Reykjavík, page 8
Not long after that, the news got around: an exploratory operation had revealed that Finnur’s cancer had spread much further than the doctors had hoped. All that remained was a slow death. But, in the event, his death hadn’t been that slow after all.
Högni took care over the knot on his tie, a double Windsor, which went particularly well with the Italian collar on his shirt – the latest trend, so he was told. He took advantage of a special service provided by a gentlemen’s outfitters, which sent an employee to him at work with samples that he could try on at his leisure, before buying some and sending the rest back. Today’s outfit consisted of grey cotton-and-wool-mix trousers and a dark-blue blazer with gold buttons. Noticing a few grey strands in his carefully blow-dried hair, which he regularly treated with Grecian 2000, he tucked them out of sight. At least he still had a magnificent head of hair, he thought, with no sign of the incipient baldness that was affecting his friends.
As part of his image, he had dropped his patronymic and used his middle name, Eyfjörd, instead, though he’d had a struggle persuading the National Registry to accept this, thanks to Iceland’s conservative naming laws, which insisted on patronymics rather than the creation of new family names.
He splashed his cheeks with the usual generous helping of aftershave. His complexion was brown, verging on orange, giving the impression that he spent a lot of time in the sun, though of course he didn’t really have the leisure for that. Being a property developer was a demanding business. But someone had tipped him off about these Orobronze tanning pills, which turned your skin a lovely colour from the inside. Högni had started taking them several months ago and was extremely satisfied with the results.
He pulled on his shoes – a pair of shiny, black slip-ons – and took one last affirmatory glance in the mirror. He’d recently moved into a bachelor flat on Ofanleiti, in a luxury apartment block designed for affluent types who had reached the age when their thoughts turned to downsizing. Högni had furnished the place himself, with the emphasis on light shades and chrome. The floor was carpeted in white throughout, there was a three-piece suite of pale leather, the television was the largest model money could buy, the bed was huge, with a barred chrome headboard, and there were mirror tiles in all the rooms, creating a light, airy effect.
His own firm had been involved in the Ofanleiti development and it was a good marketing ploy to claim that he built such high-quality flats that he wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. This wasn’t the sole reason, though. Fridrika Halldórs, his latest girlfriend and a familiar face to Icelandic TV audiences, had thrown him out of their flat on Efstasund, having finally lost patience with his constant womanizing and partying. They had a four-year-old son together, the youngest of Högni’s three kids by different mothers.
His eldest, Tómas Eyfjörd, the son of Högni’s childhood sweetheart, María, was in his early thirties. The polar opposite of his father, Tómas worked for a publishing company and wrote poetry in his spare time. He didn’t have a girlfriend. In fact, he’d recently informed his father that he was gay. Högni had taken the news badly and they hadn’t spoken since.
Högni had been head over heels in love with Anna, the mother of his daughter, Dýrleif Önnudóttir Eyfjörd, but their ways had eventually parted and Anna had gone on to stand as an MP for the Women’s Party. They had little contact these days, though Dýrleif visited him at Christmas and on birthdays – mainly to have a go at him about his shortcomings, he felt.
When he first met Fridrika, she’d recently returned to Iceland after studying graphic design abroad. They’d got to know each other through the advertising agency where she had been working on the design of a new image and logo for his company, Eyfjörd Development Ltd. Fridrika was a cheerful, outgoing type who set great store by dressing up in the latest fashions, like him, and not long after they met she had got a job as a TV presenter on the state channel. When they moved into a large flat together, many people believed Högni Eyfjörd had finally met his match. But, for Högni, life was all about having the best, whether it was furniture, holidays or women, and so he could never be sure that the woman he was with was definitely the best on the market.
He was subject to moments of regret about losing Fridrika, though. Apparently she was going to be one of the main hosts on the new private TV station that was due to start broadcasting shortly. He’d have enjoyed attending those parties. Fridrika had recently done an interview for a glossy magazine about ‘the relationship that didn’t work out’, opening up about how she’d had to start practising yoga and meditation to recover from the fallout of her break-up with Högni Eyfjörd.
Högni sighed again. He wasn’t getting any younger. He had to make more of an effort these days, though a single gin and tonic, a twinkle in his eye and a spot of heavy flattery was usually enough to charm the pants off any woman – if you were lucky enough to be blessed with his personal charisma. Really, he couldn’t understand his former girlfriends – or his kids, for that matter. Tómas a homosexual! And Dýrleif, just like her mother, always banging on about how society should be placing more emphasis on women’s experiences. And Fridrika getting into meditation and that sort of spiritual claptrap. He supposed he’d just never found the right woman.
‘I’m ready to face the day and treat everything it brings as an opportunity,’ Högni recited aloud. Since attending the Dale Carnegie course, he had taken to addressing everyone by name to come across as more sincere and personal. He’d also learned some motivational mantras, aimed at guaranteeing success and a happy life, which he recited morning and evening. Although Högni had no understanding of Tómas’s publishing job, let alone of his poems, he did sometimes read self-help books in English about how to realize your goals and ensure that you came out on top.
He drove straight to the company’s headquarters by Tjörnin, the picturesque little lake in the centre of Reykjavík’s old town. Currently, his biggest project was the construction of an estate in the new suburb of Grafarvogur, thanks to the lucrative contract his firm had secured with Reykjavík City Council. Eyfjörd Development Ltd had also been a key player in the development of Reykjavík’s new city centre out at Kringlan. The success of the business had been due in no small part to his skill in keeping Páll Jóhannesson on side. It was so convenient having a friend on the city council. Högni smirked a little at the thought of Páll. Always so staid and set in his ways. He and Gunnlaug were so conventional, with their perfect home, their perfect children and their perfect life. But that didn’t stop the man from being a crashing bore. He lived for nothing but politics and power.
Still, Högni couldn’t deny that his connection to Páll had come in useful. Of course, Eyfjörd Development Ltd had deserved to be assigned those building sites on its own merits, but that didn’t alter the fact that Högni’s dealings with Páll had speeded up what would otherwise have been a more protracted process. And there was absolutely nothing dodgy about that. Really, all that red tape was far too cumbersome and merely got in the way of entrepreneurs like him, hindering them from building things up fast in the interests of the local population. Particularly as one knock-on effect of the regulations was that no one could build anything for themselves these days; there were far too many forms to fill out and permits to apply for, and so on. All this made it undeniably handy to be able to pick up the phone to Páll whenever a bunch of petty bureaucrats were blocking the progress of exciting new projects with their slavishly rule-bound attitudes. His dealings with Páll left no paper trail; all their conversations were conducted over the phone or in person, and if there was anyone he could trust to be careful with sensitive information, it was Páll. He was the most reticent individual Högni had ever met, and, counterintuitive though it sounded, this seemed to be the key to his success in politics. Needless to say, Högni had contributed generously to Páll’s election fund.
Högni’s next big dream was to build on Geldinganes, a large headland on the Reykjavík coastline, attached to the mainland by a narrow spit. It would be the ideal site for a tasteful, exclusive shorefront development. But there were the usual voices on the Left opposing the idea and whining about untouched beaches and public access. Public access! The mere thought made Högni snort aloud.
The development would have a superb view of Videy, of course – for those with sufficiently deep pockets.
Högni shivered involuntarily at the thought of Videy. That girl sometimes haunted him at night, following him into his dreams, or rather his nightmares.
And now some hack on Dagbjartur’s trashy rag was trying to exploit the story. But the public’s interest would fade in the end, as it always did.
Högni had never discussed the incident on Videy with his friends, not since that fateful evening. Yet somehow it never went away. The story kept resurfacing at regular intervals, the girl’s large, dark eyes gazing out at the Icelandic public from the same old newspaper photo.
He parked in the private space, marked with his licence number, R69878, then adjusted the rear-view mirror to give his appearance a quick check before he went out to face the world.
Högni tucked his grey hairs out of sight again, grinned at himself, then got out of his car and walked with a confident stride to the entrance of his company offices, ready to tackle the day’s challenges. He needed to convince the world that it was time to build on Geldinganes and that he was the right man to do it. ‘I treat everything the day brings as an opportunity,’ he muttered under his breath, before heading inside.
* * *
Valur knew that Högni Eyfjörd’s company HQ was based in one of the beautiful old Norwegian-style houses by the lake. The developer’s purchase of the property had been leaked to the press at the time as the price he’d shelled out for it had been considered extortionate. Attractive though the building was, detached houses in the old city centre were out of fashion. Valur had noticed that these days the well-off tended to prefer large modern properties in the suburbs or in the greater Reykjavík area.
Valur certainly didn’t belong to this group himself. Journalists were paid peanuts and it wasn’t as if he came from a moneyed background. His parents still lived in the northern town of Húsavík, where he and Sunna had grown up with loads of freedom, in the heart of nature. Life in Húsavík had been pleasant enough, but that hadn’t stopped him and Sunna jumping at the first opportunity to move south to the capital. Valur was happy with both Reykjavík and his job; Dagbjartur was a fair boss and money wasn’t everything. Life as a reporter was full of interest, even excitement on occasion, and Valur had resolved to take things one day at a time. He was young enough not to have many worries about the future. For now, he was content with the little flat he rented on Laugateigur, a leafy street not far from the big Laugardalur swimming pool. Later, when he was a bit older, maybe he would end up in one of those pretty wooden houses in the old city centre, acquiring it at a knock-down price because everyone else was queuing up to live in the desirable suburb of Gardabær. He pictured himself and Margrét – the girl he was seeing – shacked up together in a traditional house with large windows and a nice little garden for when the weather was good.
Granted, probably not here on pricey Tjarnargata, but somewhere in the vicinity.
The sun was shining brightly, lighting up the colourful roofs around the lake and lending an almost fairytale air to the scene, which could look very different on Reykjavík’s frequent grey, overcast days.
Valur stood still for a moment, gazing out over the gleaming waters of the lake, before approaching Högni’s offices. The door was locked, but next to it was an elaborate doorbell with the name of the company, Eyfjörd Development Ltd, engraved on a brass plaque beneath. Valur pressed the bell and waited.
After a short interval the door was opened by a middle-aged woman, dressed from head to toe in white, her eyes hidden behind thick glasses. She gave Valur a pleasant smile. ‘Good morning?’ The words contained both a greeting and a question: What business do you have here?
‘Good morning. I’m Valur, from the Vikubladid newspaper. I’d like a word with Högni.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
Valur shook his head.
‘Högni doesn’t normally receive journalists unless the appointment’s been agreed in advance. Why don’t I have a word with him, then get back to you with a date?’
Valur was just searching for the right way to refuse this offer when the man himself came down the stairs, suntanned, as usual, and sporting a dark-blue blazer, apparently on his way out. He paused by the short-sighted receptionist: ‘I’m going to a meeting, dear. I’m not sure if I’ll come back to the office afterwards.’
As Högni passed, he threw a brief glance at Valur, his blank expression registering a complete lack of interest.
Valur, seeing his chance, backed out on to the steps then started down them after Högni.
‘Excuse me, you’re Högni Eyfjörd, aren’t you?’ he asked.
Högni stopped and looked round, surprised: ‘Yes. And you are?’
‘My name’s Valur, I’m a journalist—’
Högni’s face abruptly darkened. ‘Ah, Dagbjartur’s boy. Of course, now I recognize you. I have to say you look a lot better in your byline photo than you do in the flesh.’
Valur didn’t let this rudeness put him off his stride. It went with the territory. ‘We’ve met once before, a year or so ago – you probably won’t remember me, but it was—’
‘No, I don’t remember you. I meet a lot of people. Speaking of which, I’m on my way to a meeting right now.’
‘Can I ask you a quick question about Videy?’
‘What?’
‘Videy.’
‘I’m afraid not. You’ll have to make an appointment.’
Högni was about to walk off, but Valur persevered.
‘I understand you were a frequent visitor when Óttar and Ólöf lived there.’ OK, this wasn’t exactly how Kristján had put it, but Valur was hoping to provoke a response.
‘Who told you that?’ Högni snapped. ‘That’s a pack of lies. I—’
‘So you don’t know them?’
‘Of course I know them – that’s no secret. Óttar and I are friends; we were at school together.’
‘So you never visited him on the island when he was living there?’
‘Sure, there’s nothing wrong with visiting friends.’
‘Did you go there often?’
‘Frankly, I can’t see how that’s any of your business.’ Högni was seething now. Valur guessed that a man of his sort wouldn’t take an ambush like this lying down. He would be straight on the phone to Dagbjartur to give him an earful about his brash young reporter. But Dagbjartur would stand by his staff, Valur had no worries on that score.
‘I understand you were there shortly before Lára went missing?’
‘Lára?’ It was plain from Högni’s expression that he knew perfectly well who she was.
‘The girl who vanished – the one who was working as Óttar’s maid.’
‘That was decades ago.’
‘Thirty years ago, almost to the day.’
‘Look, I didn’t even know the girl, and I have no idea why you’re harassing me about this.’
‘Were you there in August 1956?’
‘How the hell am I supposed to remember that? Anyway, I’m going to be late for that meeting.’ Högni stormed off.
‘Thanks for the chat,’ Valur called after him. ‘I’ll be writing about it in next Thursday’s paper. And, while I’m at it, I’ll be informing our readers where Lára is.’
Högni stopped short and looked round. ‘No one bloody well knows where the girl is.’
‘I have a source. All will be revealed next week. It’s time Lára got a proper burial. I expect the entire paper will be devoted to the story. A photo of her. And one of you, of course. Could I maybe take a new picture of you now? If not, I’m sure we’ve got an old one we could use.’
‘You’re not taking any bloody photos. And don’t you dare write a word about me. If you do, I’ll sue you and I’ll sue your paper for everything you’ve got. I’ll bankrupt you.’
‘That’s a great quote, thanks. Incidentally, since I don’t own anything, it wouldn’t make any difference to me.’
‘I’m warning you, boy! You’re not publishing a word about me.’
‘Luckily, that’s not up to you. But I’d be willing to sit down with you some time this week to hear your side of the story. You know the sort of thing: how often you visited the island, your reasons for going there … You must have met Lára, as she was on Videy all summer. Do you remember her?’
‘My side? There is no “my side” of the story. I didn’t know Lára, and I had nothing to do with that business. For all I know, she’s alive and kicking, probably living abroad somewhere.’
‘Lára’s dead, and you’ll find out on Thursday what happened to her – assuming you don’t already know.’
1986
16 August
Margrét had worked on the paper the previous summer but left unexpectedly at the end of July. ‘Too much testosterone in that place for my taste,’ she’d told Valur.
They had got on well when they worked together, but it wasn’t until they met at a nightclub the following spring that something clicked. At twenty-one, she was a few years younger than Valur and currently doing a degree in politics at the University of Iceland. They were taking things slowly, meeting up every so often, and so far he was keeping the fact largely to himself. He’d told Sunna, but not his parents. Not yet. There was plenty of time for that later. Nevertheless, he had a good feeling about this girl; they got on well and he always looked forward eagerly to their meetings.
