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Authors: Ragnar Jónasson
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Kristín!?
He wiped the snow from his face and a few steps on wet feet that almost had him slipping on the floor returned him to his desk. Old and made from pale wood, it was probably the most elegant piece of furniture in this otherwise cheerless police station. His phonelay on the desk, its flashing red light indicating that a message was waiting for him; this tiny light was more welcome than any Christmas illuminations.
Ari Thór forgot the earlier call, the whispering voice, the fear and the uncertainty, and snatched up the phone to see the message. And then there was disappointment. It wasn’t from Kristín. It wasn’t even a number he recognised.
He read it with great surprise.
‘Merry Christmas! Enjoy your shift!’ he read, and beneath it was a name, Ugla.
Had Ugla remembered to send him a Christmas message when Kristín hadn’t?
He found his annoyance at Kristín’s oversight – her intransigence – gradually give way to his delight at Ugla’s message, and the thought of her brought a smile to his face. He imagined her: tall but not quite his height, and those delicate musician’s fingers.
Ugla was probably at home with her parents, getting everything ready for Christmas, and she had still remembered him. He sent her a grateful reply, wishing her a happy Christmas, before sitting back down with his book, this time finding it easier to concentrate.
The church bells rang Christmas in, echoing through the town and up to the mountains, but no further, as if they were intended for the town’s inhabitants only.
Ari Thór laid the book aside and removed the candle from his bag, setting it in the window and putting a match to its wick. Then he pushed the piles of paperwork aside to make room for his meal and poured a can of Christmas ale into a glass. His thoughts turned to his mother, who had always had a smoked rack of pork at Christmas, and always played the same music from an old record, before Christmas was rung in by the church bells relayed over the radio at the start of the nationwide broadcast of the Christmas Mass.
He took the CD from his bag and put it into the station’s old but serviceable CD player. He turned up the volume before the music started, and knew precisely what he wanted to hear at this moment; the largo from Vivaldi’s Winter .
And with that Christmas arrived.
13
The mobile phone in her coat pocket – why hadn’t she tried to use it? Why hadn’t she tried to call the police? She could have done it easily enough, punching in the three numbers by feel alone … Dammit. It was too late to think of that now, with her phone ringing and the piercing ringtone shrieking from her coat pocket.
He jumped, the razor-sharp blade that he had again rested against her neck nicking her. She put a hand to the wound and found that it was shallow.
He snatched the phone, looked at the screen and showed it to her. It was her husband, undoubtedly wanting to have a word before boarding his flight.
‘Please, let me have the phone,’ she whispered. ‘It’s my husband. He’ll worry if I don’t answer.’
All the same, she knew that wasn’t the truth. He had taken care to call her mobile and not the house phone, thinking that she could be asleep with her mobile set to silent.
The black-clad man thought for a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not she was telling the truth, while the phone continued to shriek, each ring louder than the last.
Then he looked at her and deliberately dropped the phone into the pocket of his leather jacket.
‘Give me the combination, now!’
‘I don’t have it!’ She was pleading, her heart pounding. ‘You have to believe me!’
14
SIGLUFJÖRDUR. THURSDAY, 8 JANUARY 2009
Ugla stood up. She had been sitting on an old kitchen chair with a torn plastic seat. She stopped for a moment and looked deep into the eyes of the man standing in front of her. Karl. His thick, dark hair had not started to grey, even though he was a couple of
Kristín!?
He wiped the snow from his face and a few steps on wet feet that almost had him slipping on the floor returned him to his desk. Old and made from pale wood, it was probably the most elegant piece of furniture in this otherwise cheerless police station. His phonelay on the desk, its flashing red light indicating that a message was waiting for him; this tiny light was more welcome than any Christmas illuminations.
Ari Thór forgot the earlier call, the whispering voice, the fear and the uncertainty, and snatched up the phone to see the message. And then there was disappointment. It wasn’t from Kristín. It wasn’t even a number he recognised.
He read it with great surprise.
‘Merry Christmas! Enjoy your shift!’ he read, and beneath it was a name, Ugla.
Had Ugla remembered to send him a Christmas message when Kristín hadn’t?
He found his annoyance at Kristín’s oversight – her intransigence – gradually give way to his delight at Ugla’s message, and the thought of her brought a smile to his face. He imagined her: tall but not quite his height, and those delicate musician’s fingers.
Ugla was probably at home with her parents, getting everything ready for Christmas, and she had still remembered him. He sent her a grateful reply, wishing her a happy Christmas, before sitting back down with his book, this time finding it easier to concentrate.
The church bells rang Christmas in, echoing through the town and up to the mountains, but no further, as if they were intended for the town’s inhabitants only.
Ari Thór laid the book aside and removed the candle from his bag, setting it in the window and putting a match to its wick. Then he pushed the piles of paperwork aside to make room for his meal and poured a can of Christmas ale into a glass. His thoughts turned to his mother, who had always had a smoked rack of pork at Christmas, and always played the same music from an old record, before Christmas was rung in by the church bells relayed over the radio at the start of the nationwide broadcast of the Christmas Mass.
He took the CD from his bag and put it into the station’s old but serviceable CD player. He turned up the volume before the music started, and knew precisely what he wanted to hear at this moment; the largo from Vivaldi’s Winter .
And with that Christmas arrived.
13
The mobile phone in her coat pocket – why hadn’t she tried to use it? Why hadn’t she tried to call the police? She could have done it easily enough, punching in the three numbers by feel alone … Dammit. It was too late to think of that now, with her phone ringing and the piercing ringtone shrieking from her coat pocket.
He jumped, the razor-sharp blade that he had again rested against her neck nicking her. She put a hand to the wound and found that it was shallow.
He snatched the phone, looked at the screen and showed it to her. It was her husband, undoubtedly wanting to have a word before boarding his flight.
‘Please, let me have the phone,’ she whispered. ‘It’s my husband. He’ll worry if I don’t answer.’
All the same, she knew that wasn’t the truth. He had taken care to call her mobile and not the house phone, thinking that she could be asleep with her mobile set to silent.
The black-clad man thought for a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not she was telling the truth, while the phone continued to shriek, each ring louder than the last.
Then he looked at her and deliberately dropped the phone into the pocket of his leather jacket.
‘Give me the combination, now!’
‘I don’t have it!’ She was pleading, her heart pounding. ‘You have to believe me!’
14
SIGLUFJÖRDUR. THURSDAY, 8 JANUARY 2009
Ugla stood up. She had been sitting on an old kitchen chair with a torn plastic seat. She stopped for a moment and looked deep into the eyes of the man standing in front of her. Karl. His thick, dark hair had not started to grey, even though he was a couple of
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