The Dancer E-Book

Óskar Guðmundsson

• Herausgeber: Corylus Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 246

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Life was never going to be a bed of roses… Tony is a young man who has always been on the losing side in life. He was brought up by his troubled, alcoholic mother who had a past of her own as a talented ballerina, until a life-changing accident brought her dreams to a sudden end. As her own ambitions for fame and success were crushed, she used cruel and brutal methods to project them onto her young son – with devastating consequences. There's no doubt that a body found on Reykjavík's Öskjuhlíð hillside has been there for a long time. The case is handed to veteran detective Valdimar, supported by Ylfa, who is taking her tentative first steps as a police officer with the city's CID while coping with her own family difficulties. It's not long before it's clear a vicious killer is on the loose – and very little about the case is what it appears to be at first glance. Óskar Guðmundsson is the kick-ass breath of fresh air that Icelandic crime fiction has been waiting for – Yrsa Sigurðardóttir

Leseprobe

The Dancer

Óskar Guðmundsson

Translated by Quentin Bates

Corylus Books

Copyright © 2024 Corylus Books Ltd

The Dancer is published in English the United Kingdom in 2024 by Corylus Books Ltd, and was originally published in Icelandic as Dansarinn by Storytel. Copyright © Óskar Guðmundsson,2023 Translation copyright © Quentin Bates, 2023Óskar Guðmundsson has asserted his moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher. All characters and events portrayed in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or not, is purely coincidental. The Dancer 2023, Originally published as a Storytel Original Series

The Dancer

1

The early hours, Monday, 6th December1982

He switched on the wipers. They whined like a beaten dog as they cleared the snow piled up on the windscreen. It was a pitch-black night, without a breath of wind, and larger-than-usual snowflakes fluttered like feathers to the ground.

There must be millions of them, he thought. Most likely billions. He sat behind the wheel of the stationary van and stared out through the windscreen, looking out into the blackness. He started and glanced quickly in the wing mirror, certain that he had seen something. It was just the smoke of the vehicle’s own exhaust. It was red as it curled upwards, illuminated in the glow of the brake lights. It was almost similar to the vapour he was aware of coming from his open mouth when he breathed fast, lit up by the yellow dashboard lights. A low mutter came from the engine. Normally, he liked to hear it purr. But not tonight. Now it sounded like a growling predator about to launch an attack. He could feel soreness as he rubbed his index finger against his thumb. He looked down at the dark patch that had formed where the leather needle had pierced the flesh of his index finger. He held his hand close to his face. He sniffed and closed his eyes as he took in the aroma of the leather polish. He recalled the previous night, working the polish deep into the leather with his fingers.

He opened his eyes and flicked on the headlights, illuminating the snow-covered area ahead of the van. That and the victim who sat tied to a chair, his back to him, struggling against his bonds. He switched the lights to full beam, so that he could see clearly the thick, dark leather mask that covered the victim’s head. He gripped the wheel with both hands and leaned close to the windscreen. He found himself fascinated by the sparkling light reflected from the snowflakes around the four taut chains hooked into iron rings fixed high on the mask. He was delighted with what he had achieved in designing it. There were chains on each side of the mask, running diagonally down to the frozen ground where they were fastened securely with tent pegs. The same went for the chain fixed to the centre of the mask’s forehead. The fourth chain was snapped onto a ring at the back of the mask’s neck and ran horizontally to the top of a metre-high iron fence post hammered into the ground behind the chair. He watched as one chain was pulled taut as another lay slack, depending on how hard the victim fought.

The man picked up a sledge hammer from the passenger side footwell and got out of the van. He went over to the iron post and after adjusting it a little to one side, he took the hammer in both hands, raised it high and dropped six heavy blows. Then he tested the post and seemed to be satisfied that it was secure. The victim in the chair did his best to look behind him.

‘What are you doing? You don’t need to do this. You must forgive me. I...’

The victim got no further as the man pulled at one of the chains, jerking his head. For a moment he looked into the victim’s terrified eyes, inside small openings in the mask.

‘Yeah. I ought to,’ the man said in a low voice.

He went to the van, slid open the side door and switched on a small light inside. He put the sledgehammer on the floor inside the van and slowly removed his clothes. When they had been neatly folded, he reached for a bulky Marantz tape player and placed it on the van’s bonnet. He didn’t feel the cold that nipped at his naked body. On the contrary, he felt an inner heat thanks to the adrenaline flooding through him, boosting his heartbeat. He relished the feeling of it rushing through his body, knowing that it both stifled and dispelled the fear that lurked deep inside. If the fear were to gain the upper hand, then his veins would tighten, and he would lose his nerve. There could be no question of backing out now. He couldn’t back out, no way.

The man’s hands rested on the bonnet on each side of the player. He lowered his head, eyes closed. There was silence, except for the moans of the victim in the chair. These seemed to be carried from deep in the belly of his surroundings. Nobody would hear those cries. He opened his eyes. For a moment he stared at the tape player. With one quick movement, he pressed the play button.

Loud, hard, rhythmic music burst from the speakers.

The man straightened his back and took a deep breath. He turned, stepping quickly towards the victim, and danced as if in a trance.

He swayed, strutted and jerked his body, his belly pulsing so that his ribs stood proud, and his head swooped here and there. Just before the vocals broke in, he approached the chair, placing his face close to his victim’s, staring into the openings in the mask.

His voice was shrill as he sang.

I’m not your slave

The man danced circles around the victim, twisting as he leaped over the diagonal chains, and limboing under or leaping over the horizontal chain behind him. He danced ring after ring around him, playing at stepping occasionally onto chains fastened to the floor, the victim moaning in pain every time his head jerked. The dancer moved further from the victim, who squinted into the gloom as he left the area illuminated by the van’s lights. All the same, he could see his indistinct outline as he danced as though possessed, kicking snow high into the air around him. Then he vanished as the darkness swallowed him. The victim breathed harder than ever as the music pounded in his ears.

Not your slave Not your slave Not your slave

The victim’s eyes stared out into the blackness as he held his breath. It was as if time stood still, jerked back into action as a scream grew in intensity. The dancer’s dark silhouette leaped out of the darkness towards him. He danced a few more circles around the victim, crouched down, and leaped like a high jumper to land with his full weight on the horizontal chain, snapping the victim’s head back. The tent peg securing the chain in front of the victim shot out of the ground. If it hadn’t been for the music, the dancer would have heard the crack of the victim’s neck snapping.

The dancer rolled over onto his front, plunging his face into the snow. After a moment’s motionlessness, he jumped to his feet and ran to the car. He switched off the player.

The silence of the heath screamed at him.

2

Friday 3rd December 1982, three days prior

Old Jón opened the workshop’s doors. It was small and cramped, and the ceiling was unusually high, which made the workshop feel more spacious than it really was. There were two tall windows in one wall, and if they had been cleaner, then maybe they would have let in more light. A variety of wooden boards, planks and cardboard boxes were piled in stacks that rested on rafters beneath the pitched roof. The air was heavy with sawdust and wood oil.

Jón’s workshop was one of the few of its kind left in the centre of the city. Larger and more efficient places had opened up, picking up the larger contracts. Jón had previously had a workshop down by Skúlagata, and back then he had hardly been able to keep up with the demand for the popular sideboards and living room cabinets that he had designed and sold to practically every other household in the country. But the arrival of a Swedish furniture and fittings giant a year ago had resulted in Jón’s trade being seriously diminished, and he had moved to this little place on Vitastígur. He handled repairs and suchlike maintenance for smaller companies and individuals who generally took advantage of this good-natured man, getting away with paying far too little, often late, or not at all. All the same, Jón had always paid his grandson Tony the proper rate during the three years he had worked for him. There were times when Tony hadn’t written down all his hours and had even offered to hand in his notice. Jón wouldn’t hear of it, and often slipped him a banknote or two between paydays. Take some nice girl out for a hot dog and an ice cream, he usually suggested as he handed over a little extra.

‘Not heading home yet, Tony?’ he said from the doorway, peering at the clock on the wall, which showed it was getting on for six.

‘No, I wanted to finish this,’ Tony said when he had switched off the lathe and taken off his safety glasses.

‘All right. It’s fine to pack it in now. We don’t have to deliver this job until next week,’ he said, taking a box of snuff from his pocket. He tapped a respectable mound of powder onto the back of his hand, and it vanished into both of his nostrils in a single fluid movement, after which he put his hand to his heart. ‘This is going to finish me off one day. You don’t want any more, do you?’ he continued, hanging his coat on a nail by the door.

Tony shook his head.

‘That’s just as well,’ Jón said and adjusted the braces that held up his generously sized jeans. He looked into the grimy mirror that hung next to his coat, took a comb from his breast pocket and ran it through his straggling grey beard. There was no need to put the comb anywhere near his hair-free head. ‘Tony, I’ve been thinking.’

‘About what?’

‘Don’t you want to get on with the cabinet making apprenticeship? You’d already finished one term, and there’s every chance you’d be able to have your work here assessed towards it,’ he said, trying to sound encouraging.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘I’d be happy to support you through it. I can put a few payments towards the course. And I could help out with your mother as well.’

Tony didn’t reply.

‘It’d be a good start for you. You could even take over this place and build it up.’

Tony showed no response.

‘All right, my boy. How’s the new flat? Have you painted it yet?’

‘Old,’ he said.

‘Who’s old?’ he asked in surprise.

‘The flat’s old. And it’s only the extension out the back that I’m renting from her.’

‘Her?’

‘The woman. It’s an elderly woman who owns the house and she lives there,’ Tony said as he swept sawdust from beneath the lathe.

‘Well... Doesn’t she have nice legs?’ his grandfather asked with a laugh.

Tony didn’t respond, used to these unsophisticated remarks about women. All the same, he couldn’t help smiling inwardly as he saw his grandfather laugh, as it seemed that every sinew in his face revelled in the joke. His ears lifted, his eyes glittered and the lines around them deepened. Tony almost expected him to slap his own thigh, but it didn’t happen this time.

‘Don’t you need to paint the place? I can give you a hand with that,’ he continued.

‘I’ve already painted everything, but thanks all the same,’ Tony said, and undid the band that held back his long, dark hair.

‘So who looks after your mother? I mean, when you’ve moved.’

‘I go and see her regularly. And there’s a lady who comes three times a week to help her,’ he said quickly, as he saw his grandfather’s mouth open, maybe ready to make another suggestion. He took care to turn away as he had got to know his grandfather’s uncanny talent for divining from his expression whether or not he was being told the truth.

‘Well, that’s good. So how is my daughter these days?’

‘Mum’s fine,’ Tony replied as he took off his overalls, hanging them on a nail next to his grandfather’s coat. ‘Sometimes she forgets to eat, and to take her medication.’

‘I ought to go and see her. I haven’t seen her for... Ach. I don’t remember when it was, last Christmas, probably. Or was it the Christmas before? It’s not good enough. Your mother’s a good woman...’ he muttered absently, and hesitated. ‘Listen, it looks like I’ve wrecked the old banger on the corner,’ he said, sitting up straight in his chair once the awkward silence had hung in the air a little too long.

Tony sighed discreetly, relieved that he had changed the subject.

‘Which corner?’

‘Well, just up the street,’ Jón said, and paused to energetically blow his nose into a handkerchief. ‘Where Lindargata meets Vitastígur,’ he continued, taking a seat at the shabby, ancient desk that some customer had never got round to collecting, and which now served as the workshop’s coffee table. ‘There’s a pile of ice and it ripped off something from underneath. Either the city council’s piggy bank is empty, or they simply can’t be bothered to keep the city’s streets clear. Maybe it’s just as well, because the doctor told me just the other day that I need to be more active, so it won’t do me any harm to walk to work and back home again. Coffee?’ he asked, offering a cup to Tony, who again shook his head. ‘What’s the matter with you, my lad? Aren’t you ever going to grow up? I reckon you’re the only twenty-year-old there is who hasn’t got a taste for coffee yet,’ he said cheerfully.

‘Do you want me to go and sort it out?’ Tony asked, tying his hair back again.

‘Sort what out?’

‘The van.’

‘That wouldn’t go amiss, if it’s not too much trouble,’ he said, placing the keys on the table. ‘And you could fix it up as well. It shouldn’t be that much of a problem to bodge the exhaust together, but remember that third gear doesn’t work at all. Sure you don’t want me to come with you? Help with the painting?’

‘Thanks, but no,’ Tony said with a smile. He didn’t have the heart to remind him that he had only just told him that the job was already done. ‘I need to drop in and see Mum on the way,’ he said, picking up the keys from the desk.

Jón mumbled something as he turned the white coffee mug in his hands and Tony heard him mutter to himself.

Ought to go and see her.

‘I’d leave that for a while,’ Tony said.

‘Leave what?’ he asked, looking up in surprise at Tony, who had pulled on a padded brown corduroy jacket.

‘Going to see Mum. She doesn’t want to see anyone these days. See you in the morning.’

3

The weather was rapidly worsening and sharp gusts of wind sent flurries of snow in every direction between the houses along Laugavegur. People on the street pulled their collars close, leaned into the wind and walked faster. Those who weren’t dressed for the weather found themselves pointless errands to run so they could shelter in shops.

Tony mulled over what his grandfather had said concerning his mother, which he felt was out of kilter with reality, as the truth was that his mother wanted nothing whatsoever to do with his grandfather. He tried to embrace the idea that his grandfather’s meaning had been that everyone is good during the first years of life, but for some reason we tend to lose those qualities somewhere along the way. As far as Tony could remember, his grandfather had done everything in his power to help his daughter through her difficulties and illnesses. But she wouldn’t accept any kind of help. He had also tried to help Tony and even tried to rescue him. When things at home had been at their worst, with the drinking and the chaos, he had offered to take Tony. He could still remember the screams and abuse when she threw Jón out.

Tony had occasionally asked his grandfather about his mother’s behaviour towards him, but there had never been many answers. His mother had said a few times that her father hadn’t been there to save her when she had most needed him. On the other hand, she had always been drunk or in a bad way whenever she mentioned this. All the same, Tony knew perfectly well that her behaviour over the years had been such that Jón would have had every right to exclude her from his life. He knew that this was difficult when a family member was concerned. The thought had more than once occurred to him that he should disown her as his mother.

He stamped his feet, blew on his palms, and dusted the snow from his long dark hair as he walked into the Vísir supermarket on Laugavegur.

‘Don’t get snow on anything, please, love?’ the middle-aged woman in the shop amiably admonished. ‘This lot wasn’t on the forecast,’ she continued as she price-stamped goods by the cash register.

Tony went deeper into the narrow shop, where the choice of goods was remarkably broad, considering how small the place was. He checked out the sandwiches that were made on the premises, wondering at the same time if he was actually hungry. He heard a burst of laughter and noticed a girl and two lads who looked to be around his own age. He watched the lad slide a packet of biscuits inside his blue Millet down anorak.

‘What are you up to?’ the girl hissed. ‘Put it back,’ she added, glancing at Tony, who pretended to have seen nothing.

‘Take it easy,’ the lad said.

‘We’re hungry,’ the other boy said with a grin.

‘Now. Put it back or I’m going.’

‘Calm down,’ he said, putting the biscuits back on the shelf. ‘If you really want biscuits that badly, then I’ll buy them,’ she said, eyes again flickering in Tony’s direction. Their eyes met and they exchanged a smile. ‘Come on, we need to get to the theatre. We’re going to be late,’ she continued. ‘Really not looking forward to this dance practice tonight.’

‘Hey, it’ll be great. We get to practise on the main stage,’ the lad in the Millet coat said.

Tony watched them make for the door. He noticed how the girl’s feet splayed outwards as she tripped lightly towards the exit. He also noticed the lad in the Millet coat pick up a bag of doughnuts from the display by the door. The bell above the door tinkled as they opened it and went outside.

‘See you again,’ the cashier said to their disappearing backs.

Tony thought for a moment, then followed them out, lengthening his stride as he saw them disappear round the corner of Traðarkotssund.

‘Hey,’ he called out to them.

They turned.

‘Hæ,’ the girl said.

Tony stood still in silence. They stood as if they had been frozen to the ground.‘Want a doughnut?’ the Millet coat guy asked.

‘You’re such an arsehole,’ the girl said, slapping his shoulder.

‘Are you after something?’ she asked, catching Tony’s eye.

‘No, well... I heard you say something about a dance practice. I saw a small ad the other day about the dance troupe looking for more guys to join up.’

‘Yes, but nobody’s replied to the ad, as far as I know. Do you dance?’

‘Yeah... a bit,’ he said after a pause.

‘It’s a ballet class,’ said the boy who had been mostly quiet up to now, shivering as the chill got to him.

‘I know,’ Tony replied in a low voice.

‘We have to get moving. The old witch will haul us over the coals if we’re late for the meeting. You’re welcome to come with us,’ the girl said as they turned and headed towards the National Theatre.

‘What do you think he’s going to get out of a meeting?’ the Millet coat lad said. ‘Just come to the practice this evening,’ he said, and blinked.

‘Yeah, sure,’ the girl agreed. ‘Practice starts at seven and we’ll be on the main stage. Hey, what did you say your name is?’

‘Tony.’

‘OK. That’s Davíð,’ she said, indicating her companion in the Millet coat. ‘And that’s Oddur. My name’s Hulda. Go in through the National Theatre main entrance and head into the auditorium,’ she said as they set off.

‘Looking forward to seeing you at the practice,’ Oddur called over his shoulder to Tony, waving and fluttering his fingers like a pianist.

4

Tony had to watch every step along Öldugata. Ice on the streets had made life a misery for pedestrians for the last month and the letters pages of the newspapers carried endless furious complaints from people who had broken bones due to the city authorities’ failure to act.

He reached the handsome two-storey house where his mother lived without having an accident on the way. The black cat sat by the front door. It rubbed itself against Tony’s legs and shot in through the opening as soon as he opened the door.

‘Is that you?’ called a feeble voice from the bedroom further along the narrow, gloomy corridor, as he came in.

The house was dark and he watched the cat as it trotted to the kitchen. He peered into the spacious living room, where the glow from the street lights right outside made its way in through yellowing curtains that had once been as white as snow. The living room floor was empty, as the sofa, table and chairs had been placed by the walls around the room. A large teak board leaned against one wall. The weak light played across the discoloured parquet floor, darker towards the centre. The green Persian carpet that had been there for many years was now rolled up and lay across the three-seater sofa. The only piece of furniture that now seemed to be in use was a little circular coffee table that occupied a space in one corner. The lamp that stood on it was made of marble, and its curry-yellow lampshade, which had once been frilled, lolled sideways as if tired of playing its part. Four faded embroidered pictures hung on the walls, along with a handful of paintings. The largest of these was a watercolour that had at one time been protected by a sheet of glass, but this had been broken years ago.

Anyone troubling to take a closer look would have been able to locate a shard of the coffee set, painted with birds, lodged between the picture and the frame. A depression in the picture’s surface could also be identified, and this was where a cup from the coffee set had collided with the glass, shattering both.

Tony went into the kitchen where the cat sat in front of an empty bowl and eyed him with an expectant look. He opened the fridge and poured milk into the bowl.

Despite the dirty crockery on the kitchen table and in the sink, the smell of detergent was overpowering. He no longer noticed it, any more than he noticed the fast, rhythmic drip of the kitchen tap. Without looking, he pressed the light switch and the fluorescent lights under the cupboards flickered and settled into a steady brightness.

‘Is that you, Tony?’ the voice asked, a little stronger this time.

Tony squatted and looked at the floor. He passed one hand over the brown-patterned tiles. Then he got to his feet and switched on the light that hung over the kitchen table, before going down on his knees. He again ran a hand over the tiles, leaned in close and felt along the floor as if looking for grains of sand. He quickly stood up, took a cloth from the sink and reached for the torch kept on a shelf above the fridge. He lay on the floor, on his back. Switching on the torch, he directed the beam of light upwards, under the front of the kitchen cupboards, pushing with his feet as he felt along the edge of the base of the cupboards. He noticed three tiny smudges, and vigorously wiped them with the cloth until they had disappeared.

‘Tony, answer me. Who’s out there?’ the voice called, cracking like a needle on a scratched record.

He stood up and stared at the cloth, then threw it into the sink. He stood for a moment in thought, his gaze on the sink. He noticed that the rhythm of dripping water had stopped, as the drops now hit the cloth.

Tony opened the fridge and took out a saucepan of stew that he placed on one of the hot plates. He switched the stove on and stirred the stew with a wooden spoon. He opened the cupboard above the oven and took out three bottles of pills. When he had selected three tablets and placed them on the kitchen table, he used the base of an empty coke bottle to crush them. He swept the powder into a glass he had filled with orange juice. The white powder floated on the surface of the juice and disappeared into the liquid as he stirred it vigorously with one finger.

‘Of course it’s me,’ he said in a low voice as he went into the bedroom where his mother lay in a single bed under the window. ‘You shouldn’t close the window all the way. You can hardly breathe in here.’

‘You don’t want me to freeze to death, do you?’ she demanded.

‘No, I don’t want you to die of cold. You’ll never die, Mum,’ he said, still in the same low voice.

‘What’s that?’

‘Nothing,’ he said, giving her a broad smile as he put a hand behind her to support her head, and despite her attempt to avoid the glass, the contents finally went down her throat. He put his hands under her arms, lifting her to sit upright. He took in her grey, thin face with its hollow cheeks. Her yellowish hair was pushed back, except at the back of her head where she had lain on it.

‘Come on, then. Let’s get ourselves something to eat,’ he said, helping her into the wheelchair. The wheels squeaked as he pushed it in front of him.

‘It’d make a change to have something other than this lousy stew day after day,’ she said as they sat at the kitchen table.

‘It’s a perfectly good stew,’ Tony said, feeding his mother a spoonful of meat and potato, before wiping away a trickle of gravy that ran down her cheek. ‘I’ll make something else tomorrow. This is the last of it.’

‘You reckon I don’t know what it’ll be? Another meat stew with some other meat that’ll last the whole week long. Maybe even the week after next as well. You’re such an arsehole...’

If the medication hadn’t left her so muddled and weak, she would have flinched as Tony suddenly banged the table with his clenched fist.

He stood up, threw his plate into the sink, jerked the wheelchair and pushed it into the living room where he parked it next to the round table. He adjusted the shade and switched on the lamp. He didn’t notice when the shade drooped back to its former position.

He opened the heavy wooden sideboard that stood against one wall and took out a bottle of vodka and a glass, placing them on the table and half-filling the glass.

‘I don’t want to drink,’ his mother said, scowling at Tony.

He looked into her eyes for a moment – those eyes that had once been beautiful and as blue as the sea, but now looked as if all the life had been drained from them. There was nothing to be seen in them but emptiness and hopelessness. He also remembered seeing them brimming with hatred and anger. When she snarled like this, he could see her brown teeth.

‘Don’t dance now, Tony,’ she said clearly, and he came to his senses.

‘Of course I’ll dance, Mum. You’ve always wanted me to dance for you. We’re not going to break that habit now,’ he said, stripping off his clothes.

He sat on the floor to put on ballet shoes.

‘You don’t need ballet shoes. Boys don’t dance in those,’ she said, breaking into tears.