The Fox

by Palsdottir, Solveig

  Thormóður, or Thor as he called himself, joined the cult along with his mother. At seventeen he was arrested arriving from Morocco with a serious amount of hashish in his luggage. He was also prosecuted for smuggling ancient artefacts, although he protested that he had no idea of the provenance of the items, and thought it had been no more than old junk picked up at a street market that he could sell on. His story was that the hashish was intended to finance his escape from the cult his mother and step-father belonged to. He spent fourteen months in prison, and set up his own religious group when he was released, claiming to have experienced a divine revelation while in prison. A few years later he was prosecuted for abducting a young woman, but without any further proof, charges were dropped.

  Guðgeir had found one of Thormóður’s relatives in the Westman Islands, who referred to his cousin as a wastrel constantly hustling for money.

  ‘That bastard can charm the birds out of the trees,’ said Thormóður’s relative, who wanted nothing to do with him. That was all the man in the Westman Islands had been prepared to say.

  Ragnhildur’s number was still engaged, and Særós did her best to concentrate on her work. To begin with she had looked on this as a way of doing Guðgeir a favour, out of support for him but a waste of her own time. However, she was finding herself increasingly intrigued. On top of that, she and Guðgeir had got on better the evening before than they had when he had been her boss. In spite of their concerns over the fate of the young woman from Sri Lanka, puzzling their way together through the mystery had been highly enjoyable. Guðgeir had stayed at his old home in Fossvogur, and Særós sensed that things there were moving in the right direction, which she welcomed. In the past she had occasionally imagined herself in Inga’s place, but those days were long gone. Now her only wish was for Guðgeir and Inga to be back together and for things to be back the way they had been before their colleague Andrés had lost his life.

  Her phone buzzed and a message appeared on the screen.

  I’ll be in touch later.

  No, Særós thought as she called the number again. That’s not good enough. Ragnhildur answered on the third ring, and Særós explained quickly, without going into detail.

  ‘And you think Sajee has disappeared?’ Ragnhildur asked, clearly shocked.

  ‘We have reason to believe so, but no evidence to back it up. This isn’t a police matter yet, but my colleague is looking into this informally, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, well. I got to know Sajee when her aunt who cleaned for me for a while asked if I could help the family out… Listen, can we meet? I don’t want to go into this over the phone. Two-thirty?’

  32

  Time ticked slowly past. Sometimes she called out for help when she had the energy, but mostly she dozed on the mattress, thankful for the soporific effects of the drink Ísak brought her every day. It was increasingly rare that she asked him to release her, because, if she was quiet, he would sometimes sit and talk to her. It was comforting to hear another voice. Anything was better than solitude in the darkness. Normally he would talk about himself and the hard life his mother had led, and sometimes he would mention Thormóður, who was supposed to be fixing things up but hadn’t shown his face for days. Sajee felt that the quieter she was, the more his anxiety grew.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ he groaned, hunched over the hatch in the narrow beam of light from his phone.

  ‘Let me out,’ she gasped, hoping her words wouldn’t drive him away. She longed for the energy to attack him and snatch the phone from him, but by now the slightest movement had become a struggle.

  He sniffed.

  ‘No, I can’t do that. But I won’t let the old lady touch you. I’ll make sure of that.’

  ‘Just take me somewhere far away and leave me. If someone finds me I won’t say anything. I swear.’

  He blew his nose onto the floor and coughed.

  ‘Thormóður’s looking for a way to get you to Reykjavík. He normally knows what’s best and you can’t go anywhere looking like that.’

  ‘Bring a doctor. I won’t say anything.’

  ‘Stop this bullshit,’ he snarled, making to shut the hatch and leave.

  ‘Ísak, you’re not a bad man.’

  ‘Stop!’ he snapped and banged the hatch. ‘Thormóður will fix everything. We just need to be patient.’

  Drained of energy, she watched as he backed out of the pit and she was in darkness again.

  Was it Thormóður’s intention to kill her? The thought flashed into her mind. The easiest way out would be to bundle her body into the back of the car and dump her in the sea somewhere, preferably somewhere near Reykjavík. If the sea were eventually to wash her remains ashore, there wouldn’t be much left of her. Depressed foreigner drowns herself. End of story, as Thormóður liked to put it.

  ‘Help me,’ she moaned, her voice weak.

  33

  Særós waited in the lobby of the solid, respectable building in the centre of Reykjavík. She had vague memories of it having once been a library with numerous small rooms, every wall lined with books of different shapes and sizes, and more bookcases in the middle of the floor. As a little girl she had stayed with her grandmother when her father had been on an unusually long bender, and there had been a daily visit to the library; something that had had a deep and lasting effect on her. Ever since, a library had been a place of calm and safety for her.

  The building’s exterior had hardly changed, but inside it was no longer a wonderland of books but the offices of a financial company with irons in numerous fires. A glance at her phone told her that she had been hanging around for twenty minutes. She would have loved to speed things up by letting drop a mention of her job title, but she held back. Instead, she paced the floor to quell her impatience, inspecting the artworks on the walls and the prominent sculpture on a pedestal in the corner. There was fruit in one bowl, chocolates in another and a selection of drinks lined up in a bright orange fridge.

  ‘Can I get you something while you’re waiting?’ asked the young woman behind the reception desk. Særós’s impatience seemed to worry her.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Won’t you take a seat? I’m sure Ragnhildur will be along shortly.’

  Ragnhildur Tryggvadóttir had turned out to have a role in something called specialist investment. Her diary must be full, the same as mine, Særós thought, again examining the artwork that occupied part of the room. It was a whitish, semi-transparent lump, and a closer look showed that a human face could be made out in there. She discovered that the sculpture came with its own soundtrack as she pressed a button and calls and shouts could be heard, backed by familiar voices discussing the Central Bank’s financial situation. That faded into a new voice claiming to be from the analysis department as it reeled off figures. The sounds and voices came together and ended in a babble of noise. The artwork’s name and what she took to be the artist’s were inscribed on a small plaque: The Pots and Pans Revolution – Ógíla.

  ‘That thing’s driving me crazy. I can’t wait for them to get rid of it,’ the receptionist grumbled.

  The woman who strode towards her looked to be approaching sixty, and a far cry from the placid older women Særós recalled seeing in this building. Ragnhildur looked fit and glamorous, dressed in casual but expensive jeans and a fitted jacket. Glasses with red and black frames complemented heavy silver earrings, but the long fair hair seemed somehow out of keeping.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said, offering a hand. ‘It’s a fantastic piece, isn’t it? Brutal and striking.’

  Her handshake was firm and confident.

  ‘Thanks for finding time to talk,’ Særós said.

  ‘Of course. I hope I can help,’ Ragnhildur said. ‘We’ll go to the meeting room. We won’t be disturbed there.’

  There was no need to prompt her to talk. Ragnhildur was confident and concise, and Særós found herself liking this woman. Sajee’s aunt, Hirumi, had cleaned for her, and the conne
ction had come through an old school friend.

  ‘She stopped me going mad, and saved my marriage as well … for a few years, at least,’ Ragnhildur said. ‘It was just as well we didn’t get divorced when the children were small, and with help in the right places it all worked out. No arguments, no trouble, and we could both concentrate on what we needed to do.’

  She explained that there was only a short gap between the two older children after she and her husband had returned to Iceland after years of study abroad. Both of them had immersed themselves in work as they embarked on buying a house as soon as they were back, as well as establishing social lives and networking, all of which was time-consuming. Once a week Hirumi had cleaned the house, and had in fact done so much more than that, as she had made beds, washed and ironed, and even cooked meals, preparing Sri Lankan vegetable casseroles and curries, and the children had loved her food.

  ‘She did so much more than local cleaners, who work to some ridiculous rules, and they’re always in a hurry. Hirumi came to us every week and I was rarely at home, so I just left money in the hall for her. I don’t know how she came to be in Iceland, or where she lived. To be honest, I never asked her about her personal circumstances,’ Ragnhildur said apologetically, fiddling with one earring. ‘Hirumi’s Icelandic was very limited, plus there was so much pressure on us back then, and it always got heavier. When I was pregnant with our third child, Hirumi asked if her niece could be an au pair for us for a while. She wouldn’t need to live with us because she could stay with Hirumi, and nobody would need to know. All I would need to do would be to fill in the paperwork. So Sajee came to us a couple of months after our youngest was born and she was a Godsend, except it could be difficult to have a conversation with her because of her mouth … you know about that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Særós said. ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, Sajee picked up Icelandic remarkably quickly, even though it could be a problem to understand her sometimes, especially on the phone. Just think, if she had been born in Iceland, she’d have been just fine. Hardly anyone would ever have known that she had been born with a cleft palate.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Særós agreed.

  ‘That’s the way it is in some parts of the world. That’s life, as my old father always said.’

  ‘True. The luck of the draw,’ Særós agreed. She knew from her own experience how that worked out.

  ‘It was wonderfully convenient. Sajee came five days a week and sometimes on a Saturday as well if the children had kept her busy, and it was always clear that the children took priority. I helped her with work and residence permits, so she’s here legally, but after a while we lost touch. She cleaned for us once a week for a few months, but by then the marriage was falling apart and we had enough to worry about. After that she used to bring us food sometimes, which I found awkward, but I understand that’s the custom from where she’s from, people constantly bringing each other food. After I became single again I wasn’t able to afford a cleaner, so I haven’t been in touch with her. It’s only now that I’m back on my feet financially.’

  Ragnhildur fell silent and there was a perplexed expression on her face. She picked up the phone she had put on the table and quickly scrolled through her messages. It was obvious that she felt she had said more than was necessary about her personal circumstances.

  ‘Have you seen either of them recently?’ Særós asked, crossing her legs as she sat back on the thick leather of the chair. The company’s stylised name was artistically presented on the wall opposite, with large white letters in relief on a white wall. A plump green plant stood on the broad window sill. Særós missed the books.

  ‘No,’ Ragnhildur said, putting the phone down. ‘Sorry, checking on meetings,’ she added. ‘When was Sajee last seen?’

  ‘The twenty-seventh or eighth of February. Do you have a phone number we could check out?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no,’ she said. ‘I lost both their numbers. Lost my phone, had to move twice after the divorce … you know. And I have to admit that they haven’t crossed my mind for a long time. I’m so busy all the time and can’t be everywhere,’ she said with as a sigh as she looked at Særós, as if expecting a sympathetic response.

  ‘Surname?’

  ‘That’s… If I can remember.’ Ragnhildur said and picked up a pen from the table. ‘I have to write it to be able to get it right.’

  She wrote a few letters, crossed them out and corrected them, and handed Særós the slip of paper.

  ‘I think that’s right,’ she said.

  ‘We’re definitely talking about the same person,’ Særós confirmed. ‘Do you recall if Sajee had any friends or acquaintances here in Iceland?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to remember since you called, and recall her mentioning someone who found a job cleaning or washing up in Ikea. For whatever reason, she hadn’t wanted to work there herself. She was used to working cash-in-hand, and the salary they were offering there wasn’t anything special,’ Ragnhildur said, catching Særós’s eye. ‘We’ll keep this to ourselves, but that’s the way it is. Cleaning houses, it’s all like that. You just have to live with it, whatever your opinion is of working on the black. Everyone does it, otherwise you’d never find a cleaner.’

  Særós nodded, indicating that she wasn’t inclined to take this any further. Ragnhildur smiled and rubbed her hands together.

  ‘It’s not the black work that comes to mind when I think of her, but her hands. She was so careful with them and maybe that’s why she didn’t want to be splashing in water all day long,’ Ragnhildur said with a smile of recollection. ‘Sajee took such care of her hands that it was almost an obsession. You’d have imagined she was a concert pianist. Never bare-handed, and she always wore strong rubber gloves. There was no point trying to get her to use disposable latex gloves and she said they were rubbish, so I was constantly buying rubber gloves … and cloths,’ she laughed. ‘She didn’t make big demands, but she had principles stuck to them. A lovely girl, and very bright.’

  ‘Do you have a picture of her?’ Særós asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Ragnhildur said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe, I’ll see what I can find when I get home. The children absolutely loved her and there could be a picture of her with them. There’s just so much to do that I haven’t had time to look. I’ll check tonight or tomorrow, as soon as I have a spare minute.’

  ‘Thanks. Do you remember anything else that might help us?’

  There was always a particular smell about Sajee,’ Ragnhildur said after a moment’s thought. ‘She worked oil into her hands to keep them soft. She had worked as a masseuse in Sri Lanka, and she was proud of that. I think that’s why she took such good care of her hands.’

  ‘What sort of oil did she use?’ Særós asked, and Ragnhildur stared at her. ‘You said there was a particular smell about her.’

  ‘I see. I just thought it was odd you should ask about that. Sajee always used avocado oil, and I remember that because seeing her use it was the first time I saw it. She rubbed it into her hands a couple of times a day to keep them soft. The smell of this oil is quite heavy and unusual, and that’s why it stuck in my mind. The thing with her hands was ingrained in Sajee … like a ballet dancer looking after her feet. She was a lovely girl,’ Ragnhildur said, and corrected herself. ‘Is a lovely girl, I mean, and I hope she’s safe and well. But I have to go. I have to go a meeting in town in a few minutes. I’ll go outside with you.’

  They parted outside the building and Særós watched as Ragnhildur walked away along the street. Then she took out her phone to make sure that the recording was good. Her voice came through clear and strong.

  After the narrow streets of Reykjavík’s Thingholt district, Særós’s next call took her to Garðabær where Ikea’s car park stretched out in front of her. It was almost four in the afternoon, so she called the station to let them know she wouldn’t be back that day. She wrapped her woollen coat tight around herself to keep the sharp wind
at bay as she marched smartly past the fenced-off outside area. Staff in thick gloves were hard at work setting up displays of garden furniture and summer plants.

  She slipped through the heavy swing doors and took the steps two at a time up the escalator. There was a special offer on candlesticks in the showroom. Særós rarely went to Ikea. Living alone, she had little time for mass-produced Nordic design and she found the rambling families that normally filled the place exhausting. With relief, she saw that she wouldn’t have to go through the whole store, as an opening beside the escalator provided a quick detour taking her straight to the cafeteria. Holding her bag behind her, she squeezed nimbly between tables, on the lookout for staff who could be from Sri Lanka. The simplest and easiest option would have been to find a supervisor, but she was reluctant to involve too many people in this private investigation that was so far between her and Guðgeir.

  She took a tray and put a glass of carrot juice on it. At the food counter she asked for salmon. The staff were cheerful and most looked to have origins far from these northern latitudes.

  ‘Not quite so much sauce, please, Særós said, giving the man behind the counter a smile as he served up boiled potatoes, green beans and the light-coloured sauce that came with the salmon. He stopped pouring.

  ‘Is that enough?’ he asked, the ladle poised over her plate.

  Særós nodded and leaned closer.

  ‘Listen, the thing is, I’m looking for people from Sri Lanka, or of Sri Lankan origin, but living here. I’m writing a thesis, and need to talk to some people from there,’ she stammered and immediately felt mortified at her own clumsiness. She would always be a poor actress.