Why Did You Lie? (42 page)

Nína puffs out her cheeks and exhales slowly. The action seems inappropriate in a woman dressed up like this and she’s glad no one can see her. Before choosing the date she had checked that it held no special significance for Thröstur’s family; she didn’t want to spoil some relative’s birthday or wedding anniversary by associating it with the day Thröstur died. But it turned out that today’s date belongs to no one, and now there’s no turning back.

‘Hi! It’s Nína, isn’t it?’ The voice is familiar but Nína can’t immediately place it. Lowering her eyes from the clock, she sees that it’s a journalist who used to work with Thröstur. He beams at her, running his eyes over her party dress. ‘Fancy bumping into you here. What are you …?’ The man suddenly twigs. ‘Sorry. God, of course. What news of Thröstur? Any change?’

Nína prepares to lie. She can’t tell the poor guy that after today Thröstur will finally be at peace. She wishes she could, if only to explain why she’s got up like a dog’s dinner, but resists the impulse. It would be too embarrassing for them both. ‘No. No change, I’m afraid.’ She adds hurriedly, to change the subject, ‘Were you visiting someone? Nothing serious, I hope.’

‘Oh, no. Not really. I was visiting a photographer who’s done a bit of work for the paper. Did an interview with him and got some of his pictures. He was in the lighthouse with that bloke. He’s the one who was very nearly killed. Luckily for us he survived. It’ll be an exclusive.’

Nína isn’t particularly interested in the case, so merely nods as if she agrees that it’s a mercy their photographer escaped with his life so they can interview him for their paper. The man, insensitive to her indifference, carries on regardless. ‘It’s a shocking story. Have you been following the news?’

‘Er, yes. A bit.’ Nína hopes he won’t start testing her. She hasn’t been able to make herself follow the coverage ever since she read the first article in which Thröstur’s name cropped up uncomfortably often. New revelations have been splashed across the front page of his old paper every day. His former colleagues have firsthand access to the story since their own office was involved. She particularly avoided the issue with the photo of Thröstur on the cover. The editor obviously didn’t have a very clear eye as to what would sell the paper as you could hardly see Thröstur for the headlines, which was some compensation.

‘It’s a shocking business – and the story’s ours, of course. Two of our own guys! We’ve trampled all over our competitors, as you can imagine.’ The flow of words stopped abruptly and he looked at Nína as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Hang on a minute! Would you be up for an interview?’

‘Me? What about?’

‘This business with Thröstur. I never believed he could have done something like that. There had to be an explanation.’ He smiles expectantly. ‘Plenty of people would be eager to hear your side. Suicide that turned out to be murder. Sensational stuff.’

‘Er, no, thanks.’ Nína regrets not having told the man what is happening today. If she had, it wouldn’t have occurred to him to ask – though you never knew. ‘I don’t want to discuss it in public.’

‘We can close it to comments if that’s what’s worrying you.’

Nína shakes her head. That doesn’t bother her; the whole thing is too awful for other people’s comments to change anything. But the man is only fishing. He smiles again. ‘Think about it, anyway. Though not for too long. People have a limited attention span when it comes to news.’ He seems undeterred by the fact that Nína doesn’t answer. ‘What can you tell me about the investigation? Have they managed to confirm that Ívar murdered Thröstur? It would be fan-bloody-tastic if we could break the news.’

‘Actually, Thröstur’s still alive.’ Casting round for an escape route, she stands up. Anything she says about the investigation will find its way into the paper:
according to a source close to the events …
‘I’ve got to go. I know nothing about the investigation as I’m on leave, and I don’t hear anything.’

‘I understand.’ The man can’t hide his disappointment. ‘One more thing before you go. We were talking about how terrible it was when this whole thing came out. I just wanted you to know that it never occurred to anyone at the paper that Thröstur’s article might have these kinds of repercussions. He kept the contents to himself and the editor was ready to do his nut when Thröstur refused to discuss the piece before it was finished. He should have forced it out of him. But it’s easy to be wise after the event.’

‘It wouldn’t have changed anything.’ Nína picks up her bag. ‘Say hello to everyone from me. I’ve got to go – someone’s waiting for me. And good luck with writing up the interview with the photographer.’ She says goodbye and walks off. She’s only taken a few steps when it occurs to her to turn and ask him something that’s been bothering her ever since she learnt about Ívar and his probable responsibility for the death of all these people. But the information she wants may have already appeared in one of the articles she has avoided reading. She doesn’t like to reveal to the journalist that she hasn’t actually read any of the coverage. She’ll follow it up later; she can’t be the only person who has wondered how Ívar got hold of the names of the other two witnesses, Vala and Lárus. She knows Thröstur well enough to be certain that he would never have revealed them. She just hopes no one will think he blabbed. If so, she’ll make damn sure she corrects that misapprehension.

Nína wonders where to go. It’s too cold to wait out in the car and she doesn’t want to sit alone among the patients and visitors in one of the hospital lounges. Then she remembers Thorbjörg. She will have heard by now that they believe her husband was murdered. It must have meant a great deal to her to receive confirmation at last that she was right. Even though the knowledge has come thirty years too late, Nína wants to congratulate her. Probably nobody else will bother; certainly no one has patted Nína on the back yet. She would also appreciate a chance to talk to the woman, even if only briefly, since she doubts anyone else understands her as well at this moment. And it’s mutual.

In the corridor outside Thorbjörg’s room, Nína encounters a nurse who apparently recognises her from her previous visit. She comes over to inform Nína that Thorbjörg has a visitor and asks her to wait a moment. The woman’s estranged son, who she hasn’t seen for years, is in there with her now, and it would be a pity to interrupt their reunion.

Thorbjörg’s head is spinning. It’s not unlike the feeling you get when you lie down on a pillow and sink into alcohol-induced oblivion. She should know. But this time the world is not receding; this time, unfortunately, she’s completely with it. She doesn’t want to think about what her son has just told her; doesn’t want to wonder if he could have invented the whole thing or if she’s experiencing the DTs. The happiness she felt when he walked in was short-lived. It was fantastic that he had come to see her. Did it mean he had finally forgiven her, little though she deserved it?

She had been overwhelmed with self-pity at the time of Stefán’s death; she hadn’t been able to see what was under her nose – the little boy whose suffering was even greater than hers, who had no one else to turn to but his wreck of a mother. A tear runs down her cheek and she catches it with the tip of her tongue. The visit had begun well; Helgi was just like he always used to be, placid and likable. Perhaps he hadn’t completely forgiven her but at least he didn’t snap at her or make any snide remarks. Then all of a sudden he changed. Said he wanted to tell her a secret. His voice had taken on a mechanical quality and all feeling vanished from his face, as if Helgi the person had been switched off. She doesn’t know what replaced him and isn’t sure she wants to know. ‘Could you repeat that, please, Helgi dear? I’m not sure I understood.’

He doesn’t sigh or show any other sign of irritation, merely begins his account again in an emotionless monotone. ‘At the end of November a journalist called Thröstur asked me to go round and see him. He wanted me to take some photos for an article he was writing. I sometimes work for his paper, so I agreed. The address was pretty familiar – our old house in the west end. He even asked me to meet him in the garage where Dad was supposed to have hanged himself all those years ago. I didn’t say anything, just turned up at the appointed time, feeling very curious. Thröstur was waiting inside the garage and he began to tell me all about the article in the hope that it would give me ideas for suitable pictures.’

Thorbjörg sits up a little more so that she can see out of the window. It feels better to have life before her eyes while she is listening to this tale again. She can’t bring herself to look at her son. ‘Go on.’

‘Thröstur told me the article was about a journalist who was thought to have committed suicide in the garage.’ Helgi hesitates a moment, then carries on. ‘He said he had a theory that he’d been murdered, just like you always thought. He said he’d come across an article in the newspaper archives that Dad had been writing, about a paedophile. I didn’t mention that I was connected to the case – I was speechless. And at that point I didn’t mean to do anything bad.

‘Bad things have a way of creeping up on you,’ says Thorbjörg consolingly. Outside it has begun to snow and she can’t see anything but the huge flakes floating down past the window.

‘It turns out the paedophile rented the garage from you to run a bike repair shop.’

Thorbjörg closes her eyes. In those days only children and teenagers had ridden bikes, so the customers of the repair shop had mostly been innocent little things. They must have brought their buckled mudguards, tangled chains and broken gears right into the monster’s lair. ‘We didn’t know,’ she said. ‘The man came with the building when we bought it. I remember how surprised I was to come across some children’s bikes he’d left behind when he moved out. No one fetched them. Now I understand why. The poor little souls who owned them!’ The snow is coming down heavily now. ‘I remember him well. A young man, bit of a loner, didn’t talk much. His name was Ívar, I think.’

‘That’s right. He doesn’t talk at all now.’ Helgi’s voice is as monotonous as when he embarked on his account. As if he were reading announcements from the Directorate of Fisheries. ‘Thröstur told me Dad had almost finished his article and that it would have been groundbreaking because no one wrote about child abuse in those days. But it never appeared because the editor thought the suicide indicated that Dad hadn’t been in his right mind. What if the article had been wrong? So it never appeared in print and the paedophile got away with nothing but a fright.’ Helgi pauses in his account. ‘But Thröstur told me that Dad made the mistake of confronting Ívar, who naturally packed up and disappeared off the face of the earth. Almost.’

Thorbjörg tries to connect this with what she remembers from those days. When Ívar had announced out of the blue that he was leaving and then decamped, she had been livid, grumbling about it endlessly, unaware that her Stebbi had been the cause. They couldn’t afford to lose the rental income, so her fury was understandable. But could she have been so unreasonable that Stebbi didn’t dare tell her what lay behind it? From what she remembers, she doesn’t think so, but perhaps she has glossed over the memory. Would it have changed anything if he’d told her? The story would probably have ended the same way, but the police might have listened to her if she could have pointed the finger at Ívar. Still, there’s no point wondering what might have been. It’s hard enough for her to take in what actually happened.

‘Then the thunderbolt struck. Thröstur told me he’d found a photo of Ívar among the old papers and it had jogged his memory. He realised that the man in the picture was the same guy who had threatened him and his friends when they were kids, sitting outside the garage, writing down car numbers. They’d seen the man in the picture go into the building and come out again looking shifty. Ívar had clocked them, gone over and threatened them with dire retribution if they told on him. So they’d kept quiet, even when the police interviewed them all separately. They were too scared to tell.’ Helgi clears his throat. ‘I just saw red. In front of me was a man who’d held our future in his hands but was too gutless to do the right thing. If he’d told on Ívar I wouldn’t have grown up as the son of the man who hanged himself and the woman who almost drank herself to death.’

‘What do you mean
almost
?’ Thorbjörg turns back from the window and stares blankly at the wall opposite her bed.

‘Thröstur told me he wanted to write the article to make up for the fact that he hadn’t told the truth. He’d suppressed the memory and even bought the same flat without realising that it came with the garage he’d been sitting outside as a boy.’ Helgi snorts. ‘He said he realised now that Ívar had played a part in Dad’s death and wanted to make up for having perverted the course of justice. He was planning to expose Ívar and let the court of public opinion tear him apart. As if that would make everything all right again. He seemed to have no idea of what he and his friends had done to us, to me and you. He didn’t even mention us. If he had, maybe I’d have reacted differently.’

‘The police didn’t tell me about those witnesses.’ It was easier to remember that than think about what Helgi was telling her. ‘I bet I could have forced the truth out of the little wretches.’

Helgi doesn’t listen. He continues his account as if his mother hadn’t spoken. ‘I suggested we stage the hanging, so I could take a picture of the moment before the stool was kicked from under him – and the idiot agreed. He knotted a noose and climbed up with it round his neck. He had his back to me so his face wouldn’t show in the pictures, so all I had to do was kick away the stool. And that’s how it ended. I left and no one got in touch or asked me anything.’

‘And the others?’ Thorbjörg sounds even hoarser than before. She longs to ask Helgi for some water but doesn’t want to interrupt his story. She’s desperate to hear it again to make sure she hasn’t misunderstood.

‘I didn’t mean to hurt them. Not at first. Of course they were all equally guilty, the other two even more than Thröstur, in fact. He said they’d refused to comment or even acknowledge what they’d done for the article, whereas he was intending to admit it publicly.’ Helgi shrugs his shoulders casually, as if they’re discussing the weather. ‘I just meant to remind them and give them a chance to correct their past mistake. I sent them some letters I knew they’d understand, but nothing happened. No news, no investigation. Nothing. They were completely unrepentant. Then I began to see things in the right light. Although the business with Thröstur was a mistake, I soon realised that it was fated to be. You can’t go around destroying other people’s lives without suffering the consequences. It shouldn’t work like that. So I saw that it was wrong to let the other two escape scot-free when Thröstur had got his just deserts. After all, he was more like a repentant sinner. The only problem was that Thröstur hadn’t mentioned their names.