Rupture

by Ragnar Jónasson

  ‘What?’ Hédinn asked in surprise.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Ari Thór said and realised that he was starting to sound like Tómas. ‘Nobody will recognise you. It’s the picture of you and the lad that was taken in Hédinsfjördur. I’m being interviewed in a news roundup about the infection and the horrible situation here; and the journalist and I have decided to sneak in a mention of the photograph. We’ll see if anyone can identify the young guy.’

  Hédinn was silent for a moment. ‘Well,’ he hesitated. ‘I suppose it’ll be alright.’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ Ari Thór assured him, suspecting that he had more enthusiasm than Hédinn to find a solution to the mystery. ‘I also have testimony from someone else that this young lad lived there with your parents and Jórunn and Maríus.’

  ‘Really?’ Hédinn asked, clearly intrigued. ‘He lived there? In our house in Hédinsfjördur?’

  ‘That’s what it looks like. There’s a movie from Hédinsfjördur and he can be seen in it.’

  ‘Well!’ Hédinn said. ‘Where did you find that?’

  ‘Delía. You know her?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Can I see this movie?’

  ‘Yes, why not. In fact, should we meet at Delía’s house tomorrow evening, assuming she doesn’t have any objections?’ Ari Thór suggested and didn’t wait for a reply. ‘I’ll speak to her and let you know,’ he said, and ended the call.

  He spent a moment taking in the mild weather, but still sensed a chill in the air. The cold northerly winds of winter were never far away in Siglufjördur, but Ari was used to this by now. Days of snow in May, even in June, did not surprise him any more.

  Ari Thór had plenty to tell Hédinn, but nothing concrete. What had happened to his aunt remained a mystery and he was afraid that it would stay that way. This story belonged to an earlier generation; maybe it was not his place to make sense of it all.

  Now his thoughts went back to Sandra – on her deathbed at the hospital. Was it time to steel himself to pay her a visit? He wanted to see her, and she deserved a visit from him, but he knew that deep inside he lacked the strength to watch her die.

  He took out his phone again and, to give himself something else to think about, he called Kristín.

  ‘I’ll be on TV tonight,’ he said, rather proudly.

  ‘On TV, really?’

  ‘Well, only my voice and a still image, but that’s still something.’

  ‘That’s very nice, Ari,’ Kristín said in her matter-of-fact manner. She was always so calm, never really getting overly excited about anything.

  ‘Maybe we can watch it together …?’

  ‘What? You mean …?’ And now there was some colour in her voice, finally.

  ‘Yes, the danger has passed, so you can come over, if you’re up for it.’

  ‘Of course, Ari, of course, absolutely.’

  30

  ‘Ísrún,’ Ívar called as she opened the newsroom door.

  She sighed, walked over to him and forced a smile. She didn’t like the smug look on his face, not that there was anything unusual about it.

  ‘There’s a message for you,’ he snapped. ‘I hadn’t realised I’d been promoted to being your secretary.’

  ‘Message?’ she asked impatiently. ‘What was it?’

  ‘A call from an old people’s home.’ And then, in a voice that was unnecessarily loud: ‘They wanted to let you know that your room’s ready.’ He was clearly hoping to raise a laugh among the staff, but his joke fell flat.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A woman from an old people’s home in Breidholt called,’ he said with a grin. ‘Someone called Nikulás wants to meet you.’

  ‘Ah. Thanks,’ she said, about to hurry away.

  ‘Not so fast, Ísrún,’ he said awkwardly. He didn’t have the same smooth way that Marteinn had of addressing people by name. ‘Who’s this guy? Is this something you’re keeping quiet about?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m working on all sorts of things. This is linked to the Siglufjördur story that María asked me to do for the supplement,’ she said, placing emphasis on the news editor’s name. ‘I’d better call the old guy right away,’ she said, taking out her phone and walking away with it to her ear before Ívar could complain.

  *

  ‘That’s right, Nikulás asked me to give you a call,’ the girl at the rest home said. ‘He’s been going through some old stuff and he has a box of things he said you can take a look at. There’s no point trying to talk to him on the phone.’

  ‘Could you send me the box?’ Ísrún asked, with little enthusiasm for another trip up to Breidholt.

  ‘Well, I suppose I could put it in a taxi if you’ll cover the fare. But I think Nikulás would really like to see you, if you could come and get it yourself. You wouldn’t have to stop long. The old fellow doesn’t get many visitors, you see.’

  Ísrún checked her watch. The morning conference was about to begin. She might be able to go right after the meeting, as long as there were no developments in the child abduction case.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said and ended the call, before scrolling down to her police contact’s number. It rang a couple of times, was answered and the call immediately terminated. This was the second time that day that he had abruptly declined to take her call.

  She had hardly sat down when Ívar made his announcement.

  ‘There’s a press release from the police,’ he said, and waited as he savoured the moment. ‘They’ve released details of someone they want to interview in connection with the abduction case.’

  Ísrún’s eyes widened.

  ‘Who?’ she asked after an unnecessarily long silence.

  ‘His name’s Emil Teitsson,’ Ívar said with a quizzical look on his face. ‘They must have some solid evidence if they’ve released the man’s name. They even supplied a picture of him.’

  He placed the press release and the printout of the photo on the desk, before turning to Ísrún.

  ‘What do your copper friends have to say?’ he demanded harshly.

  She examined the picture and saw that the man wasn’t someone she recognised straightaway. She may have seen him before, but couldn’t be sure. He looked an amiable young man, wearing a striped shirt, a smile and a neat haircut.

  ‘They’re not telling us a lot,’ she said. ‘I’ll have something more for you by the end of the day.’

  She swept up the press release and read through it quickly.

  ‘Is this guy a known criminal?’ one of the other journalists asked doubtfully; the man in the picture clearly didn’t have a criminal look about him.

  ‘Quite the opposite,’ Ívar said. ‘He’s a business graduate. The police aren’t saying a lot, but I’ve just done a quick background check on him.’

  Ísrún smiled to herself, certain that Ívar’s background check had gone no further than typing the man’s name into a search engine.

  ‘He was in the news a couple of years ago when his girlfriend was assaulted,’ Ívar continued, bursting with self-importance. ‘You must remember it. He was interviewed a few times and criticised the police for the slow investigation.’

  Ísrún remembered the disturbing case well. ‘The woman died not long ago,’ she said.

  Ívar nodded. ‘Was that case ever resolved?’ he asked, the question directed at Ísrún.

  Now she was on home turf. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘There was never a conclusion. I gather there was a man who was strongly suspected, but I don’t recall his name, although I can probably find it if I go through my old notes. He was never mentioned in the media and there was no evidence against him.’

  ‘Check it out, would you?’ Ívar said with unexpected courtesy. ‘Was the man’s name Róbert, by any chance?’ he added.

  Ísrún searched her memory, without success.

  ‘I don’t recall,’ she said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I heard this morning who the abducted child is,’ Ívar said, purring with pride. ‘
Maybe you’d heard as well?’

  Ísrún shook her head, cursing inwardly.

  ‘The child’s mother is a girl called Sunna. She’s a dancer, living on Ljósvallagata with a man called Róbert. We need to find out if he has a connection with this Emil, and we need to find out right away.’

  Once the meeting was over, Ísrún went gloomily to her computer and searched through her notes. She quickly found the name of the man who was at the top of the list of suspects – in reality, the only one – linked to the assault two years ago: a drug user and known debt collector.

  She closed her eyes and made an effort to control her rage.

  Hell.

  The man’s name was Róbert.

  A brief search gave her his full name, and the national registry told her that he lived on Ljósvallagata with his partner, Sunna, and a one-and-a-half-year-old boy, Kjartan.

  It had been a lousy way to start the day.

  31

  The winter sun fought to break through the clouds. Emil screwed up his eyes and peered down at the pavement below. He savoured the warmth the occasional beam of sunlight brought. In between, he was cold but had more important things to concern himself with. He was on his way to his parents’ house, on foot. He was also alone, free of the whining child.

  The endless crying had been too much for him but he had found no way to calm the baby.

  All the same, it hadn’t been a mistake. Róbert had taken his and Bylgja’s unborn child from them, so there was a certain justice in what he had done. For a moment, Emil had imagined that the child had been his. It had even occurred to him to take the boy and disappear.

  He walked briskly through the streets of downtown Reykjavík. He instinctively kept away from the edges of the pavements, seemingly drawn as close as possible to the trees and shrubs around the gardens – the boundaries of the places where people should be safe in the security of their own homes. Bylgja had been so certain she was safe at home – free to spend her evenings wearing pyjamas, engrossed in her studies.

  There were no other people about, or if there were, Emil didn’t notice their presence. He had enough on his mind and, in spite of everything, his work was only half done. He couldn’t be sure how long his endurance would last, but his hatred seemed to keep him going. He was certain that Róbert was to blame for his wife’s death and was determined he would pay for it. Emil had no fear of any repercussions. He had made no real efforts to cover his tracks, apart from staying in the shadows to give himself the space he needed to finish what he had started.

  He rubbed a cheek and felt the bristles. Maybe he’d take the time to shave once he was home, if he had the energy. He smiled to himself at the recollection of how Bylgja had always complained if had gone a few days without shaving. He admitted to himself that now there was no reason left to shave or look after his appearance. He only had his parents left. They’d still love him unconditionally even when he told them what he had done. They’d understand. His mother would wrap her arms around him, her embrace warm and reassuring, and tell him that everything would work out for the best, that nobody would blame him for it.

  The sun appeared again. He stopped for a moment, faced the sun and closed his eyes. Most of the chill left him.

  Maybe taking a small child from its mother had been going too far. Then he thought of Bylgja, as he did every day. The only thing he avoided thinking about was the feeling that maybe his revenge was not quite as sweet as he had hoped. He had done his very best to avenge her, but he didn’t feel any better for it. Perhaps he hadn’t expected to.

  32

  Heida was there to meet them at the apartment on Ljósvallagata. She had made coffee and laid the kitchen table. She had found cinnamon rolls in the freezer, had heated them up and put them on a plate in the middle of the checked tablecloth.

  Róbert had not expected this. Maybe she was trying, in her own way, to make up for her previous rudeness. She asked no questions and they said nothing. Their silence told the whole story; the boy had still not been found.

  There was an unaccustomed warmth to the apartment. Róbert found the feeling coming over him that nothing was wrong, that Kjartan was asleep in his bed and the events of the last few days had been long forgotten. It didn’t take him long to get over such a ridiculously false impression.

  It was public knowledge that the police wanted to speak to Emil urgently and it was only a matter of time before his name and Sunna’s would also become widely known. He hoped it wouldn’t happen, but knew better than to hope for too much. The question was how deep the media would dig. Would he and Sunna be granted a level of consideration when the time came for questions about their past – his past?

  The three of them sat at the kitchen table.

  ‘Do you want me to stay here in case anyone comes?’ Heida asked, and Róbert wondered if he had misjudged her now that she had been considerate and courteous for so unusually long. It didn’t last, however. ‘You know I have a flight home booked for next week and I can’t change it, so I won’t be able to help after that if the boy isn’t found.’

  Sunna burst into tears and left the table.

  Róbert followed her into the bedroom, leaving Heida at the table, her words echoing around the kitchen.

  He shut the door and did his best to comfort Sunna. She was weeping inconsolably; a flood of tears that seemed to have no end. This wasn’t the time to tell her why Emil had taken the boy, but how long would he be able to put it off?

  After a while, Sunna regained some composure and they went back to the kitchen where Heida was finishing the last of the cinnamon rolls.

  Maybe it was as well that Heida was there. It excused him from having to sit down with Sunna and calmly explain his past. Heida was granting him a stay of execution by being there.

  He was almost hoping for a miracle; not just that the boy would be found, but that there would be a way for him to save his own skin.

  When the phone rang, he was certain of two things: that it was the police and that Kjartan had been found safe and well.

  The Chief Inspector got straight to the point.

  ‘We’ve found him,’ he said, with gloom in his voice. ‘We’ve found Emil, I mean,’ he added awkwardly.

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’ Róbert asked, immediately regretting the tone of voice that made Sunna start in alarm.

  ‘He didn’t have the boy with him. We caught up with him not far from his parents’ home. He didn’t seem to have any idea that we were looking for him. He didn’t resist. You can be sure that every available officer is searching for Kjartan.’

  There was a painful silence that followed his words.

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  There was another long silence.

  ‘He just grinned at us. Said he’d left the boy by the Tjörnin lake.’

  ‘By the lake?’ Róbert yelled. Sunna burst into tears again and stretched to snatch the phone from him. ‘Do you … do you think …?’ He was unable to finish his sentence.

  Heida hugged her sister.

  ‘You’ll just have to trust us. We’re organising a search of … of the area.’ The Chief Inspector was clearly avoiding voicing what they all feared.

  ‘Can I help?’ Róbert asked.

  ‘No. You just stay with your girlfriend. We’ll be in touch as soon as we find the boy.’

  Róbert could feel his heart beating faster, and he could again feel the throbbing headache and the cold that refused to leave him alone. A day and a night of stress had worn him out. He rubbed his eyes in an effort to relieve the pain.

  Right now he would have given anything to be alone with Emil, man to man; only one of them would walk away alive. But his anger was mixed with fright. He feared the worst for Kjartan.

  And he was also terrified of Sunna. Time was running out for him now; soon she would hear about the assault that had taken place two years before. He was sure he wouldn’t be convincing enough when he denied any involvement. It seemed there was only one way thi
s could all end.

  33

  Ari Thór searched without success through online newspaper archives from March 1957 for Jórunn’s obituary. All he was able to find was a bland death notice; it wasn’t even accompanied by a picture. Jórunn had lived and died privately.

  He called Kristín again.

  ‘I thought you might like to bring something good to eat with you tonight – a curry or a pizza. It would really make a welcome change.’

  She thought for a moment, just long enough to make a point, and agreed.

  ‘OK. You’ve got yourself a deal. I’ll be there around seven thirty with some take-away. Shall I bring a bottle of wine as well? I don’t suppose the liquor store is open?’

  ‘Siglufjördur has never been as dry as it is right now.’

  ‘How are you holding up, Ari?’ she asked with warmth.

  ‘It’s tough, you know, it’s been hellish, I can tell you. I wish you were here, Kristín.’ Then he added, before she could reply: ‘Sandra, you remember her?’

  ‘Yes, of course – the old girl you keep visiting behind my back,’ Kristín said teasingly.

  ‘She isn’t doing too well.’

  ‘Oh, really? I’m sorry, Ari, is it this virus?’

  ‘Apparently not, but she’s getting on in age, and I’m worried. And this, on top of everything else.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be OK. See you tonight, I have to run,’ she said.

  ‘There’s a storm forecast for tonight,’ Ari Thór said. ‘You might get snowed in with me.’

  ‘I can think of worse things,’ Kristín replied.

  At midday Ari Thór had an appointment to meet Helga, the senior doctor at the hospital. Representatives of the Civil Defence Authority had already travelled to Siglufjördur and had a meeting with her that morning. Helga said their discussion had been quick and the result was that the quarantine would be officially lifted at six that evening.