Nightblind by Ragnar Jónasson

so soon.’ He was feeling brighter now; the flu was subsiding, although the fatigue had still not retreated.
    ‘It’s a long time since I’ve been up here to this old place,’ Tómas said thoughtfully as they approached the derelict building, which looked almost like a real-life haunted house to Ari Thór. It must have been an imposing building in the past, but a complete lack of maintenance left it dilapidated and almost menacing. The house seemed to have an aura of death about it, regardless of the shooting, thought Ari Thór. The local kids probably avoided it, but it was the perfect place for shady drug deals. Its location on the edge of the cliffonly added to the sense of danger that emanated from its crumbling walls.
    ‘I’m not even sure if I dare work out how many years ago it was. I had to deal with the poor old guy who moved himself in here after the place had been abandoned,’ Tómas continued.
    ‘When was that?’
    ‘Around 1980, if I remember correctly. The surviving twin stayed on but I gather he only used part of the house, and then let it fall into disrepair. He was a relatively young man when he died, and after that nobody bothered fixing the place up. It would hardly have been worth it. Property prices in Siglufjördur haven’t been great for decades – you know this, Ari Thór – ever since the herring disappeared. Things are only starting to pick up, and it has never been the most popular part of the town, too far from the centre.’
    It crossed Ari Thór’s mind that although it would need a lot of work, if the place were to be fixed up properly, it could possibly be an attractive place to rent out to tourists. The setting was magnificent, on the outer end of the fjord, and with a wonderful view when the weather was fine enough to provide visibility.
    They went through the front door into a chilly hallway. Ari Thór was slightly reluctant to go inside, but he wouldn’t allow himself to show any weakness. It was just a house, after all, even though it was now the setting of two horrible events, the mysterious death of the twin and the attempted killing of Herjólfur. Ari Thór flicked the light switch, but there appeared to be no power in the building. Then again he hadn’t expected any such luxury.
    ‘Careful, Ari Thór,’ Tómas said, taking a torch from his pocket. ‘The living room’s here to the left. Most of the windows were broken long ago. The local kids had a fine time throwing stones through them after the owner died. This place is in the state it is because of human activity as well as nature.’
    Tómas shone his torch around the living room. Ari Thór could see a rickety table, stained and lacking a coat of varnish, and some worn-out chairs.
    ‘Didn’t anyone take the furniture after the owner died?’
    ‘It doesn’t look like it. I couldn’t say what went on, but I suspect that anything of any value must have been taken.’
    ‘The gunman must have stood here,’ Ari Thór said. ‘Herjólfur was on the ground just outside.’
    ‘Exactly. The technical division came to the same conclusion. There was no evidence of a warning shot or anything like that. Shall we take a look upstairs?’
    Ari Thór followed Tómas up the decrepit staircase that creaked with every footstep, reminding him of ice about to crack underfoot on a frozen pond. He stepped gingerly, intent on avoiding a tumble on the stairs. He held tight to the handrail, quickly letting go of it when he felt it coming adrift from the wall.
    ‘This is where he lived, the brother who survived. His name was Börkur. They were the twins, Börkur and Baldur,’ Tómas said, indicating a small room next to the landing.
    The beam of the torch illuminated a bed and a bedside table next to it.
    ‘This is where the drunk was living the last time I came here,’ Tómas continued. ‘He didn’t seem to be frightened to be bedding down here.’
    ‘Frightened?’
    ‘Yes, this is where Baldur died, or rather, fell off the