Nightblind (9 page)

Who the hell had the bright idea that this screamingly bright orange would go down well with the inmates on a psychiatric ward? The mattress is orange and so is the chair. The door is dark brown, creating a colour scheme from hell. I can’t be happy in here and I have no desire to mix with the people on the other side of the door.

I’m in a dreadful mood today. I spoke to the nurse and asked her when I could have an appointment with Dr Helgi.

Not now, she said. Not this week. Short and cold. She doesn’t like me. It was as if she was telling me about the weather rather than breaking the news that I wouldn’t be able to see my doctor this week. How am I supposed to make any progress? I must see him.

Why not? I asked. I must have sounded angrier than usual, and I was furious.

I saw her take a step back. Was she frightened of me? Maybe I was too brusque?

He doesn’t want to see you right away, she replied. You need more time and he’s very busy, but I’ve spoken to him on your behalf. And then she left me, none the wiser but a lot more unsettled.

Ari Thór was alone on duty after a long discussion with Tómas in front of the whiteboard.

Tómas had adopted some new habits since he’d left. He had become more formal and better organised, using the whiteboard at the police station to track the different threads of the investigation. Until now, the whiteboard had remained largely pristine.

No new information had been forthcoming and while there was little need for the meeting, Ari Thór had not protested. The only notable development was the fact that the owner of the mobile phone that had been used to call Herjólfur shortly before the attack could not be traced. The number was unregistered and the SIM card appeared to have been removed from the phone so it couldn’t be tracked. The call had gone through a mast in Siglufjördur, but there was no possibility of pinpointing the caller’s location with any real accuracy. This was the only call made, before or since, from that particular number.

‘And I’ve requested the records of calls to and from your mayor,’ Tómas added. ‘It shouldn’t take long.’

‘Do you really think he…?’ Ari Thór started to ask, before Tómas interrupted him.

‘In the attempted murder of a police officer we don’t rule anything out,’ he said firmly.

After that, Tómas made himself scarce, saying he was going to call on Addi Gunna again.

‘Best for you to stay here and keep things ticking over,’ he said, a clear but discreet indication that he was more confident about getting something out of Addi if he went alone.

Left on his own in the station, Ari Thór’s thoughts returned to Kristín. She’d called with the unexpected news that her parents were moving home to Iceland earlier than planned. He was genuinely pleased by this turn of events; not only did he like them, but he also enjoyed being part of a family. Their relationship was like nothing he had ever experienced in his upbringing. They might also be able to help out a bit, looking after Stefnir from time to time. Maybe he and Kristín would get a chance to go out for a meal or a film? Maybe the constant pressure was the reason for her odd behaviour? Ari Thór sighed and rubbed his temples with his thumbs. There was something wrong, and he didn’t know if he had the strength to face up to it.

Ari Thór was startled by a knock on the police station window. He glanced out and saw a face he recognised, a history teacher from the local college. Ari Thór didn’t know the man to speak to, but was getting to know many of the townspeople by sight. Anything else would have been virtually impossible in such a small community as Siglufjördur.

The teacher pointed, indicating the door, as if asking if he might come in, and Ari Thór nodded, standing up to greet his visitor.

‘Good morning,’ he said racking his brains for the man’s name once the newcomer was inside the police station.

‘Yes, hello,’ he said, putting out a hand and introducing himself as he did so. ‘Ingólfur.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Ari Thór said, trying to sound friendly. ‘You teach at the college, don’t you?’

‘That’s right, yes,’ he said, and hesitated, as if he would prefer to be anywhere but standing in front of a local police officer. ‘I teach history.’

Ari Thór waited for him to come to the point, while Ingólfur seemed to be looking for the right words.

‘Well, I reckon…’ he mumbled at last, as Ari Thór waited with growing impatience. ‘I think Herjólfur might have been shot with my gun.’

Ingólfur buried his face in his hands, despair evident in his hunched shoulders. An unusually tall man, he was powerfully built, and well padded around the waist, someone who had once been fit, but let himself go.

After a short but painful silence, Ari Thór spoke.

‘Sit down, won’t you?’

Ingólfur looked up. ‘What? Yes,’ he murmured.

At first glance, he did not appear to be a man who might be able to keep the attention of young and unruly students, but it could be that being in the police station was unnerving him.

Ari Thór had planned to show him into the little meeting room that was sometimes referred to as the interview room, but Ingólfur had already taken him at his word and sat in the nearest chair, at Hlynur’s old desk. There was something about the man that reminded him of Hlynur during the days and weeks before he took his own life. There had been a silence about him, and a worrying combination of hesitation, fear and distance.

‘Well,’ Ingólfur began, but the remaining words seemed to fade away.

Ari Thór waited patiently, recognising that it had been difficult for the man to find the courage to come down to the police station.

Ingólfur sighed deeply. ‘Look, I’m sorry this is taking a while … Someone borrowed my gun, or I think so, anyway. And it looks to me like it has been used…’ He spoke swiftly, hardly pausing for breath.

‘What makes you think someone has used your gun?’ Ari Thór
asked gently. He had grabbed a recorder from his desk, setting it to record the interview.

‘I noticed it yesterday, you understand? The gun was gone.’

‘Yesterday, you say?’ Ari Thór said in his usual steady tone, taking care to speak slowly and carefully in light of his visitor’s obvious agitation.

‘Yes, exactly. Yes.’

‘So why didn’t you come yesterday?’

‘Well, you see…’ he said and stopped. ‘Of course I should have come yesterday, but I wanted to be certain. I wanted to make sure before I went off and got myself into trouble. I wanted to be sure my boy hadn’t taken it. He said he hadn’t.’ Ingólfur looked up suddenly, a look of panic warping his features. ‘Oh! Please don’t misunderstand me. My son has no interest in guns, and … Well, the truth is that it’s partly my fault. I kept it in an unlocked garage.’ He hung his head for a moment, but lifted it to look straight into Ari Thór’s eyes before continuing. ‘But I can’t keep quiet any longer, especially if it turns out the poor man was shot with my gun.’

‘I expect there’ll be some questions to answer later about how the gun was stored,’ Ari Thór said. ‘But we won’t worry about that for the moment. You’re saying that your son denied taking the weapon?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you believe him?’

‘What? Yes, yes, of course I do.’

‘And you? I don’t suppose you had anything to do with the shooting?’

The words were almost a careless remark, but Ingólfur didn’t seem to register Ari Thór’s tone.

‘What? No! What do you mean? I don’t know the man at all. You think that I did it, tried to kill him?’

‘I didn’t say that. Who else lives with you? Is it a detached house?’

‘It’s detached. My wife and I live there, and so does our son. He’s finishing college in the spring. He’s in some of my classes, and he’s doing all right…’ He looked puzzled by the direction the
conversation was taking. ‘But about the gun, can you keep it out of the newspapers?’

‘We don’t make a habit of telling the newspapers about every lead.’

‘No, I mean, can you keep me out of it? It’s the boy I’m thinking of, so he doesn’t get bullied at school,’ he said. Either he was a good actor, or he was genuinely deeply distressed.

‘Did many people know there was a gun in your garage? Is the garage part of the house? Have you noticed anyone suspicious hanging around?’

Ingólfur didn’t seem to be sure which question to answer first.

‘Well, no. No. The garage is next to the house, and I didn’t notice anything. Not that it would be a problem to sneak in there, but people don’t do that kind of thing in Siglufjördur. People leave you alone.’

‘Most of the time, yes.’

Times were undeniably changing and the town was no longer quite as peaceful as it had been in the past. When Ari Thór had first arrived, Tómas told him that nothing ever happened in Siglufjördur, but now the new tunnel had brought the town closer to the main roads and it was starting to become busier. There were more visitors, more traffic. In some ways this was a positive development, but it was also clear that outsiders brought more than just a boost to the tourist industry.

‘What were those last questions again?’

‘Who knew you kept the shotgun there?’

‘It wasn’t a secret. Loads of people, I imagine. I’m in a hunting club and all the boys know I have a shotgun, but none of them would do anything like that; shoot a cop, I mean.’

Ari Thór gave him a pen and paper and asked him to write down the names of the hunting club members. When Ingólfur gave the page back there were five names on the list.

‘And ammunition? Was that kept in the garage as well?’

Ingólfur hesitated and looked at his feet. Ari Thór wondered, was he going to tell the truth?

‘Well, I think it was. Not always. But this time the shells were in the garage.’

‘And are any of them missing?’

‘I don’t really know. I’m not sure how many were there to start with.’

Ari Thór nodded, and sat silently, hoping that Ingólfur might say something else.

‘Keep quiet about this for the moment,’ Ari Thór said, finally. On occasion, he found himself behaving just like Tómas, in both word and deed.

‘Well, yeah. Yes.’

‘I’ll ask my colleague and the technical team to pay you a visit.’

‘Isn’t it illegal to keep it like that, in an unlocked garage? With the shells as well?’ Ingólfur looked worried, as if regretting having turned himself in. ‘Can’t we just say the garage was locked and the thief broke in?’

‘Absolutely not.’

If Ingólfur’s shotgun
had
been used, was this his way of trying to avoid suspicion…? Coming to the police on his own initiative, playing the shocked and worried citizen.

For a moment Ari Thór wondered if he sat face to face with the killer.

The nights are the hardest. Sometimes I can get to sleep, but mostly I lie awake and listen to the ‘silence’. There’s never really silence here, of course, just different levels of sound. Underneath everything there’s a hum and I don’t know where it comes from; maybe from the lights or the radiators or the wires running through the walls of this sprawling hospital. I just know that the hum can drive you insane. There are other sounds in the silence, people going in and out, even muted chatter. Doors open and close, some people are free to come and go. Then there’s the sound of traffic, car horns out there, on the other side of the windows, where normal people live and are free to do as they please.

The door to my room can be closed at night now. I’m apparently no longer a danger to myself. It’s a little lonely not having someone on duty outside my door. Can you miss being under surveillance? Can you miss having a public employee sitting there watching you, watching your every move?

I try to remind myself that I’m now here of my own free will. Being free is wonderful, even though there can be an uncomfortable burden of responsibility that goes with it. There’s so much that has to be decided, not least which direction I should take in my life. I don’t know yet where life will lead me, still less how I’m supposed to behave around other people. Maybe that’s what is making me so anxious. And maybe that’s the reason for the clumsy suicide attempt. I like writing those words – suicide attempt. A man should take responsibility for his actions. That’s what I was brought up to believe and that’s how I’d prefer to live. That’s definitely what Dad preached, although he didn’t always follow his own advice.

It’s stale and airless in here, especially at night. There is a pervading smell, some hospital odour that’s difficult to describe. Should I try? It’s slightly bitter, uncomfortable … it smells of hopelessness, really, and the medication that creates it.

The tune comes back to me sometimes, the melody. There’s so much
going on in my head, thoughts bouncing back and forth, getting in each others’ way, worries, tension, guilt. There’s not much joy there.

I often think of Hanna and of everything that went wrong between us. Or rather, what went wrong with me. It had all started so well and I was sure she was in love. I remember the first time we met, at school. We were the same age, but she was so much more mature. And I remember the last time I saw her, in tears, angry and betrayed. There was hatred in her eyes. That’s how I know she won’t be visiting me and I will probably never see her again unless by some coincidence, in which case I’ll only be able to hang my head in shame and try to smile through it. I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. My temper got the better of me. And she’ll look away and cross the street to avoid me.

I couldn’t help myself.

My temper got the better of me

Is that what really happened?

I’m searching for the answer to that question.

And the answer scares me.