Nightblind E-Book

Ragnar Jónasson

• Herausgeber: Orenda Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Dark Iceland
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 322

Beschreibung

THE FIFTH INSTALMENT IN THE INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLING DARK ICELAND SERIESOVER A MILLION COPIES SOLDWhen a police officer is murdered in the dead of night, in the isolated Icelandic town of Siglufjörður, Ari Thór Arason faces a complex investigation that takes him back to the past, and some sinister secrets…'A modern take on an Agatha Christie-style mystery' Ian Rankin'Bitingly contemporary in setting and tone' Sunday Express'Seductive … Ragnar does claustrophobia beautifully' Ann Cleeves________________Siglufjörður: an idyllically quiet fishing village on the northernmost tip of Iceland, accessible only via a small mountain tunnel.Ari Thór Arason: a local policeman, whose tumultuous past and uneasy relationships with the villagers continue to haunt him.The peace of this close-knit community is shattered by the murder of a policeman – shot at point-blank range in the dead of night in a deserted house. With a killer on the loose and the dark arctic winter closing in, it falls to Ari Thór to piece together a puzzle that involves tangled local politics, a compromised new mayor, and a psychiatric ward in Reykjavik, where someone is being held against their will.Then a mysterious young woman moves to the area, on the run from something she dare not reveal, and it becomes all too clear that tragic events from the past are weaving a sinister spell that may threaten them all.Dark, chilling and complex, Nightblind is an extraordinary thriller from an undeniable new talent.________________'Traditional and beautifully finessed'Independent'This is an atmospheric portrayal of a claustrophobic place where everyone is connected' Laura Wilson, Guardian'Jónasson plants clues fairly before a devastatingly unexpected reveal, without sublimating characterization to plot' Publishers Weekly'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' Crime Thriller Journal'A must-read addition to the growing canon of Iceland Noir' Peter James'Ragnar has Nordic Noir down pat – a remote small-town mystery that is sure to please crime-fiction aficionados' Yrsa Sigurðardóttir'A challenging investigation that uncovers local secrets and Scandi-noir meets oldfashioned murder mystery in an atmospheric whodunnit' Daily Express'Jónasson's books have breathed new life into Nordic noir' Sunday Express'What really makes Nightblind stand out is its vivid cast of characters, whose fears, ambitions, rivalries and longings are movingly universal' Oprah magazine

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR RAGNAR JÓNASSON

‘Enjoyed Ragnar Jónasson’s Snowblind – a modern Icelandic 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

‘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 – Siglufjördur, 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 Jónasson in English translation (itself a fluid adaptation by British mystery writer Quentin Bates) is cause for celebration’ Maxim Jakubowski, Love Reading

‘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, though 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

‘A brooding, atmospheric book; with the darkness and constant snow there is a claustrophobic feel to everything, which is heightened to the nth degree when there is an avalanche and the one road in and out of the village is blocked’ Reading Writes & For Reading Addicts

‘It is surely only a matter of time before Snowblind and the rest of Ragnar’s Dark Iceland series go on to take the Nordic Noir genre by storm. The rest of the world has been patiently waiting for a new author to emerge from Iceland and join the ranks of Indriðason and Sigurðardóttir and it appears that he is now here’ Grant Nichol, Volcanic Lilypad

‘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’ Mad Hatter 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

‘The writing is clear, evocative and fraught with tension and the descriptions of the unforgiving nature of an Icelandic winter are executed brilliantly. The overbearing landscape enhances the increasing sense of claustrophobia and isolation Ari Thór feels to the point where it is palpable’ Salboho

‘Snowblind is the first in a series of novels labelled as ‘Dark Iceland’. Read the first page and you will immediately understand why – it is dark, it is gripping and it is fascinating’ The Welsh Librarian

‘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

‘This is an excellent debut novel … like reading a modern-day Icelandic Agatha Christie novel. I look forward to reading meeting Ari Thor again soon’ Off the Shelf Book Reviews

‘A deliciously old-fashioned mystery’ Crime Worm

‘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 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 the reader’s 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

‘Siglufjördur is a thriller writer’s dream location – a tight-knit community, encircled by mountains, almost round-the-clock darkness in midwinter, cut off from the rest of the country by the harsh weather; it all adds to the brooding menace of having a killer at large!’ Our Reviews Blogspot

‘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

‘Siglufjördur 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

‘This is a first outing in English for Ari Thór, bolstered by a pin-sharp translation by Quentin Bates. 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 Jonasson has translated fourteen Agatha Christie novels into Icelandic, as Snowblind has echoes of Golden Age stories. Siglufjördur may be light years away from St Mary Mead, but villagers here have secrets to hide’ Sharon Wheeler, The Times

‘Snowblind is as atmospheric a murder mystery as you could find’ For Winter Nights – A Bookish Blog

‘An entertaining – and curiously thought-provoking – addition to Icelandic Noir. The writer manages the feat of keeping the prose quite pacey while getting across the ennui of the town’s bleak existence during the harsh winter’ Café Thinking

‘Beautifully written … plenty of twists and turns’ Bibliophile Book Club

‘Ragnar Jónasson is a new name in the crime-writing genre and I urge anyone who is a fan of Nordic Crime Noir to rush out and get a copy of Snowblind. This you will want to add to your collection. It is really that good … a tense, gripping novel’ The Last Word

Nightblind

RAGNAR JÓNASSON

translated by Quentin Bates

To Natalía, from Dad

Contents

Title PageDedicationEpigraphMaps12345678910111213141516171819202122232425262728293031323334353637383940EpilogueAuthor’s noteExtract from BlackoutAbout the AuthorAbout the TranslatorCopyright

The events of Nightblind take place approximately five years after Snowblind. Ari Thór Arason is still working as a police officer in the small town of Siglufjördur. Tómas, his boss, has moved down south, to the capital city of Reykjavík. The new inspector is a man called Herjólfur. Ari Thór has been reunited with his girlfriend Kristín, and they now have a ten-month-old son.

The next book in the series, Blackout, picks up the story again directly after the events of Snowblind, with the following two books set to complete the series of events linking Snowblind and Nightblind.

Something goes astray

In men and weather,

Men and words…

From the poem ‘Broken’, by Þorsteinn frá Hamri

(Skessukatlar, 2013)

1

Unsettling.

Yes, that’s the word. There was something unsettling about that ancient, broken-down house. The walls were leaden and forbidding, especially in this blinding rain. Autumn felt more like a state of mind than a real season here. Winter had swiftly followed on the heels of summer in late September or early October, and it was as if autumn had been lost somewhere on the road north. Herjólfur, Siglufjördur’s police inspector, didn’t particularly miss it, at least not the autumn he knew from Reykjavík, where he had been brought up. He had come to appreciate the summer in Siglufjördur, with its dazzlingly bright days. He enjoyed the winter as well, with its all-enveloping darkness that curled itself around you like a giant cat.

The house stood a little way from the entrance to the Strákar tunnel and as far as Herjólfur had been able to work out, it was years since anyone had lived in the place, located some distance from where the town proper hugged the shoreline. It looked as if it had simply been left there for nature’s heavy hands to do as she wished with the place, and her handiwork had been brutal.

Herjólfur had a special interest in this abandoned building and it was something that worried him. He was rarely fearful, having trained himself to push uncomfortable feelings to one side, but this time he’d been unsuccessful, and he was far from happy. The patrol car was now parked by the side of the road, and Herjólfur was hesitant to leave it. He shouldn’t even have been on duty, but Ari Thór, the town’s other police officer, was down with flu.

Herjólfur sat still for a moment, the patrol car lashed by the bitter chill of the rain. His thoughts travelled to the warm living room at home. Moving up here had been something of a culture shock, but he and his wife had managed to make themselves comfortable, and their simple house had been gradually transformed into a home. Their daughter was at university in Reykjavík; their son had remained with his parents, living in the basement and attending a local college.

Herjólfur had a few days’ holiday coming up, assuming Ari Thór was fit to return to work. He had been planning to surprise his wife with a break in Reykjavík. He had booked flights from Akureyri and secured a couple of theatre tickets. This was the type of thing he tried to make a habit, to take a rest from the day-to-day routine whenever the opportunity presented itself. Now, in the middle of the night, and while he was still on duty, he fixed his mind on the upcoming trip, as if using it as a lifeline to convince himself that everything would be fine when he entered the house.

His mind wandered back to his wife. They had been married for twenty-two years. She had become pregnant early in the relationship, and so they were married soon after. There hadn’t been any hesitation or, indeed, choice. The decision wasn’t anything to do with faith, but more with the traditions of decency to which he clung. He had been properly brought up – a stern believer in the importance of setting a good example. And they were in love, of course. He’d never have married a woman he didn’t love. Then their daughter was born and she became the apple of his eye. She was in her twenties now, studying psychology, even though he had tried to convince her to go in for law. That was a path that could have brought her to work with the police, connected in some way to the world of law and order; his world.

The boy had come along three years later. Now he was nineteen, a stolid and hard-working lad in his final year at college. Maybe he’d be the one to go in for law, or just apply straight to the police college.

Herjólfur had done his best to make things easier for them. He had plenty of influence in the force and he’d happily pull strings on their behalf if they decided to choose that kind of future; he was also guiltily aware that he was often inclined to push a little too hard. But he was proud of his children and it was his dearest hope that they would feel the same about him. He knew that he had worked hard, had pulled himself and his family up to a comfortable position in a tough environment. There was no forgetting that the job came with its own set of pressures.

The family had emerged from the financial crash in a bad way, with practically every penny of their savings having gone up in smoke overnight. Those were tough days, with sleepless nights, his nerves on edge and an unremitting fear that cast a shadow over everything. Now, at long last, things seemed to have started to stabilise again; he had what appeared to be a decent position in this new place, and they were comfortable, even secure. Although neither of them had mentioned it, he knew that Ari Thór had applied for the inspector’s post as well. Ari Thór had a close ally in Tómas, the former inspector at the Siglufjördur station, who had since moved to a new job in Reykjavík. Herjólfur wasn’t without connections of his own, but Tómas’s heartfelt praise of and support for Ari Thór hadn’t boded well. And yet, the post had gone to him and not to Ari Thór – a young man of whom Herjólfur still hadn’t quite got the measure. Ari Thór had not proved to be particularly talkative and it wasn’t easy to work out what he was thinking. Herjólfur wasn’t sure if there was a grudge there over the way things had turned out. They hadn’t been working together for long. Ari Thór’s son had been born at the end of the previous year, on Christmas Eve, and he had gone on to take four months’ paternity leave plus a month’s holiday. They weren’t friends or even that friendly, but it was still early days.

Herjólfur’s senses sharpened, and all thoughts of his colleague were pushed from his mind as he stepped out of the car, and gradually approached the house. He had that feeling again. The feeling that something was very wrong.

If it came to it, he reckoned he could easily hold his own with one man; two would be too much for him now that age had put paid to the fitness of his earlier years. He shook his head, as if to clear away ungrounded suspicions. There was every chance the old place would be empty. He was surprised at his discomfort.

There was no traffic. Few people found reason to travel to Siglufjördur at this time of year, least of all in the middle of the night and in such foul weather. The official first day of winter, according to the old Icelandic calendar, was next weekend, but that would only confirm what everyone already knew up here in the north – winter had arrived.

Herjólfur stopped in his tracks, suddenly aware of a beam of light – torchlight? – inside the old building. So there was someone there in the shadows, maybe more than one. Herjólfur was becoming increasingly dubious about this call-out and his nerves jangled.

Should he shout and make himself known, or try unobtrusively to make his way up to the house and assess the situation?

He shook his head again, and pulled himself together, striding forward almost angrily. Don’t be so soft. Don’t be so damned soft! He knew how to fight and the intruders were unlikely to be armed.

Or were they?

The dancing beam of light caught Herjólfur’s attention again and this time it shone straight into his eyes. Startled, he stopped, more frightened than he dared admit even to himself, squinting into the blinding light.

‘This is the police,’ he called out, with as much authority as he could muster, the quaver in his voice belying his bravado. The wind swept away much of the strength he’d put into his words, but they must have been heard inside, behind those gaping window frames.

‘This is the police,’ he repeated. ‘Who’s in there?’

The light was directed at him a second time and he had an overwhelming feeling that he needed to move, to find some kind of refuge. But he hesitated, all the time aware that he was acting against his own instincts. A police officer is the one with authority, he reminded himself. He shouldn’t let himself be rattled, feel the need to hide.

He took a step forward, closer to the house, his footsteps cautious.

That was when he heard the shot, deafening and deadly.

2

It wasn’t the first time that the crying of a child had woken Ari Thór. He looked at the clock and saw it was half-past five. He had gone to sleep early the previous night, after two days of battling a virulent bout of autumn flu, but it was still far too early to be awake.

Kristín was staying at home today. She had just returned to work at the hospital in Akureyri, but only part-time.

Everything to do with the baby was thoroughly organised, sometimes too organised, Ari Thór felt. Vegetables had to be organic, raised voices should never be heard in his vicinity, and when the little one crawled across the floor, it should, ideally, have just been mopped to spotless perfection.

The boy was approaching ten months, almost a year old. Ari Thór had suggested that Kristín should go back to work full-time; the hospital was waiting for her, struggling to cope with a shortage of doctors. You can’t keep the kid wrapped in cotton wool forever.

And, if Ari Thór himself were to stay away from work any longer he’d risk losing his job. There had been talk of adding another police officer to the Siglufjördur force, but nothing had come of it. Cuts and savings were being made everywhere. A temporary officer had filled in while Ari Thór took his paternity leave, but had since returned to Reykjavík.

His role as a father was important to him, but it kept him busy, and was certainly a cause of tension every now and then between him and Kristín. Also, Ari Thór, being an only child, had little experience with children and initially struggled to get to grips with the basics. Then there was the issue of the boy’s name. Ari Thór had waited until a few days after the birth to broach the subject. He knew it would a bone of contention and it was more a question of how serious the argument would be, rather than if there would be one at all. To begin with, in the rosy glow of the birth of his first child, he felt that the name wouldn’t be all that important. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to stick to his guns, and upset the exquisite harmony that enveloped them. But his feelings surfaced again. It mattered. Ari Thór Arason was the clear choice, christening the child with the name of his own father who had died far too young.

‘Then you’ll be naming the child after yourself, as well,’ Kristín had pointed out when the discussion resurfaced. ‘What about my father? Is it right to leave either of them out?’

Ari decided not to make the obvious point his own father was no longer living, and that the name would be a well-deserved mark of respect. It was something that was deeply important to him, but he decided against inviting further dispute.

The result was that Kristín suggested christening the boy Stefnir: one who leads the way. A strong, vigorous name, but not a name from either his family or Kristín’s. Ari Thór spent a day and a night thinking it over – a protest in itself, although he wasn’t sure that the message had been clearly received.

Finally he agreed. He liked the name well enough and reckoned that the battle to name the child after his own father was as good as lost.

Kristín woke as Ari Thór shifted in bed. The child slept in an old cot in their bedroom and had started to cry vigorously. Ari Thór had bought it second-hand, having seen it advertised along with plenty of other stuff on the corkboard in the local Co-op. Up here business was done in the old-fashioned way and with no branch of Ikea anywhere to be found, furniture rarely found its way to the dump. The cot looked as good as new and he hadn’t bothered to tell Kristín that it wasn’t, as she probably would not have countenanced it with a newborn baby in the house.

Kristín stood up. ‘Stay in bed,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you giving Stefnir flu.’

He was thankful for the extra time in bed. He expected that he would need at least one more day off sick, which would mean another extra shift for Herjólfur.

He had made remarkably little contact with Herjólfur, his new superior. He was certainly an amiable and courteous character, as well as being a conscientious officer, but he came across as reserved. Disappointed at not being promoted, Ari Thór had to admit that he hadn’t gone out of his way to make his new colleague feel welcome when he first arrived. This had probably coloured their subsequent relationship and Ari was sure that he would never be as close to Herjólfur as he had been to his predecessor, Tómas, who had gone on to a promotion with the Reykjavík force. Tómas had mentioned more than once, in an informal way, that one day Ari Thór might want to move south to Reykjavík and apply for a post there. The implication was that there would be a job to go to if he ever needed one.

Ari Thór was desperately keen to make the move and mentioned the idea to Kristín. Although she looked mildly interested, she reminded him that she had made a commitment to her own managers to stay in her job at the hospital in the nearby town of Akureyri for at least another year.

‘Let’s think about it next year,’ she said with a smile. ‘This small town life isn’t so bad and all the sea air has to be good for Stefnir.’

Ari Thór sighed. Why was she always so contrary, first hating the idea of Siglufjördur and now loving it?

She had actually been unusually distant recently, and he couldn’t understand quite why. It could hardly be baby blues; this coolness was something new and the boy was almost a year old now.

Ari Thór’s mobile woke him. Kristín had already taken Stefnir downstairs, and the incessant ringing broke through the fragile tranquillity. He stretched for his phone with his eyes still closed. It was in its place on the nightstand, switched on day and night, whether he was on duty or not. There was no choice at a short-staffed police station in such a small community.

It would probably be Herjólfur calling to find out if he was well enough to return to work. Although Herjólfur wasn’t a great talker, Ari Thór knew that he and his wife Helena were planning a trip south to Reykjavík. Herjólfur had once told him that they didn’t really enjoy spending time outdoors and had never even been skiing, in spite of the excellent ski slopes just outside the town. This trip south, a trip to the theatre, Herjólfur had said, was important, and Ari Thór knew that he was expected to have shaken off the flu so they could go.

He answered without bothering to look at the screen and was startled to hear a female voice. This wasn’t Herjólfur.

‘Hello? Ari Thór?’ There was a tremor in the voice that he didn’t recognise. ‘I hope I didn’t wake you up.’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Who is this?’

‘It’s Helena. Herjólfur’s wife.’

Ari Thór sat up. He saw that it was almost six o’clock; he would have liked a little longer in bed.

‘Hello,’ he repeated, taken by surprise.

‘I’m…’ She hesitated. ‘I’m looking for Herjólfur.’

‘Looking for him?’

‘He didn’t come home after he went out last night. That’s all I know. I was half-asleep. But he’s not back and I couldn’t get a reply when I called his phone.’

‘He’s not down at the station?’ Ari Thór asked. ‘I suppose he expected to be relieving me again today. I’ve had this miserable flu.’

‘I called the station as well,’ Helena said. ‘No answer there.’

This was a strange situation.

‘I’ll try calling him and if I don’t get an answer I’ll take a look around the town and see if I can see the patrol car anywhere.’

‘You haven’t heard from him?’ Helena asked, even though the answer was obvious.

‘I’m afraid not. Leave it with me and I’ll be in touch,’ Ari said decisively, and ended the call. Punching in the number for Herjólfur’s phone, he heard it ring without reply. It was tough having to be up and about in his condition, but there was no longer any choice in the matter.

Deciding against wearing his uniform, Ari Thór pulled on the clothes that he’d hung at the end of his bed, and made his way downstairs. Kristín was feeding Stefnir porridge, or doing her best anyway, as most of the food seemed to be on his face.

‘I have to go out, and I’ll need to borrow the car.’

There was only one car, Kristín’s, which was used only for commuting between Siglufjördur and Akureyri.

‘Go out?’ she asked with a look of surprise. ‘You’re ill, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but Herjólfur has…’ Ari Thór wasn’t quite sure how to put it into words. ‘He seems to have disappeared,’ he said finally.

‘Disappeared?’ Kristín smiled. Ari Thór realised that it sounded incongruous for him to be leaving his sick bed to search for a grown man. ‘You’re telling me you’ve lost a whole policeman?’

The little boy gave him a smile. Everyone but Ari Thór seemed to be finding this amusing.

‘I won’t be long, sweetheart.’

Night was just turning into day in the little town.

Ari Thór drove to the police station to make sure that Herjólfur wasn’t there, even checking inside, to be absolutely sure, but the station was empty. Herjólfur was nowhere to be seen.

There had to be some reasonable explanation, but, still groggy, Ari Thór struggled to see one. He drove slowly through the centre of town, then took a larger sweep through the side streets but there was no sign of the patrol car. Before going any further, Ari Thór decided that it would be worth taking a look at the only two roads leading out of the town, the road towards the old mountain tunnel, Strákar tunnel, and the road leading to the new Hédinsfjördur tunnel.

He knew he wasn’t fit to drive, still half-asleep, sick and weak, and he had to do a double take when he saw the patrol car at the roadside near the Strákar tunnel entrance, next to the old house that had been empty and becoming steadily more dilapidated ever since he had moved to the town.

Growing increasingly uneasy, Ari Thór felt an overwhelming sense of foreboding – almost like a premonition. At that exact moment, he knew that something had happened to Herjólfur. With an adrenaline buzz providing the boost of energy he needed to sideline the flu for a while and think clearly, he pulled up behind the patrol car.

Bracing himself against the freezing rain, his eyes struggling to adjust in the darkness that preceded the dawn, he peered through the car windows, and then opened the doors of the patrol car to see if Herjólfur might be inside.

Empty.

His concern deepening, Ari Thór surveyed the landscape that surrounded him, the high mountain from which the road had literally been carved, and the sea on the other side. There was barely room for this single house there on the side of the road, on what was essentially a landfill site, and beyond it was a sheer and deadly drop into the cold, northern sea. There was no light from the house and no sign of his colleague. Making his way briskly towards the house, his jacket pulled tightly around him as the wind whipped the rain into a frenzy, he wondered if anyone would hear him if he called out. And then there was no need.

In the gravel a few yards away from the malevolent house lay a man in police uniform. He was completely still. Ari Thór shone his torch to be sure that it was Herjólfur, although he knew it could be no one else. The sight of the blood that was seeping into the puddles around the fallen man made him catch his breath, and he paused for a moment, struggling to believe what his own eyes were telling him, before bending down instinctively to search for signs of life. Fingers shaking, Ari Thór tried without success to find a pulse, and the thought occurred to him that he could be in danger himself. Should he get away from the scene and call an ambulance from the car?

And then he felt it – he was certain he had found a faint pulse. Or was it just an illusion, hope defeating reality?

Pulling his phone from his pocket, he wiped the screen with the sleeve of his jacket, and called the emergency line, asking for an ambulance to be sent immediately, his voice high-pitched, odd to his own ears. It wasn’t far to travel. The hospital was no distance away. He explained the situation in words as short and clear as he could manage.

‘He’s still alive?’

‘I think so,’ he replied quietly; and then, more loudly, and with determination, ‘I think he is.’

There was no more that he could do. He was in no position to take any risks or assess the extent of Herjólfur’s injuries.

He felt an instinctive urge to flee, to get himself to somewhere safer, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave Herjólfur. He sat on the ground at his side, shivering uncontrollably. There was nobody to be seen and it was unusually dark over the fjord that morning. It was a gloomy time of year, with sunshine a rare visitor and in a few weeks the sun would disappear behind the mountains for two long months.

In the distance he saw lights and instinctively began rubbing Herjólfur’s hand. ‘They’re coming,’ he said in a low voice. ‘It’s going to be all right.’ His words were sent spiralling away on the wind. It occurred to him that he was probably speaking to nobody but himself.

Just then an uncomfortable thought occurred to him, and he tried unsuccessfully to cast it from his mind, to stifle it before it grew any larger. If Herjólfur could not return to duty, then the inspector’s position was undoubtedly his.

July 1982

At last they gave me a pencil and a notebook.

It’s an old yellow pencil, badly sharpened, and an old notebook that someone has already used, the first few pages untidily ripped out. Had someone else already tried to put into words their difficulties and their helplessness, just as I’m doing? Maybe there were some pretty doodles there, the unchanging view of the back garden rendered in artistic form, if that could be done. Some things are so grey and cold that no amount of colour on a page could ever bring them to life.

I feel a little better now that I can scribble a few words on paper, but I can’t explain exactly why. I’ve never taken any particular satisfaction from writing. It’s only now that I have the feeling that this might save my life.

It probably doesn’t even matter what I write here in this notebook. Maybe something of the background to my being here, my feelings and the monotonous existence in this place. Whatever it takes to maintain my sanity.