Incidentally, I should add that I’m not thinking of shuffling off this mortal coil any time soon. I mean to carry on enjoying life, in my own fashion. Being outdoors in nature is what makes me happiest these days, and travelling, from time to time. I have a constant need to create something too, get something down on paper, though it’s not necessarily intended for anyone else’s eyes.
Can I ask what kind of outdoor activities you enjoy?
Yes, of course you can ask. Have you travelled much around your own country?
I can’t really claim to have seen much of Iceland, no. Though recently I’ve been getting into horse riding. It’s great fun, but it’s not exactly cheap.
The highlands, you mustn’t miss out on them. Though you need to treat them with respect as they’re the only real serial killer we’ve had in the historyof Iceland, with the exception of Axlar-Björn in the sixteenth century. So take my advice: never go alone into the highlands. That said, there’s nothing to beat sitting on the ground, somewhere in the endless expanses of the Icelandic wilderness, and just looking, listening and breathing – communing with nature.
It sounds as if you’re grateful to have been born in Iceland?
[pause]
Is it possible to answer that with anything other than yes? I don’t want to seem ungrateful, because Iceland has given me so much, but it’s also taken an awful lot away from me over the years. So I don’t really know how to respond to your question. It might have been nice to have been born in the French countryside, for example; to have grown up in a warmer place, seen a greater variety of colours in the landscape, been more cosmopolitan. Perhaps I’d have sat at the window of an old chateau – sorry, but one’s invariably rich in this sort of fantasy – and surveyed my domain, scenting spring on the wind, or settled under a spreading oak tree with a book,and invented my own stories that would later have been published, perhaps as a collection of French poetry. Something along those lines, maybe? Who knows? I might have had more money, or less, but that’s not the be all and end all. I’ve never really worked out what to do with all my royalties as it is; I hardly lack for anything. One day maybe you’ll come into more money than you need to live a comfortable life and then you’ll understand what I’m talking about.
I find that unlikely, Elín. Journalism’s not exactly a well-paid job.
Nor is being an author, as a rule. Just follow your heart, do something you care about. And remember the importance of culture. Of course we want to save lives, build houses, practise science, understand the world – that’s all well and good, but none of it has any value without culture. What would be the point of getting up in the morning, feeding ourselves, working by day and sleeping at night, if nothing ever touched your soul? We need fairy tales, beauty; we need to be able to imagine that oak tree in the French forest, see drawings of it, smell the scent of its leaves through the medium of poetry andstories, and – most essential of all – have a good book ready to hand in case we find that tree in real life and want to settle down in its shade to read. I suppose you could say it’s all about snatching moments from eternity.
[hissing]
2012
Thursday, 1 November
The flat in Laugadalur was history; Bergthóra lived there alone these days, though Helgi was still paying the rent. It was a problem he’d have to deal with sooner or later, but he’d kept the fact hidden from Aníta. He’d envisaged letting the contract run its course – there was only a month left on it – then at some point sending Bergthóra a bill for the months when she’d been living there at his expense. He’d heard on the grapevine that she had started seeing someone else, a man who worked at the University Hospital, but he didn’t want to know. Bergthóra could be charming on first acquaintance, she came across as loving and impulsive, but that flame would be quickly extinguished as the relationship wore on.
Helgi had rented himself a small flat on Sudurgata in the west of town, in the basement of an attractive red house clad in corrugated iron. Sometimes, when he got home after work, he felt as if he were living in astory. It was all very alien and different to an Akureyri boy like him. In retrospect, Akureyri seemed almost like a village compared to the noise, traffic and crowds of Reykjavík, even though he lived in an area of the capital that was characterized by charming traditional houses. The proximity to the centre of town had its advantages and drawbacks too.
He had settled in very well, all things considered. He’d had to solve the problem of accommodation in a hurry after the powder keg that was his relationship with Bergthóra had finally exploded. For him, this flat didn’t represent a future home so much as a temporary solution.
It belonged to a colleague of his in the police, who had offered him reasonable conditions and a special discount on the rent for the first few months in light of the circumstances. Helgi had been planning to find a larger flat in the suburbs, to buy rather than rent, but Aníta’s arrival on the scene had complicated things, and now he thought he might have to add her into the equation when it came to finding somewhere to live, though she hadn’t officially moved in with him yet.
They got on so well. They could spend their evenings relaxing on the sofa, just chatting, and even enjoy a glass of wine together. Sadly, that hadn’t been true of his life with Bergthóra.
He and Aníta had just opened a bottle of red after a long day at work.
Helgi already trusted her more than he had ever trusted Bergthóra and didn’t hesitate to discuss his job with her.He knew she would never betray his confidence and he really appreciated being able to bounce his ideas and theories off someone from outside the police.
His mind was permanently in overdrive, buzzing with speculation about his cases all day and half the evening, except when he could switch off by losing himself in a book. Although he was careful not to be at work, directly or indirectly, the whole time, the truth was that he relished the jobs that were assigned to him and was eager not only to perform them well but to achieve better results than any of his colleagues. He saw himself staying on in CID for the next couple of decades at least, so he was determined to scale the promotional ladder as quickly as possible. When he first joined the police he had still been working on his MA dissertation about the murders at the sanatorium, so he had asked for an extension and planned to focus on finishing it in the new year.
‘Should I give Bergthóra a call tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘I’m serious. We can’t have her bothering you at work.’
‘Can we talk about something else?’ Aníta pleaded, finishing the last mouthful in her glass. Helgi had tried to bring up the subject earlier that evening too, without success. ‘By the way, I’ve never read anything by Elín,’ she added.
He replenished their glasses.
‘Yes, you should try some more good crime novels,’ he said, taking the bait. They could discuss Bergthóra later or just try to forget about the incident.
Aníta didn’t share his interest in detective fiction, but he saw that as a challenge rather than a disadvantage. He washoping he could teach her to appreciate something new and had already lent her several titles from his collection.
Earlier that evening he had gone through his shelves and picked out a handful of novels he was intending to peruse over the next few days, old detective stories dealing with disappearances of one kind or another. It wasn’t that he thought the solution to the mystery would be lurking in any of them, he just needed a means of distracting himself when he was under a lot of pressure. The first book from the pile was lying on the sofa beside him now:The Dragon Murder Caseby S. S. Van Dine.
‘Elín was bloody good,’ he told Aníta. ‘Was, or is – I don’t know what to say in the circumstances.’
‘What do you think has happened? Any ideas?’
‘To be honest, my gut instinct is that she’s dead, but I couldn’t tell you why.’
