Blackout (11 page)

Akureyri was the last place Ari Thór wanted to visit. He wasn’t ready to run into Kristín, at least not yet.

On the other hand, the visit would provide an opportunity to check out his theory about Ríkhardur Lindgren. Akureyri was the home of the widower of one of Ríkhardur’s victims, a woman who had died due to the doctor’s malpractice. He was hoping to be able to pay the man a visit without involving Tómas, and had laid plans to get Natan, an old schoolfriend who now lived in Akureyri, to drive him to the man’s house. It was a shot in the dark, but it would be as well to check discreetly while the opportunity was there.

Ari Thór walked through Siglufjörður’s town centre, crowded with tourists from a visiting cruise ship, milling about in the clear summer sunshine, a contrast to what he’d heard was happening in Reykjavík, where a thickening cloud of ash was gathering over the city.

He had been able contact Páll’s friend in Reykjavík and confirm his story, as far as it went. Assuming this friend was telling the truth, Páll had been far from the murder scene. Now he wanted to call on the son of the couple who had owned the farm where, according to
Jói, Elías had stayed. Ari Thór still had a little time before he and Tómas had to leave for Akureyri, and hopefully something worthwhile would come of his short visit.

On the way he called Natan and arranged to meet him. Tómas had said something about getting a bite to eat in Akureyri; but Ari Thór decided he’d have to decline and say he was meeting a friend for a sandwich. Tómas wouldn’t mind eating alone. He had to be used to it by now.

Ari Thór had another reason for preferring Natan’s company over Tómas’s. Natan knew Kristín, so Ari Thór could ask him if he had any news about her.

Ari Thór hadn’t entertained the idea of a relationship with anyone else after Ugla and Kristín had both sent him packing in such quick succession. In all that time he had made only one false step – if you could call it that, seeing as he no longer had any responsibilities towards Kristín. The autumn after he and Kristín had parted, a friend from the police college had asked him if he felt like coming along to a country hop in Blönduós. Friend? Wasn’t that too strong a word? An acquaintance, more like. In fact, Ari Thór had very few friends and had never acquired the skills needed to amass ranks of them around him. He found it difficult to open up and show others a warm, sensitive side. Since his parents and then his grandmother had died, there had only been two people with whom he had felt truly at ease: Kristín and then Ugla.

His acquaintance had just moved to Blönduós to take up a temporary post there and knew virtually nobody. He had told Ari Thór that he wasn’t happy about going to this country dance on his own, and suggested that perhaps it wouldn’t be a problem for Ari Thór to travel over from Siglufjörður. By then Ari Thór was so sick of his own misery and self-pity, having made such a mess of his relationships with Kristín and Ugla, he decided to go.

He had persuaded Hlynur to lend him a car, which was awkward seeing as they never met outside work and had little in common. However, Ari Thór had made himself do it. After all, there was no one else he could ask. Hardly Tómas, and certainly not Ugla.

When they had arrived at the dance, the noise was deafening and he soon lost sight of his friend somewhere in the throng. Songs he had never heard before were playing at full blast, blotting everything else out. What band was this, anyway? The booming bass beat was driving him nuts. He quickly decided he was getting too old for this.

Someone jostled him hard, and he spun around to return the favour. But he was too late, whoever it was had moved away. Instead Ari Thór’s eyes fell on a stunning girl. Despite himself, he approached her, his body failing miserably to obey the rhythmic commands he was giving it, and his balance not everything he would have wanted it to be.

Over the din of the music, he introduced himself, telling her he was a police officer. He didn’t catch her name, but, in case she hadn’t heard him the first time, he told her again that he was a police officer. She was a petite redhead, outstandingly pretty, and definitely much younger than he was.

Almost before Ari Thór knew it, the last slow dance was over, and he was still with the same beautiful girl. They made their way from the dance hall, still clinging to each other, and before long he found himself standing outside a house in Blönduós. A red house. A red-haired girl who lived in a red house.

Inside, she handed him a drink, put some music on and turned up the volume, that endless damned noise. It wasn’t long before her clothes were on the floor.

Sex with the red-haired girl was different to how it had been with Kristín, more daring, more urgent, colder. Yet all the time they were in each other’s arms, his mind was on Kristín.

Once he had sobered up and was on the way back to Siglufjörður, he regretted the liaison. This was something that would be filed away under ‘never happened’ – if he and Kristín were ever to get back
together, that was.
When
he and Kristín get back together, he told himself.

If it was all over between them, why the hell did he have the guilty feeling of having been unfaithful to her?

It was very quiet at the station. Hlynur had spent most of his time going through old obituaries. First Gauti’s, and then Gauti’s mother’s.

He had been through his mailbox again and reread the threatening messages.

When would this end?

How could he make amends for his past misdeeds?

Could he ever?

He would have given everything he owned for a way out of this vicious circle, or for a voice that would tell him how he could put everything right.

He suspected, and feared, that the voice had already told him.

Next time I’ll teach you how to die.

Whoever had sent him these messages, whether it was Gauti’s sister, or some other person altogether, was waiting for the inevitable: for Hlynur to go the same way as Gauti.

The anger welled up again.

Why can’t they leave me alone?

I regret it!

I regret everything!

Ari Thór walked through the square and up the steep steps leading to the old church and the churchyard, and finally arrived at Jónatan’s house.

Jónatan stood in his doorway like a guard at a castle gate. Ari Thór recognised his face – someone he had seen around the town, although he knew nothing about him. So this was the man whose parents had farmed the place where Elías had spent time as a youngster. He was tall but stooped, his back clearly troubling him badly.

He took the measure of Ari Thór through a pair of thick glasses, looking down, as was inevitable with his stoop, as if he were handing down a verdict.

‘What do you want with me?’ he rasped, standing stock still. Jónatan’s voice wasn’t the dark rumble he had expected.

Ari Thór hadn’t mentioned where he was going to Tómas, preferring to play his cards close to his chest. Neither had he called Jónatan in advance, and it was clear that this unexpected caller was far from welcome.

‘Nothing special,’ Ari Thór said trying to weigh the man up. ‘A few questions, that’s all.’

‘I’m no friend of the police, as I presume you already know. They never leave you in peace,’ he growled, but his voice lacked the volume to give it any depth or darkness. ‘You’re here to ask about Elías?’

Elías.
So they knew each other. Presumably Jónatan remembered him from the farm.

‘“As I presume you already know”,’ Ari Thór echoed, turning the words back on this irascible character. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? And aren’t you going to ask me in?’ he added.

‘I don’t ask anyone in,’ Jónatan retorted. ‘Nosy bastards everywhere.’ He moved out of the doorway onto the steps, practically treading on Ari Thór’s toes, and slammed the door shut behind him. ‘I’m going down to the town, to the Co-op. You can tag along with me that far, young fella, and we can talk on the way.’

Ari Thór glanced towards the Town Hall Square. It wasn’t a long walk from Jónatan’s house by the old churchyard. There might be time for a few questions, but he’d have to choose them carefully.

‘Fair enough,’ he said crossly, although he saw with relief that Jónatan walked slowly, as if it was a struggle for him. That could make this informal interview a little longer.

‘What did you mean just now?’ Ari Thór asked.

‘None of that crap, boy,’ Jónatan snapped. ‘You must know I did time. Otherwise why would you have come up here to pester me?’

Hell.
That was a schoolboy error; going into an interview unprepared.

‘I don’t make a habit of checking for a criminal record every time I chat to someone,’ Ari Thór said, hoping to sound convincing.

‘I can imagine that wouldn’t be the most pleasant of tasks,’  Jónatan said, now seeming to struggle with the downward slope.

‘What were you inside for?’ Ari Thór asked, and immediately regretted wasting valuable time on a question he could answer for himself later by checking the records.

‘Some stupid dope shit. Look it up for yourself. I was neither guilty nor innocent.’ Jónatan hesitated, and then seemed to have decided to explain at greater length. It was Ari Thór’s experience that everyone had extenuating circumstances of some kind. ‘I did it for the money, all right? Smuggled some stuff from overseas. It wasn’t my idea.’

‘Did you know Elías well?’

‘Well? No, I wouldn’t say that. I remember him…’ His voice failed him for a moment and he coughed before starting again. ‘I remember him from the country, from my parents’ farm. He never looked me up after he came to Siglufjörður, although I knew he was
here before I heard about the murder. I’m not much of a one for mixing with people, so I don’t keep up with the local gossip.’

‘Have you lived here long?’

‘Since father died. So that’s five years. Mother had already gone. No point keeping the blasted farm going with half the animals dead and nothing to do but look out over the sea and remember … old memories.’

Judging by his tone, the memories were not pleasant ones.

‘When did you get mixed up in that dope business?’ Ari Thór asked, taking care to hide a cold smile. They were not far from the Co-op now.

‘That was a long time ago,’ Jónatan said, his voice wistful. ‘Before my parents died. I moved to Reykjavík to learn something. Like everyone ought to do. Once I’d done my time I moved back north; nowhere else to go, you see. Then mother died. Father tried to keep the farm going, and then he died later the same year. Then I gave up. My brothers and sisters bought a place for me here; got it cheap.’

He stopped and with difficulty looked over his shoulder at his little house. ‘My brothers and sisters are all down south, gone to live in some urban paradise.’ He grinned. ‘They never come to see me. There was cheap housing here and I reckon they thought it was best to keep me at a decent distance.’

‘So what do you do?’

They were at the doors of the Co-op now.

‘Well, young man, I suppose it’s best to say I’m retired. I’m not a well man, you see.’ He grinned again. ‘I get a few sickness benefits now that I’m worn out and good for nothing. I get by, just about. I don’t know what day it is any more, but I can tell the difference between a weekday and a weekend. You know how I do that?’

Ari Thór stood still, waiting for the answer to come.

‘I look out of the window when I get up in the morning. If there are people about, then it’s a weekday, otherwise it’s the weekend.
That’ll do me. Life’s just so fucking simple when nobody gives a shit about you.’

And he limped into the shop without even one more look at Ari Thór.

Jónatan had no idea what he had come into the Co-op to buy. He didn’t have much money to spend and, in any case, he had everything he needed at home: a little milk, some
skyr
and the leftovers of last night’s dinner. The truth was he simply hadn’t wanted to let that damned copper into his house, and a walk to the Co-op was the best idea he could come up with.

It was a real pain that he’d set off down the slope without taking his stick with him. In his haste to get out of the house he had forgotten it, and now he stood in the Co-op like a lost soul among the cruise-liner tourists, without any real need to make a purchase.

Why hadn’t he wanted to let the copper in? He had to admit that part of the reason was that the place was a mess; he had long ago given up trying to keep it tidy. It wasn’t as if he ever had any visitors.

The other reason was that he was terrified that he might ease his conscience and let something slip. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, though; better than having to carry the burden of the truth on his bent back.

When he had seen the copper on the steps he had thought for a moment that it was all over; he almost felt a sense of relief. It had occurred to him to ask the copper in, to sit him down among all the junk and tell him everything.

He looked around the shop. There was nobody he knew, and nobody seemed to be paying him any attention, so he made his way to the checkouts and squeezed past them back out onto the street.

He felt like an idiot for going into the shop and then coming
out empty-handed. Around the corner, he looked at the slope that awaited him. That stick would have come in handy now.

He had never been this forgetful when he was a younger man. He had been precise and thoughtful ever since he was a small child. He had been organised, reliable and conscientious. In such a large family, though, with so many brothers and sisters, and his parents having their hands full with the farm, he had received little encouragement to work hard. He had been the youngest of five in the farmhouse in Skagafjörður, yet there had never seemed to be any doubt that he would be the one to travel south to study. That had suited him; he didn’t have the strength for heavy work and he had no interest in farming. So he went to Reykjavík, where he left college with top marks. It was after that that the problems that would plague him for the rest of his life had begun.

He had wanted to study medicine: a tough choice and a demanding course. He had already been preparing himself that summer, before the start of the first term. He had sat and read medical books, wondering if he could genuinely be a doctor. Could he handle all the patients that would come every day, and give each one a diagnosis and a prescribed treatment? ‘Go home, there’s nothing wrong with you.’ How could he be completely sure he was right? How on earth did doctors manage to make so many decisions all day long? He imagined that each and every case would need to be examined thoroughly, looking up information in books and articles, and only after having carried out exhaustive checks could he say, ‘go home, you’re perfectly fit’.

And what if the person then became ill anyway? What if there was something he had overlooked? These were the thoughts that preyed on his mind.

Then the serious business of studying began.

He sat a desk in the library in the pool of light cast by the lamp. He stared at the book but was no longer reading; it remained open at the
same
page. He didn’t know how long he’d been there. He’d started early. He’d been reading all night, doing his best to memorise every fact. The words were starting to fuse together. His days were dull and monotonous. Had he missed the first exam? Maybe; he wasn’t sure any more. Well, perhaps he’d missed one or two exams … wasn’t ready for them. Father had rung a few days ago and he hadn’t been able to tell him the truth. He’d told him he’d passed, flown through every exam. That wasn’t too much of a lie. He did know this stuff better than anyone. And yet he’d failed…

When his university studies had come to nothing, he looked for work. But finding something that suited him in Reykjavík was no simple task. He had never been robust enough to cope with the back-breaking labour on the family farm, but now he was reluctantly looking for the kind of work he knew his weak back would never let him do for long. Finally he landed a job at the docks, heavy work from morning to night. It was well paid, but he knew it couldn’t last. He didn’t have the strength to keep this up for long. He did his best to tough it out, but the pain in his back always returned and every time it did, it stayed longer.

Then there was the offer of a berth on a boat, where the pay was even higher; it was a chance to do better and put away some savings.

Life as a seaman was even worse that working on the docks, though. He forced himself to carry on for a couple of trips, fighting against the endless rolling, becoming grey and weak. That was where he met the devil in human form, a man who did his best to tempt him, and was successful in those efforts.

‘Hard labour’s for losers,’ he had said.

Quick money was the best kind, and he had just the thing for Jónatan.

By this time his back was so worn out that he grasped any straw of opportunity.

Smuggling dope was easy enough the first time, and the second time.

Third time lucky?

He had been caught on the third trip, kept in a cell on remand for weeks on end and then shipped off to prison. That was when his parents found out he had given up on medicine months ago and had instead become a self-employed contractor in the practical chemical sector.

Prison wasn’t too bad. He had a pretty large and comfortable cell. The worst part was having to move back up north once his term in prison was over, broken in mind and body.

Jónatan had finally made his way up the slope. He stopped to take in the mild summer weather, with none of the bitter winds that would lash the town during the long winter months. He stretched. The pain in his back was considerable, but it had often been worse.

He sneaked into his own house, that little detached shack that his brothers and sisters had clubbed together to buy for him. He saw the blessed stick hanging where he had left it on the radiator in the hall.

He lay down, exhausted. He had to rest for a while. He knew already that he would sleep badly that night. He couldn’t stand the brightness of the light, the midnight sun that everyone else seemed to be so fond of. He had bought thick, heavy curtains, but somehow the light always seemed to find a chink it could get through.

In his mind the darkest nights were the brightest ones, and he knew all too well why that was the case.