Blackout by Ragnar Jónasson Page A

Ísrún was standing in the entrance lobby of a newish apartment block on Vatnsstígur, a very expensive part of town.
    The sister’s name was nowhere to be seen. However, there was a single unmarked button; a flat on the sixth floor. It had to be the right one.
    She pressed the button, but kept her face turned away from the camera lens next to it. No answer.
    She buzzed a second time and waited.
    The speaker crackled and a hoarse male voice said ‘Hello?’ in an abrupt tone.
    ‘Ríkhardur? I’m from the city police… I need a word with you about your place on the north coast.’
    He muttered something she couldn’t understand and buzzed her into the building.
    She took the lift to the sixth floor. A few years before she would have jogged up the stairs, but she didn’t think she was fit enough for that anymore.
    Finding the right door she pressed another buzzer.
    As the man opened the door, she quickly put a foot inside, smiling as she squeezed herself through the narrow gap.
    ‘Hang on,’ he said in a confused voice. ‘Don’t I know you? That … that scar.’ People didn’t usually mention it, thought Ísrún. ‘I’ve seen you on the television.’ His voice was gaining volume now. ‘You’re no damned copper. You’re a bloody reporter! Get out of here!’
    ‘I’ll make you a deal,’ she said calmly. ‘I have no interest in you and your wretched affairs. But I am interested in finding out about Elías Freysson. If you answer a few questions for me, I promise I won’t mention you in my report. If, on the other hand, you decide to keep quiet…’ she paused. She’d never been so coolly ruthless in the old days. The last two years had changed her. ‘… you can bank on the media being camped outside your door.’
    He gulped.
    ‘I have a cameraman waiting in the car,’ she lied. ‘I can give him a shout. There’s no way you’ll get out of the building without being filmed.’
    He turned away and seemed to be thinking for a moment. ‘What do you want to know about Elías?’ he snarled as he faced her again.
    ‘How well did you know him?’
    ‘Not at all really. He was doing some work for me. I was told he was a skilled workman, and we agreed a fair price for a job.’
    ‘Who put you in touch with him?’ Ísrún persisted.
    ‘A friend of mine in Dalvík. His name’s Svavar. He and Elías were close friends; they’d worked together for years.’
    ‘I want this Svavar’s details – a phone number or an address.’
    He nodded, seemingly defeated.
    ‘Stay here,’ he ordered and went into the next room. He returned a moment later with a piece of paper, with something scrawled on it in almost illegible handwriting.
    ‘There you go,’ he said in a harsh voice, handing her the note. ‘And now be off with you.’
    ‘What else do you know about Elías?’ asked Ísrún, without moving. ‘Anything that could be useful?’
    ‘Hell and damnation; I didn’t know the man at all,’ Ríkhardur snapped. ‘The bloody fool, getting himself murdered on my property.’
    Ísrún stood her ground, watching Ríkhardur fume as he tried to think of a way to get rid of her.
    ‘The only other thing I know is that he was involved in charity work, some concert in Akureyri. That’s it. Now get out of here before I call the police.’
    ‘Thanks for being so helpful,’ she said with a smile and made her way out of the apartment. The door slammed shut at her heels.
    She took the lift down and, getting into her car, headed for the road northwards.
    Svavar’s place in Dalvík was going to be her first port of call.

18
    ‘Posh, aren’t we?’ Hlynur said, watching as Ari Thór opened a tin decorated with a Christmas tree motif, took a few tea leaves and put them in hot water to infuse.
    ‘You don’t know a good thing when you see it,’ Ari Thór retorted. ‘You just swill that muck you call coffee all day long.’
    ‘So Christmas has come early for you, has it?’
    Ari Thór smiled, declining to reply,