Rupture

by Ragnar Jónasson

  Once it was all over, it was hardly worth going back to the newsroom as the cabinet briefing was due to start shortly. Ísrún and the cameraman decided to shelter in the car from the wind and rain, and parked not far from the Cabinet Office behind a row of polished ministry cars.

  She decided to use the opportunity to make a call. After a wait, she was put through to a specialist in adoption practice at one of the government agencies – a polite and, judging from his voice, young man.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said, without introducing herself. ‘I’m looking for information on an old adoption case.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said and she detected a shadow of suspicion in his voice. ‘Is this a case that you’re personally involved in?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. But it’s an ancient case, from around 1950. A couple, people I knew but who are now both dead, had a child they gave up for adoption. They never saw him again, so I’m trying to find out what became of him. Could you find out for me?’

  ‘You really think so?’ the man asked with a chuckle.

  The informality of his reply took Ísrún by surprise. Flustered, she introduced herself properly and added that she was working on a story connected to the adoption. She immediately realised that this was only going to make matters more awkward.

  The young man’s response fell by the wayside, however, as Rúrik the cameraman prodded her and pointed to the group of ministers leaving the Cabinet Office. She only half heard the young man’s offended remarks about how she should make a formal application and his parting shot that the reply to such an application was unlikely to be positive.

  She quickly ended the conversation and jumped out of the car with Rúrik close behind her. He had worked at the station for years, was never caught off guard and had little sympathy for overstressed reporters who acted as if each day was their last. He and Ísrún got on well together and she knew there was no point in chivvying him along; he worked at his own pace, was always in the right place at the right time, and never failed to produce top-quality footage. Normally he would add a few fill-in shots of the scene as well – things that Ísrún would never have thought to include, but which were always useful when it came to editing the final sequence, and filling two minutes of screen time with good material.

  With no particular political issue hitting the headlines, there were only a few journalists waiting for the ministers to emerge. Marteinn, the Prime Minister, was on the steps, where he was being quizzed by a young woman from one of the daily papers. Ísrún held back and waited for an opportunity to speak to him without any of the other media overhearing.

  Marteinn glowed with the self-confidence any politician is lost without. His short-cropped hair was starting to turn grey even though he was only in his early forties; he was a handsome man who clearly looked after himself. He wasn’t tall, which had taken Ísrún by surprise when she had first met him in person, even though she knew how deceptive television images could be.

  A politician to his fingertips, he nodded and smiled as he came towards her.

  ‘Could I have a word?’ she asked, returning his smile.

  ‘Of course, Ísrún.’

  She had noticed that he made a point of using her name every time they met. She knew it was all part of his polished performance, but it worked all the same; she found it difficult to withstand his charm. It was no surprise that it brought his party votes by the truckload.

  She glanced at Rúrik to give him a signal to start shooting, but as usual, he was ahead of her. She turned back to Marteinn and let fly.

  ‘I wanted to get your reaction to the death of Snorri Ellertsson.’

  Marteinn stood stock still and she could not avoid seeing that the question had taken him by surprise. Normally he thought fast and his answers to even unexpected questions were quick and unerring. But this time there was a moment’s hesitation. He looked like he was doing his best to remain unruffled for the camera.

  ‘It’s a difficult time for Snorri’s family,’ he said at last. ‘I have already given Ellert and Klara my personal condolences.’

  He stood in silence, his expression grave, and Ísrún realised that he was waiting for Rúrik to stop recording. Ísrún wasn’t inclined to give way, though, and decided to try another angle of attack.

  ‘The police have indicated that he may have been murdered. Has there been any discussion with you over increased security, considering this could have been a politically motivated incident?’

  ‘I’m not prepared to comment,’ said Marteinn; and right away both he and Ísrún appeared to realise that he had said the wrong thing.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said and turned to Rúrik. ‘That’ll do,’ she told him and turned back to Marteinn. ‘I didn’t set out to ambush you with that question,’ she lied, an amiable smile on her lips.

  ‘That’s alright,’ he answered, with his own ballot-box smile.

  ‘Were you close friends?’ she asked.

  Marteinn was cautious. The camera might have been turned off, but this was still a journalist he was speaking to.

  ‘We knew each other well in the old days, before we went our separate ways. I hadn’t been in close contact with him in recent years, but that doesn’t mean to say that his loss is any less painful.’

  Ísrún decided, however, that it hadn’t take him long to distance himself from his old friend.

  Marteinn looked at his watch. ‘I’m going to be late. Good to see you, Ísrún.’

  He smiled yet again and strode to the ministry car without a backward glance.

  17

  ‘Hello, Ari Thór.’

  He recognised the voice of the girl at the other end of the line.

  ‘Hello. Any news on the paternity test, yet?’ he asked straightaway.

  ‘No. Nothing yet,’ she said.

  It wasn’t a surprise: the DNA sample had been sent overseas for analysis and it obviously didn’t deserve any kind of priority treatment.

  So, why the hell was she calling him, if there was nothing to tell him? He waited in silence for her to say something.

  ‘Well, I … I just wanted to see how you were. I thought I’d check up and make sure you hadn’t caught that fever. There’s nothing about it in the news any more.’

  ‘That’s true. The media seem to lose interest in something once it stops being dramatic,’ he agreed, suspecting that the girl had another reason to call but was reluctant to broach it. ‘But don’t worry. I’ll take care of myself. There haven’t been any new cases and we expect the town to be out of quarantine by the end of the week.’

  He tried to sound confident, but in truth, his own fear of the illness was difficult to keep in check.

  ‘Wasn’t there a nurse who died?’

  ‘There was, unfortunately. But the people who were in contact with her are being monitored carefully so that there isn’t any further infection,’ he said. He realised immediately just how cold-hearted that sounded, so he added, ‘But it was a real tragedy that the poor woman lost her life.’

  ‘Are you on duty at the moment?’

  ‘Yes. Evening shift this time. The boss and I try and split the shifts between us.’

  ‘We could maybe meet when this is all over,’ she said in a dull voice. ‘It would be fun for you to meet the boy.’

  Ari Thór had no idea what to say, so he kept quiet. He felt that he had made it as clear as he could that he was not prepared to get to know the child before it was clear who the father might be.

  ‘We’ll see,’ he said as politely as he could.

  It wasn’t worth cutting her off too abruptly, however much these calls got on his nerves. She could easily be the mother of his child. He felt a cold sweat on his forehead, and tried to push from his mind the thought that he could have a child he had never met in Blönduós.

  ‘It’s not easy,’ she said, her voice still low. ‘It’s not easy to be alone.’

  ‘I’m seeing someone else,’ Ari Thór answered. ‘If the boy is mine, then I’ll do my b
it bringing him up. But you have to understand …’ He tried his best to sound reasonable. ‘You have to understand that it’s best not to go into this until there’s a definite result. We agreed before that I wouldn’t meet him unless it’s confirmed that I’m his father.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I understand. Of course I do,’ she said, and at the same moment he heard the sound of a child crying in the background. His stomach turned over. This could be his son. ‘He’s awake, so I need to go. Bye,’ she said and put the phone down.

  Ari Thór sat as if he were welded to the chair, imagining the little boy he had never seen.

  Ísrún had called earlier in the day and told him quickly about the visit to the late Maríus’s brother Nikulás. After that she had emailed him part of the recording she had made. The news of the adoption took Ari Thór by surprise. Somewhere, Hédinn had a cousin he knew nothing about, assuming the man was still alive. He knew that he ought to let Hédinn know about this development as soon as possible. He had asked Ísrún if the boy was maybe the young man in the photograph, but realised right away that he could not possibly be.

  ‘That was my first thought as well,’ Ísrún had said. ‘But the boy in the picture is too old to be him.’ Then she had come up with an interesting theory. ‘The little boy in the picture … is it possible that’s not Hédinn?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ari Thór asked.

  ‘We’ve assumed that the child in the photograph is Hédinn, and that’s the most obvious explanation. But it could be another child and the picture could have been taken before Hédinn was born.’

  ‘But there’s no doubt that the picture was taken in Hédinsfjördur,’ Ari Thór said doubtfully.

  ‘Maybe before they had moved there. Even a couple of years previously.’

  ‘So you’re suggesting—’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, interrupting him. ‘The baby could have been Maríus and Jórunn’s son, the one who was adopted. He was born around 1950. There’s nothing to say the picture couldn’t have been taken then. The house in Hédinsfjördur was there at that time, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, the house was there then,’ Ari Thór replied. ‘But it’s not likely they would have travelled all the way to Siglufjördur and then to Hédinsfjördur with a small baby, is it? It could explain why the young man wasn’t living with them when Jórunn died, though. Maybe he didn’t ever live with them in Hédinsfjördur and never knew Hédinn at all,’ he said. He was still doubtful but was grateful for any new possibility.

  Ísrún then changed the subject, telling him that she was working on another story – a murder that seemed to have repercussions all the way to the top of the government.

  ‘But you keep that to yourself,’ she said playfully. ‘It’s all off the record, but be sure not to miss the news tonight,’ she told him and added that, because of it, she would have to postpone the interview yet again.

  Ari Thór was still smarting from his conversation with the red-headed girl, when he remembered Ísrún’s recommendation. So he turned on the station’s rickety old TV set just in time for the evening bulletin, and saw the unusual spectacle of the Prime Minister being taken by surprise. He had little interest in politics, but had often seen Marteinn Helgason on the screen – a charming and reassuring presence, always reasonable and always with the answers at his fingertips; a man born to be a politician. This time, however, he seemed to have little enthusiasm for talking about the death of Snorri Ellertsson, even though it was no secret that they had been friends.

  Once the news had finished, Ari Thór made a call to the Reverend Eggert, Siglufjördur’s priest. They knew each other slightly – the policemen and the priest in a little town would always have things to discuss. The first time they had met, Eggert had heard of Ari Thór’s abandoned theology studies and the ‘Reverend Ari Thór’ nickname, and had assumed that he was a religious man with an interest in church affairs. He could not have been further from the truth. Ari Thór held to no faith, but instead held a bitter anger towards higher powers, if there were any, having lost his parents in his youth.

  Ari Thór had never troubled to correct the priest’s misunderstanding about him, and the Reverend Eggert often mentioned, with apparent surprise, that Ari Thór was never to be seen in church. In fact, Ari Thór had only once been inside Siglufjördur’s church, and that had been to attend the funeral of the town’s most famous son, Hrólfur Kristjánsson. Hrólfur had fallen to his death at the local theatre soon after Ari Thór had moved to Siglufjördur. Ari Thór had stubbornly refused to accept that it was merely an accident and this had marked the beginning of his first major case.

  The Reverend Eggert seemed pleased to hear from Ari Thór and showed an immediate interest in his questions; he was always ready to talk about Hédinsfjördur, he said.

  ‘You can drop by for a chat if you like,’ he said.

  Ari Thór thought for a moment. ‘Sure. You’re well, are you?’

  The priest laughed. ‘Perfectly fine. You think some virus is going to attack a man of God like me? I’ve never been better.’

  Ari Thór decided to take him up on his invitation, leaving the police car parked outside the station and setting off for the priest’s house on foot. It was a beautiful night for a walk; there was a chill in the air, but the sky was unusually clear. At this time of year, the weather was notoriously unpredictable, with some days bringing sunshine, rain and snow all together at once.

  Siglufjördur had always been a peaceful place, but now it was too quiet. There was not a soul to be seen on the streets. It was as if Ari Thór was the only inhabitant of a ghost town. With nobody daring to go outside, there was no sign of life and the silence was so complete that it was disquieting. Ari Thór walked along the sea road – his favourite route, with its exquisite views over the fjord, calm yet majestic. The houses he passed were colourful, some quite old and some of them newly painted. He was pleased to see that the town was going through something of a rejuvenation.

  The priest’s house was on a hill not far from the town’s hospital, a short walk from the police station. It was surrounded by trees, and, as Ari Thór approached, between the dark trunks and branches he saw a light switched on behind one of the windows. The priest had never married and, for the thirty-five years he had been Siglufjördur’s parish priest, he had lived alone. Now in his sixties, he had been born and brought up in the town.

  Ari Thór knocked and, as he waited for the priest to answer, gazed along the length of the fjord, the little town and its imposing church standing out against the surrounding darkness. The stillness was suddenly broken by a flock of birds – probably snow buntings – that came from nowhere, swooped into Ari Thór’s line of sight, then vanished into the night as quickly as they had appeared.

  The door swung open and the priest stood in the doorway.

  ‘Come in, young man.’

  The Reverend Eggert had aged well. He was a tall, slim man with a distinctive face under thick, grey hair. He was wearing flannel trousers and a checked shirt, the top button undone, and a pair of old-fashioned spectacles hung on a cord around his neck.

  He showed Ari Thór to his office, sat at his desk and waved his guest to an old chair.

  ‘Keeping busy these days?’ he asked cheerfully.

  ‘You could say that,’ Ari Thór agreed, taking a seat.

  ‘It seems to be almost over, I’m delighted to say,’ the priest said. ‘What happened to poor Rósa was terrible. Did you know her?’

  ‘Not personally. But she’d been a nurse here for years, hadn’t she?’

  ‘She had,’ Eggert said. ‘But you know Sandra, don’t you?’

  Ari Thór nodded, aware that every snippet of news was passed on in a small community. ‘I go and see her sometimes.’

  ‘I met her today. She’s down with normal flu, but serious all the same.’

  It was certainly a relief to hear that Sandra had not caught the lethal infection.

  ‘I hear there are few people who know as much a
s you do about Hédinsfjördur,’ Ari Thór said, changing the subject.

  ‘Yes,’ Eggert said. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I’m looking into an old case – in between other assignments,’ he replied, hesitating.

  ‘The death?’ the priest asked. ‘Jórunn?’ he continued before Ari Thór could even nod his head.

  ‘That’s right,’ Ari Thór confirmed. There was no need to encourage the Reverend Eggert to talk.

  ‘I know about the case, of course. Gudmundur and Gudfinna were the last inhabitants of Hédinsfjördur. They had lived in Siglufjördur first and then they moved back here after that terrible event. The other people living there with them were Jórunn and …’ He paused and thought. ‘Yes. Jórunn and Maríus, if my memory is correct.’

  ‘They were sisters, Gudfinna and Jórunn,’ Ari Thór managed to add.

  ‘You don’t need to remind me,’ Eggert said sharply, but he smiled again. ‘That’s the thing about being interested in a place like Hédinsfjördur, somewhere few people have lived over the years – it didn’t take long to get to know its history and stories about the people who lived there.’

  ‘Did you ever live there yourself?’

  ‘Good heavens, no. It’s far too remote. Siglufjördur’s isolated enough for me,’ he laughed. ‘I’d have died of misery and loneliness there, just as poor Jórunn did.’

  Ari Thór was about to ask if the priest was sure of this, but kept quiet and let him continue.

  ‘I visited Hédinsfjördur a few times before the tunnel was dug, normally on foot. It’s an excellent hike. I went there by sea once, many years ago, when it was decided that a service ought to be held there. I was the parish priest here and so it fell to me. It was an unusual service because the fjord was deserted, but we thought it would be a good idea to do this to remember those who had lived there in the past and the priests who had held services there centuries ago. People from Siglufjördur flocked there by boat to attend the event.’ He lapsed into silence to get his breath back.