Snowblind Read online

  PRAISE FOR SNOWBLIND

  ‘Ragnar Jónasson writes with a chilling, poetic beauty – a must-read addition to the growing canon of Iceland Noir’ Peter James

  ‘Seductive … an old-fashioned murder mystery with a strong central character and the fascinating background of a small Icelandic town cut off by snow. Ragnar does claustrophobia beautifully’ Ann Cleeves

  ‘Ragnar Jónasson’s Snowblind is as dazzling a novel as its title implies, and the wonderful Ari Thór is a welcome addition to the pantheon of Scandinavian detectives. I can’t wait until the sequel!’ William Ryan

  ‘A truly chilling debut, perfect for fans of Karin Fossum and Henning Mankell’ Eva Dolan

  ‘An isolated community, subtle clueing, clever mis-direction and more than a few surprises combine to give a modern-day, golden-age whodunnit. Well Done! I look forward to the next in the series’ John Curran

  ‘Snowblind brings you the chill of a snowbound Icelandic fishing village cut off from the outside world, and the warmth of a really well-crafted and translated murder mystery’ Michael Ridpath

  ‘The complex characters and absorbing plot make Snowblind memorable. Its setting – Siglufjörður, a small fishing village isolated in the depths of an Icelandic winter – makes it unforgettable. Let’s hope that more of this Icelandic author’s work will be translated’ Sandra Balzo

  ‘In Ari Thór Arason, Nordic Noir has a new hero as compelling and interesting as the Northern Icelandic setting’ Nick Quantrill

  ‘This has all the ingredients – a young policeman, a girlfriend left behind, murders both old and new for solving, together with the intertwining of relationships within a small community as it goes through a snowbound dark winter. An absorbing read and one I didn’t put down.’ Thinkingofyouandme.com

  ‘If a golden-age crime novel was to emerge from a literary deep freeze then you’d hope it would read like this. Jónasson cleverly squeezes this small, isolated town in northern Iceland until it is hard to breathe, ensuring the setting is as claustrophobic as any locked room. If you call your book “Snowblind” then you better make sure it’s chilling. He does.’ Craig Robertson

  ‘If Arnaldur is the King and Yrsa the Queen of Icelandic crime fiction, then Ragnar is surely the Crown Prince … more please!’ Karen Meek, EuroCrime

  ‘Ragnar Jónasson brilliantly evokes the claustrophobia of small-town Iceland in this intriguing murder mystery. Let’s hope this is the first of many translations by Quentin Bates’ Zoë Sharp

  ‘Ragnar Jónasson is simply brilliant at planting a hook and using the magic of a dark Icelandic winter to reel in the story. Snowblind screams isolation and darkness in an exploration of the basic Icelandic nature, with all its attendant contrasts and extremes, amid a plot filled with twists, turns, and one surprise after another’ Jeffrey Siger

  ‘A chilling, thrilling slice of Icelandic Noir’ Thomas Enger

  ‘A stunning murder mystery set in the northernmost town in Iceland, written by one of the country’s finest crime writers. Ragnar has Nordic Noir down pat – a remote small-town mystery that is sure to please crime fiction aficionados’ Yrsa Sigurðardóttir

  ‘Snowblind is a brilliantly crafted crime story that gradually unravels old secrets in a small Icelandic town … an excellent debut from a talented Icelandic author. I can’t wait to read more’ Sarah Ward

  ‘Is King Arnaldur Indriðason looking to his laurels? There is a young pretender beavering away, his eye on the crown: Ragnar Jónasson …’ Barry Forshaw

  ‘An intricately plotted crime novel, Snowblind is a remarkable début. Ragnar Jonasson has delivered an intelligent whodunnit that updates, stretches, and redefines the locked-room mystery format. A tense and thrilling book that paints a vivid portrait of a remote town in long-term decline, facing the chilling aftershocks of the global financial meltdown. The author’s cool, clean prose constructs atmospheric word pictures that recreate the harshness of an Icelandic winter in the reader’s mind. Destined to be an instant classic’ EuroDrama

  ‘Snowblind is a beautifully written thriller, as tense as it is terrifying – Jonasson is a writer with a big future’ Luca Veste

  Snowblind

  RAGNAR JÓNASSON

  translated by Quentin Bates

  For Kira, from Dad

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Maps

  PRELUDE SIGLUFJÖRDUR: WEDNESDAY, 14TH OF JANUARY 2009

  1 REYKJAVÍK: SPRING 2008

  2

  3 REYKJAVÍK: SUMMER 2008

  4 SIGLUFJÖRDUR: NOVEMBER 2008

  5

  6 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. NOVEMBER 2008

  7

  8 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. DECEMBER 2008

  9

  10 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. SUNDAY, 14TH DECEMBER 2008

  11

  12 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. CHRISTMAS EVE 2008

  13

  14 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. THURSDAY, 8 JANUARY 2009

  15 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. FRIDAY, 9TH JANUARY 2009

  16

  17 FRIDAY, 9TH JANUARY 2009

  18 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. FRIDAY, 9TH JANUARY 2009

  19 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. SUNDAY, 9TH JANUARY 2009, EARLY HOURS

  20 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. SUNDAY, 11TH JANUARY 2009

  21 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. MONDAY, 12TH JANUARY 2009

  22 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. MONDAY, 12TH JANUARY 2009

  23 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. TUESDAY, 13TH JANUARY 2009

  24 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. WEDNESDAY, 14TH JANUARY 2009

  25 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. WEDNESDAY, 14TH JANUARY 2009

  26 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. WEDNESDAY, 14TH JANUARY 2009

  27 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. THURSDAY, 15TH JANUARY 2009

  28 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. FRIDAY, 16TH JANUARY 2009

  29 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. SATURDAY, 17TH JANUARY 2009

  30 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. SATURDAY, 17TH JANUARY 2009

  31 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. SATURDAY, 17TH JANUARY 2009

  32 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. SUNDAY, 18TH JANUARY 2009

  33 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. MONDAY, 19TH JANUARY 2009

  34 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. MONDAY, 19TH JANUARY 2009

  35 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. TUESDAY, 20TH JANUARY 2009

  36 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. WEDNESDAY, 21ST JANUARY 2009

  37 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. WEDNESDAY, 21ST JANUARY 2009

  38

  39 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. WEDNESDAY, 21ST JANUARY 2009

  40 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. WEDNESDAY, 21ST JANUARY 2009

  41 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. THURSDAY, 22ND JANUARY 2009

  42 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. FRIDAY, 23RD JANUARY 2009

  43 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. SATURDAY, 24TH JANUARY 2009

  44 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. SATURDAY, 24TH JANUARY 2009

  45 SIGLUFJÖRDUR. SATURDAY, 24TH JANUARY 2009

  46 REYKJAVÍK. SATURDAY, 24TH JANUARY 2009

  EPILOGUE SPRINGTIME

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  Copyright

  SNOWBLIND

  Prelude

  SIGLUFJÖRDUR: WEDNESDAY, 14TH OF JANUARY 2009

  The red stain was like a scream in the silence.

  The snow-covered ground was so white that it had almost banished the winter night’s darkness, elemental in its purity. It had been snowing since that morning, big, heavy flakes falling gracefully to earth. That evening there was a break in the snowfall and no more had fallen since.

  Few people were about. Most people stayed indoors, happy to enjoy the weather from behind a window. It was possible that some of them had decided to stay at home after the death at the Dramatic Society. Tales travelled swiftly and the atmosphere was heavy with suspicion, in spite of the town’s peaceful outward appearance. A bird flying over the town would not have noticed anything unusual, would not have sensed the tension in the air, the uncertainty and even the fear, not unless it had flown over the little back garden i
n the middle of the town.

  The tall trees surrounding the garden were in their winter finery, taking on shadowy shapes in the darkness that were reminiscent of clowns rather than trolls, decked in delicate white from the ground up, in spite of the snow weighing down some of their branches.

  A comforting light shone from the warm houses and the street lights illuminated the main roads. This back garden was far from being hidden in gloom, even though it was late.

  The ring of mountains protecting the town was almost entirely white that night and the highest peaks could just be glimpsed. It was as if they had failed in their duty these last few days, as if something unexplained, some threat, had stolen through the town; something that had remained more or less unseen, until that night.

  She lay in the middle of the garden, like a snow angel.

  From a distance she appeared peaceful.

  Her arms splayed from her sides. She wore a faded pair of jeans and was naked from the waist up, her long hair around her like a coronet in the snow; snow that shouldn’t be that shade of red.

  A pool of blood had formed around her.

  Her skin seemed to be paling alarmingly fast, taking on the colour of marble, as if in response to the striking crimson that surrounded her.

  Her lips were blue. Her shallow breath came fast.

  She seemed to be looking up into the dark heavens.

  Then her eyes snapped shut.

  1

  REYKJAVÍK: SPRING 2008

  It wasn’t far off midnight, but it was still light. The days were growing longer and longer. It was the time of year when each new day, brighter than the day before, brought with it the hope of something better, and things were looking bright for Ari Thór Arason. His girlfriend, Kristín, had finally moved into his little flat on Öldugata, although this wasn’t much more than a formality. She had been staying there most nights anyway, except those just before an exam, when she liked to read in the peace and quiet of her parents’ house, often far into the night.

  Kristín came into the bedroom from the shower, a towel around her waist.

  ‘God, I’m tired. Sometimes I wonder why I went for medicine.’

  Ari Thór looked round from the little desk in the bedroom.

  ‘You’ll be a fantastic doctor.’

  She lay on the bed, stretching out on top of the duvet, her blonde hair spread like a halo on the white of the bedclothes.

  Like an angel, Ari Thór thought, admiring her as she stretched out her arms and then ran them gently down her torso.

  Like a snow angel.

  ‘Thanks, my love. And you’ll be a brilliant cop,’ she said. ‘But I still think you should have finished your theology degree,’ she couldn’t help adding.

  He knew that well enough and didn’t need to hear it from her. First it had been philosophy, until he had given up on it, and then theology. He had packed that in as well, and found himself enrolling in the police college. Roots were something he had never been able to put down properly, always seeking something that suited his temperament, something with a little excitement to it. He reckoned he had probably applied for theology as a challenge to some god he was convinced didn’t exist; some god who had snatched away any chance he had of growing up normally when he was thirteen, when his mother died and his father had disappeared without trace. It wasn’t until he had met Kristín and – only two years earlier – been able to puzzle out the mystery of his father’s disappearance that Ari Thór began to achieve a little peace of mind. This was when the idea of the police college had first crossed his mind, with the expectation that he’d make a better cop than a clergyman. The police college had left him in fine physical shape, and the weight-lifting, running and swimming had made him broader across the shoulders than he had ever been before. He had certainly never been this fit when he was poring over theology texts night and day.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ he replied, a little stung. ‘I haven’t forgotten the theology. I’m just taking a break from it.’

  ‘You ought to make an effort and finish it, while it’s still fresh in your mind. It’s so hard to start again if you leave it too long,’ she said, and Ari Thór knew she wasn’t speaking from experience. She had always finished everything she set out to do, flying through one exam after another. Nothing seemed capable of stopping her and she had just finished the fifth of the six years of her medical degree. He wasn’t envious – just proud. Sooner or later they would need to move abroad so that she could specialise, something that had never been discussed, but of which he was all too keenly aware.

  She put a pillow behind her head and looked at him. ‘Isn’t it awkward having the desk in the bedroom? And isn’t this flat way too small?’

  ‘Small? No, I love it. I’d hate to move out of the centre of town.’

  She lay back, her head sinking into the pillow. ‘Anyway, there’s no hurry.’

  ‘There’s plenty of space for the two of us.’ Ari Thór stood up. ‘We’ll just have to be cosy.’

  He removed the towel and lay carefully on top of her, kissing her long and deep. She returned the kiss, wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him close.

  2

  How the hell could they have forgotten the rice?

  She was livid as she picked up the phone to call the little side-street Indian place that was five minutes from their sprawling detached house. With its two, stylish, brick-built storeys, orange roof and large garage capped by a sunlit patio on its roof, it was a dream home for a big family. They were still happy here, even though the children had all flown the nest and retirement wasn’t far away.

  She tried to calm down as she waited for the phone to be answered. She had been looking forward to sitting down in front of the television to watch a Friday-night sitcom over a piping-hot chicken curry with rice. She was home alone, her husband away on business and probably now on his way to the night flight that would bring him home the following morning.

  The infuriating thing was that the Indian place didn’t do deliveries, so she could see herself having to go out again while the rest of her dinner cooled. Bloody mess. At least it was warm enough outside that walking wouldn’t be any great hardship.

  When someone finally answered, she came straight to the point.

  ‘Who has a curry without rice?’ she complained, her voice rising out of all proportion to the apparent offence.

  When the waiter apologised and then hesitantly offered to prepare a replacement immediately, she slammed down the phone and, fighting back her anger, set off into the darkness.

  It look her longer than usual to find the keys in her handbag when she returned ten minutes later, the rice in a bag, ready for a relaxed evening with something good to eat. It wasn’t until the key was turning in the lock that she sensed a presence, something that wasn’t right.

  But then it was too late.

  3

  REYKJAVÍK: SUMMER 2008

  Ari Thór came in from the rain. Coming home to the flat in Öldugata had always given him a warm feeling, but this past summer that feeling had never been warmer.

  ‘Hi, is that you?’ Kristín called from the desk in the bedroom, where she sat over her textbooks when she wasn’t on duty at the National Hospital.

  He felt that the flat had taken on a new life when she moved in. The white walls, which had been neutral before, suddenly became bright. There was an aura about Kristín, even when she sat silently over a book at the desk, an energy that Ari Thór found captivating. Occasionally he had the feeling that he had lost control of his own life. He was twenty-four and the future was no longer a blank sheet. He never said anything to her; feelings weren’t the easiest thing for him to talk about.

  He looked into the bedroom. She sat there with a book.

  Why did she have to sit over these books all summer?

  The sunshine didn’t seem to have tempted her.

  ‘Walking to work and back is enough for me. That’ll do for time outdoors,’ she teased, when he nicely tried t
o persuade her to walk downtown whenever he had a sunny day off. That summer he was in training with the police force at Keflavík airport, while his final term at the police college approached.

  He sometimes wondered what had prompted him, only a year ago, to give up on theology – although perhaps only temporarily – and test his talents elsewhere. He had never been one for spending a lot of time over textbooks. He needed to have some activity, a little variety. There was something about police work that fascinated him: the excitement and the drama. It certainly wasn’t the money. He had been accepted by the police college even though the term had been about to start.

  He found he relished police work, enjoying the responsibility and the buzz of adrenaline.

  Now his training was almost over; just one term to go and then he’d be qualified. It still wasn’t clear what the next step would be once he graduated. He had applied for several posts with the police, had been turned down a few times and still had no offers.

  ‘It’s me. What’s new?’ he called to Kristín, hanging up his damp coat. He went in to where she was absorbed in a book and planted a kiss on the back of her neck.

  ‘Hi.’ Her voice was warm, but she didn’t put the book aside.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  She closed the book, having carefully marked her place, and turned to him. ‘Not bad. You went to the gym?’

  ‘Yes, and feel better for it.’

  His mobile phone began to ring.

  He went out into the hall, took his phone from his coat pocket.

  ‘Ari Thór?’ said a booming voice. ‘Ari Thór Arason?’

  ‘That’s me,’ he answered, slightly suspiciously as he hadn’t recognised the caller’s number.

  ‘My name’s Tómas. I’m with the police in Siglufjördur.’ The tone was slightly friendlier now.

  Ari Thór moved into the kitchen to be able to speak without being overheard. Siglufjördur was one post which he had applied for without telling Kristín. This was a place he didn’t know much about, only that one could hardly travel further north in Iceland; a place probably closer to the Arctic Circle than to Reykjavík.