The Girl Who Died

by Ragnar Jónasson

  After a short while, she heard rustling at the other end of the line. ‘Hi, found it.’

  ‘Is there a photo of him?’

  ‘Yes. He’s got very short hair and looks quite muscular, and unsmiling – it’s not a very good picture. He appears to be round about our age.’

  That wasn’t much help. Una needed to see the photo with her own eyes, if only to convince herself that everything was fine and the man’s disappearance had nothing to do with the village.

  ‘Could you send me the paper, Sara?’ she asked after a moment.

  There was a short delay, then Sara said: ‘Sure, of course. I’ll put it in the post to you tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks so much.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you want it, but of course I’ll do it.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to come and visit me soon?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But I’d need to check that my husband’s happy to look after Rebekka by himself. And won’t the roads be a bit dodgy at this time of year? Wouldn’t it be better in the spring?’

  ‘Yes,’ Una replied tonelessly, ‘it would be better in the spring.’ Struck by a thought, she added: ‘Actually, maybe it would be enough if you just cut out the news story with the photo. That’s all I need. There’s no need to send the whole paper.’ It had crossed her mind that a bulky package containing a newspaper might attract attention, whereas a small envelope was more likely to pass under the radar. She tried to dismiss these suspicions as unworthy.

  Could she be losing her mind?

  Of course there was nothing to fear in this little community.

  XX

  It took Sara’s letter four days to arrive. Una had tried to put it out of her mind in the meantime and get back into a routine, and a miserably cold Tuesday had heralded the first day of the new school term. Teaching had proved an uphill struggle. Kolbrún had never been a very responsive pupil; it was Edda who had generally kept up a conversation with Una during lessons, and now not only did her absence leave a gaping hole but Kolbrún seemed even less receptive than before.

  The letter seemed to have passed unnoticed, though Una didn’t receive post every day. She took it up to the attic, sat down at the kitchen table and opened it there, carefully, full of suspense, though really she was expecting the man in the picture to be someone she’d never seen before.

  The cutting from Morgunbladid was folded together and Una waited a moment before opening it out.

  And there he was, the man who had knocked on their door the day before Edda died …

  Her heart lurched. There was no question at all, despite the poor quality of the photo. The man was still unaccounted for; she’d heard as much on last night’s news. The case wasn’t attracting much attention, though, and as far as she knew there had been no organized search for him.

  Una stood up, leaving the cutting on the table. She had to decide on her next step. The man had asked after Hjördís, claiming to know her, and had apparently turned up at the farm. The question was, where had he gone after that? Hjördís and Thór should at least be able to give the police an important lead. Of course, it was absurd to think that they could have had anything to do with his disappearance. Una smiled at the thought. Completely absurd … She didn’t want to get them into any sort of trouble, but she had to talk to the police. Sitting on this information was out of the question.

  She didn’t hurry downstairs to the phone, however. Not quite yet. The man had been missing for a couple of weeks at least; a few more minutes wouldn’t make any difference. She needed to think. But she was sure she was doing the right thing. Confident in her own mind.

  A knock at the door made her jump.

  Salka appeared in the gap. Una was disconcerted by the way Salka had opened the door without waiting for an answer. Some instinct made Una slide the cutting under an old newspaper that was lying on the kitchen table. She couldn’t explain her reaction to herself, except that at this moment she didn’t trust anybody. Of course, it was a crazy way to think. She had to learn to resist such delusions if she was to survive the winter in the village. Perhaps she should show Salka the picture so she could confirm that it was the same man and get her support for the decision to ring the police. After all, visits from the police weren’t everyday events in Skálar and Una had a hunch that interference by the city girl would not be taken kindly.

  ‘Sorry, am I bothering you?’ Salka came right into the flat. She was unsmiling and her tone was flat but polite.

  ‘No, that’s OK,’ Una replied.

  ‘I was just wondering what you wanted to eat, if you’d like me to cook? It’s hardly worth my while making something just for myself.’

  ‘Yes … that would be great. I hadn’t made any particular plans. Did you have something in mind?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got a haddock fillet in the fridge that should be enough for both of us.’

  ‘Great, I’ll see you downstairs in a bit, then.’

  XXI

  Supper was fine, if a little under-seasoned for Una’s taste. Salka had cooked better fish that winter, but Una was grateful for the company, even if her landlady didn’t have much to say.

  ‘By the way, Salka …’ she ventured, breaking a long silence. ‘You remember the man who came here before Christmas – the one who knocked on our door, looking for Hjördís …?’ The secret was weighing heavily on her and, if she could trust anyone in the village, it was Salka.

  Salka nodded. ‘What about him?’ she asked irritably. That didn’t necessarily mean anything, though, as she seemed to be on edge most of the time these days.

  ‘Well, the thing is, the man they reported missing in Reykjavík at New Year …’ Una trailed off, waiting for a reaction.

  ‘Reported missing? What?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear about it?’

  ‘No, I haven’t listened to the news much since … since …’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘What’s he got to do with the man who came here?’ Salka asked.

  ‘It was the same man,’ Una stated flatly.

  ‘What? The same man?’

  ‘Yes, his name’s Patrekur Kristjánsson. He hasn’t been seen for more than two weeks.’

  ‘You must be mistaken, Una. What could he possibly have been doing out here? Nobody comes here except …’ Salka broke off in mid-sentence and Una had the feeling she had been about to say something hurtful.

  ‘No, I’m telling you, it was him,’ Una insisted. ‘The moment I heard the description on the news I thought of him, I don’t know why; he’d just been on my mind for some reason.’ She left unsaid what she had been thinking; that maybe – just maybe – there had been some connection between the man’s unexpected visit and Edda’s sudden death.

  ‘You can’t claim that just from hearing a description.’

  ‘I’m not. I’ve seen a photo of him. In the paper. In fact, I’ve got it upstairs.’

  Salka looked disbelieving. ‘Can I see it?’

  Una nodded and, getting up from the table, ran upstairs to her kitchen and came straight back down.

  ‘Did you cut it out of the paper?’ Salka asked inconsequentially when she saw the photo.

  ‘What? No, not exactly. But it is him, isn’t it?’ Una held out the picture.

  Salka studied it for what felt like a long time without saying a word, her brow furrowed. ‘He was looking for Hjördís,’ she said slowly.

  Una wasn’t sure whether this was a question or whether Salka was merely thinking aloud. Eventually she repeated: ‘It is the same man, isn’t it?’ Although she was already convinced in her own mind, it would be good to have it confirmed by another witness.

  Salka nodded. ‘Yes, yes, you’re right,’ she said at last. ‘But I just don’t understand … can’t understand … How long is it since the news came out?’

  ‘It was at New Year. He’s still missing, as far as I know.’

  After another lengthy interval, Salka said: ‘What a strange coincidence that he should ha
ve come here. Obviously, his disappearance can’t have anything to do with us, though. It can’t be linked to Skálar – or to Hjördís.’

  ‘Of course not. But, you know, the information could help the police to pick up his trail.’

  ‘We’re not dragging the police out here,’ Salka retorted, with unaccustomed firmness. ‘It wouldn’t serve any purpose.’

  ‘Well, they might not need to come all the way out here, but I was just going to ring and let them know. Perhaps it’s the missing piece they need –’

  ‘I hope you’re not implying that someone in the village was involved in his disappearance,’ Salka interrupted, her voice harsh. ‘That would be a slap in the face after the welcome we’ve given you. You’ve been treated kindly here.’

  That was debatable. ‘No, Salka, please don’t get me wrong, I’m not implying anything of the sort. I just wanted to help.’

  Neither of them spoke for a while. Salka took a sip of the wine she had for once served with supper. Una had been grateful not to have to deplete her own limited supply. Perhaps the alcohol was to blame for Salka’s unusual reaction – the alcohol and of course the trauma she had suffered. She was a changed person these days and, naturally, Una understood that.

  ‘Help,’ Salka said at last, slowly, the word sounding more like a question than a statement. ‘Why would you want to help?’

  Una didn’t immediately answer.

  Salka persisted: ‘Are you from the police?’

  The question left Una momentarily speechless.

  ‘Do you know this man? This … what was his name again? Patrekur?’

  Una shook her head. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Then I don’t understand what would possess you to think of such a thing. To set the police on us, I mean.’

  ‘But I’m not setting …’ Una didn’t bother to finish. There was no point arguing with Salka in this mood. It must be the wine. The bottle was empty and, although Una had drunk quite a bit, she suspected that Salka had put away the lion’s share.

  ‘This is a peaceful place, Una,’ Salka said, composing herself with an effort. ‘We’re used to solving our own problems. That’s the way it’s always been. The villagers stick together and look out for one another. I know that, though I haven’t lived here very long. It’s in our blood.’

  ‘Sorry, Salka, but I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re talking about. I can’t see how it would harm anyone to let the police know that we’ve seen a man who’s been reported missing.’

  Unless someone in the village is responsible for his disappearance, Una thought to herself, but didn’t dare say it aloud. Instead, she said: ‘It’s, well, it’s my duty as a good citizen …’

  Salka laughed mockingly. ‘Your duty as a good citizen? Next you’ll be telling me we have to follow some unwritten code of behaviour? That everything in life has to be fair and just?’ Her voice grew shrill: ‘Was it fair that Edda had to … had to … die like that? Well, was it?’

  ‘Salka, this has nothing to do with Edda. But I do see what you mean. This incident – this man’s disappearance – doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with us. I promise I’ll think about it before I take any action.’

  Salka nodded, looking appeased. ‘Good. I’m glad to hear that. And I’m sorry …’

  ‘No need to apologize,’ Una said, but the conversation had only made her more determined to contact the police.

  XXII

  She got her chance to make the call the following evening.

  It had been an unusually peaceful night, her dreams untroubled by visitations from Thrá, and she found herself hoping once again that the haunting had all been in her mind, a symptom of the stress she had been under.

  Una had gone to Kolbeinn and Inga’s house to give Kolbrún her lessons in the morning, but hadn’t liked to ask to use their phone, since she didn’t want to owe them any favours. Inga made no effort to hide her dislike for Una, whereas Kolbeinn went out of his way to be excessively charming, as if their awkward encounter earlier that winter had never taken place. Maybe hitting on other women was something he took for granted as his right.

  When Una got back from teaching, Salka was at home; she didn’t seem to have set foot outside all day, and Una hadn’t dared to use the phone for fear that Salka would catch her in the act. Still, she comforted herself, at least there was only the one phone in the house, so there was no way of listening in on calls from an extension. Or rather, it was the only phone in the house as far as Una was aware …

  Then, just after seven o’clock, Salka unexpectedly went out. She didn’t call upstairs to say goodbye, but Una, hearing the front door closing, peered out of the attic window and saw Salka’s figure receding into the gloom.

  She would have to act fast; her landlady might only be going for a short walk.

  Una raced downstairs, almost tripping in her haste, and thought what a ridiculous ending to the story it would be if she broke her neck running down a staircase. Maybe Salka was right and the whole thing really was none of their business.

  Yet Una had got it into her head that she had to make the call, despite momentary qualms when she wondered if the solitude was affecting her judgement. When it came down to it, though, she knew it was the right thing to do. Sometimes you just had to have the courage of your convictions. Her father had taught her that. He always used to impress two things upon her: one was the importance of reading medicine, of studying ‘the noble science’, as he used to call it. She had failed him in that. The other was the need above all else to be a good person. Altruism had to take precedence over any self-interest. It was a lesson she had never forgotten. Perhaps that was why she was now standing by the telephone, the dog-eared phone book in her hands, leafing through it with trembling fingers to find the number of Reykjavík CID.

  It didn’t take her long to locate and learn the short, memorable number before replacing the phone book. But next moment she heard the dining-room door slam. Una almost jumped out of her skin. Was Salka at home after all?

  Damn it, Una had seen her go; she’d watched her from the window. Could she have been hallucinating?

  Una looked round, then went into the sitting room. The door to the dining room was indeed closed. Could Salka be in there? There was no perceptible draught and, as far as Una was aware, none of the windows were open downstairs. She wanted to double-check that there was no one in the dining room but for some reason her legs wouldn’t obey her and she just stood there, rooted to the spot.

  Then she heard the faint tinkling of the piano.

  It was so quiet that she couldn’t be absolutely sure. Nor did she want to be sure.

  Instead of going in to check, she retreated to the front door, opened it and went out on to the step, where she heaved a deep breath and tried to control her shaking knees.

  She was safe out here, at least for now.

  She strained her ears but couldn’t hear the faint notes of the piano.

  Why the hell didn’t I move back to Reykjavík weeks ago? Una asked herself.

  She waited a minute or two longer, staring out into the murk. There was a light on in Guffi’s house, but apart from that the village was wrapped in gloom, darker even than usual.

  Finally, she plucked up the courage to go back inside out of the cold, closed the front door behind her and walked with firm steps towards the dining room. She listened warily, then, hearing no noise from within, opened the door with infinite care. There was no one in the room, but the lid of the piano was open.

  She felt her stomach constrict.

  Closing the door behind her, she went back to the phone in the hall and dialled the number with frantic haste.

  ‘Reykjavík CID, good evening.’ Judging by his voice, the officer who answered was getting on in years.

  ‘Good evening.’ Having introduced herself, Una continued: ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m ringing in connection with a news story I read about a missing person.’

  ‘A missing person
, you say?’ the policeman repeated with slow deliberation, apparently reserving judgement.

  ‘The police reported him missing on New Year’s Eve. His name’s Patrekur Kristjánsson.’

  ‘Ah, Patrekur. Yes, that’s right, we’re still looking for him. Have you seen him, Una?’ His manner was still calm and reassuring, almost paternal.

  ‘Yes, at least I think so.’

  ‘You think so, I see. When was this?’

  ‘Just before Christmas.’ Una thought back. ‘Yes, it was on the twenty-first of December.’

  ‘And where did you see him?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, I should have mentioned that before. I live in Skálar on Langanes.’

  ‘On Langanes, you say?’

  ‘Yes, he knocked on our door that evening.’

  ‘Are you sure it was the same man?’

  ‘Absolutely positive. I saw his photo in the paper.’

  ‘I see.’ The policeman was silent for a moment, then asked: ‘Why are you only ringing us now? If I remember right, it’s more than a week since we published a picture of him.’

  ‘Yes, er … yes, that’s right,’ Una stammered, ‘but the papers take a while to reach us out here.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Of course, I don’t know if it has anything to do with his disappearance …’

  ‘No, of course not. That remains to be seen. Look, there aren’t many people in at this time of the evening, but I’ll have a word with my colleague who’s in charge of the investigation and he might come and pay you a visit. Would you be so good as to give me your address in Skálar?’

  Una did so.

  ‘Then we’ll leave it at that for now,’ said the policeman, and ended the call.

  Una had been hoping for some kind of praise or at least thanks, some confirmation from the police that she had done the right thing. Sometimes, it seemed, selfless acts reaped nothing but ingratitude.

  XXIII

  Una was almost at the top of the attic stairs when she remembered Thrá. Turning round, she decided to take advantage of Salka’s absence to make one more quick phone call.