Reykjavík, page 7
Valur hadn’t announced his visit any more than he had the previous day when he had tried to catch Óttar at work. The secretary had refused to let him into the office, and Valur was still disappointed by his failure to speak to the lawyer. At this rate he would have to resort to door-stepping him at home, as he was doing now with Kristján. At least that way, even if he didn’t get to speak to Óttar, he might be able to have a word with Ólöf. He felt obliged to do this for the next front page, though the couple were unlikely to have anything new to say.
There was no chance of passing inconspicuously through the empty, exposed streets of Grafarvogur. An older man was already standing outside the house, sparing Valur the need to knock on the door. Valur recognized Kristján instantly from the photos, although he had aged visibly in the intervening years. The detective was neatly dressed in grey trousers, a white shirt and a tie, in spite of the mild weather. He cut a tall, commanding figure, like so many policemen Valur had encountered in his job. His expression was neutral; he seemed neither surprised nor angry – nor pleased, for that matter.
‘You must be Valur,’ he said mildly.
Valur nodded.
‘I’ve seen pictures of you in the papers. And it hasn’t escaped my attention that you’ve been trying to get hold of me.’
‘Yes, that’s right. You haven’t answered my messages, so I decided—’
‘Normally I wouldn’t put up with this sort of behaviour. At the very least, a man’s home should be sacred, don’t you agree?’ Kristján said, his tone veering between that of a policeman and a priest. ‘But you seem fairly harmless. I trust you won’t go quoting me without my permission?’
Valur hesitated, then said: ‘No, of course not. I won’t write anything without your permission.’ He felt a twinge of frustration that Kristján had set this condition. He’d been hoping to squeeze several good paragraphs out of this visit.
‘I’m aware of the stuff you’ve been writing,’ Kristján said. ‘One can hardly avoid it. But I get the impression you write about Lára with respect, from a genuine interest in finding out what happened. Am I correct?’
It was becoming clear to Valur that Kristján wasn’t going to invite him in.
‘Yes, though I’m not getting my hopes up that I’ll be able to solve the mystery. And the last thing I want to do is turn it into a sensationalist tabloid news story. But, you never know – now that the case is in the public eye again, someone might be prompted to come forward with information they’ve been sitting on.’ Valur’s thoughts flew to the woman who had called herself Júlía.
‘I see. Well, let’s hope so. But you know, Valur, I’ve become reconciled to the idea that this case will never be solved. Some cases are like that. It’s not the only one I’ll be taking with me to the grave, so to speak. Not that I’m on my way there any time soon.’ For the first time in the conversation, Kristján’s lips twitched in a smile.
‘Do you have a clear memory of that day on Videy when you—?’
Kristján cut him off. ‘Look, Valur, I have no intention of commenting further on this case. I’ve chewed over it endlessly with journalists. Far more than I should have done. I’ve too often said yes to interviews, giving way to pressure, against my better judgement. But I’m in my fifties now, I’ve just moved into a new house in a brand-new area – I’ve reached the point in my life where, although I’m still working, I’d also appreciate the chance to spend more time with my wife and slow down a bit. The last thing I want is to find myself caught up in the middle of a media circus on account of a thirty-year-old case. I hope you can understand that.’
Valur nodded reluctantly. He wanted to protest that Kristján should be thinking about the missing girl rather than himself, but he bit his tongue. The policeman seemed rocklike in his resolve: Valur couldn’t see any chance of him budging.
‘Yes, I understand, of course …’ After a moment’s pause, Valur added diffidently: ‘Could I maybe ask for your advice, off the record, if necessary? Just to help me get my head round the details …’
‘Like I said,’ Kristján repeated patiently, ‘I’d rather not spend too much time thinking about the investigation. It’s ancient history now and one shouldn’t dwell on the past. I don’t want to be remembered solely for this case – one I failed to solve.’
‘No, of course not.’ Valur was conscious, even as he said it, that this was wishful thinking on the policeman’s part. As Kristján must be well aware.
The detective held out his hand: ‘It was nice meeting you, Valur. Good luck with everything. And now I need to get on. We’re holding a barbecue party in our street later today and there’s a lot to do.’
‘Right, have fun, and thanks for talking to me.’
Valur stood there at a loss. It had dawned on him that he would probably have to walk miles to the nearest shop or petrol station to find a phone to call a taxi. He’d been expecting this trip to pay off; that he’d manage to get the detective talking. The Lára case had so clearly overshadowed Kristján’s whole career that it struck Valur as odd that the detective didn’t want to discuss it, not even off the record.
‘Don’t you have a car?’ Kristján called, though the answer must have been blindingly obvious. There was no vehicle parked in front of any the houses in the street that had so far been completed, apart from the Lada Sport that was presumably Kristján’s.
‘No, I came by cab, actually.’
‘Shall I call you a taxi, then, or were you planning to trek back to the city centre on foot? That’s where all those newspaper offices are located, isn’t it?’
Kristján’s tone sounded slightly more friendly, as if he felt a grudging sympathy for the stranded reporter.
‘Yes, our offices are in the centre, on Kárastígur. And, yes, thanks, I’d be very grateful. It’s a long way to the nearest shop or—’
‘You can say that again. Come in. The phone’s in the hall, and you’re welcome to use it.’
Valur accepted the invitation. Indoors there was still a fair amount of work to be done. Peering into the living room, he saw that a parquet floor was in the process of being laid. There were boxes of unopened parquet bricks and tiles in the porch, a layer of dust over everything and tools lying on the floor. Valur felt tired at the thought of so much physical labour. Personally, he was happier sitting at a typewriter or out chasing news or chatting over coffee to people who had interesting stories to tell. He experienced another twinge of frustration at the thought that Kristján had more than enough to tell but was refusing to say a word.
Valur phoned for a cab, then asked casually – it would have been crazy not to seize the chance that had landed in his lap: ‘Kristján, was there by any chance a woman called Júlía linked to the Videy case?’
‘What?’ The question seemed to take the detective by surprise. ‘Júlía?’
At least he hadn’t lost his rag at being asked yet another question about Lára.
‘Yes. Júlía. An older woman, I think – these days, I mean. Obviously, she’d have been thirty years younger at the time.’
Kristján frowned thoughtfully.
‘I think I can answer that with a pretty definite no. By the way, this is strictly off the record. I’ve been through the files so many times, thought about the inquiry so often that I can remember every single person who had a connection to Lára’s disappearance. And there was no Júlía among them. I don’t even remember her having a friend with that name, and we spoke to all, or nearly all, of her friends.’
‘This woman sounded older than that. I’m guessing she’d have been an adult at the time of Lára’s disappearance.’
‘May I ask who this Júlía is?’ Without warning, Kristján had slipped into the role of questioner. Valur had succeeded in piquing his curiosity. He felt quite proud of the fact.
‘She phoned me. I don’t know anything else about her as she wouldn’t give me her full name. For all I know, she may not even be called Júlía.’ Although Valur was aware that he was breaking his promise to Dagbjartur not to discuss the phone call, he reasoned that Kristján was unlikely to blab about it.
‘Right, I see. But aren’t people always calling up journalists – attention-seekers and the like?’
‘You know, I got the feeling that wasn’t true in this case. She was nervous and came across as genuine. In fact, she said very little and gave me almost no information about herself.’
‘So what did she say?’
Valur had jotted it down almost word for word, but his notes were back at the office. ‘If I remember right, she said something about Lára needing to be buried in consecrated ground. It was like she knew what had happened to her.’
‘Consecrated ground. Well. Well, now.’ Kristján had turned pale. He went into the living room and lowered himself on to a kitchen stool, which was almost the only item of furniture in there. Valur slipped in after him. Finally, they were getting somewhere.
‘Yes, I’m pretty sure those were the words she used,’ Valur said, after a little silence had developed.
‘Of course, you know this means Lára’s dead.’ Kristján’s voice gave nothing away, as if he were merely reading out a police report. He seemed so deep in thought that Valur didn’t like to disturb him.
Finally, the detective continued, speaking as if to himself: ‘I’ve always clung to the hope that she was alive. That one fine day I’d get to meet her. Shake her by the hand, give her a hug, and hear the whole sorry tale.’
‘Kristján, do you have any idea who this woman could be?’
The policeman looked up, seeming finally to notice that Valur was standing in the living room of his newly built home. He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t a clue.’
‘If she’s for real, this Júlía, we can assume that Lára’s remains are out there somewhere, just waiting to be found – or it wouldn’t be possible to move them to consecrated ground.’
‘Yes, right,’ Kristján replied, frowning.
‘Which means she can’t be at the bottom of the sea.’
‘Quite.’ Kristján seemed winded, as if he had just lost someone close to him, not a girl he’d never known, who’d been missing for three decades.
‘Do you remember anywhere in particular that you searched?’ Valur asked. ‘Does anything occur to you?’
Kristján took his time about answering this. ‘On Videy, you mean? Among the buildings on the island?’
‘Not necessarily. For all we know, Lára may have left the island.’
‘Yes, that was always the headache – not knowing. Naturally, we combed the island from end to end, as I expect you’ve read.’
Valur had indeed. He’d gone through all the main newspapers in the archives, following the developments in the case. As time went on, the whole country had been caught up in the drama of the girl’s disappearance. And always that same photo of Lára, her expression mysterious, as though she were hiding some terrible secret. And perhaps she had been.
Valur had also tried to dig up more recent news reports about the case. One that particularly stuck in his memory was the 1976 front-page interview with Kristján in Vísir, because the detective had spoken so candidly about the investigation. After that, he must have decided to withdraw from the limelight, because Valur hadn’t come across any further interviews with him.
‘Yes, you launched a particularly comprehensive search there, didn’t you, with a large group of volunteers?’
‘Yes. She wasn’t on the island. I’m still convinced that she got back to the mainland somehow. It’s always possible to find someone willing to take you on their boat. I once had to hitch a lift with a fisherman and—’ Abruptly Kristján broke off. ‘Here I was, planning to organize the street barbecue for this evening – we try to carry on life as normal, although the area’s not really finished yet. Still, that’ll sort itself out in due course.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Not that I imagine I’ll be in the mood for a party now, to be honest. I won’t be able to stop thinking about Lára. The poor girl.’
‘It’s awful, I know. But time’s on our side. Someone who wasn’t willing to speak out in 1956 is apparently prepared to provide us with a lead now.’
‘Yes, I hope so. You should …’ Kristján hesitated.
Valur waited patiently. He was in no hurry and could sense that something remained unsaid. It would take the taxi a good while to navigate to Grafarvogur, then find its way to this half-completed street.
‘This is just speculation,’ Kristján went on, apparently choosing his words carefully. ‘But I was wondering if it might be worth your while to have a word with a man called Högni Eyfjörd.’
‘What?’ Although Valur had heard what Kristján said, he was momentarily confused. Why would the detective suddenly take it into his head to mention the name of a prominent property developer? Högni Eyfjörd was a well-connected man with a finger in every important pie, but he generally avoided the media spotlight. Despite going to great lengths to disguise his age, he must be somewhat older than Kristján. Valur remembered encountering Högni once at the groundbreaking ceremony for one of his construction projects. Valur had been transfixed by the bad dye-job on Högni’s hair.
‘Högni Eyfjörd – I assume you’ve heard of him?’ Kristján said.
‘Yes, naturally, I know who he is. You’re referring to the developer?’
‘That’s right.’ Kristján’s gaze flickered around evasively. ‘Your taxi is on its way, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it should be here soon. Though it’s a bit confusing trying to navigate around this area.’
Kristján smiled awkwardly.
‘Why Högni?’ Valur pressed him.
‘Well …’
‘Do you think he’s linked to Lára somehow?’
‘No, please don’t misunderstand me. His name did crop up at the time, but keep that to yourself. Don’t bring my name into it. I shouldn’t be giving you information like this … from … from the old files. But, the thing is, I’d like to help you. This news – that Lára’s probably been dead all along – it’s unsettling, you understand? Though I suppose deep down I’ve always known.’
‘I understand,’ Valur answered gently. ‘What, er, context did Högni’s name crop up in?’
‘Context?’ Kristján’s mind appeared to be working, considering what he should say. ‘Apparently he’d visited Videy a few weeks earlier. On a Saturday evening.’
‘Do you know why?’
Kristján paused. ‘I can’t really say any more, Valur. It didn’t lead to anything, that’s all I can reveal. But maybe you’ll find the information helpful.’ He shrugged, but plainly there must have been more to it than casual gossip. The detective must suspect that Högni Eyfjörd was implicated somehow in Lára’s disappearance.
‘Well, many thanks for the tip,’ Valur said. ‘I appreciate your help and I promise I won’t mention your name in connection with this. But are you sure there’s nothing else you want to say, just in general, that I could quote you on?’
‘I’m too old, Valur. I can’t face yet another interview, yet another photo, yet another reminder that I failed to get justice for that girl.’
‘Could I leave you my phone number, just in case something comes back to you later?’
‘Certainly. Go ahead. And could I maybe ask a favour of you in return?’
‘Sure. What is it?’
‘Could you let me know if you make any headway? If you get any closer to finding out what happened to Lára. You can ring me any time of the day or night, if it’s about that. I’ve done my best for thirty years. I think about Lára every day. I’ve been over all the loose ends, again and again. But I’ve run out of energy. Perhaps what the investigation needs is fresh blood, a fresh pair of eyes – a young man like you. You can write your number here, on the phone book. My home number’s listed, if you look under “Kristján Kristjánsson, bookbinder”. It’s my hobby – has been for several years now, since I gave up mountaineering.’ He paused, then added: ‘It sounds to me as if your taxi’s arrived.’
1986
15 August
Högni Eyfjörd was singing as he got dressed. He knotted his tie in the mirror, his mood still buoyant from yesterday’s choir practice. Looking good mattered a lot to him. His image was what he liked to think of as well groomed but original, and he kept a close eye on what the main fashion moguls were importing into Iceland these days. He tended to favour clothes aimed at the youth market, but then, to Högni, age was relative. He was confident that he could stand comparison with much younger men.
Let mine be thine, and live with me forever;
Mankind’s sorrows will afflict thee never.
Högni was a member of the Langholt Church choir. Although the church itself had only been consecrated a few years previously, the choir had been going considerably longer. Högni adored singing and relished the social life it provided. They’d just started rehearsals again following the summer break and had stuck to the lighter end of their repertoire, sending traditional Icelandic songs echoing around the church. ‘A Rare Evening’ was a favourite of Högni’s – something about the unbridled passion of Halldór Laxness’s lyrics, combined with the poignantly beautiful melody, seemed to speak to him personally.
Her shining eyes and fond replies
Will leave him never,
Until he dies and buried lies
Alone forever.
Högni let out a sigh. The reference to dying and lying buried had reminded him of Finnur. His friend’s end had come so shockingly fast. Högni had bumped into him in town only a few days before Finnur got his diagnosis. As soon as he heard the news, Högni had visited Finnur at his office, where his friend had put a brave face on things, talking in terms of temporary sick leave. His nephew would hold the fort while he was undergoing chemo. ‘Then we’ll see what he’s made of,’ Finnur had added, clearly sceptical about his nephew’s fitness for the role. Högni had read regret in every line of his face. But Finnur had seemed optimistic that his treatment would have the desired effect and that he’d soon be able to return home to Thórdís and his business.
