The Creak on the Stairs

by Eva Bjorg AEgisdóttir

  Guðrún had little to say about her niece except that she had been a bit of a loner, preferring to spend her time shut up in her room rather than with the rest of the family. Guðrún’s own two boys, who were older than Elísabet, hadn’t been particularly interested in getting to know their little cousin when she had suddenly been foisted on them. ‘And I don’t blame them,’ Guðrún said, her face screwed up with distaste. ‘The girl didn’t exactly encourage friendship. She was sullen and standoffish, and spent most of her time reading books. If you ask me, she was just bone idle and that’s all there was to it.’ She muttered the last sentence, as if afraid Elísabet might overhear her from beyond the grave. Elma noticed that she didn’t seem in the least distressed by her niece’s untimely end. She spoke of it matter-of-factly, as if it had nothing to do with her.

  ‘What sort of relationship did Elísabet have with her mother, Halla – your sister?’ Elma asked. ‘For instance, do you know why she took her second name from her mother rather than her father?’

  Guðrún sighed disapprovingly. ‘Yes, then there was that too. They never wanted to get married and, as far as I know, they weren’t even officially living together. I’d always assumed Halla was registered as a single parent so she could claim benefits. But of course it backfired on her later, when he died.’ Elma could have sworn that the old woman was actually gloating a little as she said this.

  Guðrún had made coffee and laid the table when they arrived, so they felt they had no choice but to sit down and accept the cake she offered them, a traditional randalína made of layers of sponge and jam. When they asked if she thought someone might have had it in for Elísabet and wanted to harm her, she exclaimed and looked at them in astonishment. ‘Harm her? No, what on earth do you mean? The only person who might have wanted to harm her was Elísabet herself.’ When they asked her to explain, she went off on a rant about Elísabet’s antisocial behaviour and how some people just chose to cut themselves off.

  ‘Claiming it’s some kind of illness – that shutting yourself in your room for days on end is anything other than sheer bloody idleness – it’s beyond belief,’ she said, her voice harsh. ‘No – if I know Elísabet, she just gave up. Typical. I always had the feeling that she’d simply throw in the towel one day. It was as if nothing could make her happy. How she managed to hold down a job as a pilot is beyond me,’ she said scornfully, slurping her coffee while watching them over the rim of her cup.

  Elma had left the flat with a bad taste in her mouth, which wasn’t entirely due to the stale randalína. Several times she’d had to take a deep breath and bite her lip to stop herself from contradicting Guðrún’s ignorant comments about depression or her implication that women had no place on a flight deck.

  They had learnt almost nothing of interest from the interview, and Elma hadn’t even bothered to point out to Guðrún that Elísabet’s injuries were totally inconsistent with her theory that her niece had killed herself.

  Elma thought back over what they had discovered. Guðrún and her sister Halla had grown up in the countryside in the East Fjords, where their parents, Snæbjörn and Gerða, had a farm. They were born only a year apart and, as teenagers, the sisters had moved across the country together to study in Reykjavík and had never returned to live in the east. Guðrún had met a man who she had later married and had two sons with, while Halla had a daughter, Elísabet, and the little boy who had died at two weeks’ old. Halla had been employed at the Haraldur Böðvarsson and Co. fish factory in Akranes until Arnar, the father of her children, had died in the accident. After the loss of her baby boy, Halla had never gone back to work, just lived on benefits, as far as Guðrún knew. The sisters had fallen out not long after they moved to Reykjavík, but Guðrún flatly refused to discuss the reason why, saying it was none of their business and that there was no need to reopen old wounds.

  Elma was so lost in thought that she didn’t hear what Sævar said until he turned down the radio and repeated his question.

  ‘I said: are you hungry?’ He threw her a glance. ‘Or just tired, maybe?’

  ‘Can I say both?’ Elma asked, yawning.

  Sævar smiled. ‘Why don’t you get a bit of shut-eye while we’re driving back to Akranes, then we can go and get something to eat.’

  ‘After the meeting?’

  ‘Yes, of course, after the meeting,’ Sævar said. ‘Can you wait that long?’

  ‘Sure.’ Elma yawned again and closed her eyes.

  Next thing she knew, the car was pulling up in front of Akranes Police Station and she became aware of a draught of cold air as the window rolled down. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked through her yawn, hugging her coat around herself.

  ‘Time to wake up: we’re here,’ Sævar replied.

  ‘Why do I always sleep so well in cars?’ Elma rubbed her eyes and tried to stretch her limbs in the cramped space.

  ‘It’s the noise,’ Sævar said. ‘That’s why you sleep well in planes too. The noise is on the same frequency as your mother’s heartbeat when you were in the womb.’

  Elma looked at him in surprise and started laughing. ‘I wasn’t actually expecting a scientific explanation but I’m glad to know there is one.’

  ‘Right, so, we’ve got the preliminary findings from the pathologist. Our case was given top priority.’ Hörður’s gaze moved from Sævar to Elma and back as he sat facing them, the deep lines in his forehead accentuated by the fluorescent ceiling lights. His pale-blue eyes seemed to have sunk deep into his face. He ran a hand through his hair, flattening his curls which immediately sprang up again. ‘Elísabet was dead before she was dumped in the sea. According to the pathologist’s report, the cause of death was a heavy blow to the head and she died sometime between ten and twelve on Saturday night. An unsuccessful attempt had also been made to strangle her. Her injuries confirm that she was hit by a car with considerable force, which may explain the braking marks that Sævar and I found yesterday, which forensics analysed this morning. Her left leg had been smashed, and her hip may have left a dent in the car’s bodywork, judging by the point at which the bumper caught her legs. The trauma to her head probably occurred not when she landed on the car but when she bounced off and hit the ground. At that point she sustained a fractured skull and a brain haemorrhage.’ Hörður took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes before continuing. ‘Other than that, there were no injuries on her body apart from the marks on her neck. The pathologist confirmed what forensics said: the body couldn’t have been in the sea long and would only have been submerged for part of that time. That rules out the theory that she was thrown in the sea somewhere else and drifted to where she was found. According to the experts, it would have taken several days for the currents to carry her to land if she’d been dropped in the sea in, well … in Hvalfjörður, for example, or on Langisandur.’

  ‘So we’re working on the basis that she was knocked down by a car in the vicinity of the lighthouse?’ Sævar asked.

  Hörður nodded. ‘Everything points to that. Forensics took samples of blood and hair found at the scene and sent them for analysis. But no fragments of glass turned up, so the car’s headlights are unlikely to have been damaged.’

  ‘She must have been dragged to the sea after the car hit her, then,’ Elma said, picturing the slippery rocks. ‘That can’t have been easy.’

  ‘No,’ said Hörður.

  ‘But why would the perpetrator have tried to strangle her if she’d died from the blow to her head? Could the strangling have happened before she was knocked down?’ Elma asked.

  ‘It’s possible she didn’t die instantly but showed signs of life following the collision,’ Hörður said.

  There was a brief interval of silence while they considered the implications of this.

  ‘Has her phone been traced yet?’ Elma asked at last, unzipping her coat, which she still hadn’t taken off. She was feeling invigorated after her nap in the car and listened with interest to what Hörður had to say. Not that the inform
ation came as much of a surprise: it merely confirmed what they already knew.

  ‘Her phone was switched on until around eight o’clock on Saturday night,’ Hörður answered. ‘No further signals were received from it after that.’

  ‘Could her killer have taken it?’

  ‘Yes, I did wonder about that,’ Hörður said, ‘so we’ll carry on monitoring it in case it’s switched on. But my guess is that it’s at the bottom of the sea. Either that or in her car. At present they’re going through Elísabet’s laptop and we’re hoping something useful will emerge from that. In the meantime, we’ll make every effort to find her car. Cars don’t just disappear, damn it – it has to be somewhere.’ Hörður stroked his chin, then lowered his eyes to the papers on the table in front of him. ‘The marks on her neck are believed to have been made by a small pair of hands.’

  ‘A woman’s hands?’ Sævar asked in surprise.

  ‘Or a man with small hands,’ Hörður said. ‘Did you happen to notice her husband’s?’ They shook their heads. ‘No, you wouldn’t have had any reason to.’

  Having ascertained that nothing earth-shattering had emerged from their interviews with Guðrún and Aldís, Hörður asked them to postpone their report until the following day’s progress meeting as he had an urgent phone call to make.

  After the meeting was over, Elma couldn’t help thinking that it hadn’t provided many answers. Though at least they now knew that someone had run Elísabet down with their car, then tried to strangle her before leaving her in the sea to die. Who, she wondered, could possibly have hated her that much?

  ‘I can always walk home,’ Elma told Sævar as they were on their way out. ‘You’re going in the opposite direction, aren’t you?’

  ‘Hey, don’t be like that – I promised to buy you supper, remember?’ Sævar pointed firmly to the car. Elma dithered on the pavement, aware that if she went home she’d probably end up eating nothing at all. It was days since she had last been to the shops, and the only things in her fridge were bound to be well past their sell-by date. ‘OK, I’ll come,’ she said at last. ‘But isn’t there a takeaway nearby where we can grab something quick?’

  ‘You do realise there’s a top fast-food place right next door?’ Sævar nodded towards the kiosk in the neighbouring building. ‘I’m sure I heard the “yacht-dogs” calling me just now. Didn’t you?’

  Elma laughed. ‘God, I haven’t had a yacht-dog for … You know, I can’t even remember the last time. Probably not since I was in my teens.’

  ‘Elma, Elma, you’re missing out.’ Sævar shook his head in mock ruefulness. ‘What a good thing I’m here to educate you.’ Elma grinned but let herself be persuaded and got in the car, and they drove the short distance to the kiosk.

  The Akranes speciality, a deep-fried hot dog, tasted exactly as she had remembered. And the melted cheese, chips and burger sauce more than satisfied all her junk-food cravings. Then, almost before she knew it, they were pulling up outside her flat.

  ‘Well, thanks,’ she said, wiping the sauce from the corners of her mouth.

  ‘You’re welcome. Thanks for letting me educate you,’ Sævar said with fake solemnity.

  Elma hesitated before getting out. ‘I’ve got a couple of beers if you’d like a night cap.’ She tried to sound casual but could feel herself blushing. She didn’t really know what she wanted but told herself that she was just after a bit of company. She was always alone in her flat; her parents were her only visitors, though it wasn’t as if she didn’t have any friends. Over the last few weeks she had found herself thinking a lot about the girls who had once been such a big part of her life; the friends she had made at university and later at police college. She realised now that she could have been better at keeping in touch with them in recent years, but then most of the friends she did have were so busy with their husbands and children that they hardly had any time left for her. Of course, she had talked to some of them after what happened with Davíð, but they hadn’t called her first: she’d had to ring them. To be fair, they’d probably thought she wanted to be left alone, especially since she’d left town and moved to Akranes. But Elma knew it wasn’t only that. Their relationship had changed since they were twenty and used to meet up every weekend and ring each other on a daily basis to chat about everything under the sun. It was more impersonal these days – just a coffee now and then or dinner with their partners. She no longer shared her secrets with them, but that hadn’t bothered her because she’d had Davíð. But now that she was alone, she sometimes felt as if she’d burst with all the things she wanted to say. Often she just wanted to ring him and tell him everything that had happened, how she was feeling and how much she missed him. But then, with a jolt, she would remember that he wouldn’t answer her calls.

  She noticed Sævar’s hesitation, but after a moment he switched off the engine and got out of the car.

  ‘So this is where you live,’ he said once they were inside. Elma was relieved that the flat smelled OK and there weren’t any knickers lying on the floor. Sometimes she came home from work to be met by the stink of neglected rubbish or sour milk. Just to be sure, she went into the bathroom, snatched up the clothes that were lying on the floor and chucked them into the bedroom.

  Sævar walked around, examining the flat. ‘You’ve certainly made yourself comfortable. It’s not that long since you moved in, is it?’

  ‘No, only a few weeks,’ she said, fetching the beer from the fridge.

  ‘You should see my place.’ Sævar ran an appreciative hand over the decorative carving on the chest. ‘I’ve lived there for three years but haven’t managed to make it nearly as homely as this.’

  He sat down on the sofa and Elma covertly studied him as he sipped his beer. His dark hair, usually so neatly combed at work, was dishevelled from where he had run his hands through it, and his eyebrows almost met in the middle.

  ‘We must have come across each other before,’ she said suddenly. ‘There can’t be a single person in Akranes that I haven’t run into at some time or another, and I’m very good at faces. I never forget them,’ she added, when he looked at her in surprise.

  ‘I’m not,’ he said, grinning. ‘I couldn’t remember a face if you paid me. I once went to a job interview and was in there nearly an hour and was feeling pretty good about it. Afterwards I bumped into a man outside the building and asked him the way without realising it was the same guy who had been interviewing me five minutes earlier. You should have seen the look on his face when I didn’t recognise him.’

  Elma burst out laughing.

  ‘Needless to say, I never heard from him again.’

  She was still laughing.

  ‘It must be strange,’ Sævar said, when she had finished.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Being back here.’

  ‘A bit, I suppose.’ She shrugged. ‘Not as strange as I’d expected, actually.’

  ‘You can’t kid me that you missed Akranes that much,’ Sævar said. His smile was infectious.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked with mock indignation. ‘Are you implying that there’s no chance I could have missed the flat landscape, the cracked pavements, the potholed streets and the lovely smell of fish?’

  ‘Oh, when you put it like that…’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ she said, dropping her gaze. Sævar waited. She couldn’t make up her mind. She hadn’t said it aloud once since she’d got here. She hadn’t even discussed it with her parents. Her heart started pounding and she could feel herself breaking out in a sweat. No doubt the red blotches were spreading under her jumper. But then she chickened out and just said: ‘I … my relationship ended,’ and shrugged as if it didn’t really matter.

  ‘Ah.’

  Before Sævar could say any more, Elma interrupted. ‘What about you? Any dirty secrets?’

  ‘No, I don’t have anything to hide. I like living in Akranes. I know the people here and they know me. I reckon I’d feel a bit lost anywhere else.’


  ‘Does your family live here?’

  ‘My brother,’ Sævar said, taking another sip of beer. He seemed distracted and glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway, I should probably get going. Big day tomorrow and all that. You can drive the car back to work in the morning, can’t you?’

  Sævar passed her the keys, then opened the door to the deck, grimacing when a chilly gust of wind tried to snatch it out of his hand. After zipping up his jacket and ramming his hat firmly over his ears, he raised a hand to her in parting. Elma got up to close the door and watched him dash across the road and disappear behind the houses on the other side.

  The cake looked good but didn’t actually taste of anything. Magnea ate some of the cream filling and felt overwhelmed by nausea. Putting down her fork, she pushed the plate away. Even the soda water couldn’t get rid of the buttery taste.

  ‘How are your studies going, Karen?’ Sigrún asked, pouring milk into her tea and stirring it. The four friends were sitting at the white varnished table in Karen’s kitchen. From the sitting room came the unmistakeable sounds of a football match, punctuated from time to time by cheers or curses from her husband.

  ‘Oh, don’t even mention it,’ Karen said, rolling her eyes. That autumn she had enrolled in a distance-learning course in business studies at the University of Bifröst. ‘I should be finishing a report this evening. I’d forgotten how awful studying is – there’s always something hanging over you. Not to mention when you’re working more or less full time and have children as well.’

  ‘God, I don’t blame you for finding it too much,’ Brynja said. ‘Still, I think you were amazingly brave to try.’