‘What was the case all about?’ she asked, feigning a lack of interest. ‘I have to be quick. Our wrap-up meeting is about to start,’ she said, to add a little urgency to the conversation.
‘It’s something that happened near here. A young woman drank poison in Hédinsfjördur in 1957 – or she was poisoned.’
‘Hédinsfjördur? No one lives there, do they?’
‘No, not anymore, but people used to. This woman was one of the last inhabitants. There were five of them. Two couples and the infant son of one of them – he was born in Hédinsfjördur. He’s still alive. The others are all dead.’
‘And why are you looking into this?’
‘A few days ago a photograph showed up that was probably taken the winter before the woman died. There’s a young man in the picture nobody can recognise. It poses a few questions in connection with the woman’s death.’
‘Intriguing,’ Ísrún said. ‘And you think there’s a possibility of investigating this now? I don’t imagine there are all that many people who could be interviewed fifty years on.’
‘True … But we’ll see. There’s an old man in Reykjavík – the brother of one of the people who lived there; it would be interesting to talk to him. He inherited this picture, along with a lot of others, from his brother. But it’ll have to wait.’
Ísrún now saw through the window that the evening wrap-up meeting really was about to start. These meetings were held at their desks or on foot and tended to be very short, making it easy to miss if you were even a few minutes late.
‘Why’s that?’ she asked, curiosity overcoming her better judgement.
‘The old boy’s in his nineties and his hearing is so bad that he won’t talk on the phone. But he’s still as sharp as a knife, or so I’m told. I’ll go and see him next time I’m down south, if I ever get let out of quarantine!’ His tone hid determination behind its lightness.
Ísrún was just about to bring the conversation to an end, when Ari Thór asked a sudden questions.
‘I don’t suppose you could find time to go and have a chat with him? It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. He lives in a rest home down there. I would do it myself, but of course I can’t make the trip south under the circumstances.’
‘I don’t really have …’ Ísrún started to say when she thought again. It would do no harm to have a police officer owing her a favour. ‘I’ll see if I can get over to see him tomorrow, if there’s time.’
She wrote down the old man’s name and address on a sheet of paper, added Ari Thór’s mobile number to it so she could definitely reach him for the interview, and brought the conversation to a close.
The wrap-up was over by the time she got to it. She picked up her coat, punched herself out and went out into the gloomy evening chill without a word to anyone.
15
The morning was refreshingly bright after the preceding damp days. Ísrún set off early from the western part of town for the Breidholt suburb of Reykjavík; it was as well that the weight of traffic was moving in the opposite direction.
After their conversation the night before, Ari Thór had sent her an email, giving her additional information about the Hédinsfjördur case, as well as his thoughts about it, questions for old Nikulás and a scan of the photograph.
Earlier that morning Ísrún had called the manager of the rest home where the ninety-three-year-old Nikulás lived, and was told that he was a lively character, although his hearing was failing. He had agreed to meet Ísrún whenever it was convenient for her.
It took longer than she had expected to locate the place, but she finally found it and still had enough time to talk to him before the morning meeting at the newsroom.
It was a sprawling, featureless building dating back to the eighties, encircled by well-kept grounds, although the trees were still looking forlorn this early in the year. Ísrún imagined that the gardens would look magnificent on a summer’s day.
Nikulás was waiting for her in the rest home’s lounge, gazing out over the bare gardens, a cup of coffee in his hand. He was heavily built and completely bald, with strong features. He was well dressed, in a dark-grey suit complete with a white shirt and a striped tie.
Ísrún explained what had brought her to him, reminding herself as they talked to speak loudly and clearly, and not mentioning that Ari Thór was a police officer. In every other respect she kept to the truth, telling him that they were looking into the case because the mysterious photograph had recently come to light. He simply nodded, and Ísrún asked his permission to use a voice recorder while they spoke. He nodded again.
‘I’d like to ask you about the photograph, and about your brother,’ Ísrún said, laying a printout of the photograph on the table in front of him. ‘Have you seen this young man before?’ she asked, her finger on the young man in the centre of the group, the baby in his arms.
‘No. Never seen him. I imagine my brother must have taken this picture,’ he said in a clear voice followed by a cough.
‘Was this picture in a box with other photographs?’ Ísrún asked.
‘It was. He and Jórunn lived in Siglufjördur for a year or so. Her older sister had married a local, as I suppose you already know.’ He sighed. ‘Maríus discovered a passion for photography while he was in the town. As I recall, that was around 1954. The pictures in the box were mostly from Siglufjördur, apart from that one taken in Hédinsfjördur and a couple of landscapes from around there. I was wondering what to do with them all, as I don’t have all that much space in my room here. An old friend who comes from up there said I should donate them to the Siglufjördur Society as they always have an interest in that kind of thing. That’s the whole story.’ He sipped his coffee and leaned closer towards Ísrún. ‘I’ve seen you on television. You do a fine job.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, taking it in her stride. She took care to let neither praise nor criticism disturb her peace of mind. ‘So you inherited all this from your brother?’
‘That’s right. There was nobody else, if you see what I mean.’
‘And had he been well off?’
‘Not really. He owned his apartment outright, which seems to be unusual these days, and there was some worn-out furniture. There were only a few books, as he wasn’t much of a reader, the poor lad. He was a simple man. There was a bit of money in an old account that he hadn’t touched for decades; but inflation had reduced that to not very much,’ he finished, with a smile.
‘Did you ever visit your brother in Hédinsfjördur?’
‘Good grief, no. I’ve never been there. I wasn’t interested in seeing the place, and anyway, I was far too busy. What business would I have in an abandoned place like that? Moving to that damned place destroyed my brother. He was never the same again after Jórunn took her own life. I’m sure it was the isolation that did it,’ he said, brow furrowed.
‘It wasn’t an accident?’ Ísrún asked.
‘She took her own life. I think everyone knows that,’ he said, certainty in his voice.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely sure. Maríus often hinted at it when we talked. He said that the darkness had got to some of them very badly.’
Ísrún was taken by surprise by this half-revelation. Maybe it had been suicide after all? But she was determined to pursue her line of questioning all the same.
‘How so?’
‘He didn’t go into detail; he didn’t like to say much about that time in Hédinsfjördur. But he’d mention it occasionally, out of the blue. Now and then he told me that Jórunn shouldn’t have chosen the path she chose. They had moved to Siglufjördur because Jórunn’s sister Gudfinna had moved there. Maríus never did find what suited him in life. He was a simple soul, as I told you before. He was neither independent nor robust. He was easily influenced and wasn’t strong physically, so he coped badly with heavy work. Gudfinna’s husband, Gudmundur, promised him work in Siglufjördur. So Maríus worked in the herring there for a while; he was working the
re when I visited them there the following summer. He wasn’t happy. And the work was too hard for him, although I believe he was given lighter work afterwards. I suspect that it was Gudmundur who supported them. He’d done well for himself – made his money in fish. All I can say is that he looked after my brother, helped put a roof over Maríus’s head down south after he had lost his wife. The poor man had a tough life, but he’s at rest now.’
‘Were you both born in Reykjavík?’ Ísrún asked after a pause.
‘Good Lord, yes. Maríus and I were both born here. He should never have been tempted to move to the north. I’ve never wanted to move to anywhere else.’ He shifted in his chair and straightened his back. ‘Would you indulge a lazy old man and fetch me a drop more coffee?’
‘Of course,’ Ísrún said with a smile. She took the cup and refilled it from a thermos in the corner of the room.
Once he had taken a sip of his coffee, Nikulás continued seamlessly with his tale. ‘He always struggled with work. I started as a young man, working in the coal, and was able to get Maríus a job there. He was supposed to be helping me but he wasn’t much use. I managed to keep it quiet for a while, that he wasn’t making an effort; but it was never going to work for long and so he was let go. I recall he took it badly. Then I went to work in retail; I worked for years in a gentlemen’s outfitters on Laugavegur. You’re so young you’d hardly remember it. The place closed down in the middle of the eighties, not long after I retired. I was never rolling in money; had enough for me and the family. Maríus had to look after himself.’
‘Was that why he moved to Siglufjördur?’ Ísrún asked.
‘That’s about right. They always struggled down here in Reykjavík. That was why they gave up their …’ the old man hesitated, glancing around him as if he were looking for an escape route.
Ísrún’s news instincts had kicked in and she was determined to get to the bottom of the story.
‘They gave up their …?’ she prompted, and then decided to finish the question with a guess. ‘They gave up their child?’
She could visualise the young man in the picture. Nikulás sat silent for a while and then spoke in a low voice, avoiding Ísrún’s eye.
‘I suppose I can tell you; it was all such a long time ago. The boy could be still living, I don’t know …’ He fell silent and Ísrún knew that it was best to keep quiet. ‘This had nothing to do with Jórunn’s death.’
‘They had a child?’ she asked softly.
‘They did. Jórunn was just twenty and Maríus wasn’t much older. They weren’t able to support a child and had decided more or less right away to put it up for adoption. I … well, I encouraged them to go that way. I knew Maríus better than anyone did and I thought it would be too much for him, at least at that time. He didn’t have permanent work and he was the type who matured late.’
Nikulás sighed and rubbed his eyes, maybe to hide tears or just because of tiredness. Ísrún had no intention of keeping him talking for too long. She was aware that time was not on her side, but was keen to get to the end of the tale.
‘It was a very difficult decision for Jórunn to take,’ he continued. ‘But she stuck to it. She said it was best for the child.’
‘And what became of the baby?’ Ísrún asked eagerly after a moment’s pause.
‘Well … he – it was a boy – he was adopted, as I told you. I don’t know where he went and they preferred not to know. Jórunn was adamant that it had to be people she didn’t know. Good people from the countryside, was what she said. You see, she didn’t want the risk of running into her own child on the street in Reykjavík,’ he said and fell silent. His expression demonstrated the inner struggle that had gone into retrieving memories from long ago. ‘She said that she was sure she’d recognise him, anywhere, any time.’
‘They never had any contact with him – the boy?’
‘No, not that I know of. He was formally adopted, all legal and above board. As far as I know, they never saw him again.’ His voice had dropped almost to a whisper.
Ísrún looked at her watch. ‘Can I get you some more coffee before I go?’ she asked after a brief silence. ‘I really have to run, I’m late for a meeting.’
‘No, that will be fine,’ Nikulás said. ‘But thank you.’
‘I’ll be in touch if there’s anything more I need to ask you,’ she said.
‘Of course. But you’ll have to come here. There’s no point trying to talk to me on the phone. I can’t hear a thing through it,’ he said, a smile returning to his face. ‘Some of the others here, who are older than I am, even have internet in their rooms. They send emails! Can you imagine? I don’t get on well with technology. That means there’s no point sending me a message unless it’s one that drops in through the letterbox.’
Ísrún gave him a smile as she said her farewells.
The youngster in the picture – the young man with the wide eyes and with the child in his arms – was all she could think about.
The old man had said that Jórunn’s child had been born when she was twenty, and, according to Ari Thór’s information, she would have been around twenty-five years old when the photo was taken. At that time, their boy would therefore have been a mere toddler, and certainly not been in his teens; so the young man in the photo had to be someone else.
Ísrún started her car and set off for the newsroom, unanswered questions fresh in her mind. Who was the young man in the picture? Then – what had become of Jórunn’s and Maríus’s son?
16
Already late for the morning conference, she tried to sneak in at the back of the meeting room but managed to knock over a colleague’s cup of coffee as she sat down, making everyone clearly aware of her late arrival. Coffee was spread all over the table and those around her snatched up papers and notebooks, but nobody made any attempt to do anything about the pool of coffee. Apologising, Ísrún left the room to fetch a roll of kitchen towel, returning to an awkward silence as she mopped the mess up from the table.
‘Thanks for joining us, Ísrún,’ said Ívar who, as usual, was running the news desk that day.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ she replied and took a seat. ‘I was chasing up a lead in the Snorri story.’
She felt no guilt about lying, telling herself that she was only lying to Ívar and he deserved it.
‘And what sort of lead might that be?’ Ívar enquired, eyes narrowing in irritation and scowling at her.
‘I promised I’d keep it to myself for the moment,’ she said with a smile. ‘But I expect I’ll have something soon for María … and you.’ She paused. ‘I’ll look after the cabinet briefing as well, if that’s all right. I want to see if I can get a comment from Marteinn about his friend.’
Ívar seemed ready to come up with an objection, so she hurriedly forestalled him.
‘I’m keeping an eye on the situation in Siglufjördur as well. Hopefully something will come of it.’
Ívar looked sour and muttered something to himself. Ísrún had got her own way.
In revenge, Ívar gave her the task of going down to Laugavegur to ask people for their opinions on the rising price of petrol. They both knew how tiring and time-consuming it could be convincing passers-by to give an opinion on the issues of the day to a camera. But she just smiled, knowing that these little victories on his part had no bearing on the bigger picture. She was already on her way to being a bigger name in TV news than Ívar was, and could soon start to have realistic expectations of a promotion, or a decent offer from another station.
Her thoughts switched instantly to her health. Sometimes she could forget about the illness in the bustle of a busy day. Then it would slip into her mind when she was least expecting it and that was when all her ambition, all her hard work, would feel like it was worth nothing. Maybe she would no longer be living when the offer of a step up the ladder came, or that gold-plated offer from a rival station.
She tried to stifle the negativity, and – this generally worked better –
to channel her energies in a positive direction in a way that helped her in this demanding environment.
To begin with, she called her police contact to check if he had anything new for her. After a few attempts, she managed to get through to him and the results were worth it.
‘Snorri sent his sister an email the day he died. Check it out,’ he said, but was unwilling to provide any more details. He seemed to have a penchant for cryptic sayings, keen to help her, but cautious about saying too much. Ísrún was sure that by doing this he was convincing himself that he was not breaking any confidentiality rules. She couldn’t complain, she told herself. It was better than nothing.
She didn’t think she should disturb Snorri’s sister on a day like today, ideally she would leave it until tomorrow at least; but she decided to wait and see. She had shifts all week and needed to have something she could use, so an interview might work. The only problem with that was, some other journalist might beat her to the scoop.
The Laugavegur job, interviewing passers-by about fuel prices, turned out to be just as tedious as she had expected. If anything, it was worse; just as she was ready to start at ten thirty, the rain started to come down. There were very few people about and most of those she approached were tourists who were keen to make the most of their stay in spite of the weather. But there was little point asking them their opinions on rising Icelandic petrol prices, even though they probably had the same problems wherever they came from. The few locals who stopped, because Ísrún had practically blocked their paths, had no time to answer questions in the rain for a TV crew. Ísrún sent silent evil thoughts Ívar’s way and finally gave up on the rain and nailed a couple of innocent victims in a bookshop and a post office. The answers were all much the same. Who was really likely to be happy to see petrol prices creep upwards? She did her best to squeeze more from her interviewees with extra questions – do you drive less than you used to? What’s the best way to deal with the problem? But she knew that this wouldn’t make the item any more interesting.
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