Rupture

by Ragnar Jónasson

  Or had he?

  She recalled that the old man had abruptly retired from politics not long before the formation of a government of national unity that he would most likely have headed as Prime Minister.

  She hurried over to her computer and searched for the exact dates of the assault, comparing them to the dates of Ellert’s retirement from public life. Her search told her that Ellert’s announcement that he was about to stand down as party leader for personal reasons had come only a few days after the assault had taken place. A curious coupling of events, Ísrún decided.

  She picked up her mobile and called Lára, Marteinn’s private secretary, hoping that she hadn’t yet heard the news about Emil.

  ‘Ísrún,’ Lára said, smoothly greeting her like an old friend. ‘Good to hear from you.’

  ‘Likewise,’ Ísrún said, faking a similar level of sincerity. ‘I’ve been thinking things over and I’d like to interview Marteinn about these cabinet changes he has in mind.’

  ‘That’s brilliant!’ Lára said. Ísrún wondered if she looked up at the ceiling while she was on the phone, or if it was a habit that only took hold when she met people face to face, if that expression could be applied to someone who never looked you in the eye. ‘Let’s make an appointment for next week, shall we?’

  ‘I’ll be mostly off duty then,’ Ísrún said. ‘We ought to do it as soon as possible; today would be ideal. Things are quiet now that the kidnapped child has been found, so there isn’t much happening. This could be a lead item.’

  ‘There’s no chance of doing it today. The earliest he’ll be available is tomorrow.’

  ‘Fine, let’s fix a time,’ Ísrún replied, hiding her disappointment. ‘When’s he free?’

  ‘Just a moment,’ Lára said, ‘I’ll check his diary.’ She was back a moment later. ‘How about three tomorrow? At the Ministry?’

  He prefers to be on home ground, Ísrún thought, and accepted the offer.

  It was barely an hour later that the red-haired private secretary called back. Ísrún watched the phone flashing in her hand before deciding to answer it, certain that she knew what the call would be about. Lára had undoubtedly got wind of the police investigation linking Snorri to the assault.

  ‘Hello again, Ísrún,’ Lára said, her voice tense, as she clearly did her best to hide the fact that she was under pressure.

  ‘Hi, Lára,’ Ísrún replied, leaning back in the creaking danger zone that, in a poor light, could pass for an office chair. She was determined to take no prisoners and make the most of the conversation.

  ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone the interview.’

  ‘That’s no problem. I’m free at two, and could be available at four. Anything later is going to be awkward as I’ll need time to edit the footage.’

  ‘No, please don’t get me wrong. It’ll have to be next week, or the week after that.’

  ‘Hold on a moment. Hadn’t we made an appointment just now? Why are you so keen to back out of this all of a sudden?’

  Lára took her time answering, so Ísrún took the opportunity to increase the pressure.

  ‘Does Marteinn have something to hide? Something to do with Snorri Ellertsson, maybe? I didn’t think he had anything to do with that, but now you’re making me suspect otherwise, Lára.’

  ‘No, he has nothing to hide. Nothing at all,’ Lára said. ‘Sorry for the confusion. I’ll make sure it’ll work out tomorrow. Three o’clock.’

  Ísrún was surprised at how easy it had been. It was obvious that Lára was far from being on top form right now.

  ‘Excellent. I’ll see you then.’

  36

  The evening news bulletin was about to start when Ísrún remembered the package she was meant to fetch from Nikulás. She hadn’t promised anything, but, all the same, she was reluctant to disappoint the old man.

  She had also promised to be at her father’s place for dinner right after work, although describing it as dinner was stretching the description of what she knew was likely to be on offer. Her father was no chef and he would either order them a pizza or buy a grilled chicken from the shop on the corner. The chicken would be served whole, probably with nothing more than chips and ketchup to accompany it. She’d be happy with that and the comfortable atmosphere that reminded her of how things used to be. They would undoubtedly eat in front of the television and, with luck, she would be able to relax after a tough week.

  The only way to avoid disappointing both her father and Nikulás was to disappoint Ívar, and she had no qualms about letting him down. She went briskly over to where he sat in the desk editor’s enveloping chair, absorbed in the news bulletin.

  ‘I have to go,’ Ísrún said.

  ‘And miss the meeting?’

  She nodded. It was hardly likely that anything important would be discussed at the end-of-day meeting, but being present for it was practically mandatory.

  ‘I’ll be here in the morning, so if there’s anything, I’ll see you then.’

  Ívar snorted. ‘I’m off for the weekend. María’s the weekend desk editor, so you can talk things over with your pal in the morning.’ He made no effort to hide his scorn. ‘You’d better be off if you have to go.’ And with that, he turned back to the news.

  The conversation had been over quickly and Ísrún hadn’t even had to use the lie she had prepared. She grinned to herself and hurried out before he could change his mind.

  Nikulás was also watching the news when Ísrún arrived. He smiled broadly when he saw her and, with some difficulty, got up from the sofa.

  ‘Hello. I saw you on the news just now,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t hear it properly, but I’m sure it was full of insight,’ he said with a laugh and motioned her towards his room. Leaning on a stick, he followed her, slowly but surely.

  The box was next to his bed, where he took a seat and sighed.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s quite a walk, even though it isn’t far,’ he said and lapsed into silence for a moment. ‘These are Maríus’s papers. So that’s something for you to dig through. He wasn’t much for the written word and didn’t collect too much unnecessary junk. He just kept things that might be important – old bankbooks and letters, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Have you been through it yourself?’ she asked, leaning close to him and speaking clearly. ‘Is there anything there that I should take a careful look at?’

  ‘I read through all this for the first time last night. I never saw a reason to before. These were his documents, and none of my business. My hearing’s going, but I can still see well enough,’ he said.

  ‘Just as well,’ Ísrún said, to contribute something to the conversation.

  ‘I don’t know about that. I reckon I’d have been happy to have been able to strike a deal with God on that score,’ he said and Ísrún stared at him in amazement. ‘I’d still be able to enjoy music, you see. I’ve seen everything I’ll ever need to see, but it’s a tragedy not being able to enjoy a symphony any more,’ he said, shaking his head in frustration. ‘But that’s another matter. I did find a letter in there that you’ll find interesting. But take the whole box with you, anyhow. You can have it for a few days, but I’d appreciate it if you could bring it back soon.’

  Ísrún nodded. Nikulás took the document that lay at the top of the pile in the box and handed it to her. She saw that it was a letter dated 1950, addressed to Maríus Knutsson, from his brother-in-law, Gudmundur. The script was clear and neat.

  As she started to read, Nikulás continued with his tale.

  ‘This was sent when the boy – Jórunn and Maríus’s son – was a newborn. Gudmundur and Gudfinna must have found out that there was talk of putting the child up for adoption. I imagine the sisters were in touch and Jórunn told Gudfinna about it. You’ll see in the letter that Gudmundur offered to adopt the boy. It’s typical of the time that this was something that the husbands discussed, with Gudmundur writing to Maríus. There’s not much else of interest there, just news from Sigluf
jördur – about the weather and the fishing. He mentions the adoption right at the end. It didn’t come to anything, as I told you before. Strangers adopted the boy. But I hadn’t known that Gudmundur and Gudfinna had offered to take him.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It confirms what I had always felt – that deep inside Gudmundur could be a generous man. He was always ready to do someone worse off than himself a favour, just as he did when he found work for Maríus up north.’ The old man smiled.

  ‘What was Gudfinna like – as a person, I mean?’ Ísrún asked.

  ‘They had much the same temperament, those two. There was a determination about her; she liked to have her own way. On the bossy side, I think you could say, and easily jealous. That was my impression of her. I reckon she’d have preferred to live in Reykjavík than up there on the coast, but apart from that she never wanted for anything.’

  ‘Tell me one last thing,’ Ísrún said. ‘Do you think it’s possible that Jórunn’s death was neither suicide nor an accident?’

  Nikulás thought. ‘It’s hard to say,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it’s likely.’

  ‘In such cases the spouse is generally the suspect. You knew your brother well. I apologise in advance if it’s an insensitive thing to suggest, but do you think he could have been capable of doing such a thing?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m not easily shocked these days, so don’t worry. And, anyway, it’s a good question. But the answer is no. Maybe I’m not impartial enough to give you an honest answer, so you can take or leave my opinion. It’s true, Maríus didn’t cope well under pressure. He’d get agitated if he was stressed. Those were tough years for them: he struggled to keep a job and they didn’t find it easy to make ends meet. And things only got worse. Then Gudmundur invited them up north and helped him find work; as I say, he probably did it out of the goodness of his heart – and to please his wife, of course, who must have been worried about her sister. After that, I don’t imagine Maríus had much to complain about up there, really. And even though there could be an anger in him in the heat of an argument – he got into a few fights in the old days – I know he didn’t have it in him to commit murder.’ He paused, looking at her. ‘That’s what I believe, anyway,’ he added quietly.

  The house owned by Ísrún’s parents, Anna and Orri, stood in a quiet, tree-lined street in Grafarvogur. The skinny saplings that had been in the garden when the family had moved there all those years before were now established trees, reminding Ísrún of how fast time passes. Now Orri had the whole two hundred square metres of the house to himself and the longer his separation from Anna lasted, the more lost he seemed in its great expanse.

  Ísrún still had a key. She opened the door and went straight into the living room where she found her father watching the news from a leather armchair sat beneath a giant painting. It was a painting that Ísrún had always had a fondness for. Her mother had bought it during a business trip to Russia at a time when her publishing business was thriving. Two metres square, the painting immediately attracted the gaze of anyone who came into the room; it showed a group of footballers standing in the middle of the pitch at the end of a game, some of them already with their shirts stripped off. The men were so realistic, their presence so immediate, that it was as if they were part of the family. Orri had never liked the painting, while Anna said that she had bought it for what she called a ‘good price’. Ísrún was sure that it must have come with a respectable price tag, because, shortly afterwards, Orri brought home a beautiful watercolour by Ásgrímur Jónsson that he had picked up at an auction and which he hung next to the television, opposite the footballers. Ever since there had been a cold war between Soviet realism and Icelandic romanticism.

  ‘Good to see you, darling’ Orri said, getting up from the sofa to hug her. ‘I bought us a grilled chicken. You are hungry, aren’t you?’

  ‘Starving,’ she assured him and smiled, noticing the tomato sauce bottle was in its place on the table next to the chicken and chips.

  They watched the rest of the news bulletin in silence. The last item was the interview with Ari Thór in Siglufjördur, which ended with the passing mention of the photograph of the unknown young man.

  Not bad, Ísrún thought to herself.

  ‘How’s your mother?’ Orri asked.

  ‘I haven’t heard much from her since I came back from the Faroes. Wouldn’t it be best for you to call her at the weekend?’ she asked, interested to see what the response might be.

  Orri looked awkward. ‘I don’t think so … I’m expecting her to call sooner or later. She must want to come home soon.’

  ‘I think she’s very happy in the Faroes at the moment. Maybe she just needed a break,’ she said. Then she attempted to change the subject. ‘How’s business?’

  ‘Pretty good,’ her father replied, which she took to mean that he wasn’t as busy as he would like to be. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have been quite so enthusiastic. Your mother’s normally right, you know.’

  ‘How are you getting on, though? Still going to the gym?’ she asked, her conscience nagging at her for having not yet mentioned to him the genetic illness she had inherited from his mother.

  ‘Don’t you worry about me, darling. The doc says I have the heart of a man of twenty,’ he said, but Ísrún could see from his face he was, to some extent, embroidering what the doctor had told him.

  Should she tell him the whole story?

  She could – as long as she could extract a promise that he would not tell her mother about the illness. Anna didn’t need to know. She would never get over news like that. In this respect Ísrún knew that her father was the more robust character.

  It would certainly be a relief to be able to talk things over with someone other than the doctor, she thought. He was pleasant enough, but that only went so far, and anyway, she would hardly be anything other than a case as far as he was concerned: a number and a patient who would survive – or not.

  ‘And how are you keeping? Aren’t you working far too many hours?’ her father enquired.

  This was her opportunity. A choice between; ‘Not doing as well as I’d like,’ or else; ‘Fine, thanks, but I was diagnosed the other day with this condition.’

  It was a struggle to get the words out. She hesitated, needing a few minutes to plan her words.

  ‘Busy at work and I don’t dare turn down any shifts, not at the moment,’ she said and smiled at him.

  ‘You’re doing well keeping on top of that crime story. But can’t you do something different, maybe assignments that are a little less brutal?’

  ‘Things are fine as they are. When I’m the news editor then I’ll be able to pick and choose for myself.’

  ‘Ambition,’ he said with clear approval. ‘That’s what I like to hear.’

  The chicken had been reduced to its bones and her father had fetched a film he had rented – a fairly recent thriller that Ísrún had not seen. She rarely went to the cinema and didn’t follow the world of movies closely. So she was happy to let him decide what they watched. This had been a family tradition for years; Ísrún would come over for dinner once a week and they would watch a film together after a meal – which would be something more appetising than the standard chicken or pizza when her mother had been in the kitchen.

  She made herself comfortable on the sofa, the perfect place to relax. She might even get to doze off during the film if she were lucky.

  A few minutes into the film, and her eyelids were drooping already. She felt secure there, although her thoughts drifted to the illness and the results of the MRI scan that was still waiting for. If things turned out for the worst, she would have no choice but to tell her family and her employers the whole story. Maybe it would be as well to do it right now, on a relaxed Friday night, under the noses of the Russian footballers?

  The jangling of her phone brought her back to reality. She wasn’t sure she had fallen asleep or not; but she was now fully alert – the newsroom’s phone number was there on the screen.
<
br />   ‘Yes?’ she replied in a tired voice.

  ‘Hi, Ísrún. Not interrupting anything, am I?’ her colleague on the evening shift asked.

  ‘No, that’s all right,’ she muttered.

  ‘Someone called the news hotline just now, wanting to talk to you. I didn’t want to give him your number, so I took a message.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He saw the item with the policeman – about the infection in Siglufjördur. He said he knows who the boy in the picture is.’

  37

  Siglufjördur’s quarantine was formally lifted at six that evening. People had already been appearing on the streets for a while, prepared to stop and pass the time of day. The town’s usual atmosphere was gradually returning. The place had become brighter, in spite of the rainclouds that were forming overhead. The sign in the Co-op window announced in big letters that the shop would be open that evening. Ari Thór was there as well, turning up at six thirty to buy some weekend essentials. The choice was limited, but nobody seemed to be concerned.

  Kristín knocked at his door an hour later. Ari Thór had been eagerly anticipating seeing her again, but was also nervous at the prospect, aware that this time he couldn’t afford to mess things up.

  She had kept her side of the bargain, bringing with her a fine pizza as well as a bottle of red wine.

  They sat in front of the television and watched the news while sharing the pizza. They sat close together on the sofa, just as they had always done before. It was as if nothing had changed between them – as if she had simply moved with him to Siglufjördur and never left his side. All the same, there was a tension between them; each seemed unsure of what to say to the other. Fortunately, the television rescued them from too many awkward silences.