Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 143, No. 1. Whole No. 868, January 2014

Death of a Sunflower by Ragnar Jonasson

Translated from Icelandic by the author.

Ragnar Jonasson is the author of four crime novels published by Verold Publishing in Iceland. A TV series based on the books will soon begin filming in North Ice land, where the books are set (see Sagafilm). One of the novels also came out in Germany in 2011, and received rave reviews. The following tale — the authors first for EQMM — appeared in a German magazine before being translated into English for us. It’s set against the backdrop of turmoil created by the 2008 collapse of Icelandic banks.

He always knew that he would return to the scene of the crime.

He didn’t know that fifty years would pass. Now, he was an old man who had carried the burden of this sin — this crime — which had changed everything. As a result he had moved abroad and lived there for decades, like an outlaw. His native Iceland had no place in his heart anymore — and hadn’t had a place there since this dramatic night in 1958. Iceland meant nothing to him, but now he had returned there nevertheless.

From the tower suite at Hotel Borg one has a bird’s-eye view of Reykjavik. The city comes to life, the colorful houses are transformed into a magnificent kaleidoscope. The Square of Austurvöllur becomes oddly minute and the large parliament building looks like any other building. Nothing is like it was before, the point of view changes everything.

It is New Year’s Eve and the noise from the fireworks is thundering. The sky is lit up like an abstract painting, colours from imaginary cans of paint scattered all over the place.

The colours of the sky cast a glow into the suite where all the lights are turned off. Everything is so strangely quiet in spite of the loud fireworks. Everything is as it should be except for the still body in the middle of the floor. Life fades away during the dramatic symphony of the fireworks; a new year makes its entrance.

Fifty years ago. New Year’s Eve, 1958. For fifty years her death — her horrible death — had been on his conscience. She had said goodbye to this world while others were saying goodbye to the old year. She was called Sóley, named after a sunflower, bright and beautiful, with her long blond hair.

And now he was back in Reykjavik, standing outside of Hotel Borg, a city landmark which had changed very little during the years.

For one short moment he travelled back in his mind to that fateful day fifty years ago, but he did not stay there for long. Now it was 2008 again. On Austurvöllur Square there were unusually many people for a cold day in December. People were protesting against the government and the general state of things following the collapse of the Icelandic banks. Some were holding picket signs or shouting, others were making noise with pots and pans. Police officers tried to protect the parliament building.

What had happened to Reykjavik since he moved abroad? Had the small town turned into a big city? Or did that maybe happen fifty years earlier? There was a dark cloud of anger over the downtown area. The noise from the protests was overwhelming and the protesters uncomfortably close to him. He hurried into the hotel lobby, where he felt safe. At least for the time being. The currency of Iceland had collapsed with the banks, so his hotel room turned out to be much cheaper than when he had made the booking.

He was still burdened with guilt, after all those years. Why the hell had he done what he did? Sóley — the girl he had loved more than anything in the world. What came over him?

An elderly lady was sitting in a comfortable chair in the lobby, reading an English translation of a book by the Icelandic Nobel laureate Halldór Laxness. He was still able to read Laxness in the original Icelandic; he had not totally forgotten his origins in spite of the exile.

He was a sailor through and through, traveled extensively when he was a young man but always returned to the harbour in Reykjavik. Then he met this charming girl. He intended to marry her. But everything changed on New Year’s Eve 1958.

A few days after her death he had gone on yet another ocean voyage, but this time around he didn’t want to return home. He made a home for himself abroad. Sóley was gone forever, existing only as a memory in the shadowy place in his mind that he tried to avoid at all cost.

He was a young man when he started drinking. At first he drank to relax, but then — later on, when Sóley had died — he drank to avoid relaxing, so that he would not have to think of her. He had been under the influence of alcohol that day in 1958 — that New Year’s Eve. He had been drinking with his buddies on the previous evening; the evening turned into night and then the night turned into day — and he was still drinking. Was he not able to control his drinking, as he had always believed?

He could still envisage her — as she had been before she died, but also her gruesome lifeless body. What had he done?

Everything reminded him of her. His heart was still filled with guilt.

She had invited him to a New Year’s dance at Hotel Borg — he accepted the invitation with anticipation. He never imagined it could end this way. Of course not — of course it never occurred to him. Things would have gone differently if he had not taken that first drink on the day before the dance.

They were to meet in front of the hotel at half-past nine.

In front of the hotel.

Now, fifty years on, he was standing in the lobby and staring out the window. He wanted to grab a cup of coffee and something to eat, but the restaurant was closed due to a live television broadcast. The leaders of the political parties in Iceland were to discuss the political highlights of the year. The protesters had now moved closer to the hotel.

He could remember how she looked that night, young and charming in a new white dress — looking forward to celebrating the New Year with him. She had no intention of dying that night. During the last summer of her life, when they were sitting in the shade having a picnic, she actually told him that she was planning on living forever. On that occasion they discussed their future together. He was going to give up his job as a sailor and find something else to do. They planned on building a small house in Reykjavik, the village which was fast spreading out and turning into a city. It was no longer a luxury of the upper classes only to own a house in Reykjavik. A friend of his had, in fact, built a house of his own. This same friend invited him to the party on the evening before New Year’s Eve — the party which, in a way, cost Sóley her life.

Sóley had been in her first year at university, a country girl from a farm in the eastern part of Iceland, the only daughter of an elderly couple. Her father had been determined that she would enjoy the education he had missed. He saved money and made sure she finished her college studies and that she would then go on to study medicine at university. “It will be good to have a doctor in the family when we start losing our health,” he said with a joyful smile, but his voice indicated that first and foremost he wanted his daughter to have a secure and bright future.

Her parents had not been particularly happy hearing about her relationship with the sailor, who was a few years her senior and had little education. They had hoped she would finish her medical studies and go to Denmark for further studies before falling in love. The money in her university fund could possibly have been sufficient to pay for such a trip abroad.

Sóley lived with her aunt in Reykjavik. Her boyfriend had occasionally come over there for supper, a polite young man. Sóley’s aunt put in a good word for him and little by little Sóley’s father started accepting him — emphasizing, however, that she could not give up her studies even though they were to be married. He met his future son-in-law once, in the autumn, in Reykjavik.

The farmer had spoken to the young man after dinner and said these words, which were unforgettable, even half a century later: “I’m trusting you with my daughter. You shall not betray that trust.”

Yet, that was exactly what he had done. Betrayed the trust of Sóley and her parents. He could blame the alcohol or himself — it didn’t really matter. He had deprived her of the opportunity to lead the life she had been expecting, the bright future she was facing until she met him.

Why on earth did she have the misfortune of meeting him?

They had met at a sailors’ festival in downtown Reykjavik. He was with his friends, she was experiencing the big city by herself. He started speaking to her and subsequently invited her down to the harbour where he was to take part in a rowing competition. This was almost love at first sight. She was confident, smart, and sought after. Way too good for him, he felt. Every time he went out to sea he said a reluctant goodbye to her, worried that during his absence she would find another man, a better man. She never betrayed him. In hindsight, he wouldn’t have had to worry or be jealous; he should have focused on his own problems. In the end he turned out to be her worst enemy.

The protests outside of the hotel grew louder by the minute. The political party leaders had taken their seats in the restaurant and the televised debate was beginning. He didn’t know the names of any of these political figures, he never read any news from his old country, was only an Icelander by name — in the passport he carried.

The protests became more violent, a group of people — angry at the state of the economy following the total economic meltdown — attempted to breach the police barriers and make their way into the restaurant. For a moment he felt that they were coming for him, to punish him. He looked away and suddenly felt as if his hands were covered in blood. The blood of the woman he had loved.

Sóley’s aunt had driven her to the dance; it was too far to walk, especially as she was all dressed up for the occasion. One could see a glimpse of the white dress under her winter coat. She made sure that she arrived on time. They were to meet at nine-thirty and she was there at just past nine. Time passed so slowly. Guests gathered outside and when the doors were opened at half-past nine everyone hurried inside, carefree students, friends, acquaintances, boyfriends, girlfriends. Outside were those students who hadn’t managed to get tickets to the dance, but also some older men who were using the opportunity to try to meet young girls. Sóley noticed that two such men had been looking her way now and then, she had looked away and pretended not to notice anything. Then, suddenly, they were gone.

He was late. That was unlike him, but still... Hopefully he wasn’t drinking. He was always so reliable, except when he was drinking. Then he lost all sense of time and place, only thought of the next drink.

She heard the music from the dance, the noise was carried out into the street. She kept looking at her watch.

He has to be on his way.

She said nine-thirty, didn’t she? It was already eleven o’clock now. She didn’t want to betray him, didn’t want to go inside as she also had his ticket. She decided to wait a little bit longer. He had to be on his way. She started walking to keep warm, walked past the corner of the building. She didn’t notice the two men right away, not until one of them put his hand over her mouth and the other one helped drag her away, to a dark alley where no one could see them. They forced themselves upon her, one after the other, kicked her, beat her, until she gave up.

She was unable to call for help, knew she was dying, right there, in a dark alley. Her life slipping away, coming to an end just like the year 1958.

He had booked the tower suite.

He had decided to treat himself, even if he didn’t deserve it, but after all, this would be his last day on this earth. Soon a new year would begin in a new place where he would possibly meet Sóley again. Or perhaps not. It didn’t really matter all that much.

His last memory of her: her body covered in blood in a dark alley. The men who had done this to her had already disappeared. He had finally made it to their rendezvous at half-past eleven; he had been far too late due to his drinking. He couldn’t find her anywhere, asked around but was unable to get access to the dance without a ticket. He wandered around, looking for her — and then, finally, he saw her body. But he was too late. She was already dead.

Tonight he would finally find peace.

His conscience, bloody persistent, would finally let him rest.

The noise from the fireworks was the last thing he heard.

Or maybe rather, the noise from the fireworks and Sóley’s sweet voice.