Rupture

by Ragnar Jónasson

  The tumour Ísrún herself had developed was benign and had been removed with surgery. Somehow she had managed to keep her condition a secret from both her family and her colleagues. But it was impossible for Ísrún to predict how the illness would develop, whether or not more tumours would appear or what their effects might be; in addition to which, further side effects could also be part of her condition.

  It was all too much to take some days.

  Ísrún had turned up early for the morning conference but listened to the discussion with only limited interest, her mind on her own assignments. She found it a welcome relief to be under María’s protective wing, with a free choice of assignments and without having to cater to Ívar’s whims.

  Following the meeting, she decided to try and finally set up a meeting with Snorri’s sister, Nanna. She thought she should follow up on her police contact’s recommendation, and take a chance on finding out what the email he had sent her on the day he died had been about. Nanna’s phone was switched off, however, and as she had no registered landline number, Ísrún’s best option was to knock on her door. It was maybe pushing things too far, but she had done worse things.

  She enlisted Rúrik to be there with the camera, although she had him wait in the car while she walked up alone to the low block of flats in Kópavogur and rang Nanna’s doorbell.

  Ísrún tried to look away from the intercom so as not to be recognisable on camera. She waited and when there was no response, she rang a second time, but again with no reply.

  ‘Are you alright to hang around for a while?’ she asked Rúrik, getting back in the car.

  ‘I don’t really have time,’ he replied. ‘You’re not the only one doing a report for the evening bulletin.’

  The upshot was that he took a taxi back, while Ísrún continued her vigil in the news car. It was a bitingly cold day outside and even starting the engine and turning on the car’s heater wasn’t enough to drive out the chill. Some days the cold air felt refreshing, but today no amount of positive thinking could make the shivers go away.

  She took the opportunity to move the car, clearly marked with the TV station’s logo, further from the drive leading to the block.

  She had been able to find pictures of Nanna online and watched out for any signs of activity at the block of flats, hoping to see her. But almost an hour passed before anything happened. In the meantime, Ívar had tried to call her, but she had decided that she had better things to do than reply to him.

  Finally, an old black Mercedes came to a halt outside the block. Ísrún sat up, immediately recognising the man behind the wheel. She hoped that neither he nor his passengers had noticed the TV station’s car.

  As he got out of the Mercedes, Ísrún was able to see Ellert more clearly. It was as if he had aged dramatically – the respected statesman transformed into a grief-stricken old man. She recognised the woman walking behind him, her eyes puffy with tears, as his daughter, Nanna. He put an arm around her as they made their way to the door. Ellert’s wife, Klara, who had occasionally made headlines back when her husband had been in politics, was last out of the car and hurried to catch them up, her face noticeably stony.

  Ísrún decided to strike while the iron was hot, and was quickly out of the car, making her appearance in the lobby just as Nanna was trying to unlock the door to the stairwell.

  The family looked at each other, and Klara seemed to be the first to realise that Ísrún was a journalist.

  She frowned. ‘We’re not talking to the media,’ she said in a harsh voice.

  ‘It’s not you I was hoping to speak to,’ Ísrún said. ‘I came here for a word with Nanna.’

  Nanna stared back wordlessly.

  ‘I’m alone, no cameraman,’ she said, without mentioning that the recorder in her pocket was running.

  ‘We would prefer some consideration,’ Ellert told her in a friendly, almost fatherly, tone of voice. ‘I hope you can appreciate that.’

  His voice was low, but all the same, it filled the lobby and for a moment there was silence. There were good reasons this man had spent his life in politics. Everyone took notice when he spoke.

  But Ísrún was not inclined to give up right away.

  ‘I was hoping I might be able to help you. Someone ran your son down,’ she said. And then, glancing at Nanna, ‘Your brother. These cases are frequently solved more easily when the media play a part along with the police. Your brother sent you an email shortly before he died. I gather the message has given the police a trail to follow.’

  Nanna nodded, her gaze distant. ‘He was going over to Kópavogur,’ she mumbled. ‘Something about a studio. He was sure he was going to be offered a recording contract.’

  ‘This is none of her damned business,’ Klara snapped, turning to her daughter.

  But Nanna continued as if she had not heard her mother’s objection. ‘The police couldn’t find a studio anywhere on the road where the taxi dropped him off. Someone had brought him there to kill him.’

  Now Klara’s fury got the better of her. ‘Snorri’s always the victim, isn’t he? Nobody killed him. He took his own life the day he decided drugs are more important than family.’

  Despite herself, Ísrún couldn’t help an inward smile as she stepped back into the knife-edged wind outside. That night’s top story was in the can.

  20

  Róbert felt as if the earth was literally disappearing from under his feet.

  He ended the call the second Heida had told him which coffee house they were at and rushed out, not even taking time to pull on a coat over his white t-shirt. The sharp wind stung his bare arms but he was so numb that he hardly noticed. He realised that he had left the keys to the car inside, but didn’t trouble to go back for them. He could run to the café on Laugavegur where Sunna and Heida had arranged to meet. The café where someone had snatched Kjartan …

  He had practically become the boy’s father, and now he felt nauseous at the thought that someone had taken an innocent child from his pushchair.

  He ran down the slope beside the old graveyard and out onto Sudurgata with the wind in his face.

  Breki.

  That was the only thought in his mind. It had to be Breki. The bastard.

  Róbert felt a sudden chill. He ran down past the city hall and was almost hit by a bus on Vonarstræti, when he remembered the cold he had been trying to fight off. Being outside in this weather was hardly going to help. But he didn’t care, he had to get to Sunna as quickly as he could; he had to find Kjartan.

  Maybe it would be just as well if it had been Breki who had taken the boy. Breki would never do him any harm.

  Róbert had never expected the custody battle to go as far as it had. Breki and Sunna had fought bitterly, but Breki had always stayed within the law. They had accepted that the courts would have the last word. But now, maybe Breki was fearing the worst from the courts – that the judgement would go against him. The gnawing uncertainty could have been too much for him.

  Róbert was starting to think more clearly, though. The adrenaline, the cold and the shock made him visualise another possibility – one that was infinitely worse.

  21

  It didn’t take Ísrún long to come up with a draft of the story about Snorri. The angle was that he had been enticed to the scene of the crime, which was a fine scoop. The only problem was that she was short of visual material to go with it. There was no interview. She would have to use yesterday’s footage again. The story was a good one, although it would have been more suitable for the front page of a newspaper than as a TV news item.

  She decided it was as well to check it out with her contact in the police. It was likely he wouldn’t want to say anything, but he might be able to warn her if she was on the wrong track.

  He answered her call right away.

  ‘I spoke to Snorri’s sister,’ she said, not bothering to say who was calling, and gave him the details of the conversation with Nanna. ‘It’ll be our lead story tonight,’ she
added proudly.

  ‘I don’t think so, somehow,’ he said shortly, taking her by surprise.

  Had Nanna lied to her, she wondered, frowning. Hell. It was just as well she hadn’t mentioned the story to Ívar.

  ‘Have I misunderstood something?’ she asked.

  ‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘I’m not worried about what you have to say about Snorri.’

  Ísrún sighed with relief. She knew her contact well enough to realise that this was confirmation, albeit indirect, that she was on the right path.

  ‘What I mean is that someone kidnapped a small child on Laugavegur this morning,’ her contact continued. ‘It’s still unclear what exactly happened, but I reckon that Snorri Ellertsson pales into insignificance compared to that.’

  ‘A child?’ Ísrún asked in astonishment. ‘You mean a baby’s disappeared?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Good heavens, I can’t believe it! I mean, no one kidnaps a baby in Iceland … This is really shocking. Do you know the details?’

  ‘No, I can’t tell you any more. It’s not a case I’m involved with, but there’s bound to be a statement later.’

  ‘I’ll look out for that, for sure. I hope it turns out well. The poor parents …’ Then she added: ‘Any progress on Snorri?’

  ‘Nothing, unfortunately. The taxi driver doesn’t remember seeing anyone about. We’ve been going through CCTV footage from the district, but no luck so far.’

  As soon as she put the phone down, Ísrún told Ívar about the child’s abduction and the latest developments on the Snorri Ellertsson case.

  He had also heard some vague reports about the missing child, and she told him she was working on both, leaving him no room to manoeuvre and give an exciting story like this to someone else. She had more than enough to do now, plus she was close to running out of time to get the interview with Ari Thór. She sighed as she booked some studio time for that evening.

  On top of everything else she had to do, there were emails from both of her parents that were long overdue her replies. Each in their own way, was trying to use Ísrún as a go-between to get their marriage back on track. She was more than happy to help, but found herself short of both time and patience, tempted to forward the messages to each of them and encourage them to sort their affairs out for themselves.

  Ísrún also had a doctor’s appointment that day, something she had tried to avoid thinking about. She had almost thought that she might forget to go to it. It was a vain hope.

  She used the time before her appointment to make enquiries into the missing child, all unsuccessful.

  ‘Take a seat, Ísrún,’ the doctor said as she entered his surgery with a sour expression on her face. She had been kept waiting for a quarter of an hour past her appointment time and was itching to get away – more so than usual when she had to go to the doctor.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Not bad,’ she said, giving him the same answer she always gave.

  The place was colder than it needed to be, she felt, wondering if she really wanted to see a doctor who couldn’t heat his surgery properly. Or maybe it was just the frosty atmosphere of the place that had this effect on her: the plastic film on the windows to ensure privacy in the ground floor surgery; the silver-grey desk; the tidy bookshelves; the cool, aluminium-framed chair and the shabby white bench.

  The doctor had sent her for an MRI scan to check on the possible appearance of any more tumours. She waited nervously for the results to see if her condition was improving or worsening.

  However, the results still weren’t available, and his questions were the standard ones, asking whether or not she had been aware of any of the symptoms he had asked her to watch out for. She sat impassively and answered one question after another.

  ‘Have you spoken to your parents about this yet?’ he asked finally, as he always did. She knew where this was going to lead.

  ‘No. I’m waiting for the right moment.’

  ‘I’d like your father to come in for a check-up, as I’ve repeatedly told you. We need to know if he has this condition too.’

  She muttered something inaudible.

  The doctor waited for a proper response, but Ísrún also knew how to wait.

  ‘Well, I’ll bear it in mind,’ she said at last. ‘But, you know, he’s getting old and I don’t want to worry him. And if he has inherited this … condition … then it certainly hasn’t done him any harm.’

  The doctor nodded, stood up and placed a paternal hand on Ísrún’s shoulder. ‘Think it over,’ he said. ‘You can book yourself another appointment at reception. I’ll see you in a month and we’ll see then how things look. But I’ll call you as soon as I get the scan results,’ he said. ‘I’m optimistic, I can tell you,’ he added when she had risen to her feet.

  He always said that when she left the surgery, and she had no way of knowing if he said the same thing to every patient.

  The doctor always asked her to take it easy, too, but she ignored that advice, hurried to the car and was back at the news studio shortly afterwards.

  The story of the kidnapped child had broken and was all over the news outlets. There had still been no press conference, but the police had issued a statement: a young woman had been sitting in a café on Laugavegur with her sister, leaving her eighteen-month-old child asleep in its pram outside. The child had been removed from the pram sometime between ten and a quarter past. Witnesses were requested to come forward, and, according to the police statement, the investigation was making progress, supported by CCTV footage from the area. But the child had not been located.

  Ísrún felt a shiver as she wrote the story. Was Iceland no longer the friendly, safe society it had once been? Would this particular Icelandic custom of allowing children to sleep outside in their prams now suddenly die out?

  Even hardened newsroom colleagues seemed stunned by the news.

  She tried time and again to reach her police contact, but with no success.

  Eventually, with the time getting on for seven o’clock in the evening, he called her back. ‘You’re going to have to stop calling for a while,’ he said. ‘I’m tied up and I can’t say anything.’

  ‘Have you found the boy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who are the parents? Do you have a suspect?’

  ‘Sorry. I can’t say anything. This is massively sensitive, Ísrún. We daren’t take any chances, and we can’t have any leaks. We have to find this child. That’s an absolute priority.’

  With that, he ended the call. That was something he rarely did – cut her off like that. There was no doubt that everyone was on edge.

  The story would have to go out as it stood, as practically a rehashed police press release. It was something Ísrún had always disliked, but this time she agreed with her police contact. The little boy’s safety was more important than any scoop.

  22

  Tómas had taken the night shift, so Ari Thór had finally slept well and arrived for his morning shift refreshed. People were starting to be seen venturing out of doors around the town. The most courageous ones, or the most foolhardy, had ignored the risk the infection posed and gone for a walk in the cold, fresh winter air. But there was no talking on street corners and the shops remained shut. People continued to avoid each other under the present conditions.

  Ari Thór and Kristín had a talk on the phone that morning.

  ‘You’re doing well, Ari, aren’t you?’ she asked, clearly concerned.

  ‘Of course, and you? Are they keeping you busy?’

  ‘The workload is insane. Also, I try to do as many shifts as I can, you know, since you are not around. I feel quite lonely just sitting around at home waiting for them to take Siglufjördur out of quarantine.’

  ‘It’ll be soon, I’m sure,’ Ari Thór said. ‘There’s more people on the streets today than yesterday, it’s all becoming normal again.’

  ‘Be careful, OK?’

  ‘Of course.’

&nb
sp; ‘And don’t engage in any heroics, do you hear me, Ari?’

  ‘I promise.’

  There was little chance of him breaking that promise. His instincts for self-preservation were stretched to their limits and he was determined to do as little as he could. He felt most comfortable at home, but when he had to be on duty, he tried to immerse himself in the Hédinsfjördur files to forget about his other current worries. But his investigation into what had happened to Jórunn had ground to a halt.

  He had tried to note down the main facts of the case as they appeared to him. A well-off couple from Siglufjördur, Gudfinna and Gudmundur, decided to try setting up home in Hédinsfjördur in 1955, hoping to inhabit the abandoned fjord once again. Jórunn and Maríus, who had lived in Siglufjördur for a year and who were not financially well off, moved with them to the house in Hédinsfjördur. Towards the end of 1956 or in early 1957, Maríus took a photograph of the group of them, plus an unidentified young man holding baby Hédinn – if the baby was Hédinn. The date of this photograph assumed that the child in the picture was Hédinn. The fjord was abandoned once more in the spring of 1957.

  Ari Thór also knew that, before moving to the north of Iceland, Jórunn and Maríus had a son, born around 1950. Unable to support a family, they had no choice but to put the child up for adoption. There had clearly been no support from Gudfinna and Gudmundur, Ari Thór decided, even though they had been fairly wealthy.

  There was no knowledge of where the child had gone after being adopted, but he would have been six or seven years old when the picture was taken, which ruled him out as the young man in the photograph.

  Brought up in Reykjavík, Jórunn was unused to weather conditions in the north, and, according to the police files, she had found it difficult to cope with the snow and the isolation.