Free Blackout by Ragnar Jónasson

retiring and began talking about travelling the world, taking cruises or walking holidays to foreign lands. But Nóra was exhausted, jaded by the constant trips.
    Around the time that she retired, Nóra sold the apartment in Grafarvogur. She’d never really felt comfortable there, and one of the main reasons for this was that she had borrowed heavily against the equity to invest in the stock market. When the financial crash unfolded, she rapidly discovered that she’d lost almost everything.
    There was nothing for it but to move away from the Reykjavík area and back north to her hometown, Siglufjörður, with just enough retrieved from the financial mess to buy a pretty house with a sea view, on Hvanneyrarbraut. She was able to defray her living costs by renting out the upper floor. In fact, having company upstairs turned out to be something she enjoyed.
    Her intention was to relax in Siglufjörður, to enjoy life. And Nóra was able to achieve that, taking an active part in the town’s social scene, experimenting with a few new lovers, and spending much of her time reading by the living-room window with its view over the sea and the mountains that ringed the town.
    She was at home when the young police officer knocked at her door. Ever since the news that her tenant upstairs had been found dead, she had been expecting this visit. Rather than receive the police dressed in her usual tracksuit bottoms and flip-flops, she had smartened herself up. It was the least she could do.
    She had hoped that Tómas would come in person, but instead it was the one they called the Reverend, a good-looking young man. He was much too young for her, of course, although she refused torule anything out. He was a serious character, with dead eyes, she decided, as if he had lost something precious.

    ‘Come in.’
    The woman in the doorway gave him a smile that was almost fawning as she looked him up and down. ‘You must be Ari Thór.’
    It was still disconcerting that unfamiliar people knew his name, but he conceded that in a small community everyone knew who the police were.
    ‘Thank you. I need to take a look at Elías’s apartment. I understand he was your tenant.’
    ‘Quite right. What’s happened is dreadful. The poor man … he was so lovely.’
    Her words didn’t sound entirely genuine. So lovely . He wondered if that would be Elías Freysson’s epitaph. Would it be carved on his gravestone?
    ‘What on earth am I supposed to do with all his things?’ she mused.
    ‘We’ll find out for you. There may be a relative to inherit his belongings, but first I need to look around. It’s best if you don’t touch anything for the moment,’ Ari Thór said in a tight voice, avoiding unnecessary chat.
    The walls of the hall were painted a dark shade of yellow and decorated with small graphic prints. A staircase on the right led upstairs, the passage painted the same shade of yellow.
    Opening the door, Nóra showed Ari Thór into the living room. A small fireplace was filled with oddments and potted plants. The walls were hung with paintings from far-flung parts of the world: one from Africa, another of an Asian scene and a watercolour of Rio de Janeiro. This was clearly a traveller’s home, a repository of memories.
    ‘When did you last see him?’ Ari Thór asked, when he had madehimself comfortable on an embossed white sofa. She sat next to him, uncomfortably close.
    ‘Yesterday,’ she said. ‘I ran into him in the hall early yesterday morning. As you just saw, he couldn’t go upstairs without walking through my hall. I had the place modified when I bought it, so I could have separate apartments upstairs and down,’ she said. Again, her smile was intense, discomfiting Ari Thór. He averted his eyes.
    ‘Did he seem to be concerned about anything? Did you notice anything unusual about him?’ he asked.
    Nóra thought for a moment. ‘Well, there’s a question. Not concerned. More like excited about something.’
    ‘About