Why Did You Lie? Read online

  Contents

  Also by Yrsa Sigurdardóttir

  About the Author

  About the Translator

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Pronunciation guide

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Have you read …

  Also by Yrsa Sigurdardóttir

  Last Rituals

  My Soul to Take

  Ashes to Dust

  The Day is Dark

  I Remember You

  Someone to Watch Over Me

  The Silence of the Sea

  The Undesired

  About the Author

  Yrsa Sigurdardóttir works as a civil engineer in Reykjavík. Her books for children have won prizes and great acclaim. Why Did You Lie? is her ninth adult novel.

  About the Translator

  Victoria Cribb studied and worked in Iceland for many years. She has translated numerous novels from the Icelandic, including works by Arnaldur Indridason and Sjón.

  WHY DID YOU LIE?

  Yrsa Sigurdardóttir

  Translated from the Icelandic by Victoria Cribb

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  First published with the title Lygi in 2013 by Veröld Publishing, Reykjavík

  Copyright © 2013 Yrsa Sigurdardóttir

  English translation © Victoria Cribb 2016

  The right of Yrsa Sigurdardóttir to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Hardback ISBN 9781473605053

  eBook ISBN 9781473605022

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.hodder.co.uk

  This book is dedicated to Kristín Halla Jónsdóttir and Sigurdur B. Thorsteinsson – I couldn’t have asked for better parents.

  —Yrsa

  Pronunciation guide

  NB: The stress always falls on the first syllable in Icelandic

  Character names (nicknames in brackets)

  Helgi – Hel-ghee

  Heida – Hey-tha

  Tóti – Toe-tee

  Ívar – Eee-var

  Nína – Nee-na

  Thröstur – Thros-dur

  Nói – Noh-wee

  Vala – Vaa-la

  Tumi – Tu-mee

  Púki – Poo-kee

  Berglind – Berg-lint

  Örvar – Err-var

  Stefán (Stebbi) – Ste-fown (Stebbee)

  Thorbjörg (Tobba) – Thor-byerg (Tobba)

  Dóri – Doh-ree

  Bylgja – Bil-gya

  Steini – Stain-ee

  Lárus (Lalli) – Lao-roos (Lal-lee)

  Aldís – Al-dees

  Places

  Thrídrangar – Three-drown-gar

  Stóridrangur – Stohree-drown-goor

  Skerjafjördur – Scare-ya-fyerth-oor

  Prologue

  28 January 2014

  Control: TF-LÍF, report your progress.

  TF-LÍF: Visual with the Thrídrangar stacks. Overhead in five minutes.

  Control: Keep your eyes peeled. Since visibility’s good, scan the surface of the sea; see if you can spot the missing man.

  TF-LÍF: Roger. Is he wearing a life jacket?

  Control: Negative, unlikely. He’s believed dead.

  TF-LÍF: Roger. Negative visual. Looking. Could he have sunk?

  Control: Possible. He’s been in the sea long enough for the air to have left the body by now. It’s too early for him to float up again. The sea’s so damn cold – it’s unlikely gases will have formed yet.

  TF-LÍF: Have they checked the currents?

  Control: Affirm. They think he could wash up near Hafnarvík. But Landeyjasandur’s also a possibility. Precise information about the time he entered the water is unavailable.

  TF-LÍF: Roger.

  Control: We have an update: the police car’s arrived at the hangar so there’ll be a reception committee waiting when you get back to base.

  TF-LÍF: [Static, inaudible.]

  Control: Say again last message, TF-LÍF; you’re breaking up.

  TF-LÍF: You didn’t miss much. We’ve only got three nautical miles to go and have a very clear visual on the stack.

  Control: Can you see the ground party?

  TF-LÍF: Negative. Perhaps when we get closer.

  Control: How’s the policeman doing? Bearing up?

  TF-LÍF: Fine, I believe. Conditions could hardly be better. I’ll ask. [Static, inaudible.] Yes, he’s doing OK. Not looking too queasy yet. We’ll see after the descent.

  Control: Yes. [Laughter.]

  TF-LÍF: We’re reducing speed. There’s an object floating less than one nautical mile to the west of the stack. We’re going to check it out.

  Control: Roger. Though I’d be surprised if it’s the missing man. He should have drifted much further by now.

  TF-LÍF: I’m looking through the binoculars. [Interference, crackling.] It’s a body. Damn.

  Control: Any chance he’s still alive?

  TF-LÍF: Negative. Floating face down. No normal movement.

  Control: Roger. That was to be expected. It must be the missing man. You’ll have to fetch him after you’ve picked up the ground party. Those were the orders. How do you read me?

  TF-LÍF: Loud and clear. We’re turning back. He’s not going anywhere. [Interference.] What the hell … Control, control, are you still there?

  Control: Affirm. Go ahead.

  TF-LÍF: We’ve spotted another body. By the foot of the cliff; probably snagged on a rock.

  Control: What? Are you sure?

  TF-LÍF: Quite sure. It’s a person. Dead.

  Control: Christ. You’ve only got one body bag, haven’t you?

  TF-LÍF: Roger. We understood there was only one casualty. How should we proceed?

  Control: Pick up both. Use the stretcher for the second body and cover it with a blanket. I’ll get confirmation while you’re evacuating the ground party. You may have to return to base and make another trip if the passengers object. Bu
t two trips would cost more; the finance department will want it done in one.

  TF-LÍF: Wilco. Overhead the stack now. I don’t know how to tell you this, but there’s another body lying on the steps outside the lighthouse. And a second figure kneeling over it. The person on the ground appears to be male; the other’s almost certainly the woman. It’s not looking good.

  Control: Is the man all right?

  TF-LÍF: No sign of movement. But he could be asleep. Shit. [More expletives, interference.]

  Control: TF-LÍF, this is control. Report your situation.

  TF-LÍF: The woman’s got a knife. She appears to have stabbed the man in the side or chest. I can’t get a proper visual. He’s still not moving.

  Control: When ready, start winching. Lower our man first, the police officer second.

  TF-LÍF: Wilco. Stand by; I need to help get the men ready. Holy shit.

  Control: What now?

  TF-LÍF: There’s something seriously wrong with the woman. She’s screaming at the sky – at us, apparently. No, hang on. I think she’s laughing.

  Control: Tell our man to be careful when he lands. To unhook himself immediately and be prepared for the woman to attack. If she’s got a knife, he’ll need to take extra care. Brief him that he’s cleared to use force if necessary. And remind him that there’s very little room for manoeuvre down there. We don’t want him falling off. It’s vital that he sits tight as long as she shows no sign of approaching. He’s not to move from the helipad until the cop’s been lowered.

  TF-LÍF: Wilco. Gaui’s going down first. Then the cop. I’ll pass on the rest of the briefing.

  Control: Good luck.

  TF-LÍF: Thanks. This is seriously fucked up. [Interference. Communication breaks off.]

  Chapter 1

  26 January 2014

  Helgi has a sense of déjà vu, as if he has made this journey before. He can only remember snatches of his dream but as the flight progresses more comes back to him. Nothing too weird; just predictable details that his subconscious must have anticipated last night: the sinking in his stomach as the helicopter takes off, the numbness in the soles of his feet caused by the vibration of the metal fuselage, the uneasy feeling that he’s forgotten something important at home. But other details don’t fit: his fellow passengers, for example, are quite different from those in his dream, though he can’t for the life of him recall what they had looked like. Nor can he remember how the adventure ended just before the alarm clock jarred him into wakefulness, still tired and groggy from his restless night. He’s not used to rising this early in winter, as there’s not much point in a photographer getting up before first light. And it turned out he could have enjoyed a lie-in after all since the flight was delayed several times before they finally got the green light around midday. But his dream still troubles him, perhaps because when he went to bed he had been under the impression that only the two of them would be going – himself and Ívar, the man who had told him about this adventure in the first place. Only at the airport had he learnt that there would be two additional passengers. This odd coincidence following on from his dream bothered him more than he cared to admit.

  Now Helgi leans closer to the window and stares out. The noise inside the helicopter has been deafening since the rotors started up in Reykjavík and the ear protectors on the bulky helmet do little to muffle it. He suspects the helmet would be as good as useless in an accident, too; the impact of a fall would be far too great. He fiddles with it in a vain attempt to reduce the din. Perhaps the purpose of the ear protectors is not to keep noise to a minimum but to enable crew and passengers to communicate. Not that there has been much attempt at that so far. The four passengers can hear the pilots exchanging the odd word but none of them have joined in. Helgi hopes they will all feel chattier once they land, but he isn’t really that bothered; it’ll be such a mind-blowing experience to find themselves on a small rock in the middle of the vast ocean that there will be no need for small talk about the weather.

  There’s a crackling sound inside his helmet, followed by a faint, tinny voice: ‘If you want to take some aerial shots, you’d better get ready.’

  Helgi mumbles something that neither he nor the others can hear. He feels self-conscious about his voice carrying over the intercom to everyone on board. He’s already had to speak once, just after take-off. The pilot had offered to fly over Skerjafjördur, on Reykjavík’s south coast, so Helgi could photograph a police operation that was under way there. Helgi had wanted to decline the offer and ask the man to keep going but he hadn’t dared; it would have sounded like ingratitude. The coastguard had already been incredibly accommodating to him. In the end he took a few shots of the flashing lights through the window while the pilot tilted the helicopter for him, and now he’s stuck with a bunch of more or less useless aerial photos that he intends to discreetly delete at the first opportunity.

  Helgi fumbles for the heavy case on the floor, wishing he hadn’t put the camera away earlier. Every time he leans forward the seat strap tugs at his shoulder, as if to warn him that it’s safer not to move around. Meanwhile his brain is telling him that if the helicopter goes down, the strap will offer no more protection than the helmet. Yet despite his doubts about the strap’s efficacy, he misses the security it offers when the co-pilot clambers back to him, undoes it, hooks him onto a life-line, then opens the door. With unsteady legs he props himself against the doorframe, aiming the camera with trembling hands while trying to hide his fear from the watchful eyes of his fellow passengers. He is profoundly grateful that he didn’t have to take pictures through an open door over land. At least he can kid himself that it might be possible to survive a fall into the sea.

  Helgi feels a rush of vertigo and at first even drawing breath is an effort. The knowledge that he can’t fall out is no help. Looking down at the choppy surface far below, he experiences a hypnotic urge to undo the life-line and let himself fall. The sea would welcome him. But he’s not going to give in to it. The blast of the wind and sting of salt on his lips are an unpleasant reminder of what would actually await him – brutal cold, followed by certain death. Helgi gulps and closes his eyes briefly. All he wants is to beg the co-pilot to close the door so he can be back safely in his seat.

  He’ll just have to tough it out. If he shows any sign of weakness, there’s a risk they’ll send him straight home with the helicopter. Maybe his fear will get the better of him and he won’t have the courage to make the descent. But if he chickens out now, he’s convinced there will be no second chance. It’s now or never. Resolute, he releases his hold on the doorframe and raises his camera. Viewed through the lens, the things that so frightened him a moment earlier are tamed somehow, converted into the subject of a picture he must capture. His hands recover their strength and the solid bulk of the camera is steady in his grip. Now he can see only what he chooses to frame.

  His anxiety forgotten, Helgi deftly focuses on the pillars of rock that appear to be rushing towards him, as if they can’t wait for him to arrive. He takes several shots of all four, then zooms in until the tallest stack fills the viewfinder.

  ‘Have you noticed that there are four? Not three.’

  The words wrench Helgi back into a world of noise and peril; he clings to the doorframe and nods at the man who is smiling at him from the pilot’s seat.

  ‘Someone couldn’t count.’

  Helgi smiles awkwardly, then returns to his task.

  How could they have been christened Thrídrangar, ‘the Three Stacks’, these four claws of rock thrusting up from the waves? Perhaps only three were visible from the Westman Islands or south coast, yet at some point people must have realised their mistake because each stack has its own name: Kúludrangur, Thúfudrangur, Klofadrangur and Stóridrangur. There’s no mistaking Stóridrangur, ‘the Big Stack’, but Helgi hasn’t a clue which of the others is which.

  Stóridrangur rears out of the sea, sheer on all sides, like a slightly lopsided pillar. Helgi wonders how it has ma
naged to withstand the relentless battering of the waves down the ages, not to mention past earthquakes. The rock it’s composed of must be incredibly hard – unless the part now visible is the remains of a much larger, more substantial island that the elements have whittled down to its present size and will in the fullness of time utterly destroy.

  ‘I can fly around the rocks and over the lighthouse, if you like. We’re in no big hurry.’ Again the pilot has turned to see Helgi’s reaction, having clearly given up hope of persuading any of the passengers to use the intercom.

  Helgi nods again, then concentrates once more on the subject matter. The soft light is perfect; the sea a greeny-blue, decorated with white surf around the feet of the stacks. The surface resembles a velvet cloth with lace at the edges, though nothing could be further from the truth. The lighthouse, which has brought them to these parts, was built there to prevent these rocks from costing seafarers their lives in storms and darkness. It beggars belief that they ever managed to construct the building on top of Stóridrangur. From what Helgi has read about it, work began around the outbreak of the Second World War. There were no helicopters in those days, so all the building materials and workforce had to be transported to the islet by sea, then hauled up the forty-metre-high precipice. Helgi wonders, not for the first time, whether men were made of sterner stuff in those days. Maybe modern men are equally capable of such feats but are simply never called upon to prove it. Up ahead he can see a chain hanging down the rock face. Only under extreme duress could he be persuaded to climb up the cliff with only that for support.

  Just when he’s thinking that he’s got enough good shots to make this whole extraordinary journey worthwhile, the pilot’s voice blares again in his helmet. ‘Are you sure there’s space for all four of you down there? There’s not much standing room.’ Helgi doesn’t react but concentrates on his photography. He hears mumbling from the other passengers.