’t ask a single straight question about him. The two of them were so alike; they suited each other perfectly.

  At Monday morning’s editorial meeting, Ísrún was allocated her stories to follow up, including keeping tabs on the situation in Siglufjördur, as well as reporting on an assault that had taken place in Hafnarstræti during the night; one more police matter.

  It wasn’t until the editorial meeting was over that the day’s big story arrived. Ívar and María called Ísrún in to talk to them.

  ‘Something new for you to chase,’ María said as soon as Ísrún had shut the office door behind her, as always, getting straight to the point.

  Ísrún sat down and waited, her heart beating a little faster.

  ‘It’s se
nsitive,’ María said. ‘It’s about Ellert Snorrason.’

  Ísrún immediately had a vision of the elder statesman looking reserved and dignified. She had interviewed him once or twice. Had he become embroiled in some scandal late in life, now that he had retired?

  ‘His son was involved in a hit-and-run incident last night,’ María said, pausing for effect. ‘In Kópavogur. On a quiet street in an industrial district. No witnesses and the driver didn’t stop.’

  ‘How is he – the son?’ Ísrún asked.

  ‘They reckon he was killed outright.’

  There was a moment’s silence. Ísrún felt that the victim deserved some respect.

  ‘I’ll get to work,’ she said at last.

  ‘The police are taking it very seriously,’ María said. ‘They reckon it was a violent collision, in a street where fast driving isn’t easy. The road conditions weren’t great last night, what with the rain, and the police aren’t ruling out that it was done deliberately.’

  ‘We’re reporting this in tonight’s bulletin?’ Ísrún asked.

  Ívar had stayed silent, but now his voice showed just what he thought of her question. ‘Of course we are.’

  ‘And we’re going to name him?’

  Unusually, Ívar hesitated and looked at María.

  ‘I think we could,’ she said. ‘We can watch out for any other mention of his name today. He was well known – a regular face on the Reykjavík nightlife scene, until he got caught up in drugs. I gather he was something of a musician and had played publicly, although he hadn’t been much of a hit. And we shouldn’t forget that he was our honourable Prime Minister’s closest childhood friend. That’s a story in itself, practically a fairy tale. Childhood friends: one rises to prominence while the other gets caught up in drugs and gets himself murdered one rainy night.’

  ‘Shall I try and get a comment from Marteinn? Is this something the Prime Minister’s going to be prepared to talk about?’ Ísrún asked, making sure she addressed her question to María.