Rupture E-Book

Ragnar Jónasson

• Herausgeber: Orenda Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 392

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

THE THIRD INSTALMENT IN THE INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLING DARK ICELAND SERIES OVER A MILLION COPIES SOLD With a stalker on the loose and the town of Siglufjörður in quarantine, a child goes missing, as Icelandic police officer Ari Thór Arason investigates the cold case of a mysterious death on an isolated fjord… 'A world-class crime writer' Sunday Times 'Ragnar does claustrophobia beautifully' Ann Cleeves 'A modern take on an Agatha Christie-style mystery, as twisty as any slalom…' Ian Rankin ________________ 1955.Two young couples move to the uninhabited, isolated fjord of Hedinsfjörður. Their stay ends abruptly when one of the women meets her death in mysterious circumstances. The case is never solved. Fifty years later an old photograph comes to light, and it becomes clear that the couples may not have been alone on the fjord after all… In nearby Siglufjörður, young policeman Ari Thór tries to piece together what really happened that fateful night, in a town where no one wants to know, where secrets are a way of life. He's assisted by Ísrún, a news reporter in Reykjavik, who is investigating an increasingly chilling case of her own. Things take a sinister turn when a child goes missing in broad daylight. With a stalker on the loose, and the town of Siglufjörður in quarantine, the past might just come back to haunt them. Haunting, frightening and complex, Rupture is a dark and atmospheric thriller from one of Iceland's foremost crime writers. ________________ 'Traditional and beautifully finessed… morally more equivocal than most traditional whodunnits, and it offers alluring glimpses of darker, and infinitely more threatening horizons' Independent 'Jonasson'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 Indridason and Yrsa Sigurdardottir. Here's a third: Ragnar Jónasson … the darkness and cold are palpable' Marcel Berlins, Times 'Ragnar Jónasson writes with a chilling, poetic beauty' Peter James 'Chilling, poetic beauty… a must-read!' Peter James 'A clever, complex and haunting thriller … unexpected and gripping' Lancashire Post 'A chiller of a thriller' Washington Post '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

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 mustread 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

‘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 isolated community, subtle clueing, clever misdirection 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 smalltown 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

‘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, 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 but the setting is very much more modern and darker. There is an increasing tension and threat, which 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

‘Jónasson’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

‘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 meeting Ari Thór again soon’ Victoria Goldman

‘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 …

‘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 Thór 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 Jónasson’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 Thór 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 Jónasson 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, Crime Review

‘Snowblind is as atmospheric a murder mystery that you could find’ For Winter Nights

‘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

‘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 yourself a copy of Snowblind … you will want to add this to your collection. It is really that good … a tense, gripping novel’ The Last Word

‘This truly is a crime novel to tamper with your thoughts and send them skittering off in all directions. Ragnar Jónasson writes with a bitingly sparse, to-the-point style, and Quentin Bates has translated his words skilfully, ensuring the story flows. With several menacing stories, creeping and melding into one, Blackout is a wonderfully gripping and gritty novel’ Lovereading

‘Blackout is Ragnar Jónasson’s darkest book yet … the plot is far more complex than that of the previous Dark Iceland books, with various different strands that at first seemed unrelated. The suspense and intrigue built up gradually with many surprises along the way. And as the jigsaw pieces slotted into place, there were several breath-holding final chapters’ Off-the-Shelf Books

‘Blackout is an excellent addition to the already fantastic Dark Iceland series. Wonderfully translated by the talented Quentin Bates, Jónasson manages to capture the rugged beauty of Iceland, the safest place in the world; and drags you into the dark underbelly’ The Bandwagon

‘What I absolutely love about this author’s books is the mesmerising setting … and the story line is yet another web of mystery and suspense. A wonderfully atmospheric read that is very different from your usual crime books. It’s Icelandic Noir at its best’ By the Letter Book Reviews

‘Once again it is a gripping, atmospheric mystery packed with fascinating, complex characters with plenty of secrets to uncover’ The Owl on the Bookshelf

‘Succinct and Spartan, atmospheric with elements of stark beauty. This is another enjoyable installment in an excellent crime fiction series that is gripping but never formulaic’ Never Imitate

‘Whenever a new book by Ragnar Jónasson is released I drop everything to read it. I know I’m going to get a gripping and atmospheric novel written with such style and grace that I will feel as if I am in Iceland living through the story myself … Jónasson’s powerful narrative transports you into his rich and dangerous world’ Crime Squad

‘Weaving together all the sub-plots of such a multifaceted story could prove challenging yet Ragnar Jónasson makes it seem effortless – while his history of translating Agatha Christie novels into Icelandic means he’s no stranger to mystery writing, it’s his own voice and skill that makes Blackout and the Dark Iceland series one of the most compelling and rewarding additions to the thriller genre’ Mumbling About …

‘It’s official, Jónasson has written himself into my heart and onto my list of great crime writers’ This Crime Book

‘Many strands and many timelines are interwoven in the book. The stories can seem a bit disconnected, but you have to have faith that all will be revealed in the exciting denouement – which it absolutely is (and in some style). One of Ragnar’s great talents is bringing together disparate strands into a convincing and thrilling finale’ Trip Fiction

‘Blackout is a tense, fast-moving narrative with some grim secrets at the heart. I’m looking forward to the remaining books in the sequence: the darkness is definitely gathering …’ Blue Book Balloon

‘Ragnar Jónasson is a bright light in the dark, who is getting better with every novel he creates. Blackout is a work of stark beauty’ Library Thing

‘Blackout has more depth and complexity than the previous two books, with the myriad of threads and characters weaving together as the book progresses, all told in Ragnar’s wonderfully sparse style … Nordic Noir, eat your heart out. Icelandic Noir is where it’s at’ Espresso Coco

‘There is murder, intrigue, and more than a little suspense as the story unfolds piece by piece and page by page. This book is character-rich … I’ve always sung Ragnar’s praises with regards to his use of location and descriptive atmospheric passages in setting the scene for his novels, and this one is no different’ Bibliophile Book Club

‘As always, Ragnar Jónasson excels in his characterization … The plot is excellent, it’s classic crime, with a twist, but the characters and Iceland itself are the stars of the show. An excellent crime story’ Random Things Through My Letterbox

‘A brilliant read with heaps of good old-fashioned mystery with a dark and dangerous Icelandic twist. I look forward to reading more from Ragnar Jónasson’ Damp Pebbles

‘Ragnar skilfully blends topical subjects with an air of old-fashioned mystery and just a sprinkling of menace’ Nordic Noir

‘Stunning setting and imagery, tight and twisting plotting, and absolutely engaging, if somewhat moody characters, in truly gripping stories told by someone who has a clear passion and love of his characters and his country’ Jen Med’s Book Reviews

‘Jonasson does such an incredible job with these characters and their personal stories that it almost does not do Blackout justice to call it “just” a thriller. But despite the literary elements, the construction of the story – not particularly complicated, but with difficult-to-discern pieces – gives you a real sense of need-to-know, whodunnit suspense. It will grip you’ Crime Review

Rupture

RAGNAR JÓNASSON

translated by Quentin Bates

This book is dedicated to the memory of my grandparents from Siglufjördur, Þ. Ragnar Jónasson (1913–2003) and Gudrún Reykdal (1922–2005).

‘… Living in Hédinsfjördur was never easy and any communication with neighbouring communities could be fraught with difficulty. During winter, the coast, which had no harbour, was often inaccessible by sea, and the snow-covered mountains were always difficult.’

 

Siglufjördur Stories, Þ. Ragnar Jónasson (1913–2003)

Contents

Title PageDedicationEpigraphAuthor’s notePronunciation guideMaps1234567891011121314151617181920212223242526272829303132333435363738394041424344454647484950AcknowledgementsAbout the AuthorAbout the TranslatorCopyright

Author’s note

This story is entirely fictional and none of the characters portrayed here exist in reality. Hédinsfjördur has been uninhabited since 1951. The tale of the people living on the western side of Hédinsfjördur after that is purely imaginary and I am not aware that there was ever a settlement in that particular location. I would like to mention that the narrative in the third chapter – the story of a woman’s journey from Hvanndalir to Hédinsfjördur – is based on the account related by Thórhalla Hjálmarsdóttir of the journey undertaken by Gudrún Thórarinsdóttir in 1859, which my grandfather, Th. Ragnar Jónasson, recorded in 1986. This was included in his book Folk Tales from Siglufjördur, published by Vaka-Helgafell in 1996. The quotation on the next page is taken from his book Siglufjördur Stories (pages 91–92) which was published the following year.

Special thanks are due, for their expert assistance and for checking the manuscript, to Dr Haraldur Briem, a specialist in infectious diseases at the Surgeon General’s Office in Iceland, Detective Inspector Eiríkur Rafn Rafnsson, Prosecutor Hulda María Stefánsdóttir and Dr Jón Gunnlaugur Jónasson. The responsibility for the final version, including any mistakes, rests with the author.

Pronunciation guide

Siglufjördur – Siglue-fyoer-thur

Hédinsfjördur – Hye-thins-fyoer-thur

Ari Thór – Ari Tho-wr

Tómas – Tow-mas

Ísrún – Ees-roon

Kristín – Kris-tien

Ívar – Ie-var

Sunna – Soo-nna

Kjartan – Kyar-tan

Hédinn – Hye-thin

Snorri – Snor-ree

Maríus – Marie-oos

Gudfinna – Guth-finna

Gudmundur – Guth-moen-doer

Jórunn – Yo-roon

Marteinn – Mart-eitn

Eggert – Eg-gert

Icelandic has a couple of letters that don’t exist in other European languages and that are not always easy to replicate. The letter ð is generally replaced with a d in English, as in Gudmundur, Gudfinna, Hédinn and place names ending in -fjördur. In fact, its sound is closer to the hard th in English, as found in thus and bathe. Icelandic’s letter þ is most often reproduced as th, as in Ari Thór, and is equivalent to a soft th in English, as in thing or thump.

The letter r is generally rolled hard with the tongue against the roof of the mouth.

Icelandic words are pronounced with the emphasis on the first syllable.

1

It had been an evening like any other, spent stretched out on the sofa.

They lived in a little apartment on the ground floor of an old house at the western end of Reykjavík, on Ljósvallagata. It was positioned in the middle of an old-fashioned terrace of three houses, built back in the 1930s. Róbert sat up, rubbed his eyes and looked out of the window at the little front garden. It was getting dark. It was March, when weather of any description could be expected; right now it was raining. There was something comforting about the patter of raindrops against the window while he was safely ensconced indoors.

His studies weren’t going badly. A mature student at twenty-eight, he was in the first year of an engineering degree. Numbers had always been one of his pleasures. His parents were accountants, living uptown in Árbær, and while his relationship with them had always been difficult, it was now almost non-existent; his lifestyle seemed to have no place in their formula for success. They had done what they could to steer him towards bookkeeping, which was fair enough, but he had struck out on his own.

Now he was at university, at last, and he hadn’t even bothered to let the old folks know. Instead, he tried to focus on his studies, although these days his mind tended to wander to the Westfjords. He owned a small boat there, together with a couple of friends, and he was already looking forward to summer. It was so easy to forget everything – good and bad – when he was out at sea. The rocking of the boat was a tonic for any stress and his spirit soared when he was enveloped by the complete peace. At the end of the month he’d be heading west to get the boat ready. For his friends, the trip to the fjords was a good excuse to go on a drinking binge. But not for Róbert. He had been dry now for two years – an abstinence that had become necessary after the period of serious drinking that began with the events that had unfolded on that fateful day eight years earlier.

It was a beautiful day. There was scarcely a breath of wind on the pitch, it was warm in the summer sun and there was a respectable crowd. They were on their way to a convincing win against an unconvincing opposition. Ahead of him lay training with the national youth team, and later that summer the possibility of a trial with a top Norwegian side. His agent had even mentioned interest from some of the teams lower down in the English leagues. The old man was as proud as hell of him. He had been a decent football player himself but never had the chance to play professionally. Now times had changed, there were more opportunities out there.

Five minutes were remaining when Róbert was passed the ball. He pushed past the defenders, and saw the goal and the fear on the goalkeeper’s face. This was becoming a familiar experience; a five–nil victory loomed.

He didn’t see the tackle coming, just heard the crack as his leg broke in three places and felt the shattering pain. He looked down, paralysed by the searing agony, and saw the open fracture.

It was a sight that was etched into his memory. The days spent in hospital passed in a fog, although he wouldn’t forget the doctor telling him that his chances of playing football again – at a professional level, at any rate – were slim. So he gave it all up, and sought solace in the bottle; each drink quickly followed by another. The worst part was that, while he made a better recovery than the doctor expected, by the time he was fit, it was too late to turn the clock back on his football career.

Now, though, things were better. He had Sunna, and little Kjartan had a place in his heart as well. But despite this, his heart harboured some dark memories, which he hoped he could keep hidden in the shadows.

It was well into the evening when Sunna came home, tapping at the window to let him know that she had forgotten her keys. She was as beautiful as ever, in black jeans and a grey roll-neck sweater. Raven hair, long and glossy, framed her strong face. To begin with, it had been her eyes that had enchanted him, closely followed by her magnificent figure. She was a dancer, and sometimes it was as if she danced rather than walked around their little apartment, a confident grace imbuing every movement.

He knew he had been lucky with this one. He had first chatted to her at a friend’s birthday party, and they’d clicked instantly. They’d been together for six months now, and three months ago they had moved in together.

Sunna turned up the heating as she came in; she felt the cold more than he did.

‘Cold outside,’ she said. Indeed, the chill was creeping into the room. The big living-room window wasn’t as airtight as it could have been, and there was no getting used to the constant draughts.

Life wasn’t easy for them, even though their relationship was becoming stronger. She had a child, little Kjartan, from a previous relationship and was engaged in a bitter custody battle with Breki, the boy’s father. To begin with, Breki and Sunna had agreed on joint custody, and at the moment Kjartan was spending some time with his father.

Now, though, Sunna had engaged a lawyer and was pressing for full custody. She was also exploring the possibility of continuing her dance studies in Britain, although this was not something that she and Róbert had discussed in depth. But it was also a piece of news that Breki would be unlikely to accept without a fight, so it looked as if the whole matter would end up in court. Sunna believed she had a strong enough case, though, and that they would finally see Kjartan returned to her full time.

‘Sit down, sweetheart,’ Róbert said. ‘There’s pasta.’

‘Mmm, great,’ she said, curling up on the sofa.

Róbert fetched the food from the kitchen, bringing plates and glasses and a jug of water.

‘I hope it tastes good,’ he said. ‘I’m still finding my way.’

‘I’m so hungry it won’t matter what it tastes like.’

He put on some relaxing music and sat down next to her.

She told him about her day – the rehearsals and the pressure she was under. Sunna was set on perfection, and hated to get anything wrong.

Róbert was satisfied that his pasta had been a success; nothing outstanding, but good enough.

Sunna got to her feet and took his hand. ‘Stand up, my love,’ she said. ‘Time to dance.’

He stood up and wrapped his arms around her and they moved in time to a languid South American ballad. He slid a hand under her sweater and his fingertips stroked her back, unclipping her bra strap in one seamless movement. He was an expert at this.

‘Hey, young man,’ she said with mock sharpness, her eyes warm. ‘What do you think you’re up to?’

‘Making the most of Kjartan being with his dad,’ Róbert answered, and they moved into a long, deep kiss. The temperature between them was rising, as was the temperature in the room, and before long they were making their way to the bedroom.

Out of habit, Róbert pushed the door to and drew the curtains across the bedroom window overlooking the garden. However, none of these precautions stopped the sounds of their lovemaking carrying across to the apartment next door.

When everything was quiet again, he heard the indistinct slamming of a door, muffled by the hammering rain. His first thought was that it was the back door to the porch behind the old house.

Sunna sat up in alarm and glanced at him, disquiet in her eyes. He tried to stifle his own fear behind a show of bravado and, getting to his feet, ventured naked into the living room. It was empty.

But the back door was open, banging to and fro in the wind. He glanced quickly into the porch, just long enough to say that he had taken a look, and hurriedly pulled the door closed. A whole regiment of men could have been out there for all he knew, but he could make out nothing in the darkness.

He then went from one room to another, his heart beating harder and faster, but there were no unwelcome guests to be seen. It was just as well that Kjartan was not at home.

And then he noticed something that would keep him awake for the rest of the night.

He hurried through the living room, frightened for Sunna, terrified that something had happened to her. Holding his breath, he made his way to the bedroom to find her seated on the edge of the bed, pulling on a shirt. She smiled weakly, unable to hide her concern.

‘It was nothing, sweetheart,’ he said, hoping she would not notice the tremor in his voice. ‘I forgot to lock the door after I took the rubbish out; didn’t shut it properly behind me,’ he lied. ‘You know what tricks the wind plays out back. Stay there and I’ll get you a drink.’

He stepped quickly out of the bedroom and rapidly removed what he had seen.

He hoped it was the right thing to do – not to tell Sunna about the water on the floor, the wet footprints left by the uninvited guest who had come in out of the rain. The worst part was that they hadn’t stopped just inside the back door. The trail had led all the way to the bedroom.

2

Siglufjördur police officer Ari Thór Arason couldn’t explain, even to himself, why he was looking into an old case on behalf of a complete stranger, especially at a time when the little community was going through a period of such chaos.

The man, Hédinn, had called him just before Christmas, when the police station’s regular inspector was on holiday in Reykjavík. His request was that Ari Thór should look into a matter that had long ago been shelved: the death of a young woman. Ari Thór had promised to get to it when he had a moment, but it wasn’t until this evening that he had finally found the time.

Ari Thór had asked Hédinn to drop into the station that evening, having, of course, confirmed that he hadn’t left the house for two days and was therefore not infectious. Hédinn himself sounded dubious about seeing Ari Thór face to face, given the current circumstances, but he eventually agreed to a meeting to discuss the old case.

The infection had hit the town two days earlier – in the wake of a visit from a wealthy traveller. He was an adventurer from France, who had flown from Africa to Greenland, and while there had decided to take a quick trip to Iceland, where his light aircraft had been given permission to land at the remote Siglufjördur airstrip so he could pay a visit to the town’s Herring Era museum. He’d only planned to stay for twenty-four hours, but on the night of his arrival he’d been taken violently ill.

To begin with he’d been diagnosed with an unusually virulent dose of flu, accompanied by a raging temperature. But his condition had rapidly deteriorated and the man had died the following night. A specialist in infectious diseases concluded that this was a case of a haemorrhagic fever, which the man must have picked up on his travels in Africa, and hadn’t shown any symptoms of until now. The illness was considered to be highly contagious, and it was possible that any number of people could have been infected as his fever had developed.

The National Civil Defence Authority had been alerted to the situation, and tests carried out on samples from the deceased confirmed that this was the haemorrhagic fever that they’d feared. There was no practical way of dealing with it.

Not long after the man’s death the drastic decision was taken to place the little town under quarantine. Efforts were made to trace anyone who had been in contact with the dead man, and everywhere he had been was painstakingly sterilised.

Soon there were rumours that the nurse who had been on duty that night had also been taken ill. She had been put under observation, and Ari Thór had heard that, earlier that day, when she began to experience mild symptoms, she had been placed in isolation.

Every effort was being made to establish where she’d been and with whom she had been in contact, and the process of sterilisation had begun all over again.

For the moment, though, everything was quiet. The nurse was still in isolation at the Siglufjördur hospital, and contingency plans were being made to transfer her to intensive care in Reykjavík should her condition become any worse. According to the information the police had been given, the town could expect to remain in quarantine for at least a few more days.

While there was little actually happening, Siglufjördur had been gripped by panic, stoked, of course, by the extensive media coverage. The townspeople were understandably terrified and the politicians and pundits laboured the point that no unnecessary risks should be taken.

The haemorrhagic fever had already been dubbed ‘the French sickness’, and the town was a shadow of its usual self. Most people chose to remain behind locked doors and to rely on their phones and email for any communication. Nobody had shown the slightest interest in climbing the town’s invisible walls to get in. Workplaces were closed and school was suspended.

Ari Thór remained healthy, and he had every expectation that he would be untouched by the infection. He had been nowhere near the unfortunate traveller, or the nurse. The same was true of the Siglufjördur force’s senior officer, Tómas, who was now back after his break, and on duty with Ari Thór.

Ari Thór hoped that Hédinn’s visit would give him something other than the wretched infection to think about. And he had a chilling feeling that it would.

3

‘I was born in Hédinsfjördur,’ Ari Thór’s guest, Hédinn, told him. ‘Have you been there?’

They were sitting in the police station’s coffee corner, keeping some distance between them; they hadn’t even shaken hands when Hédinn had arrived.

‘I’ve driven through, after the tunnel was opened,’ Ari Thór replied, waiting for his tea to cool. Hédinn had opted for coffee.

‘Yes, exactly,’ he said, his voice deep.

He seemed to be a reserved, quiet man. He avoided eye contact with Ari and looked mostly at the table or his coffee.

‘Exactly,’ he repeated. ‘Nobody stops there for long. It’s still the same uninhabited fjord, even though people drive through it all day long, now. In the old days you’d never have imagined it could be possible to see so many passers-by.’

Hédinn looked to be close to sixty and it wasn’t long before he confirmed Ari Thór’s judgement.

‘I was born there in 1956. My parents had moved there the year before, after the fjord had already been abandoned, because they wanted to keep it inhabited a little longer. They weren’t alone. My mother’s sister and her husband moved there with them; they wanted to try and farm there.’

He paused and sipped his coffee cautiously and nibbled a biscuit from the packet on the table. He seemed slightly nervous.

‘Did they have a farmhouse or land there?’ Ari Thór asked. ‘It’s a beautiful place.’

‘Beautiful …’ Hédinn echoed, his voice distant, seeming to become lost in memories. ‘You could say that, but it’s not what springs to my mind. It has been a terribly hard place to live throughout the centuries. The snow lies heavy and it’s extremely isolated during the winter – no shortage of avalanches off the mountainsides. The fjord is entirely cut off during winter, with the ocean on one side and high mountains on the others; it was difficult enough to get to the next farm in an emergency, let alone to the next town, beyond the mountains.’

Hédinn underscored his words with a shake of the head and a frown. He was a big man, somewhat overweight; his thin, greasy hair was combed back from his face.

‘But to answer your question – no, my parents didn’t own a farmhouse there. They were offered the opportunity to rent one that had been left empty, but was still in good condition. My father was a hard worker and had always wanted to be a farmer. The house was easily big enough for the four of them – my parents and my mother’s sister and her husband; he had actually been in some financial trouble at some point and he jumped at the chance to try something new. Then I came along a year later, so there were five of us there …’ He paused and scowled. ‘Well, that’s not entirely certain, but I’ll come to that,’ he added.

Ari Thór said nothing, leaving Hédinn to continue his tale.

‘You said you’d driven through there. In that case, you’ve hardly seen anything of the fjord further out. What you’ll have seen from the new road is the Hédinsfjördur lagoon. There’s a narrow spit of land, Víkursandur, that separates the lagoon from the fjord itself, and that’s about as far as you can see from the road, not that it makes a difference to what I have to tell you. Our house was by the lagoon; it still is, what’s left of it. It’s the only house on the western side of the pool; there’s very little lowland there, you see. It’s in the shadow of a high mountain, right at its feet, so, of course, it was madness to try to live there, but my parents were determined to try their best. You know, it’s always been my belief that the conditions – the mountain and the isolation – played a part in what happened there. People can easily lose their minds, somewhere like that, can’t they?’

It was a moment before Ari Thór realised that Hédinn was waiting for an answer to his question.

‘Well, yes. I suppose so,’ was the best he could manage. Although it could hardly be compared to the isolation of Hédinsfjördur, he had painful memories of his first winter in Siglufjördur. He’d hardly been able to sleep at night, feeling almost suffocated by the grip of the darkness and confinement, with the snow more or less closing Siglufjördur off from the rest of the world.

‘You’d know more about it that I would,’ he said, shivering at the memory. ‘What was it like living there?’

‘Me? Good grief, I don’t remember a thing. We moved away after … after what happened. I was barely a year old, and my parents didn’t say much about their time in Hédinsfjördur, which is understandable, I suppose. But it wasn’t all bad, I think. My mother told me I was born on a beautiful day at the end of May. After I was born she walked down to the pool and looked out over the water – perfectly calm on that sunny day – and decided that I should be called Hédinn, the name of the Viking who settled in Hédinsfjördur around the year 900. They told me stories about beautiful winter days, too, although my father would sometimes talk of how those high mountains could loom over you during the dark winter months.’

Ari Thór was starting to feel uncomfortable again. He remembered vividly how the ring of mountains encircling Siglufjördur had affected him when he had first arrived there, two and a half years before. The claustrophobia was still inside him, although he did his best not to let it get the better of him.

‘Getting from Hédinsfjördur over to Siglufjördur or Ólafsfjördur was a tall order back then,’ Hédinn continued. ‘The best way was by sea, but it’s possible on foot – over the Hestsskard mountain pass and down into Siglufjördur. There’s a story from the nineteenth century, about a woman from one of the Hvanndalur farms going to fetch firewood; she went on foot, taking an extremely difficult route – under the scree on the east side of the fjord. She was pregnant at the time, and on top of that had another small child tucked inside her clothing – all that way. Anything’s possible, if there’s the will. That’s a story that had a happy ending. But mine doesn’t.’ Hédinn looked up with a bitter smile, and paused before speaking again.

‘Our old house isn’t far from the track where you’d come down into Hédinsfjördur if you arrived by foot from Siglufjördur, over the Hestsskard pass. People walk this route for the fun of it, now. Times change, don’t they? And so do people. My parents are both dead. Mother went first and father followed,’ he said ruefully and fell silent again.

‘The others are dead as well, are they?’ Ari Thór asked, to break the silence more than anything. ‘I mean, your aunt and her husband.’

Hédinn looked astonished. ‘You’ve never heard about all this, then?’ he asked at last.

‘No, not that I remember.’

‘I’m sorry. I just assumed you’d know the story. Back then everyone knew about it. But it fades away after a while, I suppose; it’s more than half a century ago now. Even the most terrible things are forgotten as the years go by. Nobody ever found out for certain what happened, whether it was murder or suicide …’

‘Really? Who died?’ Ari Thór asked with interest.

‘My aunt. She drank poison.’

‘Poison?’ Ari Thór shuddered at the thought.

‘Something had been stirred into her coffee. It took a long time to get a doctor to her. Maybe her life could have been saved if she had received help sooner. Maybe she did it herself, knowing that there would be little chance of getting an ambulance or a doctor there in time.’ Hédinn’s voice was even deeper and slower now. ‘The verdict was that it was an accident – that she had put rat poison in her coffee instead of sugar. That’s a little far-fetched, to my mind.’

‘You think someone may have murdered her?’ Ari Thór asked straight out, having long ago given up packaging awkward questions in tactful ways. He had never been particularly considerate in that regard, anyway.

‘That’s the most obvious conclusion, to my mind. There were only three possible suspects, of course: her husband and my parents. So the suspicion has always been looming over my family, like a shadow. Not that people mention it. The most common theory was that she had taken her own life. But people have little to say about it these days. We moved to Siglufjördur after she died, and her husband went back south to Reykjavík and spent the rest of his life there. My parents never discussed what happened with me and I didn’t fish for information. Of course, you don’t believe anything bad about your own parents, do you? But the doubt has always been at the back of my mind. I think she either committed suicide or she was murdered by her husband. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Men have killed their wives before; and vice versa,’ Hédinn said with a sigh.

‘I imagine you can guess what my next question is?’ Ari Thór said heavily.

‘Yes,’ Hédinn replied and was silent for a moment. ‘You’re wondering why I’ve come to you with this, after all these years, aren’t you?’

Ari Thór nodded. He was about to sip the tea cooling in the mug on the table in front of him, but then the thought of the rat poison in the unfortunate woman’s coffee made him stop.

‘That’s a tale in itself.’ Hédinn squared his shoulders and thought for a moment, seeming to search for the right words. ‘First of all, to be quite clear, I got in touch with you before Christmas because I knew you were taking over from Tómas. He knows the town and all the stories far too well; I thought you’d come to it with fresh eyes, even though I’m a bit surprised that you haven’t heard the story before. But there’s another reason. A friend of mine lives down south, and in the autumn he went to a meeting of the Siglufjördur Association, where people who moved away from Siglufjördur meet regularly. They had a picture night.’

Ari Thór raised an eyebrow.

‘Yes, a picture night,’ Hédinn repeated. ‘They go through old pictures from Siglufjördur. Part of the fun of it is recognising people in the old photos and noting down their names. It’s a way of maintaining a record of the people who’ve lived in Siglufjördur over the years.’

‘And something happened there?’

‘That’s right. He rang me up that night – said he’d seen the photo.’

There was a sudden weight to Hédinn’s voice, a darker undertone that prompted Ari Thór to listen more carefully.

‘The picture was taken in Hédinsfjördur, right in front of where we lived.’ He took a sip of coffee, his hand trembling. ‘This was before my aunt’s death, in the dead of winter; it was a bright day, but there was deep snow.’

The familiar feeling of unease gripped Ari Thór for a second; he pushed it to the back of his mind.

‘There was nothing all that sunny about the picture, though. I must have been a few months old at the time, and it seems to show five of us there.’

‘Well,’ Ari Thór said. ‘There’s hardly anything strange about a family picture, is there?’

‘That’s just it,’ Hédinn said in a low voice, and stared deep into his coffee mug before looking up sharply and straight into Ari Thór’s eyes. ‘The photo was of my mother, my father and me, and my aunt. Her husband, Maríus, must have taken the picture, or so I imagine.’