Arnaldur Indriðason’s ‘Hypothermia’
was the first Icelandic crime novel I ever picked up and read. I can’t remember
exactly when that was but it feels like an awfully long time ago now and it’s hard
to believe that this is the eleventh book in his Reykjavík Murder Mysteries
series. The eleventh translated into English anyway. When he first started
writing crime fiction in the late 90s many people here in Iceland laughed at
him as it had never really been done before and wasn’t taken at all seriously
by the literary crowd on this little island.
My how times have changed.
In 2003, he had five novels on the
Icelandic best-sellers list for a week and is the only author other than J.K.
Rowling to simultaneously hold the top three spots. In 2004, his books were 7
of the 10 most popular titles borrowed in Reykjavík City Library. He
single-handedly launched Icelandic crime fiction as a legitimate international
entity and since then it has not only joined the ranks of its Scandinavian counterparts
but in many ways overtaken them with the hugely successful Yrsa Sigurðardóttir
and the much more recent phenomenon Ragnar Jónasson. Other Icelandic crime
writers to have been translated into English include Viktor Arnar Ingólfsson
and Árni Þórarinsson who I am sure will be joined by the likes of
Sólveig
Pálsdóttir and Lilja Sigurðardóttir (no relation to Yrsa) in the not too
distant future such is the depth of talent here now.
In ‘Oblivion’ we are once again heading
back in time as we did in ‘Reykjavík Nights’. It’s 1979 and Erlendur and Marion
Briem, his mysteriously genderless boss, are investigating the discovery of a
body found sunken in a remote milky-blue pond that sounds suspiciously like the
predecessor of today’s internationally famous ‘Blue Lagoon’ spa. The unlucky chap
didn’t drown in the warm run-off water from the nearby Svartsengi power station
though but rather died elsewhere after a fall from a great height before being
dumped in the blue soup in an awkward attempt to hide his body from the world.
And if it hadn’t been for an
imaginative psoriasis sufferer trying to relieve her itching arms he might just
have stayed there until the recent tourist boom when he would have been charged
retrospectively for all those hours spent lolling about at their precious
resort. He is soon identified as one of the local contractors who work at the
American Naval Air Station at Miðnesheiði
where he had access to the enormous Hangar 885 that was designed to
be large enough to hold even the mighty B-36 bombers. Iceland’s relationship
with their American ‘friends’ is strained at the best of times and this really
puts their ability to work together to the test. A number of conspiracy theories
emerge as motives for the murder involving America’s intelligence agencies,
illegal movement of weapons, nuclear deterrents and an airbase in Greenland.
Hangar 885 seems to be the most exciting and dangerous place in the whole
country and with the help of an outsider on the inside Erlendur and Marion are
determined to get to the bottom of it all.
As if he doesn’t already have
enough to do Erlendur is also obsessed with a cold case that dates back to the
days of the American barracks on the site of the modern day Vesturbæjarlaug
swimming pools. Once the Americans abandoned the barracks they became ghetto
housing for impoverished locals known as Camp Knox (Kamp Knox was the original
title of the book). When he’s not chasing shadows at the secretive air-base
he’s reopening old wounds with questions about the disappearance of Dagbjört on
her way to school past Camp Knox one day. There’s a creepy connection
reminiscent of a scene in ‘American Beauty’ with her oddball neighbour Rasmus
but no real leads of any sort to go on apart from an alleged boyfriend from the
‘Camp’. This doesn’t deter Erlendur in the slightest because he’s not the sort
of guy who gives up on anything. Elsewhere in the country two men are lost in a
blizzard bringing back painful memories of Erlendur’s childhood for him. A
theme that is revisited in the later books and which plays a central role in
the detective’s psyche.
Indriðason’s writing is short and
clipped in the same way that Ellroy’s is but without the alliteration and
epoch-defining colloquialisms. It’s simple, sometimes disarmingly so, and that
is why it works so well. Good crime fiction needs straightforward ideas and
short sentences. There are very few writers in this genre who deliver such
consistent quality as this guy does and this book is no exception. I used to
read his books so that I would learn something about Iceland until the day came
when I would finally make the place my home. I’m living here now and I’m still
learning about the history of the place from him. Just another reason why I
love this guy’s books so much.
