Winterlude (7 page)

‘No. Here,’ he said, looking around the otherwise deserted bar. ‘I was going to stay with Rúna. But, you know . . . Big sister doesn’t have a lot of space in that little house and as it’s work, the taxpayer is putting me up in the town’s finest hotel.’

Anna Björg’s eyes twinkled. ‘Careful, Helgi. A married man on his own in a busy nightspot like this. That could mean trouble.’

‘It’s an entirely fair division of labour,’ Gunna explained to her pouting daughter, Laufey. ‘Steini cooked. I’ve washed, dried and folded two loads of clothes – mostly yours, I’d like to point out. So we’ve come to a unanimous decision that loading the dishwasher is all yours.’

‘But . . .’

‘There’s no room for a “but” anywhere in this discussion.’

‘I wasn’t consulted on this,’ Laufey argued. ‘So I feel that I should have the right to lodge an objection and go and watch TV while this goes to arbitration, surely? Isn’t that the way it works?’

‘Ah. You may be under the illusion that this household in some way resembles a democracy. I’m sorry to disappoint, but that’s not the way it works.’

‘Then I’ll start a grassroots movement and protest against the shameless use of forced labour. Steini, are you with me on this?’ Laufey asked hopefully, and Steini looked up from skimming that morning’s paper.

‘I think it’s probably best not to stray into dangerous territory here,’ he decided.

‘Where does all this revolutionary fervour come from, anyway?’ Gunna asked.

‘We’ve been doing it in history, and Ylfa talked about the pots and pans revolution as well.’

‘That’s hardly history. It was only a couple of years ago.’

‘But it brought down the government. The only time an Icelandic government has been forced out of office by a popular movement.’

Steini stroked his moustache and looked at her quizzically. ‘I must say I rather like the sound of this teacher. But does the council know that a secondary school teacher is preaching revolution to fifteen-year-olds?’

‘She’s the new teacher at the school,’ Gunna told him. ‘A decent enough girl, but she might want to tone the radical stuff down if she wants a full-time job next term. Anyhow, back to the thorny issue of loading the dishwasher.’

‘Yes, Mum?’

‘If you’d just done it instead of arguing, you would have finished by now.’

Laufey thought for a moment. ‘Which would have been a victory for the forces of international capitalism,’ she said.

‘Right, in that case,’ Gunna decided, hearing her phone ringing and hunting for it through the pockets of her coat, which hung on the kitchen door, ‘negotiations on getting a lift to Reykjavík on Saturday will only be entered into once the dishwasher is full. Where the hell is my damned phone?’

Steini lifted the newspaper, put it down and felt among the cushions on the sofa.

‘That’s blackmail, Mum,’ Laufey said darkly, holding out the phone, which had been behind the kettle.

‘Not at all. It’s simply that one should always negotiate from a position of strength,’ Gunna retorted, pressing the green button. ‘Hello?’

‘Gunnhildur? Herbert over in Selfoss. Y’all right?’

‘Fine, thanks. Anything up? Elmar, maybe?’

She heard the fat man sigh and imagined she could hear his chair creaking as he sat back.

‘Elmar, yes – and it’s not good.’

‘Well, go on, then,’ she said impatiently as Herbert made the most of his dramatic moment. ‘What’s he done?’

‘He’s managed to roll his car about six times and he’s on the way to the National Hospital in an ambulance. Out cold and he looks a godawful mess. Car’s a write-off and his mother’s going frantic.’

Gunna cursed silently and at length with her hand over the phone.

‘You still there?’ Herbert asked eventually.

‘Yup. Give me half an hour. I’ll see you at the hospital.’

Anna Björg opened her eyes and was awake instantly, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling lit only by the dim street lamp outside glowing through the curtains. She brushed a lock of hair from her face and her heart sank as she looked sideways. Helgi’s bald patch gleamed in the half-light. She carefully slipped from under the duvet and pulled on as many of her clothes as she felt was necessary, stuffing her bra and socks into the pocket of her coat and pulling her boots onto bare feet.

Her head spun as she looked regretfully at Helgi, asleep with one arm stretched out over the edge of the bed and his back to her. Anna Björg shook her head, told herself that married men had to stay strictly off limits from now on, and let herself out.

As the lock clicked shut, Helgi woke and wondered where he was. His eyes adjusted slowly to the dim orange light and he tried to decide if he really had heard something or not. He rolled onto his back, extending an arm to seek out Halla’s familiar warmth next to him in the unfamiliar bed as memories of the previous evening came flooding back and he sat up, realizing that he was alone.

‘Shit. Hell and damnation.’

It was a quiet, still night and the click of rapid footfalls outside alerted him. He pushed aside a few inches of curtain and stared out sorrowfully as Anna Björg’s dark figure, shoulders hunched, marched across the car park outside without looking back, disappearing along the street and around the corner into the darkness.

Katla Einarsdóttir smoked furiously outside the hospital’s back door. Gunna had left her in the early hours of the morning with her elder son Einar holding her hand as Elmar was wheeled into surgery. The intervening few hours seemed to have added years to her.

‘Good morning,’ Gunna greeted her as cheerfully as she dared. ‘What news of the young man?’

‘He’ll live,’ Katla said shortly and pulled ferociously on her cigarette as it burned down to the filter. She threw it into what remained of the grass and lit another, sucking smoke deep.

‘Herbert still here, is he? And Einar?’

‘Hebbi’s bringing Einar back this morning. Elmar’s still sedated.’

‘And you? I know it’s a stupid question, but are you all right?’

‘Am I all right?’ Katla stared and laughed hysterically. ‘What kind of a question is that? Of course I’m not all right. My son’s car came off the road and he’s in hospital with broken legs and arms, and I don’t know if he’s going to be a vegetable if he wakes up.’

‘The doctor said last night that there were no serious head injuries. Look, he’s had a bad crash. It could have been so much worse.’

‘That’s easy for you to say. You don’t know what it’s like. First Aron, and now Elmar. For fuck’s sake. Haven’t I had enough of this stuff?’ she snapped, throwing away the remainder of her cigarette and stalking into the building.

Gunna was in the lobby, her phone to her ear, when Herbert arrived with Einar, a broad-shouldered version of his younger brother but with hair cut sensibly and a businesslike air about him. Herbert had dark rings under his eyes and Gunna guessed he hadn’t seen much of his bed.

She cornered him once Einar was closeted with his mother.

‘Right, what happened last night?’

‘Hell, I don’t rightly know. It was on the road coming into Hveragerdi. It looks like the road was icy, he was driving too fast and lost it on one of the bends.’

‘Any witnesses?’

Herbert shrugged. ‘For what it’s worth, there was a truck about a kilometre behind him. The driver saw Elmar’s van on the bend and the next thing he knew it was rolling over off the road. It was the truck driver who called us out. When we got to the crash site, he was sitting in the van holding Elmar’s hand and keeping him awake.’

‘You said Elmar drove a van? What sort?’

‘I don’t know. A Toyota or a Nissan or some such thing.’

‘What colour?’

‘I’m not sure. Blue or black. He hadn’t had it long and I didn’t pay much attention to it. I’ve been a bit busy as well.’

‘And where is it now?’

‘It’ll be in the pound behind the police station. A recovery truck collected it last night.’

Gunna rattled her fingernails in an irregular tattoo against the wall as she thought.

‘Can you either get back to Selfoss and take some pictures of that van and email them to me, or get someone there to do it right now?’

‘Yeah, of course. I’ll get one of the guys at the station to do it,’ Herbert agreed, surprised at the intensity of Gunna’s demand.

‘You got a statement from the truck driver, didn’t you? This was definitely an accident?’

Herbert looked suspicious. ‘That’s what the man said and I don’t have a reason to not believe him. He said it was a clear road and Elmar was driving fast as he hadn’t long overtaken him.’

‘Fair enough,’ Gunna decided. ‘I’ll assume it was just an accident until I have a reason to think otherwise.’

Helgi didn’t have much appetite for breakfast. The hotel was virtually empty and the girl who had been on reception the night before brought him coffee, avoiding his eye as she did so. He texted Halla and told her how much he was missing her, waiting for his phone to bleep in response as he munched toast and the coffee began to nibble at the fringes of his dull headache.

He was wondering if the girl dispensing coffee stayed in the hotel at night, and if she had seen Anna Björg’s discreet departure, when his phone finally buzzed and he grabbed it.

Missing you too. Have a lovely day. XX
he read, and it only deepened his guilt.

He finished a tub of yoghurt that sat heavy on his stomach and wondered if he could call Anna Björg, and what her response would be. He tried to rehearse a conversation with her in his mind but kept coming to a grinding halt.

‘More?’ a voice at his elbow asked.

‘What?’

‘More coffee?’ the receptionist asked and Helgi searched her face for a smirk of recognition.

‘Er. Yes, please,’ he mumbled and picked up his phone again as the girl replaced the flask on the table with a full one. He poured himself a cup of coffee that he didn’t really want and punched in a text message to Anna Björg that he then deleted and started again.

Going out to Tunga this morning. Meet for lunch?
He wrote and pressed send, regretting it as soon as the message had gone.

A Polish girl with the kind of tired face that said minimum wage and long hours showed Gunna to the day room of the rest home.

‘Henning is there, in the corner,’ she said in passable Icelandic, pointing to a man with heavy glasses and a thick cardigan in spite of the stifling warmth.

‘The guy in the wheelchair?’ Gunna asked in dismay.

‘That’s Henning,’ the girl confirmed. ‘Happy to have a visitor,’ she added with a smile that lit up her face.

‘He doesn’t get visitors often?’

‘Once a month his son comes to take him out for a few hours. Maybe twice. But not more.’

‘Right,’ Gunna said, straightening her back and already convinced she was wasting her time. ‘Take me to him, will you?’

They threaded their way through the room, which was dotted with chairs, each containing an elderly dozing person, while the radio boomed from a corner of the room.

‘Henning?’ the Polish girl asked, leaning over him. ‘Visit for you,’ she said softly and the old man’s face suddenly became animated. There was no lack of life behind the sharp blue eyes that looked her up and down.

‘Not often I get a visit from a pretty girl,’ he said, his eyes gleaming roguishly behind his glasses. ‘Not as pretty as you, obviously, Wioletta,’ he added with a sideways look at the girl. ‘Get us a flask of coffee, would you?’

Gunna extended a hand and the old man shook it.

‘Gunnhildur Gísladóttir.’

‘Henning Simonsen,’ he replied, his eyes on the Polish girl as she threaded her way back across the room. ‘Good grief,’ he said. ‘That bottom. Once upon a time . . . She’s a good girl, that one. A real worker.’

He grimaced and jerked a thumb behind him.

‘What do you mean?’ Gunna asked.

‘If you push, we can go to the dining room and get a bit of peace and quiet away from all these old women listening to the wireless.’

The dining room was quieter. The Polish girl brought them coffee and left, Henning once again admiring her rear as she departed. ‘I tell you . . .’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Now, what can I do for you? About that Borgar, I’ll wager? God rest his soul. But he was a thieving bastard. I used to tell people to count their fingers once they’d shaken his hand.’

‘Exactly. It’s Borgar’s death I’m investigating. I take it you were here on Sunday afternoon?’

The old man grinned and sucked coffee through a lump of rock-hard sugar. ‘If I’d killed Borgar, I’d admit it straight out,’ he said. ‘I’ll bet prison’s more comfortable than this place.’

‘But there’s no Wioletta in Litla-Hraun,’ Gunna pointed out.

‘Ah, but maybe they’d allow her to visit an old man.’

‘You worked for Borgar for a long time?’

‘I did. I started NesPlast back in the eighties and we built a lot of boats but never made much money.’

‘But Borgar owned NesPlast. You sold it to him?’

‘I owned 60 per cent of NesPlast and Borgar owned the rest, so that’s why he wasn’t able to screw it up like every other business he touched. But he owned the building and rented it to NesPlast.’

‘Paying himself rent?’

Henning shrugged. ‘It was a tax dodge of some kind. A way of making sure NesPlast never made enough of a profit on paper to have to pay tax.’

‘And it closed down after he went to prison?’

‘Well, the crash was around that time as well. There was no money about and nobody wanted boats. We were stuck with two expensive boats that customers defaulted on and there was no choice but to wind it up. My health wasn’t what it had been, and there was nobody to take over.’ He smiled to himself. ‘I was able to sell the two boats to a cousin of mine in the Faroes who came and sailed them home. Cash,’ he said, rubbing his hands at the memory. ‘Borgar wasn’t happy. Not happy at all. But by then he had other things to worry about.’

‘He had enemies, though, surely?’

Henning reached for the thermos on the table. ‘Would you?’

Gunna poured him another cup and he sipped it gratefully.

‘There were always problems. People were happy enough with the boats, but when it came to money Borgar would always screw customers somehow.’ He sighed and looked at Gunna steadily. ‘But to answer the question you haven’t asked, as far as I know there were dozens of people who would have been happy to break Borgar’s nose, although I don’t believe any one of them would have gone so far as to kill him. These people aren’t crazies, and for most of them I reckon this was so long ago now that it’s in the past. Fishermen are used to setbacks. They move on.’