Snowblind (20 page)

Hlynur had changed as the years passed, matured. When he looked back he wondered how he could have been so, well, evil, when he was a younger man. Evil. And quite vile.

He had always been tall for his age – and strong. But instead of using his strength to help the children at school who needed it, he found that teasing them was a better outlet for his energies. Teasing wasn’t quite the right word, though.

It was bullying, or torturing was probably a better description. Sometimes he’d wake up in the night bathed in sweat, thinking back to old sins.

I’ll go to hell for this.

That was all in the distant past, and he was a grown man now. He had moved to a new place, north to Siglufjördur. He tried to forget those years many times, but it was always difficult to push aside the memory of those he had treated so badly. He remembered every name and had tried to make contact with his victims in recent years. He had apologised to them. Most of them had taken it well, some better than others. Some appeared to have got over it all, on the surface at least. Others were less willing to forgive.

He had reached all but one. He hadn’t been able to find him in the
phone directory, or in the national registry. There was no sign of him at all, until he had the idea of searching through old newspapers on the internet, and the name came up in the obituaries. He read them again and again, and it was obvious that the man had taken his own life. Surely it wasn’t the bullying … could it have been his fault? Surely not, not after all this time? He still hadn’t been in touch with the man’s family. Even the thought of it brought him out in a cold sweat. He wanted to talk to them, to reassure himself that something else had pushed him into suicide, but still he hesitated. He was terrified that they might confirm what he suspected deep inside. This particular boy had been hit the hardest. Hlynur remembered how he had held him underwater in the school swimming pool, a little longer each time, threatening to drown him. The poor boy was petrified, yet Hlynur had kept at it. He had been small, stout, shy, never capable of defending himself, and that simply made Hlynur more eager to continue the torture, even resorting to giving him the occasional beating. The boy had finally become a man, and killed himself. Ever since Hlynur found out about his death, he had been contemplating going the same way, finding it increasingly difficult to live with himself and his conscience.

Why had he been such a … such a bastard?

His only saving grace at the moment was the fact that he had been able to build a respectable relationship with one former classmate, one he had also treated badly. That man was now a journalist in Reykjavík. They had met over a coffee a few years ago to talk over old times, and they had met once or twice more since then. The weight of his conscience was sometimes more than he could bear and he wanted to do anything to make this man’s life easier. He wanted to help those he could still help – a penance for his old misdeeds. In some cases, one at least, it was too late.

Sometimes he had to bend the rules a little to make up for his past. He didn’t regret leaking information to the journalist; it was the least he could do. These were the first big cases in the town since he had moved up north, and he couldn’t miss the chance to allow his old schoolmate to be first with the news.

He did it, even if it meant betraying Tómas and having to listen to him going on about it. He admitted to himself that this gesture of kindness to an old victim was one of the few things standing between Hlynur and suicide. This kept him alive.

Hlynur looked out of the window. He had a day off. He sat for a while and watched the snow continue its inexorable fall. The drifts deepened, and the darkness moved in.

‘It doesn’t look good.’ Tómas put the phone down with a despondent look on his face. With no reason to go home, Ari Thór was still at the station.

‘What’s that?’

‘Linda. She’s still unconscious and the doctors haven’t seen any improvement. Quite the opposite, in fact. Her condition seems to be getting worse.’

‘Have they let Karl know?’

‘They’re in regular contact with him.’

‘And what was his reaction?’

‘He said he’d be on his way to Reykjavík as soon as he can. He was overwhelmed, the doctor said, although I reckon that’s maybe not the right word.’ He looked at Ari Thór with a serious expression.

‘He doesn’t care in the least about her.’

Ari Thór watched for his superior’s reaction.

Tómas nodded. ‘I think you’re right. I just don’t understand it,’ he said.

‘He’s hiding something,’ Ari Thór said, and turned back to the computer, hearing Tómas mutter something as he did so – maybe to him, or maybe something to himself.
Hiding something
. He looked up an email address from a list of co-operating police forces in other countries. Now was the time to try and dig out some more information about that man.

Ari Thór wrote his email quickly and sent it off. He would have to
wait. If this provided them with any results, he would have a trump in his hand.

Ugla popped back into his thoughts.

Ugla and Karl? Was that the secret that Hrólfur had stumbled across?

No. Hell, no. Not Ugla.

For a second he doubted his own judgement, but then shook his head and mentally excluded Ugla from the picture.

But what about Anna? He thought back to her positively odd behaviour when he had visited her. She definitely had something to hide, just as Karl did. Were those two hiding the same guilty secret? At the same moment he realised that he had seen neither of them at the reception following Hrólfur’s funeral. Not that it necessarily meant anything, but all the same …

Had Karl pushed Hrólfur down the stairs to hide his affair with Anna?

Or Anna herself?

‘I was wondering,’ he said, turning to Tómas. ‘This rumour about Hrólfur having a child during the war or just after. Could it be true?’

‘I doubt it, my boy.’

‘But it’s possible, right?’

‘Anything is possible. But even if so, I don’t see it having any bearing on our case.’.

‘Could it be anyone from the Dramatic Society?’ Ari persevered. ‘Born during the war … someone who would be about sixty-five now, give or take? Pálmi? Úlfur?’

‘Hardly. Pálmi would be too old, and Úlfur – well everyone knows who his father was. The sea took him. No …’ Tómas said, contemplating. ‘Nína, on the other hand …’

‘Nína?’

‘Yes, she’s a little older than I am, probably born around ’45.’

‘Why does she come to mind?’

‘Sorry. Sometimes I just assume that you know everything I do, everything about everyone …’

Get to the point.

Ari Thór watched Tómas with impatience, until he finally spoke.

‘Nína was brought up by her mother and her step-father, and she took his name. Her mother moved in with him not long after she became pregnant and I have no idea who Nína’s real father was. If I remember correctly, her mother lived down south during the war, so it was some soldier, I’d imagine.’

Ari Thór called on Ugla that evening.

‘Hi.’ She seemed a bit shy. Beautiful as always, warm and enchanting. ‘Look at you!’ She pointed gleefully at the arm in its sling.

He sensed from her reception that their relationship was changing, developing into something he had not expected when they had first met. Not that they discussed anything, and hopefully she wouldn’t push him for a serious conversation now. He still needed to talk to Kristín, and he still hadn’t decided what he genuinely wanted.

He had tried to convince himself that Kristín’s interest in him had dissipated, that it was all over between them. They had talked very little and the last phone call had ended fairly abruptly, as she was busy at work. A part of him knew that this was just Kristín’s style; she had never been overly emotional.

He felt good near Ugla. There was a contentment that came over him when he was in her company. He needed warmth and reassurances now more than ever. His nightmares were getting steadily worse; and the same could be said about his claustrophobia. To begin with he had simply feared being snowed in, but now that it had actually happened in this remote spot, he almost felt that he couldn’t take much more. And this bloody darkness didn’t help either. He had to keep working just to stay sane. The road was still closed, and another avalanche, smaller this time, had fallen that evening. He desperately needed someone.

‘About the … inheritance …’ Ugla said when they had sat down. ‘Honestly, I had no idea. You have to believe me.’

‘I do, Ugla. Of course. Hrólfur was an unpredictable character. And there’s nothing to be ashamed of; you treated him kindly, you were his friend. Why shouldn’t he do this for you?’

‘It’s way too much. I feel very uncomfortable with it.’

‘Don’t. This can change your life, in a way. You can live for free in a huge house, and even rent out the basement. Or rent out the whole house and use the money to go back to school.’

‘I know,’ she said, rather ill at ease. ‘I’ve thought about all those options. I’m just so thankful to him.’

‘You could even sell the house, if you can get a good price,’ Ari Thór suggested.

‘No way, I would never do that to Hrólfur. I’m keeping it as it is, with the furniture and everything. But what will people think …? Word will get out about this …’

‘Don’t worry about other people’s opinions.’ Ari moved closer and put his arm around her.

After a moment’s silence she said: ‘There’s something I have to tell you, something that has been on my conscience.’

He felt his heart miss a beat. Was she about to confess to something? And if it had something to do with Hrólfur’s death, would he ever feel comfortable about reporting it to Tómas?

‘I sort of told you a lie …’ she said, and Ari Thór waited in agony.

‘It’s about Ágúst, my boyfriend, the one who died,’ she continued. ‘I told you he had been hit in the head by an out-of-towner, but that wasn’t entirely true. The guy who killed him – unintentionally though – was someone I knew. Someone I was having an affair with …’

Like I’m having now
, Ari Thór thought.

‘And that’s why I had to leave Patreksfjördur. Not only because of Ágúst, but because of this other guy, who still lives there. A constant reminder of my horrible mistake. Of the part I played in Ágúst’s death …’

Her tears were starting to flow, so he tried to comfort her the best he could.

She shook herself, trying to recover.

When he was sure she had, he thought he could discuss the matter that had prompted the visit in the first place.

‘Do you think you could do me a favour?’

‘Of course,’ she smiled. ‘Anything.’

‘I have a few pictures from the theatre, from the night of Hrólfur’s death, which I’d like you to take a look at. I think someone may have tried to steal my camera when I had the break-in, but I can’t imagine why.’

He borrowed her computer and showed her the pictures from the CD, asking her if she could spot anything unusual.

She took some time to go through them, then went back and checked one picture more carefully. She spotted something, a detail, but an interesting one.

It was the name that she mentioned that took Ari Thór by surprise. He would have to do a bit more digging, to give him a clearer picture. Or was he going in the completely wrong direction?

He left Ugla with a kiss, schoolboy butterflies again fluttering in his stomach.

Ari Thór’s mind was full of the investigation as he lay down to sleep on Tuesday night. All he could think about were the people at the Dramatic Society, Karl and Linda, and old Sandra. For once, however, he slept soundly, free of the suffocating dreams, the usual feelings of helplessness. Maybe he was acclimatising, albeit gradually. He woke up refreshed, with a new clarity. A particular idea had been sparked in his mind. He revisited his conversation with Sandra, and began tentatively to put together some of the facts he’d gathered in the investigation so far.

Could a terrible crime have been committed in the town many years ago? A crime that nobody had even noticed at the time?

It was time to talk to Sandra again, and half an hour later he was out of the house and on his way to the rest home. His spirits lifted as he took in the beautiful winter’s day. The snow had ceased its persistent hammering and the air was still. It had become a beautiful winter’s day. His arm was back in its sling and the ache in his shoulder was starting to abate.

Sandra welcomed him, a merry delight in her eyes.

‘I knew you’d be back. We had such an interesting chat last time.’ She lay in bed, but propped herself up on her elbows to speak, shyly smoothing down the covers. ‘It’s just a shame I’m not a little more presentable.’

‘I hope you’re well,’ said Ari Thór, trying to set her at ease.

‘Not so bad. I’m still here.’

‘There’s something you mentioned the other day that I wanted to ask you about.’

‘Really? Go on, then.’

Ari Thór asked his question.

The old woman looked confused, and a little dismayed.

‘Say that again?’ she asked quietly.

Ari Thór repeated it.

‘I thought I hadn’t heard right at first. Why on earth do you want to know about that?’ said Sandra, visibly puzzled.

‘I’m trying to work out if a crime was committed a long time ago.’

Her look of curiosity changed to one of horror as she suddenly realised what Ari Thór was implying. She gave herself time to think before replying.

‘You don’t think …?’ she asked at last.

‘Yes, that’s what I’m beginning to suspect,’ he confirmed. ‘It was nice seeing you again. I’ll be back, if you need the company,’ Ari Thór said with sincerity.

‘Absolutely, you’re always welcome, dear boy.’

When he was about to leave, he heard her muttering to herself: ‘Well, I’ll be damned … And in our peaceful town!’

Ari Thór took the opportunity to call at the hospital, of which the rest home was an extension, and asked for a word with the doctor. The answer he was given to his hypothetical question fitted perfectly with the theory that had formed in his mind.

So many things were becoming clear, he felt that he was within touching distance of solving the mystery of Hrólfur’s death. Ari Thór’s instinct had been to blame Karl, but the photograph Ugla had shown him pointed in a quite different direction, towards a person he had not seriously suspected before.

Bundled up in a thick down parka and jeans, Ari Thór called at the police station that evening. The storm had returned with a vengeance, surpassing its former strength and hurling snow that piled up anywhere there was a little shelter from the biting wind.

Ari Thór, having thought that his feelings of claustrophobia and anxiety were starting to wane, realised that he was still some way from having made a full recovery.

Hlynur was alone on the evening shift, a mug of coffee in his hand. Ari Thór took a seat in the coffee corner.

‘Those demonstrators down south burned the Christmas tree. Did you see it?’ Hlynur asked.

Ari Thór stared at him curiously. ‘The Christmas tree?’

‘Yep. On Austurvöllur Square by the Parliament building. Your giant Christmas tree, the one the Norwegians always send over.’

‘What? The Olso tree? That’s unbelievable.’

‘I couldn’t imagine anyone setting fire to our tree on the square here. Think of the uproar. We get our Christmas tree from Denmark. Don’t think they’d send us a tree next year if that happened.’

‘Maybe the demonstrators were just cold,’ Ari Thór suggested wryly. ‘Things are quiet, are they?’ he said, changing the subject.

‘Yes … who’s going to be out breaking the law in this weather? Oh, they called from Reykjavík just now, just after Tómas had gone home, about Linda.’

‘Saying what?’

‘They found something on the knife. Some faint traces, wool, probably. But no prints.’

‘Right. Traces from her clothes, probably?’ Ari Thór asked, at the same time remembering that she had been found half-naked.

‘No, it didn’t match her shirt, which we found in the flat. It was some blue material. I think they said wool. We’ll have to check it out tomorrow.’ He yawned. ‘I’ll tell Tómas in the morning.’

Ari Thór felt the prickle of sweat breaking out. Blue wool, a darkblue wool sweater. The snow and a motionless body in its halo of blood.

Karl.

That bastard Karl.

At last there was something to connect him to the case; or at least something to link him to the knife.

‘Interesting,’ he said, biting back his excitement. It was probably best not to say too much for the moment.

Ari Thór sat at the computer and saw that the emails from the insurance company had come through with the policy’s terms and conditions. And there was another message in his inbox, one from abroad. This would be the answer to his query from the day before. He read the message and the attached file as quickly as his language skills would allow and printed them both with his heart beating faster.

He returned to the message from the insurance company, and printed out the policy, then sat back to read it.

Now there’s a surprise …

His heart was hammering. Trying to mask his growing excitement, he waved a friendly goodbye to Hlynur and pulled up the hood of his anorak. The pieces were falling into place, one at a time, and this evening would reveal the truth.

He stepped out into the white darkness and set off; somewhere in the furthest recesses of his mind he sensed a warning voice whispering to him to tread carefully and wait until the morning, reminding him it wasn’t clever to be going alone to meet a man who seemed to have a great deal on his conscience.

The weather deteriorated with every step he took, the wind picking up the fallen snow and throwing it into the fresh fall to create a freezing vortex. A warning from nature. He could hardly see, but Ari Thór knew precisely where he was going and how to get there. Nothing was going to stand in his way.