Red as Blood Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE ÁRÓRA INVESTIGATION SERIES

  ‘Tough, uncompromising and unsettling’ Val McDermid

  ‘A chilly and chilling follow-up to the wonderful Cold as Hell, Lilja Sigurðardóttir’s terrific investigator Áróra is back for another tense and thrilling read. Highly recommended!’ Tariq Ashkanani

  ‘Icelandic crime writing at its finest’ Shari Lapena

  ‘Lilja is a standout voice in Icelandic Noir’ James Oswald

  ‘Intricate, enthralling and very moving – a wonderful crime novel’ William Ryan

  ‘Lilja Sigurðardóttir just gets better and better … Áróra is a wonderful character: unique, passionate, unpredictable and very real’ Michael Ridpath

  ‘An emotional suspense rollercoaster on a par with The Firm, as desperate, resourceful, profoundly lovable characters scheme against impossible odds’ Alexandra Sokoloff

  ‘Best-selling Icelandic crime writer Sigurðardóttir has built a formidable reputation with just four novels, but here she introduces a new protagonist who is set to cement her legacy’ Daily Mail

  ‘Another bleak, unpredictable classic’ Metro

  ‘Atmospheric’ Crime Monthly

  ‘Three things we love about Cold as Hell: Iceland’s unrelenting midnight sun; the gritty Nordic murder mystery; the peculiar and bewitching characters’ Apple Books **Book of the Month**

  ‘Lilja Sigurðardóttir doesn’t write cookie-cutter crime novels. She is aware that “the fundamentals of existence are totally incomprehensible and chaotic”: anything can and does happen … Isn’t that what all crime writers should aim for?’ The Times

  ‘Smart writing with a strongly beating heart’ Big Issue

  ‘Tense and pacey’ Guardian

  ‘Deftly plotted’ Financial Times

  ‘Tense, edgy and delivering more than a few unexpected twists and turns’ Sunday Times

  ‘The intricate plot is breathtakingly original, with many twists and turns you never see coming. Thriller of the year’ New York Journal of Books

  ‘Taut, gritty and thoroughly absorbing’ Booklist

  ‘A stunning addition to the icy-cold crime genre’ Foreword Reviews

  ‘A good, engaging read, and the quick chapters make it perfect as a pick-up and put-down story for the beach’ The Book Bag

  ‘A beautifully crafted mystery, powered by authentic characters, an atmospheric setting and top-notch storytelling’ Jen Med’s Book Reviews

  ‘Short, snappy chapters with an exquisite plot meant I quickly lost myself in this world until the very last page. Seamlessly translated by Quentin Bates, this is a series you all need to be watching for!’ Chapter in My Life

  ‘A dark, suspenseful crime thriller with a bleak setting, Cold as Hell belongs on your must-read list. In a similar fashion to Ragnar Jónasson … Lilja Sigurðardóttir makes you feel as though you’re in Iceland while reading the story. I can’t wait for the next book in the Áróra Investigation series’ Crime Fiction Critic

  ‘Cold as Hell continues to see Lilja Sigurðardóttir’s development as a writer … Kudos to the author, her publisher and translator for another memorable and superbly crafted novel!’ Fiction from Afar

  SHORTLISTED for the Glass Key Award for Best Nordic Crime Novel

  RED AS BLOOD

  Lilja Sigurðardóttir

  Translated by Quentin Bates

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  MONDAY

  1

  TUESDAY

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  WEDNESDAY

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  THURSDAY

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  FRIDAY

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  SATURDAY

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  SUNDAY

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  MONDAY

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  80

  TUESDAY

  81

  82

  83

  84

  85

  86

  87

  88

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  ALSO BY LILJA SIGURÐARDÓTTIR AND AVAILABLE FROM ORENDA BOOKS

  COPYRIGHT

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  Icelandic has a couple of letters that don’t exist in other European languages and which are not always easy to replicate. The letter ð is generally replaced with a d in English, but we have decided to use the Icelandic letter to remain closer to the original names. Its sound is closest to the hard th in English, as found in thus and bathe.

  The letter r is generally rolled hard with the tongue against the roof of the mouth.

  In pronouncing Icelandic personal and place names, the emphasis is placed on the first syllable.

  Guðrún – Guth-ruen

  Flosi – Flow-si

  Áróra – Ow-roe-ra

  Sara Sól – Sara Soul

  Hraunbrún – Hroyn-bruun

  Garðvís – Garth-vies

  Kristján – Krist-yown

  Gúgúlú – Goo-Goo-Loo

  Ísafold – Eesa-fold

  Sigurlaug – Sigur-loyg

  Bergrós – Berg-rose

  Oddsteinn – Odd-stay-in

  Tækjakistan – Tie-kya-kistan

  Garðlager – Garth-lager

  Miklatún – Mikla-toon

  Laxaslóð – Laxa-slowth

  Thorlákshöfn – Thor-lowks-hoepn

  Rannveig – Rann-vayg

  We have your wife, Guðrún Aronsdóttir.

  The price for her freedom is two million euros, to be delivered in two-hundred-euro notes before the end of this week.

  You will be told where to deliver the cash.

  We do not wish Guðrún to come to harm, but we will kill her if you contact the police.

  We will kill her if you don’t pay.

  Her life is in your hands.

  MONDAY

  1

  The letter lay on the kitchen table, a single A4 sheet of paper, inkjet printed. These few lines in the middle of a mostly blank page failed to explain what had happened, but at the same time their meaning was so terrifying that Flosi was left weak at the knees, certain he was about to collapse. He sank onto a chair and read the message again, a tense knot forming in his gut as he fought for breath and surveyed the chaos in the kitchen.

  That evening’s dinner lay uncooked
on the island unit. The export-grade Hornafjörður langoustines had clearly been on the worktop for a long time as the shells were starting to blacken. Guðrún had obviously been in the middle of preparing dinner: there were herbs on the chopping block, and in the pan on the stove was a knob of butter, over which Guðrún had squeezed a lemon, as she always did. Her langoustines were always fantastic, and to his astonishment, Flosi felt his mouth watering at the thought of langoustine á la Guðrún. He could almost taste them, flash-fried in the pan with lemon garlic butter, fresh herbs and freshly ground black pepper.

  As if it was some new discovery, the thought came to his mind that he was fortunate to be married to a wizard of a cook. Some husbands had to put up with food cooked as a duty rather than as an art. Others had to cook for themselves. He should have been aware after twelve years that she was a fine cook, but it was suddenly obvious that he was lucky in so many ways to be Guðrún’s husband. But now a catastrophe had befallen them.

  Sometimes he had wondered when misfortune would come crashing into their lives. He was fifty-five and had seen his contemporaries having to deal with cancer, bankruptcy or car crashes. One had even lost a child. Everyone seemed to get their share of trouble and sorrow. Except for him. He had sailed on a tide of good luck, hoping to escape the storms that life, almost at random, seemed to make everyone else endure.

  Of course, he had been through a divorce and all the drama that went with that, and it went without saying that Sara Sól’s behaviour had been challenging when she had been a teenager, plus he had often had to put in the hours to keep the company afloat. It had also been a disappointment he had been forced to swallow when he and Guðrún couldn’t have children of their own. But nothing genuinely bad had ever befallen him. Until now.

  As he sat, fighting to draw breath, it occurred to him that this was what he deserved. Recently he hadn’t appreciated Guðrún properly. He had even begun to find her tiresome, and she also seemed to have lost interest in him. She kept the house spick and span, and still put her heart and soul into cooking, and they chatted about this and that over dinner, until, when everything had been put away, routine took over – the sofa awaited them. It was as if nothing could dislodge her from lying there, in front of the TV, until she fell asleep, while he sat in his chair and hopped between channels as she snored softly, her mouth open and her face lolling against the cushion.

  She wouldn’t be dozing in front of the television tonight. There was no doubt about that. She had clearly resisted those who had taken her away. There was a broken glass on the floor and puddles of white wine around it. She must have poured herself a glass while she was preparing dinner, as she so often did. A red pepper and a fork also lay on the floor, and one of the stools was on its side, as if it had been kicked out of the way as she was dragged from the room. The fridge stood wide open. Guðrún would never have left the fridge open.

  As he looked over the scene, his sense of smell seemed to come to life. He could smell burning. He stood up and sniffed. The oven was switched on, and it hummed, telling him that the fan was running. Guðrún had persuaded him to buy this ruinously expensive oven precisely because of the fantastic fan that she had to have.

  Flosi opened the oven and saw a long baking tin inside. Without thinking, he reached in and grabbed it, and it took his brain more than a second to process the pain. He yelped, snatched his hand back and hurried to pick up an oven glove so that he could take the bread out. The top was black, and while the tin’s contents resembled burnt embers, he recognised it all the same. This had been Guðrún’s mountain-herb bread, which was always so delicious with langoustines. He switched off the oven, and then his legs finally gave way as he sank to the kitchen floor, his eyes brimmed with tears and he could feel the pain flood through him at the same time as he felt the sting of the burn on his hand.

  TUESDAY

  2

  Áróra had to keep a firm grip on the wheel of the jeep as it bounced down the gravel road that led away from the Hafnir road. It was an exaggeration to call it a gravel road, as this was one of these pitted tracks that had neither a number nor a name. Shortly, this little detour through the lava fields would undoubtedly rejoin Highway 44, the Hafnir road. When she had started investigating, back in the summer, she could hardly believe how many of these tracks there were leading off into the wilderness from every numbered road in the south-west corner of Iceland. Highway 44 alone had more than a dozen of these trails leading this way and that. A few of those that meandered off to the north led to the service road for the airport runway or towards the Svartsengi geothermal plant. But most of them didn’t end up anywhere. They just faded away out there in the lava, becoming dead-ends. Just like her efforts to find her sister.

  Áróra glanced over her shoulder and up through the jeep’s open top. The drone followed obediently, keeping an altitude of twelve metres, just as she had programmed it to do. This was high enough to capture images a few metres either side of the road, but low enough for the pictures to be clear – and to get anything worthwhile out of this, she would need clear images.

  She was surprised when the track came to a sudden end, as she had been certain that this was one of those that lay in a half-loop away from the Hafnir road and back to it, but when she compared the drone footage against the map, she found that she wasn’t where she had thought she was. Not that it mattered. She could take that particular half-loop next time. This was the first calm day for a week, and she was determined to use the few days she had to fly the drone. She’d heard that the weather would worsen before long, bringing with it high winds, and she recalled from her childhood in Iceland that apart from a few breaks, these could last all winter long, and on top of that there would be falls of snow that would cover the ground and hide anything that might be there.

  She got out of the car, landed the drone, folded it away and placed it carefully in the front seat. Standing by the car, she scanned the drone’s footage on her phone. She could see that the lava fields had taken on their autumn colours, which you couldn’t make out from close by; the drone’s point of view, however, showed patches of rust red and mixed shades of brown where plants had established themselves among the grey-green moss that looked to be the black lava’s only covering.

  Her heart lurched as she saw something blue on the screen. It looked to be about two metres from the track, not far from where it ended. She zoomed in but couldn’t make out anything other than a sky-blue surface, half buried under a lava outcrop. Further back, not far from where she had turned off the Hafnir road, there was something white. Considering how large and pale it was, she was surprised that she hadn’t noticed it earlier.

  She got back in the jeep, turned it around and went back the way she had come, now irritated at not being able to go faster. But putting her foot down wasn’t an option, as that could lead to shredding a tyre on the razor-sharp lava, and changing the wheel would take effort and time. Time better spent continuing the search.

  Without bothering to shut the car door, she jumped out and strode over a bulging lava dome towards the outcrop that hid whatever she had seen on the drone footage. The regular warning pings from the car to tell her she had left a door open accompanied her heart beat, which grew faster the closer she got. The blue shape was plastic, and she felt disappointment blending with the relief that always came when something the drone had picked up turned out to be garbage. This time it was the broken lid of a bin.

  Áróra sighed and tugged at the plastic. It had clearly been there a long time as it was as good as fused to the lava and she had to pull hard a few times to free it, so that she could drag it to the car and dump it with the rest of that morning’s junk. The white object the drone had seen turned out to be the remains of a tarpaulin, and Áróra folded it away in the boot. At any rate, collecting rubbish was a worthwhile thing to do, she thought, as usual preventing her thoughts from wandering too far in the direction of what she would do if she were to stumble across what she was searching for – if
she were to find her sister’s remains.

  She had made herself comfortable back in the car when her phone rang. Usually when she was on these trips, she made a point of not answering the phone. It seemed wrong to pollute the time spent searching for Ísafold with anything else, but as it was her friend and colleague Michael calling from Scotland, she allowed herself an exception to her rule.

  ‘Hi, Michael,’ she said cheerfully, but he seemed so preoccupied that he wasn’t able to reply in kind.

  ‘I have an extremely strange favour to ask,’ he said, and it was clear to Áróra from his tone that this wasn’t a request that she would be able to refuse.

  3

  Anyone who has experienced such a shock knows the moment of mercy between the end of sleep, when your mind is just beginning to come alive but it’s still so quiet, and the instant reality comes flooding back, ice cold and harsh, like a deep plunge. Flosi lay for a while and stared upwards, wondering why he was in the living room. And then it came to him. The previous day. Guðrún.

  More than likely he had passed out on the sofa sometime after his conversation with the accountant in Britain who he’d called to ask him to make cash available to pay the ransom. He had told him the whole story. He had to. He’d had to tell someone. Michael had told him to keep calm, pour himself a double and try to relax; he would send someone to him, to support him. Flosi had just gone along with it. He needed some kind of support. He felt that he was on the brink of a well of despair, and if there wasn’t someone or something to hold on to him, he’d be sucked deep into it in a flash.

  He snatched up his phone and sent a message to Sara Sól:

  Come now, my darling. I need you.

  She’d be there in less than an hour if he knew her right. They had always been close, and she would do anything for him. It had been Guðrún who complicated things, a typical step-parent situation. Maybe that was why Sara Sól had been so keen to be at his side in everything to do with the company. When it came to the business, Guðrún was nowhere to be seen.