Rupture

by Ragnar Jónasson

  ‘Nothing unusual,’ he said and smiled at her.

  ‘I lost my keys, though,’ she said suddenly, taking him by surprise.

  ‘Ah?’ the Chief Inspector said sternly, and the look on his face told them that he smelt blood. ‘Were they stolen? A break-in?’

  Sunna seemed not to know what to say. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said, as if that was the answer to both questions. ‘But Róbert changed the locks, just to be sure.’

  ‘Ah?’ the Chief Inspector said, as if that were the only word he could find to convey his surprise. ‘Any special reason for that?’

  Róbert felt the man’s piercing gaze. Now he would have to make a decision. Keep quiet or tell all? The last thing he wanted was to be caught out in a falsehood. He stopped to think – long enough, he knew, to arouse suspicion. His cold was again making itself felt, draining him of energy.

  ‘I got up and found the back door ajar,’ he admitted. ‘The same night that Sunna lost her keys. I probably forgot to lock up, the door doesn’t always close properly. It’s an old place, you see. But it bugged me, so I decided to change the locks.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Sunna demanded.

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you, sweetheart. It was probably nothing.’

  ‘Interesting,’ was all the Chief Inspector had to say as they left the room.

  He returned a little later to tell them that Heida had been interviewed, and she had not been able to provide any further information. The police were already at work collating CCTV footage from the area.

  ‘But we haven’t been able to contact the boy’s father yet,’ he said.

  Sunna and Róbert were again left in the interview room. Sunna was calmer – silent and staring into space. Róbert said nothing and waited, trying to convince himself that Breki had taken the child. He felt it was unforgivable to abduct the boy like that, regardless of how dark the outlook might be in the custody dispute. Róbert already feared that Breki was making plans to whisk Kjartan out of the country. He must have planned it in advance, he thought, certain that he could not have simply lifted the child from the pram and taken him home.

  Róbert tried to force his thoughts elsewhere. Closing his eyes, he tried to visualise the ocean – sitting alone in the little boat, far away in the Westfjords, enjoying the stillness and the mirror-calm sea. It was so real he could almost smell it. But he could still hear Sunna’s occasional sob. He opened his eyes but avoided looking directly at her. She was far away in a world of her own, silent in her chair as she wept.

  There was a serious expression on the Chief Inspector’s face when he returned. Róbert was startled by it; he wiped the sweat from his forehead and anxiously waited for him to say something.

  ‘We’ve located Breki and he’s up north. The police in Akureyri are speaking to him,’ he said, then paused. ‘He travelled there early this morning, looking for some temporary work, I understand. The airline has confirmed that he checked in for the flight first thing, so he seems to have been out of town when the boy disappeared. Now we’re exploring other avenues of enquiry.’

  His voice grave, he directed his next words to Sunna. ‘We have a psychologist here, out front, who is going to talk to you. It’s important that we look after you while we’re waiting. The boy will be found. I’m certain of it.’

  Sunna nodded and left the room with the Chief Inspector without a word.

  Shortly after, the Chief Inspector returned. He looked straight into Róbert’s eyes. ‘Well, I think we need a chat, just the two of us,’ he said, closing the door behind him.

  Róbert could tell from his tone that this was going to be a less-than-friendly conversation. He could feel the sweat breaking out again. Had he become so weak that he was frightened of the police? That had never been the case before. Or was it just the cold that had been plaguing him, making him feel vulnerable?

  ‘We think we’re on the right track,’ he said and sat down. ‘Do you know someone called Emil Teitsson?’

  It was a lightweight question and Róbert hoped that the strangled ‘no’ he managed to squeeze out was convincing.

  It was true. He didn’t know the man personally. But he knew exactly who he was. He recalled clearly the interview he had read; and the young man’s picture was indelibly etched into his memory. For the first time, Róbert felt real fear.

  ‘Well, let me share with you the theory I’ve worked out,’ the Chief Inspector said.

  *

  Afterwards, Róbert sat outside in the corridor and waited for Sunna.

  The conversation with the inspector had affected him deeply. Róbert could feel distant memories and the past’s confused nightmares returning to haunt him.

  Sunna eventually appeared with the psychologist at her side.

  ‘Shall we go home, sweetheart?’ he asked.

  ‘Please,’ she replied, apparently calmer than before, although it was evident from her expression, her body language – everything about her – that she was wracked with anxiety.

  It was well into the evening and it was dark outside. Sunna sat wordlessly next to Róbert on the sofa. Róbert listened to the rain, his arms around her. Their little apartment had become a cold and unfamiliar place.

  He avoided looking at the clock, preferring not to know just how long the little boy had been gone. All he could be certain of was that it had been too long.

  Róbert had hardly been able to catch his breath all day, not least after his conversation with the Chief Inspector, and he had hardly given himself time to eat. Sunna had eaten nothing, as far as he knew. Now there was time for a meal, but he realised that he had no appetite, and assumed Sunna didn’t have one either.

  His world seemed to be falling apart before his eyes. He had started a new life, met a wonderful girl, set up home with her and become her little boy’s stepfather.

  He tried again to think of the boat in the Westfjords. It was less easy now – he could picture the sea, but it was no longer placid. Now, as he closed his eyes, he felt that he was at sea with a gale blowing; the little boat rode steadily lower and lower in the water.

  26

  The worst moment was when the last embers of hope had gone cold and Emil realised that he would never again hold her in his arms, that his dreams of a future with her were dead and that his life had irrevocably changed – for the worse.

  He took care not to dwell too closely on what few people knew – that she had been carrying a child and was just a few months into her pregnancy. He hardly dared think about it, but underneath there was a barely controlled fury, a need for revenge.

  Emil had done his best to live in hope ever since the assault had taken place, doubting the doctors, who seemed to want to dampen his optimism by telling him that he had no choice but to accept what had happened.

  That could never happen. He would never give up. To begin with he sat with Bylgja day and night, her hand in his. Hope and anger kept him going, leaving no place for sorrow.

  His regret that he had worked overtime that night was infinite. Every question he asked himself all began with the same two words: what if …?

  Of course, he had no idea if he would have been able to save her. Maybe they would both have ended up in hospital, lying unconscious side by side, dying together. That might have been for the best. He simply couldn’t imagine life without her. He could see – sometimes even in his dreams – that his presence could have changed things, could have averted the assault. He knew well enough that he was no musclebound character that people would think twice about taking on, but all the same, he could still be a proposition to be reckoned with when backed into a corner; and it would have been more of a challenge to take them both on than just her alone.

  Shouldn’t one be safe in one’s own home? Neither of them had ever done anyone any harm. But it had happened all the same, on a cold winter evening. They had sat down to a spaghetti dinner together at around six, talking of the child that was on its way and the changes they would have to make. Byl
gja had no intention of reducing her working hours over the next few months and was still aiming to continue her studies in the autumn.

  ‘I’m absolutely fine,’ she said. ‘When morning sickness hits then I’ll take a day off.’

  Then he stood up, saying he had to go back to work to finish an urgent assignment. He had asked her if she wanted to come with him. Had he really said that? Maybe not. Had he wanted her to take it easy at home? His memories of that evening were badly fragmented, but he knew that she had said she preferred to stay at home and study. He had left her, not quite sure just how he had said goodbye to her; and that was the last time they’d been able to share words.

  When he came home, the first thing he had seen was the blood in the hall. He must have seen Bylgja right away, but time stood still as he fought to believe what he was seeing. She lay on her back, dressed in the pyjamas she always wore when she was immersed in her studies. She was very still and the pool of blood by her head filled Emil with such deep dread that he was frozen to the spot. He couldn’t tell how long he had stared at her before he snatched his phone from a pocket and called the police.

  She hadn’t been dead. That was the good part of it; the only good part.

  She had lost the baby, of course. And she had been kept in a coma. But she was gradually dying and Emil had felt that his own desire to live was withering, as if it was keeping time with her weak heartbeat. He had made every effort to be strong to start with – even in interviews with newspaper and TV journalists as he fought to squeeze some justice out of the situation. He begged anyone who might have information to come forward. The case had remained open; there were some strong indications about who was responsible, but nothing that was strong enough to build a case on. Emil had no choice but to watch Bylgja’s life trickle away in front of his eyes, without having anyone to pin the blame on.

  When she finally died two years after the attack, getting the peace that she deserved, it was pure anger that kept Emil going. The fury overwhelmed him, ousting any sense of love or compassion. Deep inside he knew that anger was a dangerous companion for unresolved sorrow, but by then he didn’t care.

  There was never a convincing reason for the assault, although the police had their own suspicions, based on information from their underworld contacts. It was impossible to pin anything on the person whose name had been provided. The theory was that the assault on Bylgja had been an error.

  An error.

  That was the word the policeman had used. Emil had lost the person he loved the most – and his unborn baby – due to an error. Cold fate alone had destroyed his life.

  Some petty criminal had lived further along the same street, only a few doors away, and the police theory was that this person’s drug habit had left him deep in debt. Thugs determined to call in the debt, with violence if it wasn’t paid, had knocked at the wrong door. Emil couldn’t avoid imagining the scene. Bylgja had probably done her best to convince them they had called at the wrong door. She had never been one to let herself be trampled over and had undoubtedly been angry. There had only been one blow and that had been enough. The weapon was thought to be some kind of baseball bat.

  Revenge was always part of his plan. He hadn’t realised it until after Bylgja’s death. An unexpected call put him on the trail. By now he wasn’t thinking logically, and he knew it.

  His parents were deeply worried about him. They were constantly trying to help, but he was a grown man and could look after himself. He had even fixed up a hiding place: an abandoned house not far from the city centre where he could sleep in peace, far from the overweening sympathy and the sorrow at his parents’ house. The apartment he and Bylgja had bought now stood empty and he could not imagine ever setting foot in there again. He could see nothing but blood when he thought about the place.

  His plan had worked out so far. He wasn’t drinking much these days. He was pretty much in control. Bylgja deserved that much. He didn’t know what would happen to him next. Maybe he’d give himself up. Or maybe he’d thrown himself in the sea. It didn’t matter much either way.

  He had been keeping tabs on Róbert’s place for a while, and had stalked his wife and the child. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth; wasn’t that right? It occurred to him that the best punishment he could mete out would be to let Róbert experience the loss of his wife and child.

  But now he was stuck with this screaming child in his arms; a boy who cried his eyes out and refused to sleep. It wasn’t a perfect situation. He kept the baby in a shabby and dilapidated old house in the downtown area, a place which had maybe been filled with joy at one time, but now it was just a shell – just like Emil himself – and he had to admit to himself that he had no idea what to do next.

  He had enjoyed following Róbert’s wife, then he stole the keys and broke into their apartment one evening. First he had peered through the window and seen that they were occupied; then he had sneaked in and looked into the bedroom where the two of them were engrossed in their lovemaking. They hadn’t noticed him, so he took care to leave behind a few signs of his presence, and had left without closing the back door behind him.

  He kept lurking around the street, peeping through their windows from time to time, watching their every move. He was determined to scare the life out of Róbert before he went any further.

  This morning he had followed the girl when she went for a walk, pushing the pram in front of her. When she left the little boy asleep in the pram outside a coffee house on Laugavegur, the opportunity was too good to let pass.

  Now he was sitting here in the dark, in the middle of the night, listening to this endless crying as the boy called for his mother. He had no idea what to do next, but knowing how terrified Róbert must be at this very moment gave him a warm feeling inside.

  27

  An unexpected guest was waiting when Ísrún arrived at work the next morning.

  This was her fifth working day in a row, four of them having been day shifts. She had also been offered an extra Saturday shift to relieve a colleague who had asked to swap so he could be at home for a children’s birthday party. She had almost agreed, deciding that she could rest afterwards. Right now, though, she had two stories to chase that were at the top of her list of priorities: Snorri Ellertsson’s murder and the abducted child.

  The girl in the lobby got smartly to her feet as soon as Ísrún walked in.

  ‘Hello. I was trying to reach you yesterday.’

  Red hair fell over her shoulders and her eyes could just be seen under a long fringe. Her cheeks were flushed as she smiled at Ísrún. As she spoke she had the habit of speaking, not to the person in front of her, but upwards, as if in deep thought. Ísrún had often spoken to her before, though, and was used to this odd mannerism.

  ‘Hallo, Lára,’ Ísrún replied.

  Lára had been Marteinn’s assistant ever since he had become Prime Minister. Before that she had been active in the party’s youth movement. There were stories of an affair between the two of them, before he took office, and that this was still going on. It had never been confirmed, but when Marteinn and his wife had split up, the rumours flew thicker and faster. By then he had been Prime Minister for six months; the official explanation was that the pressure of the job had led to them going in separate directions. Still, Lára had been the butt of much gossip, and this attractive redhead was thought by many to be the marriage breaker, splitting Marteinn from his wife and their two children.

  ‘I’m sorry. I completely forgot to call you,’ Ísrún said. ‘It’s been so busy. I have to run for a meeting, but I have a few minutes. Shall we sit down?’

  Lára perched on the sofa again and Ísrún took a chair opposite her. She had a good idea of what had brought the Prime Minister’s assistant there, but wanted to let her make the first move.

  ‘This is just an informal call,’ Lára said. ‘Marteinn asked me to come and see you.’

  Ísrún smiled, and didn’t believe a word.

  ‘We can talk off t
he record, can’t we?’

  Ísrún nodded in agreement.

  ‘That interview of yours with Marteinn was below the belt,’ Lára said. ‘The poor man wasn’t expecting a question about Snorri. They were friends years ago, and that’s all there is to it. After Snorri got caught up in all kinds of nonsense, Marteinn didn’t have anything more to do with him. They hadn’t seen each other for years. Then he gets run over in a car accident – and the Prime Minister is being asked questions about it.’ Lára paused for effect. ‘Not that I blame you for that. It was quite a scoop.’

  Ísrún waited for Lára to say that enough was enough, but knew that the words hardly needed to be spoken out loud. Ísrún herself still hadn’t said a word, and reflected that these young politicians were no slouches at the old art of having the last word, any more than the old ones had been.

  ‘I was thinking of you in connection with something else,’ Lára continued. ‘Marteinn has been working on some ideas – a possible merging of ministries. It’s something that’s close to his heart. I suggested that we could ask you to do an item about it; maybe in one of your news reviews. You’d get an interview with Marteinn for him to discuss it.’

  Ísrún glanced at the clock.

  ‘That sounds great, Lára,’ she said, although she wasn’t quite prepared to be bought off so easily. ‘Let me think it over, will you?’

  ‘Sure. But don’t think too long. Marteinn wants to do this soon,’ Lára said, apparently unaware that she had contradicted herself when she had said that Marteinn knew nothing about her visit. ‘You have my mobile number, don’t you? The new one?’