KRAKATOA: I heard they arrested a local. Gunnar Snaer Sigmundsson. He’s one of our investors.
LINDENBROOK: Any link back to us?
KRAKATOA: No. We’re OK. He invested through Helga.
LINDENBROOK: Do you know when the funeral is?
KRAKATOA: Yes. Tuesday next week.
LINDENBROOK: Are you going?
KRAKATOA: Yes. Yes, I’m going.
Twenty-One
Dísa’s left hand hurt as her sister’s fingers gripped it.
They were gathered around the graveside overlooking the valley in which generations of Dísa’s and Anna Rós’s ancestors were buried. It had been raining for most of the morning, but as Mum’s coffin had emerged from the church on the pallbearers’ shoulders, the grey clouds had rumbled away towards the mountains to the east, allowing weak sunshine to wash over the large crowd of mourners that filled the graveyard and spilled over into the surrounding meadow. Two pillars of a rainbow shimmered softly beside the mountain. The valley’s birds provided a requiem of joyful chirps and warbles.
As the priest intoned a prayer, Dísa’s eyes settled on the elegant figure of Soffía, Gunni’s wife, tall, blonde, beautiful even in her fifties, standing towards the back, alone. It was good of her to come — brave of her to come. Her husband was locked up in jail while the police gathered evidence. Rumours were flying: the police had found a knife with Mum’s blood on it, Gunni had invested hundreds of millions in Thomocoin and, worst of all, he had had an affair with Mum. Inspector Ólafur had confirmed the first two to the family, but remained silent on the third, at least in front of Dísa.
She refused to believe it.
The coffin was lowered into the ground. Anna Rós emitted a strangled wail, and a sob thrust its way up from Dísa’s chest as her eyes filled with tears. Again. She gripped her sister’s hand and leaned into her father’s shoulder next to her.
It was horrible. It was all so horrible.
The farmhouse at Blábrekka was big, but not nearly big enough for everyone who came. All the rooms downstairs were full, and people spilled outside.
Dísa hoped none of the mourners had COVID, as the bodies pressed together. The virus had disappeared from Iceland almost entirely during the summer, but it was making a stealthy comeback, and case numbers were rising. The university insisted on social distancing and face masks, and there was talk of new restrictions coming in. But in Dalvík, no one seemed to care, at least not for a funeral.
Her mother would have been horrified. As an anaesthetist, she had been caught up in the first wave in Akureyri in March and April and had wrestled with the disease at first hand.
Dísa recognized most of the crowd. Half the town of Dalvík had come, as well as several of Mum’s colleagues from the hospital and a few of her friends from her time in Reykjavík. Dísa couldn’t see Soffía; she must have slipped away. Mum’s medical friends looked as if they were about to follow her.
Dad had come, thank God. Dísa and Anna Rós had been so relieved to see him. Mum’s death had hit him hard, as Dísa always knew it would. Grandpa and Grandma seemed to understand and were polite, even warm to their former son-in-law. Dísa had done her best to support them through their grief over the last ten days, but she needed her one remaining parent.
‘Hey, Dísa, how are you doing?’
It was Kata, who had arrived from Reykjavík in time for the closing of the coffin the day before. It was good to have an old friend around.
‘I’m OK,’ she said, although she clearly wasn’t.
‘That must have been tough. The burial.’
‘It was,’ said Dísa. ‘But it’s good at the same time.’
‘There are so many people here,’ said Kata. ‘She had a lot of friends, your mum. A lot of respect.’
‘I know.’
Kata smiled up at Dísa. She was a good six inches shorter, dark-haired, slightly plump, with a bright smile that lit up a crowd, especially of men. And at that moment it warmed Dísa.
Jói elbowed his way through the pack, his blue eyes clouded with sadness and sympathy. Dísa grabbed her brother and clung on hard. He wrapped his arms around her.
‘I’m so sorry, Dísa,’ he said.
She stood back as Jói hugged his father and Anna Rós.
‘You remember Kata, Jói?’
‘Of course! But I haven’t seen you for years.’
Kata turned her smile on him. ‘Yeah. Not a great way to meet up again.’
‘Kata says I can stay with her when I get back to Reykjavík, Jói,’ Dísa said.
‘That’s good,’ said Jói. ‘I don’t mean I want to get rid of you, but at least you’ll be with someone you know.’
‘I’ll look after her,’ said Kata, putting her arm around Dísa and squeezing. Dísa smiled back gratefully.
‘They’ve got the guy that did it, I hear?’ said Jói.
‘Yes. Gunni. Did you ever meet him?’
‘Yeah, I remember him. He kept a horse here, didn’t he?’
Mum had invited Jói to stay at Blábrekka a few times even after the divorce. She knew that he and Dísa were close, and she had always liked him herself.
Dísa lowered her voice so in the hubbub only Jói could hear what she was saying. ‘There’s a rumour going around town that Mum had an affair with him.’
‘With Gunni?’
‘That’s what they say. That can’t be right, can it?’
‘No, it can’t be,’ said Jói with a reassuring smile. ‘It’s small-town gossip. Don’t believe a word of it.’
‘All right,’ said Dísa. ‘I won’t believe a word of it.’
That was what she had wanted Jói to say. It was what Kata had said. And yet Jói hadn’t seemed as shocked by the idea as he should have been, as Kata had been.
Dísa banished the suspicion from her mind.
‘Are you going back to Reykjavík tomorrow?’ said Dísa. ‘I am. Kata’s giving me a lift in her car. I’m sure there’s room for you.’
‘That would have been nice, but I’m getting an evening flight with Dad right after this.’
‘Do we have to talk about Thomocoin?’ Dad’s voice broke through the din, loud and irritated.
Dísa turned. Her father was speaking to Uncle Eggert. Ómar used to look good in a suit in the old days, with his slick black hair brushed back, but no more. The hair was shaved off, a tattoo crawled up his neck above the white collar of his shirt and his tummy hung over his too-tight trousers.
‘It’s a fair question,’ said Eggert. ‘A lot of people here have a lot of money riding on this.’
‘Not at her funeral, Eggert. Not at her funeral.’
Some of the mourners closest to them had overheard Ómar and were turning towards him, curious.
‘I have no information,’ Ómar said. ‘Neither good nor bad. I just don’t know.’
‘Maybe he does,’ said Eggert, looking over Ómar’s shoulder.
Ómar turned, as did Dísa. A tall figure was weaving through the crowd, which parted respectfully. The level of noise in the room fell two notches.
Sharp. Now he did look good in a suit.
At least half the crowd recognized Sharp from his Thomocoin promotional videos and they shut up and stared.
Sharp nodded at the sea of people he didn’t know and headed straight for his friend Ómar.
‘Hey, man, I’m so sorry,’ he said, putting his arm around Ómar. ‘She was a special woman.’
Ómar nodded. ‘She was.’
Sharp hugged him tightly.
‘Hi, Dísa,’ he said, flashing her a quick smile. ‘My condolences.’
‘Thanks,’ Dísa said, pleased that he had recognized her.
Eggert was glaring at Sharp. Sharp smiled and held out his hand. ‘Eggert, isn’t it? Good to see you again.’