Snowblind (14 page)

Ari Thór smiled. ‘Nothing. Not a thing. We’re investigating the death of the author Hrólfur Kristjánsson. He lost his life in an accident at the Dramatic Society’s rehearsal.’

‘I had heard that. Pálmi told us. We had intended to go to the theatre at the weekend,’ she said. ‘I met Hrólfur in Copenhagen many years ago. They were friends, Hrólfur and your father, weren’t they?’ she asked, looking at Pálmi.

‘Acquaintances,’ Pálmi replied. ‘They were in Denmark at much the same time.’

This time the old lady’s words were directed at Ari Thór.

‘He was a handsome young man, that Hrólfur, if I recall correctly. He spent a lot of time with Páll, Pálmi’s father, when he was on his deathbed. I don’t think Páll knew many people in Denmark and it can be lonely on your own in a strange country.’ She looked at Pálmi. ‘I hope I was able to make your father’s life easier in the months we had together.’ She smiled. ‘I met Hrólfur at the hospital. I hadn’t seen Páll for a few months as I’d had to go to the country to work with my family. I hurried back when I heard that he had been taken ill, and by the time I made it there he was pretty far gone. I didn’t even have the heart to say goodbye. It would have been too difficult for both of us.’ A tear ran down one wrinkled cheek.

‘Are you treating this as … as a murder investigation?’ Pálmi asked, switching to Icelandic.

‘We are.’ Ari Thór was there on Tómas’s authority, in the pursuit of his duties, so it seemed the most straightforward answer.

Pálmi stood in thought, seemingly unsure of whether or not he should add anything. Then, with fleeting look of guilt in his eyes, as if he were about to reveal some terrible secret, he said, ‘There’s maybe one more thing you ought to know.’ He paused and the silence was heavy with expectation, which even Rosa seemed to sense, in spite of the language barrier.

Mads stood still, an uninterested look on his face, as he inspected one of the Kjarval paintings.

‘I heard it said that Hrólfur had a child, out of wedlock, of course. He never married, but there was a child born after he returned from Denmark, maybe during the war or possibly later. That’s something to look into.’

‘Sweet Brother Jesus’
echoed through the common room, where those senior citizens at the old people’s home who were in robust enough health had come together for the morning gathering. Some joined in wholeheartedly, while others appeared more inclined to take it easy and watch. Ari Thór recognised the young woman who led the singing, remembering her from the theology faculty at the university in Reykjavík; he knew the face but didn’t know her to speak to. So they had both moved north to Siglufjördur? She was presumably in training for the priesthood while he had given up.

The previous day had been quiet. The knife from Karl and Linda’s flat had been sent south for examination. Ari Thór was still in the process of digging for information that could shed some light on Hrólfur’s death, and had stunned Tómas with the news that Hrólfur might have had a child.

Ari Thór stood in the doorway and watched the singing. The nurse he had spoken to had said there was no reason he couldn’t speak to Sandra, but asked him to avoid interrupting the morning gathering. She pointed out an old woman in a wheelchair with a crocheted blanket over her knees, singing with feeling.

Ari Thór hadn’t enrolled in theology because of his strong faith or beliefs, the exact opposite really – maybe more to try to regain his faith, or simply to find a purpose in life. He felt a need to find answers to questions which philosophy – the subject he had previously given up on – could not supply. Or maybe he had simply tried to pick a path as different as possible to his late father’s, who had
been an accountant. Plato or God – anything but Mammon. When it became apparent that theology wasn’t providing him with any real answers, Ari Thór had still persevered, stubbornly trying to convince himself that he could finish his studies without any faith at all.

Ari Thór could pinpoint the time that he lost any faith he might have had – it was at the age of thirteen, on the day his father disappeared, and was confirmed later that same year, when he was told of his mother’s death in a road accident.

His theology studies had done nothing to move him closer to the Almighty. The academic debates, the often-bloody history of the church and of religion in general had all helped to reinforce his belief that nobody was watching over him or looking out for him. As he had for much of his life, Ari Thór felt very much alone.

The singing continued, this time a tune that was familiar from Sunday school many years ago. Would it be his fate to be forced to sing hymns again when he was shipped off to a home in his old age? Would he have to sing hymns without a shred of belief in the words?

Ari Thór’s former fellow student led a short prayer and announced in ringing tones that coffee was ready for those who wanted it.

Sandra had a cup in her hand as Ari Thór introduced himself in a clear, loud voice.

‘Don’t talk so loudly, dear boy. I can hear perfectly well. It’s my feet that are the problem,’ she said and smiled at him. She had a finely chiselled face and a soft voice, speaking clearly and gently. She sipped her coffee delicately.

Ari Thór looked around for a spare chair.

‘We don’t have to sit here, you know. I have a room of my own along the corridor. Can you push?’

He steered the wheelchair slowly.

‘How old are you, dear boy?’

‘Twenty-five,’ he said, adding, ‘later this year.’ It felt wrong to tell the old lady a lie, even if it was just a white one.

Her room was furnished with a drab bed, old chest of drawers
and a stool. A few pictures stood on the top of the chest of drawers, some in colour, others faded and old.

‘My late husband,’ she said pointing to a black-and-white photograph. ‘Children and grandchildren in the other pictures. I’ve been very lucky over the years,’ she gave him a thin, understanding smile.

Ari Thór perched on the stool by the bed. ‘Should I ask someone to help you onto the bed?’

‘Good grief, no. I’ll sit here as long as I can with my handsome young visitor.’

Ari Thór gave her a polite smile, anxious to get down to business.

‘How are the roads?’ she asked. ‘You didn’t have any trouble walking up here?’

‘I drove here,’ Ari Thór said. ‘In the police jeep.’

‘Tell me something,’ she said, looking straight into his eyes with a serious expression on her face. ‘Why does everyone in the town now have to have a big jeep? I don’t understand it. In the old days people didn’t have these huge cars. Hardly anyone even
had
a car, and we managed well enough.’

‘Hmm. I suppose people want to be able to leave town, even if there’s snow on the roads.’

‘What for?’

’What do you mean?’

‘What do they need to leave town for?’

He had no suitable reply to this question.

‘You’ve come to ask me about Hrólfur?’ she asked eventually.

Ari Thór nodded.

‘I thought as much, dear boy. The poor old fellow. He didn’t have many friends. Maybe I was his closest friend, these last few years.’

‘Did he visit you often?’

‘Every week at the same time. He lived not far from here – on Hólavegur, a decent walk for him.’

‘What sort of a man was he?’

‘Why do you ask?’ She looked at him with suspicion dawning in her eyes. ‘It was definitely an accident, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s what we’re investigating. I don’t expect it to have been anything other than an accident, but we have to make sure.’

‘Hadn’t he … well … had the old fellow had a drink?’

She had guessed shrewdly. Ari Thór decided there was no point hiding it from her. ‘Yes, he appears to have drunk a small amount.’

‘A small amount. Yes, well … Hrólfur was a complex man, I can tell you, and I could never fully understand him. I remember him from the old days, before he left Siglufjördur. Then he became this world-famous author and that went to his head. There was so much ambition there, a determination to stand out from the crowd and see the world, and that’s just what he did. He travelled a lot after his book had been published.’ Her tired eyes closed as she rested for a moment. ‘Then he came home again. People always return home, don’t they? By then he was better known here than in the south. Have you read the book?’

‘Actually, no. I have a copy that has been lent to me.’

‘Then read it. You won’t regret it,’ she said. ‘Anyway, you’re not a local boy, so what did you move up here for? There’s no herring anymore.’

‘I was offered a job here.’

‘Talking to old women in rest homes about dead authors … is that exciting? You should have been here when there was herring. Those were the days, I can tell you. I started work in the herring when I was thirteen; salting herring was what I did. My children started even younger – the youngest was eight when she started salting. That wouldn’t be allowed today, would it? It was like an adventure when the herring came, and it was a nightmare when it didn’t.’

There was a faraway look on her face and her gaze was no longer on Ari Thór but on the past; it was as if the old Herring Waltz had started playing in the background.

‘I was twenty minutes salting a barrel of herring when I was at my fastest, just twenty minutes. There were plenty of people who were envious of that. I was worth something back then.’ She smiled. ‘You should have seen the boats as they were coming in, loaded
to the gunwales, so full of herring that they were only just afloat. That was a wonderful sight. Have you been up to the mountain, Hvanneyrarskál?’

Ari Thór shook his head, relieved that she fixed her eyes on him again, after being lost in memories of the herring boom all those years ago.

‘I’ve heard the songs about it,’ he said sheepishly, regretting not having found the time to go there himself.

‘Go up there in the summer. Plenty of romantic adventures started up there.’

He nodded dutifully. ‘Tell me, about Hrólfur …’

‘Of course. I’m sorry, my boy. I forgot myself completely there.’

‘That’s all right,’ he smiled. ‘Tell me if there’s any reason you can think of that someone could have wanted to push Hrólfur down the stairs? Did anyone hold a grudge against him?’

‘Yes and no. I can’t imagine that anyone wanted to do him harm, although there were plenty of people he didn’t get on with. There was an arrogance about him and he could be awkward when he had been drinking, he wanted everything to be done his way. I can well imagine that he was pretty overbearing as the chairman of the Dramatic Society,’ she said, and hesitated. ‘Please excuse me for speaking ill of the dead. But I do want to help, if it’s the case that someone may have pushed him.’

‘Understood,’ Ari Thór said, falling quiet again to give her an opportunity to continue.

‘Actually … there’s one thing that could be important. He mentioned to me before Christmas that he was on the track of some secret. I think that’s how he worded it – “some secret”. Some members of the Dramatic Society were keeping something from him. He grinned when he told me and it sounded like he was delighted that he had unearthed this secret. He had eyes like a hawk, the old boy.’

‘A secret?’

‘That’s it, a secret,’ she said, her voice dropping almost to a whisper.

‘Do you have any idea of what this secret was?’

‘Not exactly. But I gathered from him that it was … that it could be something …’ she said, winking. ‘If you get my meaning.’

‘Something romantic? Adulterous?’

‘That’s the impression I got, or something along those lines.’

Ari Thór made rapid notes. There might be something in what the old lady had to say.

‘Do you know if he made a will?’

‘It’s not something he ever mentioned to me. But he should have made one. I don’t know that he has any close living relatives, just distant cousins, but I do know that he will have left quite a number of worldly goods behind. Not like me – all I have left is this old chest,’ she laughed, and gestured towards an old wooden casket, the wood discoloured and polished smooth with use, probably dating back to a period before Sandra had even been born.

‘It’s my understanding that there might be a child.’

‘A child?’ she squinted as she peered at him in amazement.

‘Yes, it’s been suggested that Hrólfur fathered a child after the war.’

‘Good heavens, that’s a story I’ve never heard. Where did you get that from?’

‘From Pálmi, Pálmi Pálsson.’

‘I know him, of course. He and Hrólfur were good friends, so maybe it’s something they talked about. I have to say it’s a revelation to me. But that’s life, it keeps taking you by surprise. The poor old fellow.’

‘Hrólfur?’

‘No. Pálmi. He lost his father so young, a real tragedy. His father was a special character, very artistic, and struggled to put down any roots. He left his wife and young son to go to Copenhagen, but then he caught tuberculosis and died. I have a suspicion that he got to knew a few ladies before he met his end. He wasn’t the type not to stray.’ Again, Sandra winked suggestively.

‘An old friend of his from Denmark is staying with Pálmi at the moment.’

‘You don’t say?’ Sandra said. ‘Pálmi has done well enough for himself, the dear boy. His mother died far too young, only sixty-five or sixty-six; a stroke,’ she said and asked suddenly, ‘You eat herring?’

‘Well … no.’

‘Those were good years,’ she said, and the distant look was back. ‘And in the old days people certainly knew how to cook it.’

She smiled as her eyes focused somewhere in the past, and Ari Thór waited patiently.

‘Those were good years,’ she repeated. ‘I always have this, just in case,’ she said, and reached for a book from the chest of drawers. It was an old notebook, creased and much used. ‘We didn’t buy recipe books in the old days. There were no pennies to waste then. This is where I wrote down my recipes.’ She handled the book as if it were precious, and opened it at the middle. ‘See, my boy? These are herring recipes. Food fit for a king.’

Ari Thór peered with difficulty at the small, careful handwriting.

‘Tell me. What happened to Linda? How is she?’ Sandra asked, as she laid the book in her lap.

‘Did you …?’ He stumbled and started again. ‘Do you know her?’

‘I know who she is. She works at the hospital. A lovely girl, but I can tell you there’s always some kind of sadness in her eyes.’

‘She’s in intensive care in Reykjavík. She’s still unconscious.’

‘I heard you arrested Karl.’

‘No, that’s not right. We needed to speak to him as he was the one who found Linda after the assault.’

‘He’s innocent. I’m sure of that.’

‘Really?’

‘Such a sweet boy.’

‘You know him well?’

‘I knew him well in the old days, before his parents decided to move to Denmark. I often used to meet him in the Co-op when I was working there. He came across so well, and I have no doubt he still does. He was working for Pálmi’s mother then, helping her with housework for pocket money. He did anything, whatever she needed
doing – went shopping for her, fixed things around the house, even turned himself into a rat catcher when needed; whatever. A lovely boy.’

We’ll see about that.

Ari Thór just smiled, keeping quiet about a terrified Linda having called the police on Christmas Eve; keeping quiet about the rows and the bruises.

‘Did Hrólfur have any other friends? Close friends, I mean?’

‘He always spoke highly of Úlfur and said he enjoyed a good argument with him, said there was some real character there. But he also said that Úlfur ought to stick to directing and tear up that play of his.’

‘Play?’

‘Yes, play. He supposedly wrote a play,’ she said with a smile, and then a yawn. ‘Well, my boy. I’m starting to get tired.’ She sipped her coffee, which had to be cold by now. ‘That’ll do for now, won’t it? Come back and see me again another time.’

Ari Thor looked over at the elderly woman, her eyes starting to close as her head tipped back in her seat. His heart was beating quickly. There was certainly more to the Hrólfur story than met the eye.