Snowblind (8 page)

He seemed as surprised as she was by the piercing ring from the other pocket of his jacket, as if he had forgotten that he had a mobile phone as well.

It gave her a chance to catch her breath, to compose herself and think. What would happen next? She couldn’t give him the combination to the safe without calling her husband, and there wasn’t much chance that he would allow her to do that. In fact, it was unlikely that she would be able to make any sense, even if he did let her make the call.

She was no use to him now. Maybe he would decide to wait for her husband and force him to open the safe. Maybe she was worth something: her life in exchange for the combination. But she couldn’t be certain.

He answered his phone with a few sharp words. ‘Yes … No … Not yet …’

He had already threatened to kill her once. Was he bluffing, or did he mean it? Again, she couldn’t be sure.

He stepped out into the passage to continue his phone conversation. As she watched, he turned to his left, into the corridor leading to the guest bedroom and the door to the garden. To the right was the living room and the lobby, and the way out. It was an unexpected opportunity and required a quick decision.

The muttering of his voice was becoming fainter, telling her that he had gone a few steps further along the passage, expecting her to stay where she was in the windowless cubbyhole of a study, like a trapped animal.

Her thoughts turned to her husband, probably boarding an aircraft on his way home. What would he want her to do? This was surely the only chance she would get. Take it – or wait and hope?

There was no telling what made up her mind, instinct took over.

She glanced quickly along the passage; he had his back to her. This was her chance. Run and attract his attention, or tiptoe silently?

She stepped into the passage. He still hadn’t noticed her. She walked briskly away from him, but on silent feet. She didn’t think he was coming after her.

Her heart hammered so loudly that she was certain that he would hear its beat.

She was round the corner and out of sight, with only a few paces to the front door. She knew the door was locked and would need both hands to open it, synchronised movements and firm hands.

Then she heard him. Throwing herself at the door handle, she fumbled for the locks, but her hands wouldn’t do what they were supposed to. She knew she had only seconds before he would be upon her.

Choking back tears of frustration, she reached for the door.

And tried again.

Nothing ever happens here.

The lobby of the theatre was magnificent. The posters were witness to a past age and the air was heavy with the history of Siglufjördur, where the arts had flourished in good times and bad. There had been numerous performances by the Dramatic Society during the town’s golden years, when the sea had been so full of herring that the salting yards had been busy night and day. The performances had continued after the herring had gone, when prosperity had become a word found only in dictionaries, although it was still a fact of life in the south. On the stage love had waxed and waned, people had lived and died, and even been murdered, all in front of packed houses.

It had rained without a break since the middle of the afternoon, when the skies had finally started to clear. Ari Thór didn’t make a habit of going to the theatre, but still understood the excitement behind a good production. Tension in the air could sometimes be palpable, but never as overwhelming as it was that Friday evening in the Siglufjördur theatre. But this time there was no production taking place and the auditorium was empty. What he and Tómas – both of them on duty that night – could not avoid was the body. There was no doubt they were looking at a corpse; but Tómas still checked for a pulse.

The Dramatic Society had most certainly seen blood before, or at least, something that audiences saw as blood. This blood, though, which had seeped from the gash in the old man’s head, looked starkly unrealistic, as if it didn’t belong there, like ketchup in a bad B-movie.

‘He must have fallen down the stairs,’ Ari Thór said.

‘That’s obvious,’ Tómas said brusquely. His usual cheerful nature had deserted him; it was clear for anyone to see that this was a serious incident and it would attract attention.

The town’s most illustrious resident lay on the floor in front of them: Hrólfur Kristjánsson, who had once been Iceland’s foremost author. Although his work had gone out of fashion in recent years – maybe even recent decades – there was still no doubt that his death would be front-page news.

Ari Thór and Tómas couldn’t help but notice that Hrólfur had been drinking – the smell of alcohol was unmistakeable.

‘Hell and damnation,’ Tómas cursed under his breath. ‘We can’t have those damned journalists making more out of this than there is. Not a word to the press, you understand?’ His voice was determined.

Ari Thór nodded, not certain quite how to react. Tómas was usually an amiable, paternal character and it had been many years since Ari Thór had had a real father to look up to. It was about ten years since he had lost his dad, and he had almost forgotten what paternal concern – or paternal discipline – felt like. He tried to maintain his equilibrium and looked around. Hrólfur lay on his back at the bottom of the stairs, his head on the floor by the lowest step.

‘Looks like he’s fallen backwards,’ Ari Thór said. ‘That could indicate he was pushed.’

‘Don’t talk nonsense.’ Tómas barked. ‘No damned nonsense, young man.’

Ari Thór was shaken.

‘Concentrate on taking pictures.’

Ari Thór photographed the body and then went to the lobby, where Nína, who had called to report the body, was waiting. She seemed concerned, but not noticeably upset. Ari Thór was smarting after Tómas’s robust rebuke, but he continued taking photographs. He had wanted to contribute something, show he could be useful. Eventually he turned to Nína.

‘Was there a rehearsal for the play here?’ he asked. ‘Weren’t you opening tomorrow?’

‘Yes … there was a rehearsal.’

‘Where is everyone, then?’ he demanded.

‘There is … there’s a … dinner break. I just came back and found him … Hrólfur … lying there.’

Ari Thór put the compact digital camera in his pocket and headed back to the auditorium, stopping in the doorway as Tómas appeared. ‘Shouldn’t we call in … well, specialists?’

‘Cops from Reykjavík, you mean? It’s an easily explained accident. The old boy must have …’ Tómas lowered his voice. ‘He must have had a drop too much. Tired, anxious. It’s an accident. We don’t need a specialist team to work that out for us.’

Ari Thór saw that Nína had moved from the lobby, closer to the auditorium, listening carefully to every word the police officers said. She looked aside, as if to hide the fact that she had been eavesdropping, put on a threadbare red coat, picked up a polka-dot umbrella from a hook and went into the auditorium to give the police officers a mournful look. ‘Is there any reason I can’t go home? I’m feeling faint. I’ve never seen a dead body before.’

‘Is the ambulance on its way?’ Tómas asked Ari Thór, and turned to Nína. ‘I’m sorry. We’ll need to speak to you before you leave. Why don’t you sit down and try to take it easy?’

Her smile was tired and she sighed.

Ari Thór told Tómas that the ambulance was on its way. ‘Can they remove the body?’ he asked, nervous about making another faux pas in front of his boss.

‘Yes, I expect so. You’ve taken pictures of everything, haven’t you? There’s nothing suspicious here. Was there anyone else here?’ He asked, the question directed towards Nína.

Apparently miles away, she didn’t answer.

Tómas coughed. ‘Nína, was anyone else here when this happened?’

‘What?’ she stammered, looking wildly around her.

Tómas glared at her, his patience at a low ebb.

‘Was there anyone else here?’ he asked again, his booming voice echoing around the empty ticket hall.

‘Yes …’ She seemed to be thinking. ‘No, I mean … I don’t think so. I was down in the basement at dinner time. There’s a cellar underneath the stage. The steps leading down to it are at the back. I was clearing up – we keep all the old costumes in the basement – and I had a lie-down on the old couch down there. I had already eaten, while they were rehearsing. There wasn’t anybody here at dinner time apart from me and Hrólfur. He was on his own up in the gallery.’

‘And you’re sure there was nobody else here when you came in and found … found the body?’ Tómas asked.

Ari Thór had done his best to confirm that Nína was the only person in the building when he and Tómas had arrived. He had checked the basement and the gallery, where he found only a few old chairs and a couple of tables. There had been an open newspaper on one table.

‘Yes, I’m sure. I didn’t hear anyone.’

‘Do you know if he had been drinking?’ Tómas asked.

‘Yes, he brought a bottle with him, a small hip flask. That’s why I think he didn’t go anywhere during the dinner break. The weather is lousy and he was driving.’

Ari Thór was about to ask Nína a question, when Tómas jumped in ahead of him.

‘That’ll do. You can go home and relax. We’ll have a word with you tomorrow if there are any more questions.’

‘When are the others coming back from dinner?’ Ari Thór asked.

‘Úlfur gave everyone an hour’s break. They’ll be coming back soon, in another ten or fifteen minutes.’

The ambulance crew arrived before Tómas could say anything further. No words were needed and they set to work with quiet efficiency.

‘Ari Thór, can you keep watch outside? There’ll be people arriving and we don’t need a crowd around us. We’ll tell people there has been an accident, that Hrólfur slipped on the stairs and … lost his life.’

The door creaked as Leifur entered the auditorium through the back entrance. He saw Tómas look up quickly, as if taken by surprise.

Leifur mumbled a greeting and looked around. An ambulance crew were taking Hrólfur’s body away on a stretcher.

‘Have you been here the whole time?’ Tómas asked.

‘The whole time?’ Leifur was taken aback. He ran a hand over his close-shorn scalp and the beard that had sprouted in the last few days. ‘No, I’ve just come back from my dinner.’

Tómas waited.

Leifur knew what the next question was going to be before it was asked. ‘There’s a back door here, behind the stage. What happened?’ he asked.

‘There was an accident on the stairs,’ Tómas said, his voice decisive. ‘Hrólfur appears to have taken a tumble … he’s dead.’

He’s dead.

Those were words Leifur was never likely to forget, the words the priest had said to his parents when he arrived that evening, the fifteenth of January, twenty-three years ago. Leifur had been in the living room and probably wasn’t supposed to have heard.

The family knew that Leifur’s brother Árni was going out of town with a few friends, driving along the dangerous narrow road from Siglufjördur to a neighbouring town. They’d left in the early afternoon and were expected back that night. Leifur remembered that his mother had begged Árni not to go. Conditions were dreadful, with black ice on the roads and limited visibility. But Árni wouldn’t
listen, determined to use his brand-new driving licence. There was a knock at the door late that evening and Leifur recalled that his father had answered it. The priest, accompanied by the police, told Leifur’s father that there had been an accident on the road, a car had rolled over. Árni’s friend, who had been in the passenger seat, was in intensive care and was expected to make a recovery.

‘But Árni is dead,’ the priest had said.

Leifur returned from his thoughts and now looked at Tómas.

‘Eh? What did you say? Hrólfur’s … dead?’ Leifur asked.

‘Yes. It looks like an accident.’

‘He had been drinking,’ Leifur said. ‘So …’

‘It’s all right, my boy. There’s no doubt he’d had a drop. Were you out during dinner time?’

‘I was.’ Leifur said. ‘Don’t know what happened.’

‘He just fell,’ Tómas said sternly. ‘You’d be best off going home. There won’t be a rehearsal here this evening. We might be in touch later for details if necessary.’

Leifur nodded and left by the same door he had come through.

Ari Thór closed the doors to the theatre behind him and stood outside, as if he were on guard there. The air was damp after the rain and it sent a chill through him.

‘What are the police doing here?’ said a man as he approached the building. He didn’t seem too worried though. A woman in her twenties walked with him. ‘And an ambulance? Did something happen?’

‘You’re in the Dramatic Society?’

‘Yes. I’m Karl. This is Anna.’

Ari Thór gave his name and the news.

‘Dead? Really?’ Karl said, shocked.

Ari Thór nodded. ‘We need to investigate the scene,’ he explained. ‘It would be best if you were to go home. We’ll be in touch later if we need to speak to you.’

Anna appeared to be taken aback. Karl put his arm around her shoulders, to her obvious surprise. Two older men joined the group.

‘What the hell’s going on here?’ The shorter of the two demanded. ‘And who might you be?’

‘My name’s Ari Thór. I’m a police officer,’ he said, as if the uniform hadn’t already made that clear.

‘Of course. The Reverend. My name’s Úlfur, I’m the director at the Dramatic Society. What the hell is going on? Why’s there an ambulance here?’

‘There’s been an accident.’

‘Accident?’

‘Hrólfur fell on the stairs.’

‘The old fool’s had a drop too much again.’ Úlfur sounded more annoyed than shocked.

‘He’s dead,’ Ari Thór said.

Úlfur looked dumbstruck.

The ambulance crew came through the doors with the stretcher.

‘How terrible, the poor old man,’ the second elderly man said.

‘Your name?’ asked Ari Thór.

‘Pálmi,’ he replied. ‘I’m … I’m the writer. I wrote the play.’ It was clear he couldn’t hide his pride, in spite of the circumstances.

Úlfur was about to enter the building, but Ari Thór stopped him, barring his way with an outstretched arm.

‘Considering what has happened, we’re asking people to go home. We’re investigating the scene.’

‘Scene?’ Úlfur stepped forward, batting away Ari Thór’s arm. ‘Is Tómas in there? Let me talk to him!’ His fury was building with every word. ‘You can’t just close my theatre the day before opening night!’

Ari Thór thought quickly. There were two options: stand firm and risk a loud argument, or call Tómas. He had already been rebuked by Tómas, so it didn’t take him long to decide to send the problem upstairs. Tómas clearly wanted to run things his own way.

‘Wait a moment,’ he said, trying to give the impression of
authority. He peered in through the door and called out for Tómas, who soon appeared in the doorway.

‘Hello,’ Tómas said to Úlfur and then looked at the other man. ‘Good evening, Pálmi.’ He nodded to Anna and Karl, who had taken a step back. ‘Ari Thór has told you what happened?’

‘This is a terrible shock,’ Úlfur said gravely, calmed by Tómas’s presence. ‘Can’t we talk inside?’

‘I think we’ll take off,’ Karl said, still with his arm around Anna. Tómas nodded and they hurried away.

‘Yes, come in,’ Tómas said to Úlfur and Pálmi, ‘but for heaven’s sake don’t go near the steps. We still need to examine them before we can say for certain what happened, although it looks straightforward enough to me.’

‘Really? So what do you reckon happened?’ Pálmi asked, as soon as he and Úlfur were inside the door. Ari Thór followed them in, trailing behind as Tómas took over.

‘The poor old fellow fell down the stairs,’ Tómas said with an air of finality.

‘What’s that you have there?’ Ari Thór asked, his question directed at Pálmi, who was holding a shopping bag.

‘The latest version of the script. A couple of copies.’ He seemed surprised by the interest.

‘Hrólfur and I made a few final changes earlier. Pálmi sorted them on the computer at his place and printed out new ones,’ Úlfur explained. ‘We’re opening tomorrow night.’

‘I don’t think that’s going to be possible,’ Tómas replied firmly.

‘We … we can’t let Hrólfur’s death ruin this for us!’ Úlfur said passionately; but then immediately appeared to regret the outburst.

‘That’s no concern of mine,’ Tómas said evenly, taking care to remain courteous. ‘You might be able to have the hall back tomorrow, but it would be best if you postpone your opening night for a few days.’

Úlfur’s expression swiftly darkened, his eyes bulging. ‘That’s
impossible!’ he exploded. Ari Thór had the feeling that this was a man who was used to getting his own way.

Glancing back and forth between the men, Ari Thór decided that this was a situation that Tómas could handle without his help. Hurrying outside, he positioned himself by the front entrance. He expected Ugla to arrive shortly – he was sure that she would have been at the rehearsal, and he felt a curious need to tell her what had happened personally. He didn’t need to worry about what was going on inside, certain that Tómas, Úlfur and Pálmi would have no interest in his opinions. They’d undoubtedly known each other for years, and could argue and then go their separate ways with any differences settled. Ari Thór was conscious of being from out of town
and
wet behind the ears – the new copper who wasn’t expected to stay long in Siglufjördur. He was only here to build up a little experience, while Tómas was here for the long haul.

‘Hey, what are you doing here?’ Ugla asked, shaking Ari Thór from his thoughts. He hadn’t seen her coming.

He stopped and thought for a moment, unsure of himself, but not certain why. ‘Something came up,’ he said at last. ‘An accident … an accident on the stairs.’

The darkness he had noticed before in her eyes suddenly reappeared. Her face asked the question.

‘Old Hrólfur fell,’ he said seriously.

‘How is he?’ she asked immediately, her face ashen.

‘He’s dead. The ambulance has just taken him away.’

Ugla stood still for a moment, wrapped in silence, and then a few tears began to creep down her cheeks. She stepped closer and put her arms around him. Ari Thór hesitated, and then held her in an embrace.

After a moment she relaxed her hold and dried her eyes.

‘I can’t believe it,’ she said with a sob in her voice, struggling to contain her emotion. ‘I just can’t believe it.’ She briskly wiped the tears away, and tried to smile. ‘He was so sweet.’ She paused for a moment, as if uncertain what to do.

‘I think it’s best if I go home. I can’t let people see me like this,’ she said at last and turned quickly away.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Ari Thór, after her, then stood in a confused daze as she disappeared into the darkness.

Úlfur appeared in the doorway; a truce with Tómas must have been reached. Pálmi was close behind him, his scowl thunderous. They said nothing to Ari Thór as they passed, and he slid back inside without looking in their direction.

‘Back to the station?’ he asked.

Tómas glanced at his watch.

‘I’ll finish the preliminary report. You can go home if you like. I’ll see you tomorrow. I need to put in a few extra hours anyway,’ Tómas said. He sounded oddly relieved to carry on.

Anyone would think he didn’t want to go home to his family, thought Ari Thór, with some surprise, as he made his way out to the street and headed home.