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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
THE SECOND INSTALMENT IN THE INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLING DARK ICELAND SERIES OVER A MILLION COPIES SOLD As the light of the arctic summer is transformed into darkness by a recent volcanic eruption, Icelandic police officer Ari Thór Arason take on an increasingly perplexing case, when a young man is discovered brutally beaten to death on the shores of a tranquil fjord… 'A classic crime story seen through a uniquely Icelandic lens … first rate and highly recommended' Lee Child 'A modern take on an Agatha Christie-style mystery, as twisty as any slalom…' Ian Rankin ________________ On the shores of a tranquil fjord in Northern Iceland, a man is brutally beaten to death on a bright summer's night. As the 24-hour light of the arctic summer is transformed into darkness by an ash cloud from a recent volcanic eruption, a young reporter leaves Reykajvik to investigate on her own, unaware that an innocent person's life hangs in the balance. Ari Thór Arason and his colleagues on the tiny police force in Siglufjörður struggle with an increasingly perplexing case, while their own serious personal problems push them to the limit. What secrets does the dead man harbour, and what is the young reporter hiding? As silent, unspoken horrors from the past threaten them all, and the darkness deepens, it's a race against time to find the killer before someone else dies… Dark, terrifying and complex, Blackout is an exceptional, atmospheric thriller from one of Iceland's finest crime writers. ________________ 'Jónasson's books have breathed new life into Nordic Noir' Jake Kerridge, Sunday Express 'The darkness and cold are palpable' Marcel Berlins, The Times 'A distinctive blend of Nordic Noir and Golden Age detective fiction … economical and evocative prose, as well as some masterful prestidigitation' Laura Wilson, Guardian 'Ragnar Jonasson does claustrophobia beautifully' Ann Cleeves 'A brilliantly crafted crime story that gradually unravels old secrets in a small Icelandic town … an excellent debut from a talented Icelandic author. I can't wait to read more' Sarah Ward 'Is King Arnaldur Indriðason looking to his laurels? There is a young pretender beavering away, his eye on the crown: Ragnar Jónasson…' Barry Forshaw 'A truly chilling debut, perfect for fans of Karin Fossum and Henning Mankell' Eva Dolan 'Fans of dark crime fiction that doesn't pull punches will be amply rewarded' Publishers Weekly 'A vivid cast of characters, whose fears, ambitions, rivalries and longings are movingly universal' Oprah magazine 'Puts a lively, sophisticated spin on the Agatha Christie model, taking it down intriguing dark alleys' Kirkus Reviews 'The best sort of gloomy storytelling' Chicago Tribune
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Seitenzahl: 370
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
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PRAISE FOR RAGNAR JÓNASSON
‘A classic crime story seen through a uniquely Icelandic lens … first rate and highly recommended’ Lee Child
‘Jónasson’s books have breathed new life into Nordic noir’ Jake Kerridge, Sunday Express
‘British aficionados of Nordic Noir are familiar with two excellent Icelandic writers, Arnaldur Indriðason and Yrsa Sigurðardóttir. Here’s a third: Ragnar Jónasson … the darkness and cold are palpable’ Marcel Berlins, The Times
‘A distinctive blend of Nordic Noir and Golden Age detective fiction … economical and evocative prose, as well as some masterful prestidigitation’ Laura Wilson, Guardian
‘The best part is the brittle, agonising relationship between Arason and his girlfriend, Kristín: here the temperature really falls to zero’ Spectator
‘Jónasson’s writing is a masterful reinvention of the Golden Age classic style, both contemporary and timeless … enclosed by the poetic beauty of the location’ Crime Review
‘A modern take on an Agatha Christie-style mystery, as twisty as any slalom…’ Ian Rankin
‘A tense and convincing thriller; Jónasson is a welcome addition to the roster of Scandi authors…’ Susan Moody
‘Ragnar Jónasson writes with a chilling, poetic beauty – a must-read addition to the growing canon of Iceland Noir’ Peter James
‘Seductive … an old-fashioned murder mystery with a strong central character and the fascinating background of a small Icelandic town cut off by snow. Ragnar does claustrophobia beautifully’ Ann Cleeves
‘His first novel to be translated into English has all the skilful plotting of an old-fashioned whodunnit although it feels bitingly contemporary in setting and tone’ Jake Kerridge, Sunday Express
‘The people of Siglufjörður and the far north … are all so deftly described in such perfect detail that the dark and the cold and the loneliness of this sub-Arctic region enveloped me from the very start’ Max Easterman, European Literature Network
‘On the face of it, Snowblind is a gigantic locked-room mystery, an investigation into murder and other crimes within a closed society with a limited number of suspects … Jónasson plays fair with the reader – his clues are traditional and beautifully finessed – and he keeps you turning the pages. Snowblind is morally more equivocal than most traditional whodunnits, and it offers alluring glimpses of darker, and infinitely more threatening horizons’ Independent
‘Ragnar Jónasson’s Snowblind is as dazzling a novel as its title implies and the wonderful Ari Thór is a welcome addition to the pantheon of Scandinavian detectives. I can’t wait until the sequel!’ William Ryan
‘A truly chilling debut, perfect for fans of Karin Fossum and Henning Mankell’ Eva Dolan
‘An isolated community, subtle clueing, clever mis-direction and more than a few surprises combine to give a modern day Golden Age whodunnit. Well Done! I look forward to the next in the series’ Dr John Curran
‘Snowblind brings you the chill of a snowbound Icelandic fishing village cut off from the outside world, and the warmth of a really well-crafted and translated murder mystery’ Michael Ridpath
‘The complex characters and absorbing plot make Snowblind memorable. Its setting – Siglufjörður, a small fishing village isolated in the depths of an Icelandic winter – makes it unforgettable. Let’s hope that more of this Icelandic author’s work will be translated’ Sandra Balzo
‘In Ari Thór Arason, Nordic Noir has a new hero as compelling and interesting as the Northern Icelandic setting’ Nick Quantrill
‘If a Golden Age crime novel was to emerge from a literary deep freeze then you’d hope it would read like this. Jónasson cleverly squeezes this small, isolated town in northern Iceland until it is hard to breathe, ensuring the setting is as claustrophobic as any locked room. If you call your book “Snowblind” then you better make sure it’s chilling. He does.’ Craig Robertson
‘If Arnaldur is the King and Yrsa the Queen of Icelandic crime fiction, then Ragnar is surely the Crown Prince … more please!’ Karen Meek, EuroCrime
‘Ragnar Jónasson brilliantly evokes the claustrophobia of small-town Iceland in this intriguing murder mystery. Let’s hope this is the first of many translations by Quentin Bates’ Zoë Sharp
‘Ragnar Jónasson is simply brilliant at planting a hook and using the magic of a dark Icelandic winter to reel in the story. Snowblind screams isolation and darkness in an exploration of the basic Icelandic nature with all its attendant contrasts and extremes, amid a plot filled with twists, turns, and one surprise after another’ Jeffrey Siger
‘A chilling, thrilling slice of Icelandic Noir’ Thomas Enger
‘A stunning murder mystery set in the northernmost town in Iceland, written by one of the country’s finest crime writers. Ragnar has Nordic Noir down pat – a remote small-town mystery that is sure to please crime fiction aficionados’ Yrsa Sigurðardóttir
‘Snowblind is a brilliantly crafted crime story that gradually unravels old secrets in a small Icelandic town … an excellent debut from a talented Icelandic author. I can’t wait to read more’ Sarah Ward
‘Is King Arnaldur Indriðason looking to his laurels? There is a young pretender beavering away, his eye on the crown: Ragnar Jónasson…’ Barry Forshaw
‘An intricately plotted crime novel, Snowblind is a remarkable début. Ragnar Jónasson has delivered an intelligent whodunnit that updates, stretches, and redefines the locked-room mystery format. The author’s cool clean prose constructs atmospheric word pictures that recreate the harshness of an Icelandic winter in the reader’s mind. Destined to be an instant classic’ EuroDrama
‘Snowblind is a beautifully written thriller, as tense as it is terrifying – Jónasson is a writer with a big future’ Luca Veste
‘It sometimes feels as if everyone in Iceland is writing crime novels but the first appearance of Ragnar Jonasson in English translation (itself a fluid adaptation by British mystery writer Quentin Bates) is cause for celebration’ Maxim Jakubowski, LoveReading
‘Snowblind has given rise to one of the biggest buzzes in the crime fiction world, and refreshingly usurps the cast iron grip of the present obsession with domestic noir … a complex and perplexing case, in a claustrophobic and chilling setting…’ Raven Crime Reads
‘The intricate plotting is reminiscent of the great Christie the setting is very much more modern and darker. There is an increasing tension and threat, that mirrors the developing snow storm and creates a sense of isolation and confinement, ensuring that the story develops strongly once the characters and scene are laid out’ Live Many Lives
‘Jonasson’s prose throughout this entire novel is captivating, and frequently borders on the poetic, constructing something that is both beautiful and uncomfortable for the reader. … a simply stunning piece of prose that will certainly put him in the thick of the crime genre in the United Kingdom’ MadHatter Reviews
‘Snowblind uses its stunningly beautiful yet brutally remote setting to create a chilling, atmospheric locked-room mystery. Ragnar Jónasson is an outstanding new voice in Nordic Noir’ Crime Thriller Girl
‘Dark Iceland? This man not only invented it, he rules it. From the opening page, the tension and chilling horror is there. The idyllic snow angel image is no longer full of childhood innocence and the Snowblind of the title covers your eyes with white flurries and clouds of mist that shroud the mystery and intrigue’ The Booktrail
‘Snowblind is a subtle, quiet mystery set in the most exquisite landscape – a slow burner that will suck you in and not let you go until you finish the final page’ Reading Room with a View
‘Just when I think I’ve had enough of the frozen north, another promising author shows up. This is a truly enjoyable debut, hinting at much more to come. A charming combination of influences, which feels very fresh and will appeal to those who find cosy crime too twee and Scandinavian noir too depressing’ Crime Fiction Lover
‘Snowblind epitomises exactly this sort of exciting, new cross-genre fiction. It is a fusion of Nordic Noir and Golden Age detective fiction, with Christie-esque plotting, characterisation and narrative techniques’ Vicky Newham
‘For a debut novel, Snowblind is startlingly confident and sure-footed. The characters and dialogue all ring true, the plot is original and packed with plenty a surprise. Perhaps most pleasingly of all, Jónasson steers clear of hackneyed plot devices and reveals’ Mumbling about Music
‘A damn good thriller’ OMG That Book
‘The plot twists and turns as the investigation uncovers a plethora of old deceits and current intrigues. Festering wounds are opened spilling secrets as dark as the days, as shocking as the blood on the suffocating snow’ Never Imitate
‘There is something almost hauntingly melancholic about this story. The claustrophobia felt by Ari Thor is palpable. You can almost feel the walls of snow caging you in and the sense of almost perpetual winter darkness makes you reach for the light switch’ From First Page to Last
‘Jónasson has bestowed his characters with unique, more importantly believable, personalities, and has made sure that their interactions throughout serve mainly to play on readers’ mind and psychology’ Book Fabulous
‘Ragnar Jonasson’s debut Snowblind is a brilliant new thriller with storytelling that is clear and crisp … The plot twists and turns as the tension and intensity builds and we are treated to an excellent ending’ Liz Loves Books
‘The small town mentality juxtaposes with the vastness of the landscape and lends an eeriness to the overall narrative. The prose is delightful with moments of exceptional clarity’ Bleach House Library
‘If you like cold and claustrophobic settings as I do, then this might just be the book for you. Jónasson does a wonderful job placing you right there in the small snowed-in town’ Rebecca Bradley
‘A tiny, segregated town is a superb setting for a crime novel, and Jónasson exploits it well. He builds a layered mystery featuring a series of unhealthy secrets, and past crimes buried deep in the sheltered, almost claustrophobic recesses of family life, which Ari Thor will pay a high price for unravelling’ Thriller Books Journal
‘If the rest of the Dark Iceland series is as accomplished as Snowblind, Ragnar Jónasson’s name is poised to become as common place as that of Stieg Larsson’s. Don’t be fooled into thinking Jónasson is a mere imitation. By deconstructing the Golden Age traditional mystery within a foreign setting, Ragnar Jónasson has practically created his own genre. For lack of a better term, let’s call this Cosy Noir’ Bolo Books
‘Snowblind – a masterclass in scene setting and subtle tension building … Where Agatha Christie created a murder mystery with a small suspect pool on a fast moving train or within a large country house, Ragnar Jónasson creates the same feel in a whole town’ Grab This Book
‘Siglufjörður is a wonderfully evocative setting; encircled by mountains and cut-off in the winter when the roads are impassable, as the complex web of secrets becomes ever more enmeshed, its small-town, suffocating darkness heightens Ari Thór’s increasing paranoia at being an outsider in his own land.’ Claire Thinking
‘Jónasson evokes an almost timeless feel to his narrative, with only mobile phones and computers reminding us that this is the 21st century. It’s no surprise, either, to discover that Jónasson has translated 14 Agatha Christie novels into Icelandic, as Snowblind has echoes of Golden Age stories. Siglufjörður may be light years away from St Mary Mead, but villagers here have secrets to hide’ Sharon Wheeler, Crime Review
‘There are so many things I like about Jónasson’s books – the characters, the sense of place, the way he stays well within the bounds of credibility at all times and, perhaps most of all, the excellent plotting. The books are solid police procedurals that don’t, as so much current crime fiction does, suddenly turn into ridiculous shoot-’em-up thrillers in the last few chapters’ Petrona Remembered
‘… beautifully put together and the uncovering of a shadowy world of secrets is done with fine attention to detail’ JaffaReadsToo
‘Beautifully crafted and just terribly addictive’ Northern Crime
‘Like a good Christie, the information is all there, should you be careful enough to process it. There is no sudden, unexpected and unearned twist. Also like Christie, the language (expertly translated by Quentin Bates) is stripped down: fresh and unflowery. But unlike Christie, you spend your time afterwards thinking not of the plot twists but about the theme of the novel itself. It’s crime with something to say’ Café Thinking
‘As crime fiction goes this is recognisable, though utterly compelling, police procedural drama … hugely readable and dangerously addictive …This is a novel steeped in Icelandic mythology from the isolated and remote settings that capture the wild and other worldly quality of this unique island to the hero detective Ari Thór Arason himself whose name references the hammer wielding Norse god. Jónasson knowingly writes for the domestic audience in Iceland at the same time as appealing to the global market by leveraging Iceland’s idiosyncracies’ Words Shortlist
‘This eagerly-awaited sequel to Jónasson’s debut Snowblind doesn’t disappoint … A modern twist on a Christie-style plot, in a vividly atmospheric location, and interesting characters’ Lizzie Hayes, The Mystery People
‘Imagine you could travel back in time, kidnap Agatha Christie, transport her to a remote town in the north of Iceland, pop her in the freezer for a little short of a century then wake her up with a reviving cuppa before pointing her in the direction of the nearest typewriter. The resulting crime drama would not be too far removed from Ragnar Jónasson’s Dark Iceland series. Yes, it’s that good!’ Hard Book Habit
‘Beautifully written, Snowblind comes with great characters; a wonderful sense of place; a cleverly constructed plot; and that introspective, claustrophobic feeling that often appeals to fans of Icelandic and Scandinavian crime fiction. Coupled with a lyrical translation by Quentin Bates there was not an off-key note from start to finish.’ Australian Crime Fiction
‘I have a thing for crime books, especially ones in unusual settings and this book doesn’t disappoint – set in Siglufjörður: an idyllically quiet fishing village in Northern Iceland … thoroughly recommend’ From Silverdale with Love
‘A fantastically well-crafted story, with some clever and well thought out characterisation, which plays its setting to superb effect but never loses sight that the mystery holding it together is central … simply dazzling’ Rachel Hall
‘The Crown Prince of Icelandic Noir is back with the follow-up to his excellent debut Snowblind … Ragnar Jónasson brings together the best of Scandinavian noir with the tradition of a good old-fashioned murder mystery’ Atticus Finch
‘Jónasson has a wonderful way of painting pictures with words and each sentence adds an extra dimension to scenery … the elegant prose, coupled with the chilling, almost sleepy location, make for an utterly enthralling read’ Bibliophile Book Club
‘As with Snowblind, this novel grabbed my attention straightaway. It switches seamlessly between the descriptive passages and its many twists and turns … author’s use of language is stunning and transports you into the heart of Iceland’ Off-the-Shelf Books
Blackout
RAGNAR JÓNASSON
translated by Quentin Bates
For my mother and father
Author’s note
Special thanks are due to Detective Eiríkur Rafn Rafnsson, Prosecutor Hulda María Stefánsdóttir, Dr Helgi Ellert Jóhannsson and Dr Jón Gunnlaugur Jónasson. Any mistakes in the final version of this book are the author’s responsibility.
The extract from the poem by Jón Guðmundsson the Learned is taken from Fjölmóður – ævidrápa Jóns lærða Guðmundssonar, with an introduction and notes by Páll Eggert Ólason.
Information about the historic effect in Siglufjörður of volcanic eruptions in Iceland are taken from the book Siglfirskur annáll, written by my grandfather, Þ. Ragnar Jónasson, and published in 1998.
One must allow the black of night to elapse, with the passing of the ages once lots are drawn, endure in silence hardship’s burden, this is God’s gift to which he bears witness.
Jón Guðmundsson the Learned (1574–1658) From his poem Fjölmóður
The events of Blackout take place in June 2010, following the events of Snowblind, the first book in the Dark Iceland series.
Contents
PART I: DAY 1 SUMMER
1
How do you like Iceland?
If for nothing else, he had come to Iceland to avoid that kind of question.
The day began well, as the fine June morning dawned. Not that there was any clear difference between morning and evening at this time of year, when the sun stayed bright around the clock, casting blinding light wherever he looked.
Evan Fein had long anticipated visiting this island at the edge of the habitable world. And now here this Ohio art history student was, on his first visit to Iceland. Nature had pooled its energies, as if to add to the woes of the financial crash, by presenting Icelanders with two volcanic eruptions, one right after the other. The volcanic activity appeared to have subsided for the moment though, and Evan had just missed the events.
He had already spent a few days in Iceland, starting by taking in the sights of Reykjavík and the tourist spots around the city. Then he hired a car and set off for the north. After a night at a campsite at Blönduós, he had made an early start, setting out for Skagafjörður. He had purchased a CD of old-fashioned Icelandic ballads and now slotted it into the car’s player, enjoying the music without understanding a word of the lyrics, proud to be something of a travel nerd, immersing himself in the culture of the countries he visited.
He took the winding Thverárfjall road, turning off before he got as far as the town of Sauðarkrókur on the far side of the peninsula. He wanted to take a look at Grettir’s Pool, the ancient stone-flagged hot bath that he knew had to be somewhere nearby, not far from the shore.
It was a slow drive along the rutted track to the pool, and he wondered if trying to find it was a waste of time. But the thought of relaxing for a while in the steaming water and taking in both the beauty of his surroundings and the tranquillity of the morning was a tempting one. He drove at a snail’s pace, lambs scattering from the sides of the road as he passed, but the pool stubbornly refused to be found. Evan started to wonder if he had missed the turning, and slowed down at every farm gate, trying to work out if the entrance to the pool might be hidden away – across a farmer’s land, or down a side turning, a country lane. Had he driven too far?
Finally he saw a handsome house, which, on closer inspection, looked to be half built. It stood not far from the road with a small grey van parked in front of it. Evan pulled his car to the side of the road and stopped. And then started with surprise.
The van driver, the house’s owner, perhaps, was lying on the ground near the house. Unmoving. Unconscious? Evan unbuckled his seatbelt and opened his door without even turning off the engine. The age-old ballads continued to crackle from the car’s tinny speakers, making the scene seem almost surreal.
Evan started to run, but then slowed as the whole scene came into view.
The man was dead. There was no doubt about that. It had to be a man lying there, judging by the build and the cropped hair. There was no chance of identifying the face, though. It was erased by a spatter of blood.
Where there had once been an eye, there was now an empty socket.
Evan gasped for air and stared numbly at the corpse in front of him, fumbling for his phone, the incongruous sound of his Icelandic ballads in the background.
He turned quickly, checking that the man’s assailant wasn’t behind him.
Nothing. Apart from the dead man, Evan was alone.
Next to the body was a length of timber, smeared with blood. The weapon?
Evan retched as he tried to stifle the thoughts that flooded his mind.
Think. Be calm.
He sat down in the pasture in front of the house, and punched out the emergency number on his phone, wishing fervently that he had picked another destination for his holiday.
Iceland is one of the safest places on earth, the travel guide had said.
Evan’s eyes darted around, taking in the warm summer sun casting her glow across the verdant fields, the stunning mountains hovering in the distance, the glint of her rays on the bright-blue waters of the outlying fjord and its magnificent islands.
Not anymore, he thought, as the operator was connected.
Not anymore.
2
The buzzing of a fly that had strayed through the open bedroom window woke Ísrún, prompting her to check the time and then curse when she realised how early it still was. She yawned and stretched her arms. A little more sleep wouldn’t have done any harm, and her shift on the news desk wasn’t until nine-thirty. She lifted herself on her elbows and gazed out the window at the tall trees in the communal garden outside and the block of flats on the opposite side of the road. It looked like an uneventful day ahead. The eruption had subsided for the moment, and now that summer was here, the city was quiet. And so was work. She’d been to a summer festival with a cameraman the day before, and her only task was to put together some lightweight filler material to bring the evening news bulletin to a close on a light-hearted note. Chances were that they wouldn’t run it anyway, as something meatier usually came long to take the place of the frothier material.
She’d been with the same news team for ten years now, albeit with a few breaks, joining straight from college on a freelance basis, and continuing throughout her psychology degree. Although she’d made a respectable attempt to work in the health sector, she found herself missing the newsroom buzz, and had dipped in and out over the years – while completing her master’s degree in Denmark, and even after taking up a hospital post in Akureyri for a while. But eighteen months ago, Ísrún had resigned from the hospital and returned to Reykjavík, searching out her old job in the newsroom.
Many of her old colleagues had moved on, replaced by new faces, but some of the stalwarts were still there. When she had first applied for the TV newsroom all those years ago, she had not seriously expected to get the job. She had thought that the scar on her face would undoubtedly preclude on-screen work, but she flew through the selection process and it hadn’t turned out to be a hindrance to her career. She stroked her cheek now, her scar as familiar to her as any other feature, the legacy of a childhood accident – an elderly relative had spilled hot coffee over her when she was just a few months old. One cheek was permanently disfigured, and although she had learned to apply makeup to make it less obvious, it couldn’t be ignored. But perhaps her scar was the reason why she had been so determined to apply for a TV job; it was an opportunity to show the world – or at least audiences in Iceland – that she wasn’t going to let it stop her.
Ísrún sat up in bed and looked around the airy, understated room with satisfaction. Living alone suited her. She’d been single for the last two years – the longest time she’d been without a significant relationship. Relocating to Denmark to study for a few years had ended things with her last boyfriend. They’d been together for five years, but it hadn’t been enough to make him want to join her there – or, indeed, wait for her to come home. Oh well, she had thought. That’s his problem.
To her surprise, television work turned out to be more rewarding than psychology, but what she had learned certainly helped with her work as a journalist. Her job gave her the opportunity to see something different every day – talk to interesting characters and hope that a decent scoop would come her way. Those were the best days. A little pressure could become addictive, but she didn’t enjoy the stress of the constant deadlines. Shifts were frequently short-staffed and it was often a struggle to delivery by the end of the day. Spending time on a story was a rare luxury, as was researching things in any depth.
Ísrún closed her eyes again, willing herself to fall back into slumber. The fly continued to buzz somewhere in the room, and her eyes snapped open with frustration.
Out of bed and on the street in her running gear just a few minutes later, determined to make the most of her unexpectedly early start, Ísrún took a deep breath of the morning air, missing its usual freshness. It tasted sour, tainted with the volcanic residue from the eruption in Eyjafjallajokull glacier, in the southern part of Iceland, which had spewed ash earlier in the spring, interrupting air traffic across half the world. No wonder the fly had sought shelter indoors. During and after the volcanic eruption, ash had frequently been carried over the city, even though the volcano was quite a distance away. It affected everyone, irritating eyes and hampering breathing. On the worst days it was recommended that people suffering from asthma and similar conditions should stay indoors. The eruption had now ended, with only this residual ash remaining, but there was some fear that this seismic activity could trigger an eruption of another ferocious volcano, Katla, with far more devastating consequences.
Ísrún lived in a small two-room apartment, in a block near the University of Iceland, and she made a habit of running along the seashore whenever she had the opportunity, preferably in the mornings before changing into her work clothes and leaving for the TV station’s offices. She was determined not to let the volcanic pollution stop her. During her run she thought ahead to what would undoubtedly be another routine day awaiting her.
Her old red banger, a car that had been in the family for years and was given to her by her father when she was twenty, still got her to work on time. Strictly speaking, the car was practically an antique, but it served its purpose. The traffic was quiet today – one of the advantages of the news desk job was the nine-thirty start, well after the morning rush hour had tailed off. Less popular were the frequent late shifts that took her past the evening bulletin and into an inevitable meeting afterwards. Working on the later bulletin was often a better option, however; she lost an evening, but gained the following morning off in lieu, and that time could be precious.
Hell! She had forgotten that Ívar was running the shifts today and tomorrow. There was a tension between them that was bordering on hostility. He had been appointed two years before, while she was still trying to forge a career in psychology. He considered himself some kind of big shot, having been poached from a competing station, and despite the fact that she’d more than proved herself over the past eighteen months, he still looked on her as a beginner. He didn’t seem capable of trusting her with anything serious, and she knew she didn’t have what it would take to hammer the table with her fist and fight her corner. Maybe she would have done a few years ago, but that time had passed.
She took a seat in the meeting room. Ívar sat at the end with his notebook, from which he was never far away, and a sheaf of papers – press releases that would find their way to one of the journalists or to the bin.
‘Ísrún, did you come up with any material from the summer festival?’
Did she detect a note of condescension there? Did the easy stuff always come her way? Or was she just being unnecessarily suspicious?
‘Not yet. I’ll have it done today and it’ll be ready for this evening. Two minutes?’
‘Ninety seconds, tops.’
Her colleagues had slowly gathered at the table and the morning news meeting had formally begun.
‘Did anyone notice the air pollution this morning?’ Kormákur asked, leaning back in his chair and gnawing at his pencil. He was known as Kommi, mainly because everyone was aware how much he disliked the nickname.
‘Yeah. It’s ash from the eruption blowing this way, stuff that built up during the eruption itself, or so I’m told,’ Ívar said.
‘I thought the eruption was all over,’ Kormákur said, and then grinned. ‘We can probably squeeze one more story out of it.’
‘Ísrún, can you check it out? Do something with a bit of menace to it, maybe. The eruption returns to Reykjavík – that sort of thing?’ Ívar smiled.
Condescending fool, she thought, glaring at her notebook.
‘But let’s have a look at the serious stuff,’ he said.
Exactly, Ísrún thought, raising her eyebrows with irritation.
‘I hear someone found a body up north, not far from Sauðárkrókur, next to a building site. Nothing’s confirmed yet. That’s definitely our lead, unless there’s another eruption.’
Kormákur nodded. ‘I’ll get onto it right away.’
It didn’t look like it was going to be a slow news day after all … for some.
3
It was still a surprise to Ari Thór Arason that he had stayed with the Siglufjörður police as long as he had. Almost two years had passed since he had moved north after graduating from police college, having already abandoned a theology degree.
That first winter in the north had been hell and the weight of snow had been relentless and suffocating. But when the warm, bright days emerged from the frozen darkness, his spirits had lifted and he saw his new home with fresh eyes. And he now had a second winter behind him. Although he still found the isolation of the winter darkness oppressive, he was getting used to it, even enjoying the sight of a fresh fall of snow on the colourful buildings that hugged the coast, and the icy grandeur of the mountains that enveloped the village. Yet it was a relief when the sun finally showed up after its winter sojourn behind the mountains. As they edged their way into June, there had already been a few warm days – a little later than down south, but that was only to be expected. Even the sun appeared to forget the northernmost village in Iceland from time to time.
Tómas, Siglufjörður’s police inspector, had called that morning and asked Ari Thór to come in earlier than scheduled. Although his shift didn’t start until midday, he was on his way to the station by nine. Tómas hadn’t said much on the phone, but Ari Thór had been sure he could hear real concern in his voice. The truth was that Tómas was never particularly cheerful these days. It had been a blow when his wife decided to Reykjavík to study. Nobody, except maybe Tómas, seriously expected that she would ever come back to Siglufjörður. They were still together, on paper, at least, which was more than could be said for Ari Thór and his former girlfriend Kristín.
Their relationship had unquestionably fizzled out, although Ari Thór harboured hopes that he’d be able to breathe new life into it again. Four years had passed since they had first met, back when he had been studying theology and Kristín was still a medical student. There had been an instant attraction and she had managed to coax him out of his shell – a damaged young man who had lost both parents at a young age and been raised by his grandmother in a way that had made him self-reliant, even as a youngster, capable of fending for himself and reluctant to let anyone come too close.
Kristín had brought him a longed-for warmth and security, but things had started to come apart as soon as the new job had taken him to Siglufjörður. Kristín had been deeply upset by his decision and remained in Reykjavík, not even taking the time to come and stay with him over Christmas. He had been just as hurt by her reaction, and their relationship became increasingly distant, frosty. And then he took a wrong turn. The piano teacher in Siglufjörður, a young woman from the Westfjords, Ugla, had captivated him in much the same way that Kristín once had, providing him with a cosy escape from the chilly isolation of Siglufjörður. What began with a kiss had ended in her bedroom, and there was no way that he would ever be able to convince Kristín that he hadn’t been unfaithful to her. The snow and the winter darkness had created a mirage; the isolation crushing his conscience and convincing him that he was in love. However, as spring dawned over the Siglufjörður mountains, he knew with unswerving certainty that Kristín was the only one for him.
But it was far too late. Rashly, he had called Kristín to let her know that he had begun seeing someone in Siglufjörður and to end their relationship, and there hadn’t been much more to their conversation than that. He had heard a crash, and assumed that she had hurled her phone against the nearest wall. It wasn’t until later that he found out she had given up a temporary appointment for the summer and an opportunity to finish her medical studies at a hospital in Reykjavík so that she could move north to Akureyri to be close to him.
How could he have been so stupid?
Of course, once he finally admitted that he’d had a girlfriend in Reykjavík all along, the relationship with Ugla didn’t go any further either. If she had been holding a phone, it would have gone the same way as Kristín’s, but hurled at him instead. The piano lessons stopped there and then.
He missed Kristín. After they had parted he had tried to call her several times, but without success, and there were no replies to his emails. Some months had now passed since his last attempt to contact her. He knew she had moved to Akureyri to finish the final year of her medical studies, and had heard from mutual friends that she had taken a job at the hospital there. It was painful to know she was so close, when another kind of distance yawned between them. He had immersed himself in work after that, pushing himself harder than he had ever done before. There was little else for him to do.
Ari Thór intended to buy himself something healthy for breakfast on his way to the station. A small cruise liner had docked that morning and the town hummed with activity, tourists snapping photos among the groups of local youngsters who were busy with rakes and other tools, doing summer work for the town council. The aroma of cinnamon and chocolate from the bakery was a temptation, but that hardly constituted a healthy breakfast. He paused for a moment as the scent washed over him. The quality of Siglufjörður’s cinnamon buns, known as hnútar, left the Reykjavík version he was used to in the shade. A peek through the window, though, showed that a crowd of tourists had the same thoughts on their minds, so something from the bakery would have to wait until later. Instead, he stopped off at the little fish shop on the Town Hall Square and asked for some dried fish. It wasn’t his usual breakfast, but it was certainly a healthy option.
‘Catfish, as usual?’ the fishmonger asked.
‘Yes, please.’
‘There you go, Reverend.’
Ari Thór scowled to himself, paid for his bag of dried catfish chunks and said a curt goodbye as he left. The ‘Reverend’ nickname continued to surface occasionally, having appeared when people had found out about his curtailed theological studies. He still hadn’t got used to it, and sometimes the taunts stung.
Tómas immediately sniffed the air when Ari Thór sat at the table in the station’s coffee corner and unwrapped his unusual breakfast.
‘Not that stuff again, Ari Thór! And now for breakfast? Don’t you ever get tired of it?’
‘Even city boys like me can enjoy a traditional breakfast,’ Ari Thór answered, continuing to pick his way through his fish.
‘Jokes aside, Ari Thór, there’s something we need to deal with. Hlynur’s on his way and he can take today’s shift,’ Tómas said.
Tómas had changed after his wife had moved south, he seemed to have aged ten years. His zest for life had faded, and although there hadn’t been much there before, the hair on his head looked even thinner.
There was no doubt that Tómas was a lonely man. Ari Thór knew that his youngest son had also left home and now lived in the student hall of residence at the college in Akureyri during term time. He had found himself summer work with the local authority there and had rented a place to live with two of his classmates. He visited his father occasionally at weekends, but that was it, so Tómas was pretty much alone in the house in Siglufjörður.
‘A body’s been found,’ Tómas announced, when Ari Thór had taken a seat.
‘A body?’
‘That’s right. In Skagafjörður, on Reykjaströnd, next to a summer house that’s being built there, not far from Grettir’s Pool.’
‘Is this any business of Siglufjörður’s?’ Ari Thór asked, and immediately regretted the abrupt question. He was tired after staying up long into the night, having expected to be able to sleep in that morning. He rubbed his eyes.
‘Some tourist from America found the body. He drove past it on his way to the pool,’ Tómas continued, ignoring Ari Thór’s interruption. ‘It looks nasty. They’ve sent me some pictures of the scene.’
‘A murder?’
‘No doubt about that, Ari Thór, and a brutal one, too. The victim’s practically unrecognisable. He was smashed in the face with a length of timber. It seems there was a nail in it that went right through one eye. The reason we’ve been asked to help with the investigation is because the victim had his “legal residence” here.’ Tómas’s tone indicated that the man hadn’t been born in Siglufjörður.
‘An out-of-towner?’
‘Exactly. Elías Freysson. I don’t remember ever meeting the man. He was a contractor working on the new tunnel. I said we’d find out what we can about him here, and I want you to manage that.’ His voice was decisive, firm. ‘Of course I’ll work on it with you, but it’s time you took on more responsibility, Ari Thór.’
Ari Thór nodded his agreement. He liked the idea. His weariness fell away and he was instantly more alert. It occurred to him, and not for the first time, that Tómas was looking at the possibility of moving south to be with his wife, and wanted to leave the Siglufjörður station in safe hands.
‘You said Hlynur would be taking the shift today. So he won’t be involved in this investigation?’
‘That’s right, my boy,’ Tómas said.
Ari Thór breathed easier and hoped that his satisfaction at Tómas’s answer wasn’t too obvious. He couldn’t work with Hlynur. They didn’t get on, on top of which, for some unknown reason, Hlynur had been almost useless for the last few months. He always arrived at work tired, often still half asleep and was increasingly absent-minded.
‘All right. I’ll get on with it right away,’ Ari Thór said. ‘Who was Elías’s boss at the new tunnel?’
‘I know that Hákon is the foreman there, Hákon Halldórsson,’ Tómas said. ‘He’s a Siglufjörður boy,’ he added, and Ari Thór understood from his voice that this was a key item of information.
4
When Hlynur Ísaksson arrived at the Siglufjörður police station for his shift, he saw Ari Thór and Tómas there, chatting amiably. He had an instant hunch that there was some secret to which he wasn’t supposed to be party and, to an extent, he was right.
‘Ari Thór and I need today for interviews,’ Tómas said in an off-hand way. ‘A body has turned up not far from Sauðárkrókur, and it seems the deceased had some connection with Siglufjörður.’
Hlynur nodded, doing his best to pretend that he didn’t mind not being involved.
‘Can you take charge of the shift here today?’ Tómas asked, probably not expecting a reply. ‘Later on you’ll need to go over to the primary school for me. It’s the last day of term and we’ve been asked to present some awards. I was going to do it, but it’s unlikely I’ll be able to fit it in.’
Hlynur felt his heart begin to pound. Cold sweat appeared on his forehead. This was something he wouldn’t be able to do.
‘Couldn’t Ari Thór sort that out?’ he mumbled.
‘What? What d’you mean? I need Ari Thór with me today, as I just told you,’ Tómas said, with a sharper-than-usual edge to his voice.
Hlynur was about to answer back, but found his tongue tripping over the words.
‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘I won’t make much of a job of it. We’d better not bother with it.’
‘We will bother with it, damn it. You’re going. No arguments,’ Tómas said, and was gone.
Hlynur nodded and looked down at his hands. He longed to go home, retreat under the bedclothes and rest. There was an uncomfortable unease in the pit of his stomach. He had worked with Tómas at the Siglufjörður station for six years and had considerably more experience of police work than Ari Thór, but he felt as if the balance of power had shifted over the last few months. For whatever reason, Tómas seemed to have more trust in Ari Thór these days, Hlynur brooded, less than pleased by his instructions for the day. It was certainly true that Ari Thór had made a great effort recently and seemed to be highly capable, even if there was little variety in the unchallenging cases they dealt with.
Hlynur, however, had been a shadow of himself since those damned emails had started arriving.
‘You’re losing your edge,’ Tómas had told Hlynur, just after New Year.
The two of them had been on duty, taking a break in the station’s coffee corner. Hlynur knew from experience that Tómas would occasionally come out with something unexpected, and without any kind of preamble. But Hlynur had been taken completely by surprise, aware of his jaw dropping. Moments before they had been discussing mundane matters. It had been a bleak day in Siglufjörður, with low clouds and a cold wind off the mountains. The corner of the station where they habitually took coffee breaks was equally cheerless. There were a few mugs in the sink that nobody had found time to wash up and two opened packets of chocolate biscuits by the thermos. An old calendar from a bank down south, and dating back to the boom years, lay on the worktop. No one had the heart to throw away this memento of a past time when Iceland’s economy had been buzzing.
