Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - The Day Is Dark

Arnar’s heart skipped a beat. The man said this so cautiously that it couldn’t be anything good. What had he thought? That none of this would come to the surface and that life would continue on its merry way? Arnar blinked as he regained his composure, then stared back at the therapist as if he had just got something in his eye. ‘And?’ He took care not to show any sign of the tension that clutched at him.

‘Nothing, really. The decision was made to wait a bit before letting you know, since there seems to be something serious going on. It’s never good to tackle things like this when one is recovering.’ The man cleared his throat nervously. ‘I just wanted to tell you in the hope that it would get you to change your mind. You will need support and we can’t give it to you if you go home. Nobody copes well with dramatic events post-treatment.’

More than anything Arnar wanted to prise more information out of the therapist by remaining silent, but he didn’t want to take that chance. He had to know more. ‘What phone call are you talking about? Who called?’

‘A police officer in Greenland. And then an Icelandic lawyer called and said that she was also in Greenland and was extremely eager to speak to you. We generally block these kinds of calls, but it’s different when the police are involved.’ The man appeared to be trying to read Arnar’s expression, without success. ‘If the Icelandic authorities want to speak to our patients we have to permit it, even though it goes against our policy. This is the first time a foreign police force has wanted to speak to one of our patients, and we’re exploring what options are available to us. We suggested that they contact their Icelandic colleagues if they deemed the case to be serious, but the officer who called didn’t say whether they would try that. I didn’t speak to the man personally, so I’m simply telling you what I’ve heard.’

‘What was this woman’s name and what did she want?’ Arnar knew exactly what the police wanted but he had no idea what business the lawyer could have with him. Maybe times were so hard that this is what lawyers were having to resort to: identifying people in deep shit and offering them their assistance. ‘She said it was related to your work. In Greenland. She wasn’t with the police, neither the Greenlandic nor the Icelandic force.’ The man looked at him, unable to hide his curiosity. ‘Weren’t you working there?’

‘Yes.’ Arnar would never discuss his problems here, but he needed to find out more about the woman. ‘Did she leave her name and phone number?’

‘As a matter of fact she did.’ The therapist did not appear to be about to give him this information. ‘I feel it inadvisable for you to make contact with anyone. Let these people figure things out for themselves and who knows, maybe it will turn out to be nothing and they’ll solve it without you needing to get involved.’ The man rocked in his chair slightly. ‘If you want to talk about it, I’m sworn to confidentiality.’

‘No. But thanks anyway.’ Arnar didn’t want to appear ungrateful. The man did not mean him any harm; he was just curious, like everyone else. No doubt it made a change to have a patient who was entangled in a police investigation and had something to discuss apart from tragic drunken binges. ‘This is probably some sort of misunderstanding on the part of the police. However, the woman might have something to do with work, so I’ve got to talk to her.’ He would have bet his right arm that she was only connected with his job indirectly, and then solely through events at the work site. ‘So I need to have that phone number.’

The therapist opened his mouth slightly and the pink tip of his tongue glistened. He seemed on the verge of pressing Arnar for more information, but then appeared to decide against it. ‘It’s on a slip of paper in reception. If you want to walk there with me, I’ll get it.’ They went together to the second floor. Arnar had to wait while the other man left the detox ward but he reappeared in a flash with a yellow Post-it note. He handed it to Arnar reluctantly. ‘I strongly advise you to enrol in the follow-up treatment and let this wait. Remember that you’re not well yet, by a long way.’

Arnar took the piece of paper wordlessly. Then he said goodbye and went back downstairs. He had some coins in his pocket from the time when he’d pretended to make a phone call to buy himself some space from his sponsor. He stuck a fifty-krónur piece into the coin slot and dialled the number of Thóra Gudmundsdóttir’s mobile phone. Although he had never heard of her, he thought it would be worthwhile to ask her what was happening. It could help him out to know if the police were now involved, as he would benefit from a little head start to think over his position before they questioned him. In order to gain it he would have to know what was up.

A familiar recorded message announced to him that the phone was out of range. Now it all depended on his making the phone call he had feared so much and hoped never to have to make.

The struggle for space at the window was so great that Thóra had to use all her strength to keep her place. She was standing in the best spot, in the middle, between Matthew and Dr Finnbogi. Friðrikka and Eyjólfur had taken places on either side of them and had to stretch to see out, while Bella and Alvar were forced to peek over the others’ shoulders. The police force was working hard at photographing and measuring the body in the snow and investigating the area around it. The men had noticed their audience long ago, but apart from having tried twice to shoo them away with hand gestures, they left them alone.

‘I don’t understand this.’ Eyjólfur sounded like a scratched record. He had repeated himself so often that Thóra had stopped counting. ‘Arnar wasn’t here. He went home with the others.’

‘Couldn’t he have come back to chop his co-workers into little pieces?’ Bella exhaled gustily, and Thóra felt her warm breath on her ear. ‘Weren’t they the guys who harassed him?’

Eyjólfur seemed surprised that someone had been listening to what he said. ‘No. I mean, yes, but it doesn’t fit.’

‘Maybe this is someone else,’ suggested Alvar. ‘He’s lying on his stomach, so you can’t see much. I don’t get how you can be so sure who it is.’

‘It couldn’t be anyone else. He was the only one here who had a hat and boots like that.’ Eyjólfur pointed at the furry knee-length moon boots the corpse was wearing. Presumably out of respect for the dead he said nothing, but everyone thought the same; the boots literally cried out to be made fun of. The matching hat was just as flamboyant.

The photographer squatted next to the body and a policeman hunched down beside him. He took off his thick gloves and put on latex ones, then used tongs to lift the bottom of the hat from the body’s neck. The camera’s flash blinded the audience in the window for a moment but they recovered quickly and saw what it covered.

‘No disease killed that man.’ The doctor was the only one who did not gasp when the large cut on the back of the corpse’s neck was revealed. The hat’s white fur lining was blackened by a large stain, and it was as if the rabbit hair had stuck or frozen fast to the wound, which lifted slightly along with the hat. It was difficult to determine whether the bits pulled between the head and the hat were human hair or fur from the lining, but Thóra prayed they were one of the two and not something even more disgusting.

Thóra heard Friðrikka’s rapid breathing and cursed herself – and Matthew for good measure – for not having told her to wait at the table. Of course, Matthew had the excuse that he was woken with the news of the corpse behind the house, and thus hadn’t realized what was going on. Thóra, however, should have known better. She looked at Friðrikka, but couldn’t see her face through the red hair that had fallen over her cheeks. Her head hung on her chest, but from the way she was shuddering it looked as if she had finally lost it. ‘Friðrikka? Are you feeling OK? Maybe you should move away from the window and sit down. This could get even… worse.’