1956
6 August
The grey hat flew out to sea.
Kristján had stepped out of the wheelhouse to admire the view over Faxaflói bay and watch the island approaching, low and green against the backdrop of mountains. When the squall hit the little fishing smack, he had reacted fast, but not fast enough, grabbing for his hat only to snatch at thin air. Though he’d have never admitted it aloud, he thought that it could have been worse: the hat, a Christmas present from his fiancée, hadn’t really suited him. Now he would have an excuse to buy a new one.
It meant he would be bareheaded for his visit to the little island of Videy, just off the coast near Reykjavík, but what did that matter, when the whole thing was bound to be a waste of time anyway? Still only in his twenties, Kristján wasn’t usually entrusted with anything important, but he was on duty this August bank-holiday weekend as his superior officer was away.
It felt as if the brief Icelandic summer was already over that August morning on the boat, with no shelter from the wind and the sun hidden by cloud. As there was no regular ferry service to the island, Kristján had had to improvise and do a deal with an old fisherman he knew.
‘Almost there, Kristján,’ the captain called from the wheelhouse, his voice hoarse.
Kristján nodded, though there was no one to see, and did up another button on his overcoat to keep out the cold. If nothing else, at least the trip made for a change of scene, he thought, trying to look on the bright side.
A woman, probably in her early thirties, was standing by the jetty to meet him. Kristján had asked his fisherman friend to come back for him in an hour and a half. By the time he got back to town, the whole morning would have been spent on this visit.
The woman held out her hand. ‘I’m Ólöf Blöndal. Welcome to Videy.’ Her face was grave and she didn’t smile.
‘How do you do? The name’s Kristján,’ he said. There was something slightly off about Ólöf’s manner, he thought. She looked a little shifty, yet at the same time he could have sworn she was relieved to see him.
‘It’s this way,’ she said diffidently, and set off up the grassy slope from the jetty. He followed, noting that she had short red hair and was wearing a thick woollen jumper.
Two striking white buildings with red roofs came into view between the island’s twin green hills: the old Danish colonial mansion and the little church beside it. As they drew closer, Kristján noticed how dilapidated they looked, the paint peeling from their walls and window frames. Beyond them he noticed some tumbledown outbuildings, one of which looked like a cow shed; relics of the days when there was still a farm here. Halfway there, Ólöf stopped, turned and said: ‘We’re not actually going there. My husband’s at home – we live nearby.’
Kristján nodded. ‘Does nobody—’
She interrupted: ‘We have keys to the mansion, but no one lives there. It’s a bit run-down but in pretty good nick considering its age. It’s two hundred years old, you know – the oldest stone building in Iceland.’
‘This girl, Lára—’
Again she cut him off: ‘It’s best you speak to my husband.’
Kristján walked along beside her, neither of them saying a word. There was a blustery breeze blowing on the island, but it was warmer than it had been on the crossing, despite the lack of sun. After they had been walking for a couple of minutes, he asked: ‘Excuse me, but you said you live here, you and your husband?’
‘We moved here in the spring to a house that belongs to my family. We spent last summer here too. It’s …’ She paused. ‘There’s nowhere quite like it.’
Kristján didn’t doubt it; the island was certainly a picturesque spot, its green meadows surrounded by the blue waters of the bay and set against the great hulk of Mount Esja, but Ólöf’s words lacked conviction to his ears.
She went on awkwardly: ‘It’s not far to our house. It’s more or less halfway between the mansion and the old school.’
As they walked, he let his mind wander. Being in the open air agreed with him, but he would rather have been spending this late summer’s day doing something quite different. In recent years he and a couple of old friends had taken up mountaineering in their spare time, inspired by the news three years earlier of Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay’s conquest of Everest. While Kristján had no hope of ever achieving those heights, he was making good progress. Only a few days ago news had come in that the north Icelandic peak of Hraundrangi in Öxnadalur had been climbed for the first time. Kristján was acquainted with the two Icelanders who had made the ascent along with an American. What he wouldn’t have given to be there right now, rather than here in the tame environs of Videy.
Still, gentle though the terrain was, he was careful where he set his feet as he picked his way over the tussocky ground. He remembered how his mother used to laugh and say that Icelandic men always walked as if they were stepping over tussocks, even when the ground was perfectly flat. But his main concern was to leave here without twisting or spraining an ankle – or dirtying his suit, for that matter. He owned three suits: the light grey one he was wearing now was the newest; the pinstripe was looking a little threadbare these days; and the black one he saved mainly for formal occasions like funerals.
An old wooden house appeared ahead, its black paint flaking. It had obviously seen better days. At that moment an Arctic tern swooped over Kristján’s head and he made a grab for his hat to ward the bird off, only to remember belatedly that the hat was now floating somewhere in Faxaflói bay.
‘Don’t worry,’ Ólöf said. ‘The breeding season’s over, so it won’t attack you.’ Her tone was momentarily lighter, as if she had forgotten that she was in the company of a policeman on duty.
Her husband didn’t come outside to greet them. Noting this, Kristján wondered why it was Ólöf who had been sent to meet him off the boat. Was this the way the couple normally did things, or could there be something else behind it?
‘Come in,’ Ólöf said, rather curtly, once they reached the house.
Kristján entered a hall that turned out to be part of the sitting room. It was warm inside; almost uncomfortably so for the time of year.
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