Snowblind: The Iconic Nordic Noir Bestseller in a 10th Anniversary edition, including NEW Dark Iceland series mystery, FADEOUT E-Book
Ragnar Jónasson
Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: Dark Iceland series
- Sprache: Englisch
Ragnar Jónasson's seminal, multi-million-copy bestselling mystery, Snowblind, celebrates its tenth anniversary, including a never-before-published Ari Thór prequel, Fadeout. ***Introduction by Anthony Horowitz*** ***FIRST NEW Dark Iceland mystery since 2020*** The blizzard returns… `A modern Icelandic take on an Agatha Christie-style mystery, as twisty as any slalom…´ Ian Rankin `Ragnar Jónasson writes with a chilling, poetic beauty´ Peter James `Seductive … Ragnar does claustrophobia beautifully´ Ann Cleeves `A classic crime story seen through a uniquely Icelandic lens. First rate and highly recommended´ Lee Child ***More than 5 million copies sold worldwide*** _____ SNOWBLIND Siglufjörður: an idyllically quiet fishing village in Northern Iceland, where no one locks their doors – accessible only via a small mountain tunnel. Ari Thór Arason: a rookie policeman on his first posting, far from his girlfriend in Reykjavik – with a past that he's unable to leave behind. When a young woman is found lying half-naked in the snow, bleeding and unconscious, and a highly esteemed, elderly writer falls to his death in the local theatre, Ari is dragged straight into the heart of a community where he can trust no one, and secrets and lies are a way of life. An avalanche and unremitting snowstorms close the mountain pass, and the 24-hour darkness threatens to push Ari over the edge, as curtains begin to twitch, and his investigation becomes increasingly complex, chilling and personal. Past plays tag with the present and the claustrophobic tension mounts, while Ari is thrust ever deeper into his own darkness – blinded by snow, and with a killer on the loose. Taut and terrifying, Snowblind is a startling debut from an extraordinary new talent, taking Nordic Noir to soaring new heights. FADEOUT – NEW! When Ari Thór Arason receives a staggeringly high bill for a foreign credit card that was taken out in his name, his life takes a turn he never anticipated. The bill in question belongs to his namesake – his father, who disappeared under mysterious circumstances when Ari was only a child. Seeking answers, Ari Thór travels to London to investigate, hoping to learn the truth about what happened to his father all those years ago, and discovering far more than he could ever have imagined… –––––––– `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´ Sunday Express `A chiller of a thriller´ Washington Post `Required reading´ New York Post `This classically crafted whodunit holds up nicely, but Jonasson's true gift is for describing the daunting beauty of the fierce setting, lashed by blinding snowstorms that smother the village in "a thick, white darkness" that is strangely comforting´ New York Times `Morally more equivocal than most traditional whodunnits, and it offers alluring glimpses of darker, and infinitely more threatening horizons´ Independent `A stunning murder mystery by one of Iceland's finest writers´ Yrsa Sigurðardóttir `There is a young pretender beavering away, his eye on the crown: Ragnar Jónasson…´ Barry Forshaw `As dazzling as its title implies´ William Ryan `A modern day Golden Age whodunnit. I look forward to the next in the series´ Dr John Curran `The best sort of gloomy storytelling´ Chicago Tribune `The prose is stark and minimal … bleakly brilliant´ Metro
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 669
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
THANK YOU FOR DOWNLOADING THIS ORENDA BOOKS EBOOK!
Join our mailing list now, to get exclusive deals, special offers, subscriber-only content, recommended reads, updates on new releases, giveaways, and so much more!
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
Thanks for reading!
TEAM ORENDA
praise for snowblind
***MORE THAN A MILLION COPIES SOLD WORLDWIDE***
‘A modern Icelandic take on an Agatha Christie-style mystery, as twisty as any slalom’ Ian Rankin
‘Ragnar Jónasson writes with a chilling, poetic beauty’ Peter James
‘Seductive … Ragnar does claustrophobia beautifully’ Ann Cleeves
‘A classic crime story seen through a uniquely Icelandic lens. First rate and highly recommended’ Lee Child
‘A truly chilling debut, perfect for fans of Karin Fossum and Henning Mankell’ Eva Dolan
‘Jónasson's books have breathed new life into Nordic Noir’ Sunday Express
‘The darkness and cold are palpable’ The Times
‘A distinctive blend of Nordic Noir and Golden Age detective fiction’ Guardian
‘A chiller of a thriller’ Washington Post
‘Required reading’ New York Post
‘Jónasson’s true gift is for describing the daunting beauty of the fierce setting, lashed by blinding snowstorms that smother the village in “a thick, white darkness” that is strangely comforting’ New York Times
‘Morally more equivocal than most traditional whodunnits, and it offers alluring glimpses of darker, and infinitely more threatening horizons’ Independent
‘A stunning murder mystery by one of Iceland’s finest writers’ Yrsa Sigurðardóttir
‘A chilling, thrilling slice of Icelandic Noir’ Thomas Enger
‘As dazzling as its title implies’ William Ryan
‘The best sort of gloomy storytelling’ Chicago Tribune
‘The prose is stark and minimal … bleakly brilliant’ Metro
iiiiii
Snowblind
TENTH ANNIVERSARY EDITION
RAGNAR JÓNASSON Translated by Quentin Bates With an introduction by ANTHONY HOROWITZ
Includes Dark Iceland series prequelFadeout Translated by Larissa Kyzer
contents
introduction
I read Snowblind, the first book in the Dark Iceland series, a long time before I met its author and he became a close friend. I must quickly say that I’m writing this introduction not because of that friendship but because, as long ago as 2010, when Snowblind was first published, I was blown away by the book and recognised thatwas on his way to becoming one of the most significant crime writers in the world and certainly the leader of the pack known broadly as ‘Nordic noir’. He has not disappointed. I’ve read almost everything he’s written since then and although I’m often bewildered by the speed with which he produces new novels, the quality and originality of his work never varies.
‘The red stain was like a scream in the silence.’ How can you resist an opening sentence like that? (And I should say at once that Ragnar is supremely well served by his translator, Quentin Bates, who never allows you to think that you are reading a book in a foreign language.) The story introduces us to Ari Thór, a charismatic young police officer just out of training college, who is first discovered with his girlfriend in his small, Reykjavík apartment. The relationship is torpedoed almost immediately, when Ari receives a job offer in the fishing village of Siglufjörður – four hundred kilometres away.
The journey north is a memorable one. Ragnar has been gifted the bleak, darkly threatening topography of his native Iceland and always uses it to great effect. The narrow road twists through the mountains with a vertiginous drop to one side and the village itself can only be reached through an old tunnel – providing us with a great variation on the old locked-room convention. Once there, Siglufjörður turns out to be a pleasant enough place, even if Ari feels cut off (he struggles to get an internet signal) and has little to do apart from street patrols and random accidents.
Meanwhile, a masked burglar has broken into a woman’s house. To start with, we have no idea who either of them are. But this increasingly tense confrontation provides the backbone of the story – and we know things are only going to get worse. Sure enough, the first death takes place soon enough … but it seems to be an accident and unconnected with anything we’ve read before.
And then the telephone rings. ‘I think he’s going to hurt me.’ Ari, 2alone and on duty over Christmas, receives the message from the anonymous caller and that’s how he’s drawn into not one but several investigations into murders new and old.
Ragnar Jónasson began his writing life, aged seventeen, as a translator working on the books of Agatha Christie, and her influence is certainly present in Snowblind. You could think of Siglufjörður as a frozen version of St Mary Mead with its fewer than one thousand inhabitants, its local amateur dramatic society and, of course, its many secrets. He even throws in a nursery rhyme – very much a Christie trope. One of the characters is called Ugla, the old Norse word for owl and so:
Ugla, the owl perched on a stump
Who’s next?
One, two,
And it was you.
But where I think he surpasses his old mentor is in the creation of his central character. Ari Thór is no Poirot. For a start, he’s young. He’s also well-meaning but unsure of himself. He has a sex life. A former theology student, he’s only joined the police out of a vague desire for excitement. I love the way he finds himself disconnected when he first arrives in the village, ‘like a traveller who has forgotten to buy a return ticket.’
Structurally, all Ragnar’s books have a honed quality, as sharp as the ice they so often describe. His plotting is immaculate and the twists come organically: unlike some crime writers, he doesn’t just crowbar them in for effect. And then there’s the landscape. Snowblind takes place against storms and blizzards with even an avalanche thrown in, and reading it I was taken back to the many visits that I’ve now made to Iceland, where the beaches have black sand and killer waves and even a misstep into a thermal puddle can burn off half your leg. The last time I was there, a car park I visited disappeared under a lethal flow of magma and a tsunami of volcanic ash just twelve hours later. That’s another advantage he has over Christie. He lives surrounded by death.
So much for the writer. A few words about my friend.was born in 1976, trained as a lawyer and published Snowblind in 2010. He has now sold five million books in thirty-six countries. He travels the world and unlike Ari, he seems to be impossibly well 3connected, with friends in the highest literary and political circles. He wrote the novel Reykjavík in collaboration with the former prime minister of Iceland. He loves opera and theatre and always gets the best seats. Sometimes he takes me. He is slim and dark-haired with killer eyes, which is why he appears as a villain in my very last Alex Rider story, set in Iceland.
If you are new to his work, you are in for a treat with Snowblind. Then I’d recommend his Hidden Iceland series, which introduces Hulda Hermannsdóttir, a detective inspector facing a retirement that had been forced on her. The masterstroke of this series is that it follows her life backwards. The Darkness has just been filmed by the great Lasse Halström. I have two other favourite standalones. Death at the Sanitorium is set high up in the mountains in an abandoned hospital that once treated tuberculosis, and I love it for its clever plotting and deeply oppressive atmosphere. And The Girl Who Died takes us to another tiny village, Skálar, which has a population of just ten, and presents us with another terrific mystery, this time with a paranormal edge.
‘Is this the best crime writer in the world today?’ asked The Times of London. Well, I suppose I might have a few thoughts about that, but right now, as I sit here writing this, there’s nobody else who comes to mind.
Anthony Horowitz
21st May 2025
London
preface
When I was seventeen years old, I was given the opportunity to translate an Agatha Christie novel – Endless Night – into Icelandic, and I continued to translate Christie for more than a decade, alongside my studies and day job as a lawyer.
In 2006, I started working on my own mystery, about a twenty-two-year-old theology student, Ari Thór Arason, who goes looking for his missing father, who disappeared ten years earlier. A year later, in 2007, Icelandic publishing house Bjartur & Veröld set up a writing competition; they were looking for the ‘Icelandic Dan Brown’ and offered prize money and an international publishing contract for the right story. I was a big fan of The Da Vinci Code, and while I realised that I was writing a different type of mystery, this competition gave me the incentive I needed to finish my manuscript, which I duly sent to the publishers. I didn’t win the prize – in fact, no one did – but I’m pleased to say that since then I’ve had the opportunity to tell Dan Brown the story of how, without knowing, he set my writing career in motion.
The publisher at Bjartur & Veröld, Petur Mar Olafsson did like the story of Ari Thór’s search for his father, and very kindly offered me a publishing contract. Fölsk nóta – now called Fadeout in English – was published in Iceland on 8th October 2009, and I became a very proud debut author. The story went straight to number one on the Icelandic fiction bestseller list, and my publisher – who still publishes my books in Iceland – asked for a sequel. This presented a bit of a problem, as Fadeout was supposed to be a standalone mystery about a young man’s search for his father.
Ari Thór had given up on philosophy and wasn’t really happy studying theology, so I thought I might as well see if he could possibly try the police academy, and that’s how Snowblind came to be. Ari Thór finished his police studies and was offered a job in the small town of Siglufjörður, where he spent many years – in Blackout, Rupture, Whiteout, Nightblind and Winterkill.
In 2010, Snowblind was picked up for publication in Germany, and subsequently in the UK ten years ago, in France in 2016, and in over thirty other territories. In each case, the publishers wanted to start the 5series with Snowblind, as that was the first of the Siglufjörður mysteries, so Fadeout was left behind.
Fadeout is slightly different in structure and tone from the rest of the series, a novella rather than a full novel; and an old-fashioned mystery – probably inspired by Agatha Christie in some ways – as well as being Ari Thór’s coming-of-age story. And crucially, this story holds the key to the mystery of his father’s disappearance, which has been referenced throughout the series.
It was always my dream to see my debut novel become available in English, so that readers of the series can have access to Ari Thór’s entire story. Snowblind’s tenth anniversary gave us the perfect opportunity to do this, with the wonderful contribution of a fantastic team; my agents, David Headley and Monica Gram, translator Larissa Kyzer and Orenda Books’ publisher Karen Sullivan – who took a leap of faith in 2015 and published an unknown Icelandic author on the basis of a sample translation and a chat after a football game (which we lost) at Bloody Scotland; a decision for which I will be forever grateful.
And now we have Fadeout available in English for the first time. To the readers who have followed the career of Ari Thór in Siglufjörður through the past decade, I want to say: I truly hope you will enjoy Fadeout, and I’m thrilled that you will at long last be able to find out what really happened to his father!
Ragnar Jónasson
July 2025
Fadeout
RAGNAR JÓNASSON
Translated by Larissa Kyzer
8To María
9
1: EN ROUTE TO LONDON, SATURDAY, 29 JUNE 2006
The aeroplane took off from Keflavík Airport.
Ari Thór had booked a flight straight after receiving the letter. It was last-minute, which meant the only reasonably priced seat was at the very back of the plane, where the air was heavy and not exactly conducive to an enjoyable flight. Like most Icelanders, Ari liked to travel abroad, but the flying wasn’t his favourite part. At least this time he wouldn’t be bored. He was trying to keep his expectations in check, but deep down, he was hopeful – or a little excited, at least. But anxious too. What if he was finally on to something?
The flight attendant was going over the onboard safety measures. Ari Thór, squished up against the window, tried to close his eyes and relax, but this was easier said than done, given that he was sitting next to a rather large gentleman, who made it almost impossible to arrange himself comfortably in his seat. Ari hoped his seatmate wasn’t one for chatting to strangers.
For a brief moment, it was quiet – apart from the rumble of the jet engines, of course. But ‘nothing gold can stay’…
‘So, what takes you to London?’ his seatmate inquired in a jovial British accent.
‘Just visiting a friend,’ Ari lied, hoping that would be the end of it.
But the man was just getting started. He informed Ari that he’d been on a short holiday in Iceland. He didn’t say much about the trip, though, and instead went into great detail about what he did for work, which had something to do with the sale of bubble wrap. Ari had never met a bubble-wrap salesman before, which, shockingly, did nothing to increase his interest in the topic. He quickly tired of the conversation but fixed a smile on his face as he listened to the man drone on about the best way to pack furniture in bubble wrap when moving house.
The flight attendants served the in-flight breakfast during Bubble-Wrap Bloke’s vivid narrative – he’d just finished outlining the market conditions in Europe and was moving on to Asia. By the time he’d launched into a country-by-country comparison of plastic quality, Ari found himself wishing he’d answered the man’s initial question with a terse: ‘Sorry, I don’t speak English.’ 10
The letter was in Ari’s pocket. He wanted to reread it, and was waiting for a moment to himself – that is, for his seatmate to pause long enough to draw breath. Mercifully, the man did finally pull out a small iPod before thanking Ari for their chat, putting on his headphones and switching on his music. Ari wasn’t much of a Celine Dion fan – and even less so when her music was played at full blast – but he would make do.
He pulled the letter from his jacket pocket and read it once more. Strange that a debt-collection letter should have this much of an effect on him. The amount due – £7,000 – wasn’t peanuts, and the bill was in his name: Ari Thór Arason. But he knew for a fact he hadn’t accrued these charges. This wasn’t his bill; there was no question of that. And yet he’d set off for London almost immediately, without a second thought. What’s more, it was the first time that Ari had been happy to receive a bill. Yes, he was frightened and uneasy, and he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep the night before. But still, he was happy.
Ari was only twenty-two years old, but he’d already learned – far too long ago – to take care of himself. The burdens of his past were far heavier than should ever rest on any young man’s shoulders, but they meant that he’d learned never to let himself be caught off-guard. So when the debt-collection letter turned up, he’d had his first real shock in years. At first, he wasn’t sure what to think. Was someone playing a practical joke on him? Trying to con him? But then he saw the date. And there was no going back after that.
Elevator music warbled through the cabin as the aeroplane taxied towards the gate. It was the kind of music that was supposed to calm people as they disembarked, but it had the opposite effect on Ari. He couldn’t wait patiently – not now. He was sweating. He had to get into the city.
As he set foot on English soil, Ari knew there were only two possibilities.
One: this whole thing would turn out to be a complete fiasco, a waste of both time and money. He’d go home richer in experience, but carrying a memory he’d have to work hard to forget, as he had so many others. That would probably be the best outcome. The easiest.
But there was also, of course, a second possibility, namely that his suspicions were well founded. And if that were the case, his life was about to change in ways he couldn’t possibly imagine. 11
2: REYKJAVÍK, TWO DAYS EARLIER, THURSDAY, 27 JULY 2006
Ari woke to the ringing of his cell phone. Or not ringing, but pinging. His girlfriend was texting him: You up? Want to get something to eat later?
‘I am now!’ he wanted to reply. But he restrained himself and simply wrote back: I’ve got to study.
On top of taking two summer courses and working as a pizza-delivery guy most nights, Ari was also picking up the odd shift with a landscaping and construction company. Whatever free time he had went to studying. He’d completed a year of philosophy and taken a few exams before realising the subject didn’t suit him. So he’d switched degree tracks and enrolled in theology instead. Now, he was trying to finish his first year. He wanted to get as many course units as he could out of the way to make up for the time he’d wasted – even if that meant spending all summer with his nose in a book.
Ari hadn’t enrolled in theology because he was religious. Quite the opposite. Maybe he was trying to find faith. Answers to the riddles that philosophy hadn’t been able to solve. Or perhaps just a purpose. It had occurred to him that he might have veered towards subjects like philosophy and theology because they were both so different from what his father had studied: business. Plato or God – just not Mammon.
But right now, Ari had worked a night shift at the pizza place and didn’t want to be awake this early for anything. It wasn’t even nine-thirty yet. He should be using this time to study, but he closed his eyes and decided to sleep for a few more minutes.
3: REYKJAVÍK, FOUR MONTHS EARLIER, TUESDAY, 4 APRIL 2006
‘Are you making fun of me?’
She whirled around on the sidewalk in front of the National and 12University Library to see Ari looking at her with a smile on his lips, as if laughing at her expense.
‘Wha—? No. Sorry,’ was his sheepish reply.
She stuck her phone into her coat pocket and gave him a questioning look.
‘It just looked like you were talking to yourself … I mean, I couldn’t see your phone under your hood. I just thought it was funny, is all.’
He racked his brain as he tried to talk his way out of this fix. He was pretty sure he knew this girl from somewhere. She was around his age. Tall, with short, blonde hair, and wearing a down coat and dark jeans.
‘Sure … whatever you say.’ She smiled and had a flash of recognition. ‘Hey, aren’t you Natan’s friend? You were at his birthday party, weren’t you?’
So that was where he knew her from.
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ he said, although he didn’t, strictly speaking, think of himself as a friend of the guy. Natan had invited their entire junior college class to his party and Ari had had to make himself go.
‘I thought I recognised you from somewhere,’ he said, looking shyly at the pavement. ‘My name’s Ari.’
‘Kristín.’ Her voice was steady, confident.
They walked into the building together.
‘Have you and Natan known each other long?’
‘A few years. We were in the same class in junior college. You?’
‘No, not that long. His girlfriend and I are both pre-med.’
‘Pre-med? That’s got to be intense. Lots to memorise?’ It surprised him how relaxed he was. He usually had trouble keeping his thoughts straight around women. But there was something about this girl that had a calming effect on him.
‘Sure, but it’s just a matter of staying organised. What about you? What are you studying?’
‘Theology. Started out in philosophy but gave up on that.’
They walked up to the second floor and Ari took a seat at one of the study carrels. Kristín sat at the carrel in front of him.
13It was twenty to seven when Ari looked up from his books. He was famished. Kristín was still there, deep in her reading.
He steeled himself – it was do or die. He gave her a gentle nudge as he rose from his chair. She looked up, surprised.
‘They’re going to close soon … the cafeteria downstairs, I mean.’ He made eye contact for a second before quickly looking away again. ‘I’m going to pop down and get a coffee, maybe something to eat. Want to come with? Doesn’t do any good to study on an empty stomach,’ he whispered, as if reciting a well-rehearsed argument.
This had the intended effect. Kristín smiled and stood up too.
‘Right you are. I should know that, after reading all these medical tomes. A person’s got to eat.’
‘Do you live around here?’ Ari asked once they’d sat down at a little table in a corner of the café.
‘Yes … with my mum and dad, on Ásavallagata. Do you live with your parents, too?’
Ari felt a familiar sting.
‘No,’ he answered evenly. ‘I live alone, in a little flat on Öldugata.’ He hurried to change the subject. ‘Are you studying for exams?’
‘Ugh, I feel like I’ve been studying for exams since the very first day of classes,’ said Kristín with a smile. ‘Just some are coming sooner than others.’ There was something about the gleam in her eye that made Ari feel like he was the only person in the whole world in that moment.
They sat and chatted about classes until Ari noticed the woman who ran the café giving them a sour look. It was after seven and the café was closed.
They walked back upstairs and went back to their reading.
4: REYKJAVÍK, FOUR MONTHS LATER, THURSDAY, 27 JULY 2006
Ari Thór closed his eyes. Not that it did any good. He was wide awake now, thanks to Kristín and her texts. He opened his eyes again, looked around his spacious bedroom with its bright-white walls. Sometimes, 14he was practically blinded by the glare – he’d have to choose a darker colour the next time he felt motivated to paint. The alarm clock was unplugged, since he didn’t have to be at work until later that evening. A coffee mug, empty beer cans, and two textbooks cluttered his bedside table. His clothes were thrown on a chair next to the bed.
Ari lived in Gamli Vesturbær – the old, west side of Reykjavík. The flat was small, one of several units in a house that was built in the 1940s. He was happy there, or happy enough. He owned his own place – that was something.
The lounge wasn’t particularly big. An old sofa and a little coffee table almost filled the room. There was an empty pizza box on the coffee table. Ari didn’t get how he could still eat pizza after spending night after night delivering them. He knew, eventually, the day would come when he’d finally have enough and would never eat pizza again. But until then, he was going to eat as much of it as he could get down. The night before, he’d left the TV on, but muted, and now silent music videos were flashing on the screen. The only thing that might have seemed out-of-place to someone who didn’t know Ari was a painting by the great Jóhannes Kjarval, which hung on one of the walls. It was the only piece of art in the whole flat, and was nothing to sneeze at. He’d inherited it from his grandmother, and it had never even crossed his mind to sell it. It had more sentimental than monetary value, although he suspected he could get a few hundred thousand krónur for it, maybe a million. And he couldn’t deny that that kind of money would be helpful right about now.
Ari went about his morning routine. Idly sorting through his post, amongst the daily papers and junk mail, he came across a strange-looking envelope. It was from the United Kingdom. And had his name on it. It had initially been mailed to an address in London, one he didn’t recognise at all. But then someone had crossed that address out and written in, by hand, his parents’ old address in Reykjavík. Then that address had been crossed out as well and replaced with his current one – his flat on Öldugata.
Ari tore open the envelope. Its contents could not have come as more of a surprise. He’d assumed it was some kind of promotional offer for a magazine subscription or a sweepstakes ticket, or something dull like that. He’d hoped, however, that it contained something rather more exciting and mysterious. 15
It was a bill for a credit card issued by a British bank. An expression of true astonishment crossed Ari’s face. No less a surprise was the name on the bill: Ari Thór Arason. What in the world was going on? He hadn’t been to London in a year and a half. On top of which, he’d never had a credit card from a foreign bank. He scanned the charges. Expensive restaurants, electronics stores, clothing boutiques, ATM withdrawals. ‘Ari’ had clearly been living the high life in the English capital. A single month’s spending amounted to £7,000. Seven thousand pounds! His heart skipped a beat. Why would anyone open a credit card in his name? Had he fallen victim to a con artist? What would be next? More bills, more complications. How was he supposed to pay back £7,000? He mentally calculated the total in Icelandic krónur – it would take months, years, of delivering pizzas and working in construction to pay off such an amount. It occurred to him that he should get in touch with one of his father’s old colleagues, a man who worked at a small accounting firm. They hadn’t seen each other in years, but maybe the best option would be to ask him to send a formal letter to the bank on Ari’s behalf.
He had read about this sort of thing on the internet. Identity theft, it was called. Ari didn’t think many Icelanders had fallen victim to such a thing. It was probably a lot easier to pull off these sorts of scams in countries like the UK, where people’s ID numbers weren’t in such frequent use. You couldn’t get a library card in Iceland without providing your kennitala, or national ID number – let alone open a line of credit.
The bill was many pages long and as Ari flipped through them, he noticed that one of the pages wasn’t a continuation of charges, but, rather, a formal letter. It was clear that payment on the bill had been overdue for months; the account had been sent to collections. Whoever had been using Ari’s name in London had obviously not honoured the debt, which was why the bank had gone to the trouble of tracking down his address in Iceland.
Ari read the letter: ‘Dear Mr Arason…’ They were still courteous, at least, even though he owed them many thousands of pounds. The rest of the letter was far more strongly worded though; apparently, another notice had gone unanswered before this one. The letter outlined the basic facts: the account was opened in January 2006 and charges were 16incurred that same month. Ari’s full name was listed, along with his nationality, his address (the one in London that had been crossed out), and his birthday: 15 January 1960.
15 January 1960! Ari dropped the letter. He broke into a cold sweat; the room spun. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, retrieved the letter and sunk onto the sofa. 15 January 1960. That was not his birthday – for one, it was off by some twenty-four years. But that wasn’t what had come as such a shock. No, he knew that birthday and he knew it well. His father – and namesake – had been born on that day.
Could it be? Was it actually his father’s credit card bill that had made it all the way from London to Iceland? And was his father, therefore, in London? More to the point: was his father still alive? If so, why hadn’t he been in touch, after all this time? Did he have amnesia? Did he simply not want to talk to his son? There were too many questions and Ari wanted answers to all of them. But in that moment, he was only sure of one thing. He had to go to London, immediately. Con artist or not, he had to find this mysterious man.
5: NINE YEARS EARLIER, JUNE 1997
Children’s first memories vary greatly, as does how early those memories take hold. Memory can also be deceptive. As best as he could tell, Ari’s earliest memory of his father dated to 1988. But it was possible he’d fabricated it after looking through his tattered old photo album again and again.
The memory in question was of the two of them going to the playground together. He was almost sure he remembered at least one such outing, but maybe he was just remembering a photo his mother had taken of them. The date, 20 September 1988, was stamped on the image – that was just what cameras did back then. Ari was four years old. He also had a clear memory of New Year’s Eve that same year. The snow, the sparklers. His father was King of the Fireworks, setting off rockets and roman candles in the middle of the street.
Ari Thór’s childhood had been a carefree one. His family lived in a 17terraced house on the east side of town, in a quiet neighbourhood known for its verdant recreational areas and wide-open spaces. His father was an accountant and ran a small firm with two friends from business school. They weren’t rolling in money, far from it, but life had been good to them. His family had two cars – a saloon and an old sportscar that he and his dad spent many a weekend fixing up. Ari had inherited his love of cars and football from his father. They spent their summers having kickarounds at the local stadium. Those were good years.
If Ari had trouble recalling his first memory of his father, however, his last was burned on his brain. It was 1997, and he was thirteen years old. He was about to go to summer camp, and his father was driving him to the bus station. Ari’s mind was on the month ahead and all the football he’d play. So he couldn’t really remember if his father had been acting differently that day. At the time, it had felt like any other car ride.
After the unthinkable had happened, he’d repeatedly attempted to recall the minutia of that last car ride. But only one moment remained clear in his mind. He’d boarded the bus and found a seat, then looked out the window and saw his father waving. He waved back. And that was the last time Ari saw his dad.
Ari was at camp for three weeks and had a great time. The weather was good that summer and there were more sunny days than usual. He made a lot of friends. As per usual, his mother called every so often. Too often for his liking. Everything was going great; there was no reason to be calling all the time.
It was only when Ari was brought home early from camp that he discovered what had happened while he was away. His father had been missing for almost a week. No one knew what had happened to him. He’d said he was going to Denmark on business for two or three days. But three days later, he still hadn’t come home, and neither had he called. When Ari’s mother, Hafdís, had called his office, she discovered that no one there had heard from him, either. And no one knew of any business that would have taken him to Denmark.
Fjalar, one of the co-owners of the accounting firm and a close family friend, promised Hafdís he would look into the matter. He didn’t see any reason to get the police involved – not at first, anyway, and Hafdís agreed to give him a few days to make discreet inquiries. But when nothing came of that, she called the police herself. 18
A missing-persons bulletin was issued for Ari’s father, without success. The police received no tips from the public, no reports of anyone having seen him anywhere. It was as though the man had literally vanished from the face of the earth.
The disappearance didn’t get much coverage in the papers. Hafdís said she didn’t want to turn the situation into a media circus. Fjalar and his colleagues were of the same mind, but later on, Ari suspected that they just wanted to protect their business from bad press.
The summer wasn’t particularly sunny after that. It was obviously a difficult time for Hafdís – she was withdrawn and said little about the disappearance. Ari would lie awake at night, trying to guess what had happened. He didn’t have any close friends with whom he could talk about anything so serious. The friends he did have – the kids he’d played football with at camp back when everything was hunky dory – now kept their distance from him, and he from them. He was dreading going back to school. He could already imagine all the looks he’d get, all the questions that no one would dare ask. His classmates’ reactions would be much like their neighbours’. None of them had said anything outright, but he caught their expressions when he ran into them on the street. Expressions that revealed curiosity, surprise, disapproval, even fear.
Some days, Ari blamed his mother for his father’s disappearance. Maybe she had pushed him away. Sometimes when the phone rang, Ari expected his dad to be on the other end. Saying that this exile had gone on long enough and he was on his way home. Other times, Ari was afraid his father was dead. He had dreams about what might have happened to him. In some of them, his father was kidnapped. In some, he’d been involved in an accident. In others, he’d been murdered.
Weeks passed and still there was no news of him.
6: REYKJAVÍK, FOUR YEARS EARLIER, FEBRUARY 1993
It was a Saturday night and Ari was sitting in a burger joint with his parents. It was their favourite spot – they came here at least once a month. Always on a Saturday. 19
‘Did you finish your homework yesterday?’ asked Hafdís.
‘Yes, when I got home from school,’ answered Ari.
‘Great. Then maybe we can watch the match tomorrow,’ said his dad.
‘Brilliant,’ said Ari, dredging a chip in ketchup.
‘We have good news,’ his dad went on.
‘Oh?’
‘We’re going abroad this summer.’
It had been two years since their last trip out of the country. They’d gone to Italy. The following year, they hadn’t gone back, and Ari had complained, but they’d been renovating the kitchen and hadn’t had the money for a big trip.
Ari lit up. ‘Finally! Where are we going? Italy? Spain?’
‘We were actually thinking about taking a city break, rather than another beach holiday,’ said Hafdís. ‘Somewhere old, with some history. Either Paris, where your dad was an exchange student, or London, where we both studied – although not at the same time, unfortunately. We want to let you decide.’
Ari thought for a moment. To be honest, what he really wanted was another dose of sun and sand in Italy, but it was clear that his parents had a more cultural holiday in mind.
‘Hmmm, maybe Paris … to see the Eiffel Tower.’
Hafdís smiled. They’d probably been thinking the same thing.
‘It’s a deal then. We’re thinking of going in July.’
February, March, April, May, June … July. Ari started calculating the days in his head.
His hamburger tasted so good – the last bite even better than the first – and the future looked bright. He was going to watch English football with his dad tomorrow and they were going to France that summer.
‘We have to remember to check the lotto numbers later,’ said Ari. They’d got three numbers right last weekend. He was always waiting to hit the jackpot. Then they could go out to eat every night! ‘Maybe we’ll get four numbers this time,’ he added. ‘If we’re lucky.’ But deep down, he knew that even if their lottery ticket had all five numbers right, he couldn’t be any happier with his life than he was at that very moment. 20
7: LONDON, JUST OVER THIRTEEN YEARS LATER, SATURDAY, 29 JULY 2006
Heathrow was packed. Ari didn’t have much luggage, just one small bag with the most important documents relating to his father. He hurried through the crush of people and onto the express train to Paddington Station.
Ari took a seat next to a man reading the paper. He tried to read the headlines inconspicuously until the man noticed and shot him a dirty look. He was middle-aged and large, with saggy jowls.
Ari let his mind wander. It was already noon, and he had to get to the bank before it closed. The wait was killing him.
He’d already waited for so many years. His hopes had dimmed as he’d become older. If he was honest, they’d been snuffed out entirely – that was until that letter arrived. He should have realised that no one disappears for almost a decade by accident. Had something happened in his parents’ marriage that Ari didn’t know about? Had his father made the conscious decision to disappear from their lives forever? And if that was the case, did Ari even want to see him again? Did he want to see the man who had almost destroyed the last decade of his life? He closed his eyes as he mulled it over.
Ten years was a long time. He glanced unthinkingly back at the man’s paper. He’d moved on to the sports section. He and his dad had loved following English football. The man glared at Ari again and drew his paper closer, his mouth pursed disapprovingly.
Yes, of course he wanted to see his father again. Even if for no other reason than to get some explanations. He deserved to know what had happened.
The train was nearing its destination. Paddington Station was no less crowded than Heathrow. Tourists milling about, Brits coming into the city for the weekend. Happy families. He was probably the only person there who was searching for a missing father. This was like trying to find a needle in a haystack, he thought to himself as he got onto the tube.
It was only a few stops to Piccadilly Circus. Ari stepped out into the sunshine, London in all its glory. The taxis, the red double-decker buses, 21the billboards, the people … but none of it could hold Ari’s attention this time. He usually enjoyed London – or he had the few times he’d visited before – but now the bustling city felt cold and distant, even on such a beautiful summer day. He wasn’t there as a tourist, but as a thirteen-year-old boy – in the body of a twenty-two-year-old – looking for his dad. He felt lonely in the giant square.
He walked to his accommodation, which was not far away, on Jermyn Street. An unassuming, old-fashioned British guesthouse. Charming and cheap. Although really, it was only charming because of how cheap it was – especially in light of how expensive the neighbourhood was overall.
Ari Thór checked in at the front desk, got his key and went up to his room, where he tossed his bag on the bed. Then he turned to go straight back out, pausing only to grab the folder with the documentation about his father and to double-check that he still had the bank letter in his jacket pocket.
It took Ari a long time to find the bank. He’d seldom been this excited, although his excitement was somewhat dampened when he realised that the likeliness of finding his father at his destination was not at all high. In fact, there was probably no more unlikely place that he’d encounter his father than the bank to which he owed thousands of pounds.
The branch was located at a busy intersection. There was a café next to the entrance, the kind of midday spot typical for London and atypical for the rest of Britain, offering all sorts of appetising sandwiches and health drinks. Ari was famished after his flight, but lunch would have to wait until later.
There were only a few customers inside the bank. More prominent were the ads and brochures outlining the bank’s various services. Looking around, Ari caught sight of an employee who didn’t seem to be otherwise engaged.
‘Excuse me,’ said Ari as politely as he could.
‘Yes?’ the employee answered without looking up.
‘I need to speak to someone about this bill…’ Ari held out the letter.
The employee looked up. He was probably in his thirties and had a lean, pale face and hair that had started to thin. ‘That payment is well overdue. Have you come to settle up?’ 22
‘Wha—? No.’
‘No. Of course not,’ came the sarcastic reply.
‘No, you don’t understand. I got this bill by mistake. I need to speak to someone who I can discuss the matter with.’
‘You’ll have to make an appointment. Or have you done so already?’
It was fortunate that Ari was patient by nature. ‘Unfortunately, no. I wasn’t aware that an appointment would be required. I came all the way from Iceland, you see.’
The man perked up at this. ‘Iceland?’
‘Yes. The bill was sent to me in Iceland. I’ve never been a customer of this bank; I haven’t incurred any debt here. I flew to London to get to the bottom of this. I suspect…’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘I suspect this is an instance of what’s called identity theft. Does that seem possible?’
He’d said the magic words. The man’s expression turned to one of concern.
‘I’ve travelled such a long way,’ Ari Thór added, not bothering to mention that the flight over had been less than three hours. Although to be fair, listening to the rambling of his seatmate had made it feel several hours longer.
They were able to squeeze him in for an appointment, but not until half past three. After waiting what seemed like forever, he was shown into the office of a man named Peters, a friendly, middle-aged fellow with thick glasses and tousled hair. It was as though Peters had popped out for a midday swim, put a hat on over his wet hair afterwards, and then taken the hat off moments before he met with Ari. Cheaper than hair gel, Ari thought to himself.
Peters stood up and welcomed Ari in, gesturing for him to take a seat.
Ari took out the letter he’d received and handed it to the man. Peters skimmed its contents and then looked up and asked if Ari’s full name was Ari Thór Arason.
‘Yes and no,’ answered Ari. ‘I was named after my father, you see, just as he was named after his. The Ari Thór Arason in the letter is my father … Was.’
‘Was? What do you mean?’ asked Peters in surprise.
‘He went missing about ten years ago. I was thirteen years old at the time. He vanished without a trace, and I haven’t heard from him 23since. I gave up expecting to receive word of him again. That is until I received this letter, the day before yesterday. I don’t understand what’s going on.’
‘Is he dead?’ asked the banker.
‘I assume so, yes. Legally speaking he is, at least. Has been for many years.’
‘Can you think of anything that might explain this? I’ll need to check on some things.’ Peters sighed and turned to his computer.
‘No, I’ve no idea how this happened,’ answered Ari while Peters pored over his records. ‘It’s taken me completely by surprise.’
‘Before we go any further, would you be so kind as to show me some ID?’ There was a sharp edge to the man’s voice that hadn’t been there before.
Ari handed him his passport and opened the file with all the documentation about his father. Amongst other things, it contained confirmation that Ari’s father had been legally declared deceased. Ari showed Peters the document and explained what it said.
Peters nodded, the slight harshness he had shown now gone, and appearing more convinced and willing to look into this unusual matter for a young man from Iceland.
While Peters worked away at his computer, Ari waited, poised between hope and fear. There must be some misunderstanding. An old bill or a technical error. Maybe he should have called and inquired over the phone, saved himself the trip. But as he’d stood in his flat two days ago, letter in hand, that thought had never even crossed his mind. To him, the only possible course of action was to take the first flight to London and find out what was what.
Deep down, he’d hoped the bank would point him straight to his father, with whom he’d be joyfully reunited. But he knew it wouldn’t be that easy.
‘This is odd,’ said Peters. ‘The invoice is dated this year and the name on the credit card is correct. Ari Thór Arason.’ He furrowed his brow. ‘Very odd indeed.’
Ari’s heart began pounding.
‘He seems to have come in and opened the account in person this winter,’ Peters went on.
Ari couldn’t believe his ears. ‘What?’ 24
‘He came into the bank this winter. Or at least, someone came in with his ID.’
‘Are you sure it was his ID? Not a fake one?’
‘Yes, as best as we could tell, it was real. But let me find out.’ Peters wearily got up and left the office.
Ari remained in his chair as though glued to it. He rifled through the file again before taking out the topmost document. It stated it right there in black and white: ‘Declaration of Presumed Death: Ari Thór Arason.’ Had they been wrong this whole time? Had his father run off to London ten years ago and been lying low ever since?
No, someone must have used a fake ID to open the account. There couldn’t be any other explanation. Ari refused to believe that the last ten years of his life had been a hoax.
The clock on the wall ticked, and the minutes passed slowly. Much too slowly.
Finally, Peters returned holding a few printed pages.
‘He had valid identification, at least,’ he said dryly. ‘We have a confirmation letter from his college. He apparently lives in student housing.’
This stopped Ari cold. Student housing?
‘And here’s a photocopy of his passport.’
Fake passport, thought Ari. It was unbelievable, the things people came up with.
Peters prevaricated for a moment but seemed to decide it would be okay to show Ari the photocopy. This was clearly a case of fraud. Even if this elder ‘Ari Thór’ was who he said he was, he had been legally declared dead in his native country and that alone was probably enough to ensure that Peters would call the police as soon as he was finished with Ari. But for now, he seemed keen at least to determine if the passport had been faked, too.
Peters handed Ari the photocopy and waited for his reaction. 25
8: NINE YEARS EARLIER, JULY 1997
Ari Thór woke in a cold sweat.
He’d dreamt of his father, yet again.
This time, his father had been walking in the highlands, probably on a glacier. There’d been dense fog all around and when it parted, Ari spotted him in the distance.
His father was kitted out for a long hike. Ari tried to catch up with him, called out to him, but it was no use. The fog smothered all sound. Ari lost sight of him for a few moments, but when he reached higher ground, he spotted him again. Suddenly, the sun came out, shining brightly. That’s when Ari saw, to his horror, that his father was walking straight towards a vast crevice. It seemed like he’d been blinded by the sun’s glare and didn’t realise what was ahead. Ari started running, yelling as he did so, but his voice wouldn’t carry. He ran as fast as he could, and yet he didn’t seem to be running at all.
His father went over the edge, vanishing into the crevice. Ari had almost made it there himself when he woke up with a start, gasping for breath.
This wasn’t the first nightmare he’d had since his father had disappeared and it wouldn’t be his last.
It was three in the morning. He tried until nearly five to go back to sleep but without success. When he woke again, it felt like he had been asleep for only a few minutes, but it was, in fact, going on eight. There was no point trying to go back to sleep now, so Ari got up, and shortly after, he heard his mum stirring, too.
Later that morning, Ari was standing at the window, yawning, his poor night’s sleep catching up with him, when he spotted a car pull up outside and two police officers get out. They were the detectives who were overseeing his father’s case. They were both tall. One had blonde hair, chiselled features and a distant sort of look in his eyes. The other was dark-haired, with a warm manner. 26
‘Good morning,’ said the dark-haired one when Ari opened the door. Lárus he was called. ‘We wanted to stop by and check in, let you know that we’re still doing our utmost. But we’ve had very few leads thus far.’
‘I thought as much. This whole thing is inconceivable,’ said Hafdís, who’d come up behind Ari.
‘Don’t give up,’ said Lárus gently. ‘That’s the most important thing. You can’t give up hope. There’s got to be an explanation.’
‘Yes, there must be. There has to be,’ said Hafdís, her brows knitted. ‘Would you like to come in?’
‘Yes, thank you. We’d actually like to speak to Ari – if that’s alright with you, of course. We haven’t had a chance to speak to him properly yet.’
‘Yes, of course. You’ll talk to the detectives, won’t you, Ari?’
Ari nodded. He was in no mood to speak to the police, but what else could he do but go along with it?
Hafdís went into the kitchen to make some coffee.
‘This isn’t a formal thing,’ said Lárus. He was the spokesperson for both officers, it seemed, and clearly the one in charge of the investigation. ‘We just want to find out if you, perhaps, remember anything that could be of help to us. The last time you saw your father was a few weeks before he disappeared, is that right?’
‘Yes, he drove me to the bus station. I was going to summer camp.’
‘Did he say or do anything unusual?’
‘No … but I don’t really remember the details of that day. Or at least, I don’t remember anything out of the ordinary.’
‘Did he get in touch with you while you were at summer camp?’
‘No, it was always Mum who called me … I wish I could help more, but…’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll have this thing sewn up in no time,’ said Lárus in an even voice.
Clearly, the police had licence to lie in such cases.
‘Is there anything particular that you remember from before you went to summer camp?’ Lárus went on.
‘Yes … Well, no. Just that Dad was working a lot.’
‘More than usual?’
‘I guess, maybe? Given that it’s summer and all. He was at the office a lot.’ Ari was already getting tired of all these questions. 27
‘Do you know why?’
‘No, it just seemed like he always had tons to do. Just busy, I guess.’
‘Interesting…’ said Lárus. At that moment, Hafdís came into the lounge with the coffee. ‘I wonder if we might take a look at your husband’s home office,’ he asked her.
She thought for a moment. ‘Yes … sure, of course. That’s no problem. I’ve been looking through his papers but haven’t found anything. But maybe you’ll find something I overlooked.’
Lárus took a sip of coffee and stood up. ‘His office is that way?’ he asked in a friendly tone, pointing down the hall. His colleague was close on his heels.
‘Yes, just down the hall and to the right.’
Ari trailed after the detectives and watched as they fell immediately to searching. One took folders off a shelf, the other scanned the files on the desktop and started opening drawers.
Lárus looked up and saw Ari standing in the doorway. He didn’t say anything, but Ari could tell that his presence was not desired. And as he didn’t want to impede a formal police investigation, he went back to the kitchen.
It was nearly half an hour before the detectives re-emerged, a few folders in their hands. Ari could see from their faces that they hadn’t found anything. He thought the reason they’d decided to take a few files with them was for show.
‘If it’s okay with you…’ Lárus lifted the folders and directed his words to Hafdís.
‘Yes, of course. Let me know if you get anything useful from those.’
‘Of course. We’ll be back as soon as we have some answers.’
9: LATER THAT SAME YEAR, AUTUMN 1997
There had been no leads in the missing-person case. It was as if the earth had simply swallowed Ari’s father up, this blameless family man from the suburbs.
The police had no indication that he’d been in Denmark the days 28he’d said he’d be there; nor was there anything that suggested he’d even been on his way there in the first place.
There were whisperings, of course, various rumours. That was to be expected. Ari got wind of some of these at school, either directly or indirectly. But there were undoubtedly many more theories that never made their way to him. He didn’t spend much time in the company of his classmates that semester. He didn’t want to listen to the questions from the rubberneckers and commiserators.
He’d always had a limited social life, but now he avoided outings and activities at all costs. During class he buried himself in his books, and he went straight home at the end of the school day. For the first few weeks, his classmates tried to invite him to parties, or the cinema or things like that, but Ari always said no, and it didn’t take long for the invitations to stop coming.
