Reykjavik, p.1
Reykjavík, page 1
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Table of Contents
About the Authors
Copyright Page
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This book is dedicated to Agatha Christie, who inspired our love of detective stories.
Main Characters
Lára Marteinsdóttir
1941–?
Valur Róbertsson
journalist at Vikubladid newspaper
Sunna Róbertsdóttir
literature student, Valur’s sister
Margrét Thorarensen
politics student, Valur’s girlfriend
Jökull Thorarensen
lawyer, Margrét’s father; former Minister of Justice
Nanna Thorarensen
lawyer, Margrét’s mother
Gunnar Gunnarsson
theology student, friend of Valur and Sunna
Katrín Gudjónsdóttir
Margrét’s friend at the National Registry
Kamilla Einarsdóttir
Sunna’s landlady
Kristján Kristjánsson
police officer
Gudrún Reykdal
Kristján’s wife
Snorri Egilsson
police officer
Dagbjartur Steinsson
editor of Vikubladid
Laufey Karlsdóttir
Dagbjartur’s wife
Baldur Matthíasson
journalist at Vikubladid
Sverrir and Kiddi
employees at Vikubladid
Ólöf Blöndal
former resident of Videy
Óttar Óskarsson
lawyer, Ólöf’s husband
Thórdís Alexandersdóttir
actress
Finnur Stephensen
wholesaler, Thórdís’s husband
Páll Jóhannesson
city councillor
Gunnlaug Haraldsdóttir
Páll’s wife
Elísabet Eyjólfsdóttir
Páll’s secretary
Högni Eyfjörd
developer
Marteinn and Emma
Lára Marteinsdóttir’s parents
PART ONE
1956
6 August
The grey hat flew out to sea.
Kristján had stepped out of the wheelhouse to admire the view over Faxaflói bay and watch the island approaching, low and green against the backdrop of mountains. When the squall hit the little fishing smack, he had reacted fast, but not fast enough, grabbing for his hat only to snatch at thin air. Though he’d have never admitted it aloud, he thought that it could have been worse: the hat, a Christmas present from his fiancée, hadn’t really suited him. Now he would have an excuse to buy a new one.
It meant he would be bareheaded for his visit to the little island of Videy, just off the coast near Reykjavík, but what did that matter, when the whole thing was bound to be a waste of time anyway? Still only in his twenties, Kristján wasn’t usually entrusted with anything important, but he was on duty this August bank-holiday weekend as his superior officer was away.
It felt as if the brief Icelandic summer was already over that August morning on the boat, with no shelter from the wind and the sun hidden by cloud. As there was no regular ferry service to the island, Kristján had had to improvise and do a deal with an old fisherman he knew.
‘Almost there, Kristján,’ the captain called from the wheelhouse, his voice hoarse.
Kristján nodded, though there was no one to see, and did up another button on his overcoat to keep out the cold. If nothing else, at least the trip made for a change of scene, he thought, trying to look on the bright side.
A woman, probably in her early thirties, was standing by the jetty to meet him. Kristján had asked his fisherman friend to come back for him in an hour and a half. By the time he got back to town, the whole morning would have been spent on this visit.
The woman held out her hand. ‘I’m Ólöf Blöndal. Welcome to Videy.’ Her face was grave and she didn’t smile.
‘How do you do? The name’s Kristján,’ he said. There was something slightly off about Ólöf’s manner, he thought. She looked a little shifty, yet at the same time he could have sworn she was relieved to see him.
‘It’s this way,’ she said diffidently, and set off up the grassy slope from the jetty. He followed, noting that she had short red hair and was wearing a thick woollen jumper.
Two striking white buildings with red roofs came into view between the island’s twin green hills: the old Danish colonial mansion and the little church beside it. As they drew closer, Kristján noticed how dilapidated they looked, the paint peeling from their walls and window frames. Beyond them he noticed some tumbledown outbuildings, one of which looked like a cow shed; relics of the days when there was still a farm here. Halfway there, Ólöf stopped, turned and said: ‘We’re not actually going there. My husband’s at home – we live nearby.’
Kristján nodded. ‘Does nobody—’
She interrupted: ‘We have keys to the mansion, but no one lives there. It’s a bit run-down but in pretty good nick considering its age. It’s two hundred years old, you know – the oldest stone building in Iceland.’
‘This girl, Lára—’
Again she cut him off: ‘It’s best you speak to my husband.’
Kristján walked along beside her, neither of them saying a word. There was a blustery breeze blowing on the island, but it was warmer than it had been on the crossing, despite the lack of sun. After they had been walking for a couple of minutes, he asked: ‘Excuse me, but you said you live here, you and your husband?’
‘We moved here in the spring to a house that belongs to my family. We spent last summer here too. It’s …’ She paused. ‘There’s nowhere quite like it.’
Kristján didn’t doubt it; the island was certainly a picturesque spot, its green meadows surrounded by the blue waters of the bay and set against the great hulk of Mount Esja, but Ólöf’s words lacked conviction to his ears.
She went on awkwardly: ‘It’s not far to our house. It’s more or less halfway between the mansion and the old school.’
As they walked, he let his mind wander. Being in the open air agreed with him, but he would rather have been spending this late summer’s day doing something quite different. In recent years he and a couple of old friends had taken up mountaineering in their spare time, inspired by the news three years earlier of Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay’s conquest of Everest. While Kristján had no hope of ever achieving those heights, he was making good progress. Only a few days ago news had come in that the north Icelandic peak of Hraundrangi in Öxnadalur had been climbed for the first time. Kristján was acquainted with the two Icelanders who had made the ascent along with an American. What he wouldn’t have given to be there right now, rather than here in the tame environs of Videy.
Still, gentle though the terrain was, he was careful where he set his feet as he picked his way over the tussocky ground. He remembered how his mother used to laugh and say that Icelandic men always walked as if they were stepping over tussocks, even when the ground was perfectly flat. But his main concern was to leave here without twisting or spraining an ankle – or dirtying his suit, for that matter. He owned three suits: the light grey one he was wearing now was the newest; the pinstripe was looking a little threadbare these days; and the black one he saved mainly for formal occasions like funerals.
An old wooden house appeared ahead, its black paint flaking. It had obviously seen better days. At that moment an Arctic tern swooped over Kristján’s head and he made a grab for his hat to ward the bird off, only to remember belatedly that the hat was now floating somewhere in Faxaflói bay.
‘Don’t worry,’ Ólöf said. ‘The breeding season’s over, so it won’t attack you.’ Her tone was momentarily lighter, as if she had forgotten that she was in the company of a policeman on duty.
Her husband didn’t come outside to greet them. Noting this, Kristján wondered why it was Ólöf who had been sent to meet him off the boat. Was this the way the couple normally did things, or could there be something else behind it?
‘Come in,’ Ólöf said, rather curtly, once they reached the house.
Kristján entered a hall that turned out to be part of the sitting room. It was warm inside; almost uncomfortably so for the time of year.
‘Óttar?’ Ólöf called. ‘Óttar, he’s here.’
Kristján heard a noise upstairs, then footsteps boomed through the old wooden house. Without saying another word, Ólöf walked into the sitting room and pulled out a chair from a large oak table, indicating that Kristján should take a seat.
He did so and waited. She sat down as well.
‘Good morning,’ said the man who had come down the stairs. ‘I’m Óttar. I take it you’re Krist ján?’
‘I am, indeed. Thank you very much for agreeing to meet me. I only managed to explain briefly over the phone, but the thing is, we’re worried about Lára.’
‘She decided to leave,’ Óttar said flatly. ‘She gave up on her position here. I don’t know why. We were so pleased with her at the beginning of the summer; she seemed hard-working and conscientious. Still, young people today …’ His face was expressionless as he produced this speech. Kristján shot a glance at Ólöf, who dropped her gaze.
‘How old was she again?’ Kristján asked, though he already knew the answer.
‘Fifteen,’ Ólöf answered quietly.
‘Fifteen,’ Kristján repeated. ‘And she’d decided to go back to Reykjavík, you say? Back home?’
‘Yes,’ Óttar replied.
‘When?’
‘On Friday. Friday morning. Naturally, I objected. We had an agreement that she would stay the entire summer as our help, but there was no talking any sense into her.’
Kristján glanced at Ólöf again. She was sitting unmoving, staring down at her hands.
‘As I mentioned on the phone, no one’s seen or heard from her in Reykjavík …’ Kristján left the words dangling as he watched their reactions. Ólöf didn’t raise her eyes; Óttar’s face remained impassive.
‘Maybe I should have put it differently: did you see her leave on Friday?’
‘We can’t see the jetty from here,’ Óttar replied. ‘And it was hardly my job to give the girl a send-off. If people want to leave, that’s their business, as far as I’m concerned.’
‘What about you, Ólöf? Did you see her go?’
Ólöf shook her head. ‘I didn’t see anything,’ she said, her words ringing a little hollow.
‘How was she intending to get back to town?’
‘I have absolutely no idea. She said someone would be coming for her – some friend or relative, I assume. I don’t keep an eye on the boat traffic.’
‘Do you have a boat of your own?’ Kristján asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ Óttar said. ‘But the girl didn’t ask for a lift back to shore and, quite frankly, after the way she’d inconvenienced us, I wasn’t inclined to offer her one. Besides, as I said, she told me she’d made her own arrangements.’
‘Are you sure she left?’
‘What kind of question is that?’ Óttar asked, bridling. ‘Of course we’re sure. She said goodbye and we haven’t seen her since.’
Kristján looked at Ólöf, waiting for her to answer. She was silent at first, then said: ‘Yes, she’s definitely gone. She took her belongings with her.’
‘Her parents used to hear from her regularly,’ Kristján said, ‘so when she didn’t ring at the weekend, they started to get worried. Haven’t they been in touch with you?’
‘Yes, they have,’ Óttar replied. ‘And I told them the same as I’m telling you. I simply can’t understand why you’ve put yourself to the trouble of coming all the way out here. We could have answered your questions over the phone. You can see for yourself that the girl has gone.’
‘I’d need to take a walk around the island to be sure on that point. Videy’s quite large, isn’t it?’
‘Three kilometres from end to end,’ Óttar said.
‘The biggest island in the bay,’ Ólöf added.
‘And I expect there are plenty of hiding places?’
‘Well,’ Ólöf said, ‘there’s our house, and the mansion, of course. And the church. The old school too. And …’
‘I don’t think we need to list all the buildings on the island, Ólöf,’ Óttar intervened. ‘Let the man do as he likes if he feels obliged to make sure. Though I can’t imagine why on earth he thinks Lára would have been hiding on the island for the whole weekend.’
‘How was she?’ Kristján asked.
‘How do you mean?’ Óttar countered.
‘Was she in low spirits? Is there any reason to believe she might have been hiding something? Keeping a secret from you?’
Óttar opened his mouth to answer, then seemed to think better of it. After a lengthy pause, he said: ‘There was nothing wrong with the girl. She was simply bored of being here with us. Well, good riddance, I say. We’ll be more careful about choosing our help next summer.’
‘I see. At any rate, she hasn’t turned up at her parents’ place. Which raises questions, that’s all. Of course, it’s always possible she left here on Friday and—’
Óttar interrupted: ‘Possible? I’m telling you, she left, and anything that may have happened afterwards has nothing to do with us. There’s been no news of a boat going down, so it stands to reason she must be somewhere.’
‘No, I’m sure we’d have heard if something like that had happened,’ Kristján said. ‘The trouble is, there are no reports of any boats coming out here on Friday, though that doesn’t rule out the possibility that someone came and picked her up. Did she live here in the house with you?’
‘Where else would she have lived?’ Óttar asked impatiently.
‘Could I see her room?’
Óttar shrugged. ‘It’s upstairs. But there’s nothing to see.’ He showed no signs of budging, but Ólöf rose to her feet.
‘I’ll take you up,’ she said, her tone a touch friendlier than her husband’s.
Every stair creaked in the old wooden house. The guestroom was small but reasonably cosy, with a sloping ceiling, a bookcase and a dormer window with a view of the sea.
‘Did she bring the books with her?’ Kristján asked.
‘Oh, no, those are ours. We put books in all the rooms. It creates a nice atmosphere. My husband collects them. He’s a barrister, as you’re probably aware. Quite well known, actually.’
Kristján was indeed familiar with the name. He nodded.
‘Óttar wanted to cut down on his legal practice and devote himself to academic work for a while. We’re planning to try and live here more or less in the summers. It’s good to be near …’ She trailed off, looking away.
‘Did she take all her belongings with her?’ Kristján asked.
‘All of them, yes,’ Ólöf said. ‘There’s nothing here.’
‘Did she say anything to you?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Lára. Before she left?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How did she explain her decision?’
Ólöf hesitated. ‘She didn’t explain,’ she said eventually. ‘She, er, she just left.’
‘She must have said something before she left. According to your husband, she told you she was leaving.’
‘Oh yes, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. She just said she wanted to give up her position early. She asked our permission. Naturally, we granted it, but we weren’t happy.’
‘Aren’t you worried about her?’
‘Worried? Er, no, we’ve only just learned that she hasn’t turned up at home. But I’m sure she’s fine.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘Shall we go back down?’
Kristján nodded and followed Ólöf down the narrow, creaking staircase.
When they entered the sitting room, Óttar was nowhere to be seen. Kristján looked around, then jumped when Óttar coughed behind him. He spun round, his heart beating uncomfortably fast.
‘You’re wanted on the telephone.’
‘What?’ Kristján exclaimed.
‘Telephone. For you,’ Óttar repeated, as though nothing could be more natural. ‘In here – in my study.’
‘Oh?’ Puzzled, Kristján followed Óttar into the book-lined room. His eye fell on a shelf of volumes containing Supreme Court judgements. On the desk he saw a black telephone with the receiver lying beside it. There was a noticeable smell of mildew in the room. It seemed the house was as dilapidated indoors as it had looked from the outside.
‘Who’s trying to get hold of me?’ Kristján asked.
‘Someone from the police, of course,’ Óttar replied.
Kristján raised the receiver to his ear. Feeling nervous, he shifted from foot to foot, noticing, as he did so, that the floorboards emitted a hollow boom. There must be a damp cellar under there. He reflected that he wouldn’t want to live in an old wooden house like this.
