Snowblind (18 page)

There was a brief break in the snowfall as Ari Thór waded through the banks of fresh white powder that had collected overnight to get to work on Monday morning. He was deeply confused, his mind on both Ugla and Kristín, and what the latter’s reactions might be.

Tómas was on duty, as usual, well before his shift was due to start. Ari Thór had the occasional suspicion that Tómas’s marriage might be in trouble, as he so obviously lived for his work. He reflected that this was a job that provided him with no shortage of challenges, and was now giving him the opportunity to vent his anger at the impertinence of journalists before calming down with a mug of coffee in his hand.

‘They don’t stop calling,’ were the first words he uttered as Ari Thór came in, stamping the snow from his feet. ‘Damned journalists. They won’t leave us in peace.’

‘I hear that after all the news coverage people believe Hrólfur was murdered. Have you heard that as well?’

‘Just a bit. I’ve also heard the theory that Hrólfur’s killer is the same person who assaulted Linda. What do you think of that?’ Tómas asked, the journalists apparently no longer an irritation.

Ari Thór had a feeling that he secretly enjoyed being the centre of attention.

‘I doubt it … I’d suspect Karl, but it looks like he’s innocent, of the attack on Linda at any rate.’

‘I’ve rarely seen a guiltier man,’ Tómas said. ‘Our bosses in Akureyri have been in touch, asking to send a man to help us
with the investigation.’ His expression showed what he thought of the suggestion. ‘I couldn’t really argue. They’ll be in touch when the roads are cleared. I tried to convince them that it’s all under control.’

Ari Thór nodded, struggling to concentrate. On top of everything else he still felt the pain in his shoulder. He had swallowed a couple of painkillers that morning, but they weren’t having any effect. He thought of booking an appointment with the doctor, but decided to wait and see if it would heal by itself.

Tómas poured himself another mug of coffee and sat down. ‘Listen. While I remember … Old Thorsteinn called me yesterday. Could you go and see him today?’

‘Thorsteinn?’

Tómas seemed to expect that Ari Thór would automatically know everyone in Siglufjördur by name.

‘Sorry. Thorsteinn’s a lawyer. He had a practice in Akureyri years ago, but he moved back home when he retired. He still has a few clients, but they’re gradually dying off.’

‘OK,’ Ari Thór agreed, still wondering why he needed to meet this lawyer.

‘He called me yesterday,’ Tómas said. ‘He has the old man’s will and said that he held off opening it until after the funeral. He reckoned we might be interested in the contents, not least as “Hrólfur had been murdered”, or so he said! As far as I could make out, he was very pleased that he has something to offer us in the middle of such an exciting murder investigation …’ Tómas smiled for the first time that morning. The coffee appeared to be working.

‘A will?’ Ari Thór said in surprise. ‘I can hardly believe it. I thought he hadn’t made a will.’

‘Life constantly takes us by surprise,’ Tómas said, sipping his coffee and sighing theatrically.

As far as the eye could see the world was white, the streets bleached with silvery snowdrifts piled across the pavements. The mountains sparkled, their pearly surfaces broken by the occasional fleck of black. The pale sky was an indication that the next fall of snow was not far away. It was as if nature had called a temporary truce, although everyone knew that sooner or later the weather would close in once again. There were no plans to clear the Siglufjördur road, at least not that day, leaving the inhabitants prisoners of the snow. Ari Thór tried to concentrate on the will and the meeting with Thorsteinn, trying to avoid, as so often, thinking about the snow.

The lawyer lived on Sudurgata, in an imposing, pale-coloured house that looked like it was built in the twenties or thirties. It was surrounded by a large garden, the branches of its trees bowed down under the weight of the ice and snow; from a distance, it formed an exquisite, picturesque winter scene.

Thorsteinn answered the door almost as soon as Ari Thór had rung the bell, as if he had watched him approach.

‘Welcome. Come inside.’

He looked to be around eighty, with thick glasses perched on his nose and thin grey hair. His formal suit and checked waistcoat were stretched over his portly frame, and he seemed a little overdressed, even for a meeting with the police.

‘Welcome.’ An older lady appeared in the hall and took Ari Thór’s hand. ‘I’m Snjólaug, Thorsteinn’s wife,’ she said with a smile. ‘How nice to have a visitor.’

The impression was that visitors were a rarity.

‘Can we offer you anything? Coffee and cake?’ Thorsteinn asked.

‘Thank you, but no,’ Ari Thór said, keen to get to business.

‘Shall we sit in my office?’ The old man suggested, gesturing down a narrow hallway, where a couple of old framed photographs of Siglufjördur hung on the walls; they appeared to be fading at the same rate as the wallpaper.

The office was more of a study, with three of its walls lined with books. The lawyer’s reddish-brown desk was carved from heavy
wood, and a green lamp on its surface provided an almost surreal glow – the only light in the room, with the curtains drawn and the main lights switched off. A red-leather folder occupied the centre of the desk and there was no computer to be seen, not even a typewriter in this room where everything seemed to be done the old-fashioned way. Thorsteinn sat in a large office chair, opened the folder and then reached down to take an envelope from one of the desk drawers.

Ari Thór took a seat opposite him. He was about to ask his first question when Snjólaug came into the office with a tray that she placed carefully on the edge of the desk. There were two cups of steaming coffee, a plate of freshly baked pancakes and a small sugar bowl. There was clearly no point refusing hospitality in this house. Ari Thór thanked her, smiled and sipped his coffee.

‘Would you like milk?’ Snjólaug asked.

‘No thank you. Black is fine,’ he answered and she departed with a nod of her head.

The single wall of the office not lined with books from floor to ceiling was split in two, the upper part covered by wallpaper patterned with pale-blue flowers, while the expanse of wall below the dado rail had been painted black. There was also a brass wall light and the room’s only window, its ivory frame just visible behind dark curtains.

‘Is your investigation making progress?’ the lawyer asked, his expression weary but also clearly suggesting that he thought he could make a contribution to the case.

‘It’s getting there, a step at a time, although it’s most likely that it was an accident. So Hrólfur had made a will?’

‘Absolutely, absolutely,’ Thorsteinn said with the envelope in his hands, as if waiting for the right moment and unwilling to play his trump card too soon. ‘Have a pancake,’ he said, taking one for himself. He sprinkled it with sugar, folded it and ate it in a single mouthful.

‘I can’t do this every day, not at my age. I have to be careful what I eat,’ he said, mouth still full.

Ari Thór nodded weakly, and attempted to guide the conversation
back to the will. He suspected the older gentleman was lonely. ‘Did Hrólfur make his will a long time ago?’ he asked.

‘Well, no. Not that long. About two years ago. I met him by chance and he mentioned that he wanted to sort out his affairs once and for all. He said he was so damned old, the time had come!’

Thorsteinn smiled. His smile was a tired one. ‘While I remember, would you like a little stiffener in your coffee?’

He turned to the bookcase behind his desk. Most of the books looked to be legal, volumes of supreme-court judgments in bound tomes filling several shelves. He took the 1962 volume from its place on the shelf and reached for a whisky bottle tucked away behind it.

Ari Thór grinned. ‘No thanks. I’m driving.’

And on duty.

‘Up to you.’ Thorsteinn poured a small measure into his coffee, and avoided Ari Thór’s eye. ‘Now, to continue … He asked me to prepare his will, as I’ve been handling a few legal affairs since I closed my practice in Akureyri. It doesn’t do any harm to keep yourself up to date.’

‘Nobody has mentioned this will before. So it has certainly been kept quiet,’ Ari Thór said, his statement more a question.

‘Indeed. Hrólfur asked me specially to keep the contents of his will confidential. He made it quite clear that he wasn’t going to tell anyone about it, least of all the beneficiaries. Only we four know about this will.’

‘Four?’

‘Yes. Hrólfur and I, my wife, Snjólaug, and Gudrún, who is a nurse at the hospital. Gudrún and Snjólaug were witnesses and I trust them both completely, so don’t worry. Gudrún is an old friend who visits us regularly and has done so for many years. I can assure you that nobody except myself, Hrólfur and the witnesses knows about the will.’

We’ll see about that.

If there was anything Ari Thór had learned during his short time in Siglufjördur, it was that secrets were liable to spread with astonishing speed in such a small community.

‘Was Hrólfur a wealthy man? Who
are
the beneficiaries?’ Ari Thór’s patience was wearing thin and he wanted answers.

‘Wealthy? Well, when is anyone wealthy?’ Thorsteinn asked, as if expecting an answer.

Ari Thór sat silent and Thorsteinn continued.

‘He was fairly well off, but as far as I could see he knew how to enjoy himself. He travelled and lived life to the full. If he had continued to write and had spent less time having fun, then he would have doubtless died a wealthy man – which begs the question, “Which is the more sensible course of action?”’ He laughed lightly. ‘So, enough chat,’ he said, to Ari Thór’s relief. ‘To business.’ He opened the envelope.

‘Everything is divided between friends and relatives.’

Ari Thór opened his notebook, ready to record details.

‘Let’s see. He had several bank and savings accounts, with a few million in each one. The money goes to a fairly distant relative, a great-nephew in Reykjavík, the only one of his relatives with whom he had any contact. He has a wife and children, and they’ve been struggling financially, I believe. So Hrólfur reckoned it would help them.’

‘Hrólfur had no children of his own?’

‘No. No children.’

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘Yes, well, as sure as it’s possible to be. Do you suspect that might not be the case?’

He sent Ari Thór a hawk-like look, just as if here were playing the part of a defence counsel in front of a courtroom.

‘No,’ Ari Thór lied. ‘Not at all.’

The lawyer’s brows furrowed and he continued.

‘Then there are the rights to his books, or rather, book. His short stories never sold much, and neither did his poetry.’

‘And who gets the rights?’

‘Old Pálmi. Well, old and not that old. He’s younger than I am. You know him?’

‘Yes, I know him. Do you have any idea why Hrólfur chose him?’

‘No, I don’t have a clue, and there was no explanation.’

‘And are these rights worth anything?’

‘I couldn’t say. There might be a few sales now that he’s gone, but his time had passed and I can hardly imagine that there’ll be much to be made from the rights, at least nothing significant, probably small amounts now and again. Nothing like it was in the old days when he was in demand with literati all over the world.’

Ari Thór sighed. It didn’t seem that this had given Pálmi any strong motive for pushing an elderly author down the stairs.

‘Is there any more?’ He asked.

‘Of course there’s the wine, one of the finest cellars to be found in the town, or probably anywhere in these parts.’

Ari Thór waited. The lawyer paused for a long moment, just as he might have done in a courtroom.

‘Úlfur gets the wine,’ he said, and it seemed like he longed to add something –
The lucky old dog
– but decided against it. ‘Those bottles are worth millions, but I somehow doubt he’d try and sell them. It would be a sin to sell such a cellar.’

‘And the house? He must have owned the house?’

‘Most certainly, and mortgage-free.’

‘And does that go to his relatives?’

‘No, actually it doesn’t. This did take me by surprise, I have to say, and I’m not easily surprised these days.’

His heart leaped as Thorsteinn named the beneficiary.

‘Her name’s Ugla,’ Thorsteinn repeated. ‘She’s just a young woman.’

Ari Thór sat in silence and almost in shock.

‘It’s inexplicable, to say the least. She gets the house, the contents and the old Mercedes. That’s probably not worth a lot these days but the house is magnificent.’

Ari Thór hardly heard the rest of the conversation. He could only think of Ugla. Had she known about this? Had she been leading him on, tempting him down the wrong avenues of investigation? It was
obvious that if anyone in the town would gain from Hrólfur’s death, it was Ugla.

But he couldn’t think of her except with warmth. He knew that he would have to meet her again, in spite of everything. But how was he going to negotiate a situation that was fast becoming an ethical dilemma? It went without saying that the investigation had to take priority. He couldn’t sacrifice his job for a passing fancy. Or was there more to it?