Reykjavík, page 4
A scrupulous police officer would have taken this aspect of the inquiry firmly in hand, summoning the couple for a formal interview at the station and giving them a real grilling, serving Lára’s interests rather than those of his superiors. But Kristján had failed the test, again and again.
‘There were no actual suspects,’ he said eventually, taking care over how he phrased it. ‘There was never any indication that a crime had been committed, you see. We were looking for a missing girl, not investigating a murder …’
But if Lára had been murdered, wasn’t it obvious that the couple on Videy must have been involved? Weren’t they the only ones who would have had the opportunity? They could have got rid of her luggage and disposed of her body. Had it perhaps been a terrible accident, a fight that had ended in the worst way possible, which they had been forced to hush up to protect their reputation? Unbelievably, they had emerged fairly well from the news coverage. The public hadn’t dared to believe that the lawyer and his wife could have had anything to do with the girl’s disappearance. Kristján remembered reading an interview with Ólöf Blöndal in the Morgunbladid newspaper in which she had begged the public to assist with the search, lavishing praise on Lára and saying how hard-working she had been. Such a pretty, lively girl was the description that stood out for him from that interview. And that’s how he pictured Lára, though they had never met. It was strange what a strong bond he felt with the missing girl.
‘I see. There were no suspects. Was there never any question of changing the status of the inquiry, of elevating it to a murder investigation?’ The editor’s voice had developed an edge.
Kristján hesitated, looking around, unsure how to answer. He could just picture the headlines.
At that moment Gudrún emerged from the kitchen and said without warning: ‘Kristján and I need to get going, I’m afraid. We’re supposed to be meeting friends.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Oh yes, did he forget to mention it?’ she asked blithely, as if nothing could be more natural than this blatant lie.
‘Yes, actually, but it’s not a problem. I didn’t mean to take up too much of your time.’
‘You haven’t,’ she said.
‘We’ll also need a photo of you – a new one, I mean,’ the editor said, turning back to Kristján. ‘Can I send round a photographer?’
Kristján dithered a moment, running a hand over his head. His hair was thinning fast these days – he could have done with the hat that had blown away over Faxaflói long ago. The photo of him they used whenever Lára’s case was dredged up was an old one, and he had aged in the interim. He wished he could refuse the request but didn’t like to seem disobliging.
‘Yes, I suppose so …’ he said, and shrugged.
1986
1 August
Thórdís Alexandersdóttir was still a glamorous woman, with luxuriant dark hair and eyes that seemed capable of expressing the entire spectrum of emotions. One of her talents was the ability to take on any number of guises. She could don a severe suit, draw her hair back in a bun and put on only the subtlest of make-up. Or wear brightly coloured dresses with plunging necklines, loose hair and the reddest lipstick money could buy. Although she had put on a few kilos these days, she still carried herself well, disguising her more ample figure by clever dressing. At this moment she was examining her appearance in the mirror at home in their detached house on Laugarásvegur. Today’s outfit consisted of a red woollen shawl over a black dress and black leather boots. She applied some lipstick and smiled at her reflection.
Her mother had brought her up to believe that you should always look good, especially in a crisis. It didn’t do to wear your distress on your sleeve. Thórdís sometimes snorted disapprovingly when she saw the woman next door, a French teacher, going to work in jeans and a jumper, her hair looking as if she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. This was letting the side down, Thórdís thought. She herself always made an effort to look well turned out, always wore nail varnish, whatever the occasion, even if she was only popping out to the shops.
No doubt the theatre had exaggerated this tendency. In her day, Thórdís had been one of Iceland’s leading ladies, garnering critical acclaim for her performance in countless starring roles, from Shakespearean heroines to more contemporary parts.
But the roles had started to dry up as she got older. While the bloody men who had been at drama school with her were still thriving, playing opposite much younger women, she herself was rarely called on these days, except to play aged aunts or nurses wrapped in grey woollen shawls, with only a handful of lines to be spoken in a shrill, cracked voice. And when word got round that Thórdís was overfond of a tipple, the parts had become even thinner on the ground – not that the same behaviour did anything to prevent her male colleagues from being offered their choice of roles.
As far as Thórdís was concerned, her drinking was perfectly under control. And anyway, she thought, what about all those studies showing that red wine was good for you – like chocolate?
After another glance in the mirror, she nipped back into the bedroom and put on a necklace with an enormous silver cross pendant. It seemed fitting, given that she was on her way to hospital to sit by her husband’s deathbed. She imagined the nurses eyeing her with unfeigned sympathy and talking about her admiringly in the cafeteria next day.
Her eyes brimming with tears at this thought, Thórdís hurried out of the house. In her red cape, with the cross on her chest, she felt almost like a Roman Catholic cardinal.
Finnur Stephensen had been in hospital for eight weeks now. He had been diagnosed with cancer of the colon and, by the time they opened him up, the disease had spread to his entire digestive system. When it became clear that nothing could be done, his health had taken a rapid turn for the worse and now he didn’t have much time left.
Thórdís floated into the room, where he was lying under a white hospital duvet, his face ashen, his eyes dull. She reached out and caressed his cheek. She would miss Finnur. They had met more than forty years ago at the Reykjavík grammar school, where Thórdís had been one of only a handful of female pupils. He had been the son of a Reykjavík wholesaler and had, in due course, taken over his father’s business, going on to run it with great success. He’d always had a good eye for what was likely to prove popular, whether it was sports clothing, kitchen appliances or alcoholic drinks. She and Finnur had parted ways for a while, only to get back together when he was approaching forty. She was two years younger than him.
They’d quickly become a couple at school. He’d been shy and unassuming where she was bold and assertive. They’d balanced each other out. Eventually, though, Thórdís had tired of him. She’d been bored by the gang of friends he hung out with, feeling they had nothing to offer – all they talked about was money, politics and plotting; they’d hardly had a cultural bone in their bodies. In the emotional breathing space the break-up had given her, she’d fallen in love with one of her fellow actors.
After a brief and stormy relationship, she had gone back to Finnur. And he had accepted her with respect and understanding, making a genuine effort to show an interest in her artistic ambitions and theatrical career, and supporting her in everything she did. They had travelled together, visiting foreign art galleries, enjoying gourmet food, learning about life. Thanks to the success of the wholesale business, they hadn’t had to deny themselves much. He had always regarded Thórdís with admiration and she in turn had enjoyed regaling him with anecdotes about thespian life and discussing the personalities and controversies of the day on the cultural scene.
She supposed Finnur had been the closest she would ever have to a soulmate. What would her life be like without him? Rattling around alone in the house on Laugarásvegur, knocking back red wine, with no one to talk to. In an attempt to shake off this sudden mood of despair, she concentrated on picturing his funeral and herself dressed in black, grief-stricken but glamorous, in a packed church, the Motet Choir – and perhaps a single soloist – providing the music.
She sighed. She was going to be dreadfully lonely.
* * *
Finnur was lying in his room on the oncology ward at the National Hospital, his eyes turned to the window, but he looked round when his wife came in. She made such a contrast to the cold sterility of the sickroom: a vision in red and black, accompanied by a waft of perfume, mingled with a faint whiff of alcohol. He knew his Thórdís, knew all her virtues and flaws, and he loved her just the way she was. She perched on a chair by his bed, took his hand in hers and held it tight.
He was tired. Conscious of the disease inside him, consuming his body from within. How he missed the pleasure of eating good food, of appreciating the bouquet of a fine wine and enjoying it with Thórdís. Instead, he was stuck lying here, doped up on morphine. Whenever the fog wore off, he became aware of the pain in his abdomen and was reminded – as if he could forget it – that the disease was pursuing its merciless course. Little by little he had lost interest in life. With the morphine flowing through his veins, he dozed, his mind wandering back in time, showing him pictures of events, some of them real, others – he wasn’t so sure.
Thórdís, radiant with laughter, the centre of attention at theatrical parties where he had been happy to take a back seat. His parents on the farm where he had grown up. They had been so diligent, forever toiling away, his mother kind but serious, his father permanently on the go. When he was ten, his father had been offered a job in Reykjavík and the family had moved to the capital, living first in a basement flat on Hringbraut, then gradually moving up in the world. His father had begun by importing pots and pans, but his business had flourished and expanded until it became one of the largest wholesalers in Iceland. And Finnur had continued the work of building it up, demonstrating even more flair for the job.
He and Thórdís had already agreed on the disposal of his estate: Finnur’s nephew would take over management of the wholesale business, while Thórdís retained the majority share. Finnur had his doubts about his nephew’s ability. The young man lacked Finnur’s drive; he was too interested in the good life. A bit like Finnur’s old pal, Högni Eyfjörd. Always with a new girl on his arm, ever the jaunty bon viveur.
Finnur’s mind continued roaming to and fro, clouded with morphine.
‘Finnur, darling. How are you today?’
He mumbled in an effort to speak, trying to smile at his wife.
A nurse put her head round the door, regarded them sympathetically, then offered Thórdís a coffee.
‘Thank you,’ Thórdís said, and followed her out into the corridor, where she was handed a coffee in a mug marked with the logo of the National Hospital.
‘He’s going downhill quite fast now,’ the nurse warned her. ‘Can you stick around today?’
‘Yes,’ Thórdís said. The whole thing felt so unendurably cruel.
‘Are there any children or other family members or friends who might want to come?’
‘No,’ Thórdís said wearily. ‘Not today.’
‘He’s been talking a lot, though we can’t always follow what he’s saying. About all kinds of stuff, like the cost of living, inflation, and so on. But there was one thing that stuck out. He started saying he needed to go to Videy.’
Thórdís was startled. ‘Videy?’
‘Yes, he said he needed to go there,’ the nurse repeated.
Thórdís’s eyes strayed briefly to the window. Then she smiled and said: ‘That must be the morphine confusing him.’
She went back into Finnur’s room. The sun was shining outside, flooding the ward with that unforgiving late-summer light that illuminates everything with such stark clarity – from which nothing can be hidden. Every line on Finnur’s face was accentuated as he lay there by the window, his skin so pallid it was almost grey.
* * *
Finnur rested his tired eyes on Thórdís. She had come back into the room, the smell of coffee now overlaying the scent and wine fumes. He smiled faintly. His sense of smell seemed to be the only one still functioning properly. He’d always had a sensitive nose. What made hospital so alien was the lack of normal smells. Everything was disinfected, scrubbed and washed using soap without any fragrance. Finnur loved the way Thórdís smelled.
His mind started wandering again. The scent of newly mown grass on the farm. The scent of earth when he was picking potatoes. Of Paris, the first time he visited; a complex assault on the senses, composed of red wine, perfume, garlic and the sewer stench rising from the Seine on hot days. The fragrance of pink roses. The shore smells of salt and seaweed. The smell of death mingled with that of soil and grass.
His eyelids had closed. Could he open them? He felt his breathing grow laboured. Yes, Thórdís was there, he could sense her still: the perfume, the coffee, the lotion she applied to her skin every day. She loved pampering herself.
There was something he needed to say to her, something urgent …
* * *
Thórdís noticed the change in her husband’s breathing and realized with a jolt that he might be going. Tears sprang into her eyes, but she no longer cared what she looked like. Her husband was about to leave her.
She clasped his hand, fixing her gaze on him as if to imprint on her memory the image of that dear face that had been her companion for so many years.
Finnur opened his eyes. At first he stared hazily at the window, then he looked straight at Thórdís. As he did so, his gaze cleared and appeared for an instant so animated that he might never have been more alive than in that moment.
‘Videy. You have to go to Videy.’
Thórdís met his gaze.
Finnur released a long breath. The spark in his eyes went out.
As it did so, the room seemed to darken.
Finnur Stephensen had departed this world.
1986
14 August
Valur Róbertsson was sitting in Café Mokka with that week’s issue of the paper.
It was hot off the press, the heady smell of ink mingling with that of freshly brewed coffee. There weren’t many customers in Mokka, just a few regulars Valur knew by sight, but he wasn’t here to be sociable. Mokka was Reykjavík’s attempt at a cosmopolitan coffee shop, serving customers espressos since the late 1950s, and although Valur hadn’t been born then, it felt as if the place probably hadn’t changed much in the interim, with its retro furniture, the art on the walls and the low-hanging copper lamps. He wanted a chance to take a leisurely look through the paper; savour this week’s harvest. After that he was expecting his sister. They met at least once a week, at Mokka, to catch up on each other’s lives over coffee and waffles.
There was the front page, in all its glory. He was proud of it. Eyecatching, but tastefully so. Dagbjartur, the editor of Vikubladid, always stressed that it was the cover that sold the paper – it was absolutely key for sales on the street, and there was no denying that they crossed a line sometimes. But Valur was ambitious: he had no intention of getting stuck in tabloid journalism for ever. He wanted to be the best investigative reporter in Iceland, so he played by his own rules as far as possible, while doing his best to please his boss. In a year or so he reckoned he’d have made enough of a name for himself to move to a daily paper, maybe even into television. Radio held no attraction for him, as his instincts told him the future lay in television, especially now that Iceland’s first private TV station was due to start broadcasting soon. Things were on the move; society was changing for the better and there was a world of opportunity out there. Although he was only twenty-five, he’d been employed in journalism since he was twenty. He’d worked his way up the ladder and been with his current paper for more than two years, almost since it was launched. The life expectancy for a weekly paper wasn’t particularly long. But now their sales figures had broken records two weeks running and there was every sign that they would do the same this week. And, for the third issue in a row, Valur was responsible for the entire front page.
It was all down to Lára.
The unfortunate girl who had vanished without trace thirty years ago.
Like most people, Valur had grown up with the story. The same old photo of the girl cropped up in the press at regular intervals, as if imprinted on the nation’s soul. Everyone knew that picture of Lára. Valur had been fascinated by the riddle ever since he was a kid; he didn’t really know why. There was something indefinably mysterious about Lára’s story, as if the girl were not quite of this world. As if she’d never really been flesh and blood, although of course she had – and perhaps she still was. That was the secret power of her story, he sometimes thought: the fact that no one could say for sure whether she was alive or dead.
He and his sister, Sunna, used to speculate about the case when they were younger. Born only two years apart, they had always spent a lot of time together and were still best friends in their twenties. They’d come up with all kinds of theories about Lára’s fate. No doubt many of their contemporaries had done the same, as Lára had been a household name in those days, but he had to admit that he and his sister were blessed with unusually vivid imaginations. He’d found an outlet for his creativity in journalism, Sunna in her studies; she was doing a degree in comparative literature at the University of Iceland. One of these days she’d become a poet, she used to say. He believed her. He actually thought she’d make a pretty good poet, and was ready with encouragement whenever she needed it.
