One evening in March 1957, during a heavy snowstorm, she drank poison and subsequently died. She admitted, according to the testimony of the others, to having put poison in her coffee by mistake. General opinion was that this version of events was unlikely, and the suicide theory was more widely believed.
This was a case that would in all likelihood never be solved. It was even possible that the original investigation had reached the correct conclusion; that Jórunn had taken poison by mistake, as unlikely as that sounded.
Ari Thór decided that the priest’s suggestion – to pay a visit to Delía the photographer – was a good one. If she had travelled to Hédinsfjördur to take pictures of the winter landscape and had met Jórunn there, as Reverend Eggert believed, then she might have some nugget of useful information.
The priest had repeated his suggestion as they parted after their night-time visit to Hédinsfjördur a couple of days before, although Ari Thór wondered if it would be wise to go and see her with the town still under quarantine.
‘Don’t you worry about that,’ the Reverend Eggert had cheerfully assured him. ‘Delía is scared stiff and hasn’t been out of the house for days. She lives alone and there’s no chance of catching anything from her.’
The priest had told Ari Thór where she lived and that morning, in the middle of what would have been a routine patrol, if there had been anything that needed to be patrolled, he decided to knock on her door.
It didn’t take long to find the place – a small, colourless house clad in corrugated-iron sheets. It stood between much larger and more imposing buildings, like a delicate flower surrounded by shrubs.
Ari Thór parked the police jeep in front of the house. The curtains were all drawn and there was no sign of life. He looked around, and saw that the town as a whole was lacking many signs of life, although a figure could be seen peering out of the window of one of the larger houses nearby, disappearing into the gloom inside as soon as Ari Thór made eye contact with them. There was nothing better than a visit from the police to start the gossip mill – apart from a visit from the ambulance, of course.
He rang the doorbell and waited. Nothing happened, so he hammered briskly on the door. The place was so small that it was unthinkable that anyone inside could not hear it. He waited a while longer and was about to give up when he heard movement behind the door.
‘Hello?’ a clear female voice enquired, the door still firmly closed. He realised that the voice was reaching him through the letterbox.
‘Who is it? I don’t want any visitors,’ the voice continued.
‘I’m Ari Thór,’ he said. ‘From the police.’
‘Go away, young man,’ she grated. ‘I don’t want any infections.’
The letterbox snapped shut.
Unwilling to give up so easily, Ari Thór knocked again, although not with the same determination as before.
The letterbox opened again. ‘What do you want?’ Delía asked, her voice less hostile this time.
‘The Reverend Eggert suggested that I should pay you a visit,’ Ari Thór said, speaking in a loud, clear voice, as he was unwilling to stoop to speak into the letterbox, certain that his visit had already attracted enough attention from the neighbours.
‘Eggert?’ Her interest appeared to have been piqued.
‘That’s right. He said that you travelled to Hédinsfjördur while it was still inhabited – to take pictures.’
‘Eggert talks too much,’ she said after a pause.
‘Is that right?’
‘It certainly is. So, young man, you want to see the pictures, do you?’
‘I’d like that very much.’
There was another pause.
‘Can’t it wait? I don’t want to catch that infection.’
‘I’m in fine health, and never went anywhere near the people who died,’ Ari Thór said. ‘If there’s anyone who’s taking more precautions than you, then that’s me. I haven’t met anyone but Tómas these last few days, and we’re both fine.’
‘But what about Eggert? Didn’t you say he sent you to come and see me? Didn’t you meet him as well?’ she asked, the suspicion plain in her voice.
Ari Thór was starting to become tired of this. He had no intention of standing outside all day, and the cold was starting to make itself felt.
‘Yes, of course. I met him yesterday. I forgot to mention that. But he was happy to meet me and that speaks for itself.’
Delía sniffed. ‘Eggert is as strong as an ox. It’s as if there’s a higher power watching over him and it goes to his head. It’s shocking how careless he is in regard to his own health, always going to meet anyone who’s sick and never catching as much as a cold,’ she said and it was clear that in the priest’s place, she would behave very differently. ‘But, well, since you’ve not been around too many people, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But for heaven’s sake don’t come too close.’
The letter box clicked shut and the door swung open.
A short, elderly woman with curly grey hair stood before Ari Thór. She was smartly dressed, as if she had been on the way out; her appearance gave no indication that she had been practically a prisoner in her own home for the last few days.
‘I’m Delía,’ she said, gesturing for Ari Thór to go into a living room that was as diminutive as the house itself.
He felt as if he had stepped into an antique shop. The furniture was old but of the best quality, even though there was little spare space in the room. The walls were decorated with flower-patterned wallpaper, the shelves full of old books and what looked like photograph albums. There were photographs hanging on every wall – all monochrome prints of a bygone age, presumably taken by Delía or her father.
‘Has this house been in your family for long?’ Ari Thór asked as he sat down.
‘Would you mind not sitting so close?’ Delía asked. ‘Over there, maybe.’ She pointed to a stool in a corner. ‘You can’t be too careful with a dreadful disease doing the rounds.’
Ari Thór didn’t trouble to remind her that the infection was far from ‘doing the rounds’ and repeated his question.
‘The house? Yes, for a very long time,’ she answered.
Eggert had told Ari Thór that Delía was some years older than he was and he guessed that she was in her mid-seventies, but she looked fit and healthy for her age.
‘You’re the one they call the Reverend?’ Delía asked when he had sat down again further away from her.
He took a deep breath and nodded. Would he ever be rid of that nickname? But he needed Delía’s help, so he took pains not to show his irritation.
‘You’re a theology graduate?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said and forced a smile. ‘But maybe one day I’ll go back and finish my degree.’
‘I can’t offer you anything. I haven’t been able to get to the shops,’ she added without a note of apology in her tone. It was a straightforward statement of fact before she got down to business. ‘You want to look at old stuff from Hédinsfjördur, then?’
Ari Thór nodded again.
‘May I ask why? I can’t imagine much going on over there that could be police business.’
‘I’m looking into an old case, on my own initiative. Partly to keep myself occupied while the situation here lasts.’
‘An old case from Hédinsfjördur?’ Delía asked in surprise. ‘I can’t recall any crime ever having been committed there.’
‘You remember Jórunn, who lived there when you went to Hédinsfjördur?’
‘Yes, I remember that she took her own life. There’s hardly anything suspicious about that.’
‘Are you sure she committed suicide?’ Ari Thór asked. ‘That’s not what the police reports say.’
‘Of course she did. Everyone said so. I don’t remember what reason was given when it was reported in the papers, but it was a long time ago. I was around twenty back then, just a child,’ she said and smiled at the recollection.
‘Do you thi
nk you still have …’ Ari Thór began, but Delía carried on as if he had not spoken.
‘You know, young man,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I never really believed in ghosts, but I’ve always been sure that the poor woman, Jórunn, simply died of fright.’ She leaned forward to give her words emphasis and then was silent for a moment. Ari Thór could hear only the ticking of the grandfather clock that stood in the living room and the whistle of the wind outside. ‘Not directly, you understand,’ Delía added. ‘She just gave up, and drank poison so she didn’t have to live with the ghosts there.’
Ari Thór tried to shake off the shiver that ran up his spine. ‘What makes you think the place was haunted?’
‘Well, he as good as told me that himself when I went over there.’
‘Told you? Who did? Gudmundur, or was it Maríus?’
‘No, the boy. The young man.’
23
‘The young man?’ Ari Thór stammered in astonishment. He could feel his pulse racing and he groped for the photograph in his jacket pocket before realising that he hadn’t brought it with him. This piece of information had come like a bolt from the blue.
‘That’s right, the boy at the farm,’ Delía confirmed placidly, apparently unaware of the effect her words were having on Ari Thór.
‘What was his name?’
‘I don’t remember, young man. I didn’t talk to him much. To be quite honest, I didn’t get a warm welcome there.’
‘How so?’
‘I hadn’t let them know that I was coming. I’d been sure they’d be happy to have a visitor. My father knew Gudmundur well – he and Gudfinna had lived in Siglufjördur before they decided to try their luck in Hédinsfjördur.’
Ari Thór nodded and Delía continued.
‘The conditions were fine, with some beautiful, calm winter weather. That’s why I decided to take the chance and go over the Hestsskard mountain pass. My father wasn’t keen on the idea, but I was determined back then. I could see the house as I was coming down the mountain, and I saw a young woman standing not far from it. I went to talk to her; that was Jórunn. She was very friendly and was going to invite me in. Then Gudmundur appeared with a face like thunder. He seemed surprised to see a stranger. I suppose they weren’t used to seeing visitors, especially not in winter.’
She sat in silence for a moment.
‘Did you meet any other people there?’ Ari Thór asked, desperate to know more about the young man. He could see the photograph in his mind; the thought of it had been with him night and day. The youngster had become an enigma, in spite of his innocent look in the photograph.
‘No. I wasn’t invited in, and didn’t push myself on them. They had a small child at the time. Wasn’t Hédinn born around that time?’
‘Do you recall when this was?’
‘It wasn’t long before Christmas …’ Delía closed her eyes as she thought. ‘1957 … no. 1956. That fits, yes. 1956.’
‘Hédinn was born that spring.’
‘You know him? Aren’t you a newcomer round here?’
‘I’ve been here three years now …’
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘A newcomer.’
‘In fact, it was Hédinn who asked me to look into all this. He found an old photograph from back then that came from Jórunn’s husband’s estate. In the middle of the group in the picture was a young man, holding baby Hédinn. But Hédinn had never heard of anyone else having been present, other than himself and the two couples – his own parents and Maríus and Jórunn.’
‘I had never thought about that before. Of course, I was young and thoughtless back then, but I didn’t even wonder why this boy was there. I just assumed he was part of the family. Then, when Jórunn died, it was never seen as anything other than a tragic suicide. Are you telling me the boy wasn’t there when that happened?’ she asked, a frown on her face.
‘No. I’ve read carefully through all the statements. There’s no mention of him.’
‘How strange.’
Ari Thór took a deep breath and let fly with the question that everything could hinge on.
‘You said you thought he was part of the family. Do you know how he was related to them?’ he asked and waited hopefully for Delía’s reply.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said and appeared to regret deeply that she was unable to help. ‘I didn’t ask. He came out and asked me about the equipment I was using, so we chatted for a while. Then someone called him – I think it was Gudmundur – and off he went.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Now we get to the heart of the matter,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘That is, the reason I had such an uncomfortable feeling about that house. Ever since then I’ve been certain that the place was haunted.’
Ari Thór usually had little time for ghost stories, but now he wasn’t so sure.
‘I remember it clearly,’ Delía went on, her eyes looking into the distance. ‘Sometimes there’s an incident or a conversation that stays with you for years. I asked him what it was like living there, told him I couldn’t imagine it being an exciting sort of place. That took him unawares and he muttered something about it being not a bad place, and that was that. We talked about a few other things, I don’t remember exactly what, and he finally admitted that it wasn’t a comfortable place to be.’
Ari Thór jumped as the old grandfather clock chimed.
Delía ignored it and carried on talking. ‘He said that he had seen something abnormal there; that was the word he used – abnormal. I was surprised.’
‘What did he mean?’ Ari Thór asked quietly, as if the young man were there in the wallpapered living room and he didn’t want him to hear.
‘He wouldn’t say. Then he went rushing off. I reckon he had said more than he meant to,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I can tell you that I didn’t feel as safe going back home as I had been on the way over from Siglufjördur. You know, I never went back there again – not until the tunnel opened.’
‘Do you still have the pictures?’
‘Of course. I never throw anything away.’
‘Are they here?’ Ari Thór asked, indicating the albums.
‘They’re in the attic, but it’s an easy job if you want to see them.’
‘Are they damaged?’ Ari Thór asked, hoping that wasn’t the case. He was excited at the prospect of seeing these old photographs; there was a chance she had taken a picture of the boy.
‘Not at all, but I have to set the projector up.’
‘Projector?’
‘Yes,’ she said shortly, and seemed to understand his confusion. ‘You thought I meant still pictures?’ she said with a smile.
‘You mean you have a film from Hédinsfjördur at that time?’ Ari Thór said in surprise. ‘Of this boy? And Jórunn?’
‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But I can’t remember. It’s years since I last looked at this footage. It wasn’t all that successful a visit and I would have liked to have had more activity in the film – the people at the farm with that fantastic landscape behind them. But they weren’t co-operative. I was obsessed with taking pictures back then. My father had bought an old eight-millimetre cine-camera and a projector, but he preferred to concentrate on taking still pictures and lost interest quite quickly. But I thoroughly enjoyed filming what was going on in the town. The developing bills my parents got used to mount up!’ she laughed.
Ari Thór kept quiet, not wanting to interrupt, in spite of his excitement at the prospect of the film.
‘I have all kinds of film from the herring years. Some of them are in the Herring Era museum; the rest are here,’ she said, then hesitated a little. ‘It’s such a shame that it’s all so disorganised. I used to love filming, but organisation was never my strong point. It’ll be here somewhere, though.’
‘In the attic?’ Ari Thór asked with a courteous smile.
‘I’m afraid so. It’s all up there in boxes. I rarely go up there these days. Once you get to your seventies you lose the urge to climb ladd
ers, and then there are the spiders up there that I’d prefer to stay away from,’ Delía said with a grin. Ari Thór quickly picked up what she was hinting at.
‘I’ll go up there and fetch them if that’s all right with you?’ he suggested, dismayed at the thought of the spiders, but thinking they were a more enticing option than returning to the real world outside.
‘Be my guest,’ Delía replied. ‘The projector’s in the other room.’
Armed with instructions on just where the right boxes were to be found, and with an old but remarkably powerful torch in his hand, Ari Thór climbed the steps leading up into the attic from the hall. The house was small and there was hardly room to move in the cramped space under the roof. He quickly found what he was looking for, climbed back down and placed the dusty boxes on the living-room table.
‘Let’s have a look …’ Delía murmured, going through the boxes carefully. ‘This is it,’ she said in triumph, shortly after, holding up a film canister. ‘I hope the film is still all right,’ she added.
Ari Thór fetched the projector from its home in the broom cupboard in the kitchen; it was a solid, green machine that didn’t appear to have been affected by the passage of time.
‘We need to set it up on the kitchen table,’ Delía instructed. ‘Point it at the wall over there. That’s one of the only white walls in this place; we can use it as a backdrop.’
Her quick fingers skilfully threaded the film into the projector.
‘I look at films occasionally, so the projector’s fine,’ she said, switching off the lights and drawing the curtains.
The projector clattered into life. For Ari Thór it was like being at the cinema for the very first time. The Hédinsfjördur of sixty years ago appeared in all its glory, as the past came to brilliant life. The brightness from the projector also illuminated every crack and lump in the kitchen wall, but that didn’t make the show any less appealing.
The rhythmic clattering of the projector filled the room and Delía chuckled. ‘There’s no soundtrack. I used to record sound on tape if it was anything special – a concert or anything like that. Then I’d show the film and play the tape at the same time. But I didn’t record any sound in Hédinsfjördur.’
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