Bjarni and Magnea lived in a large, detached house on the outskirts of Akranes, near Garðalundur, the local forestry plantation. As yet there were few other houses in the area, just the odd new-build standing on a patch of dirt. But now that the financial crisis was in the past and the good times had returned, Sævar thought, they would probably soon be joined by others. Sure enough, he saw signs that foundations were already being excavated in several places.
Bjarni had driven on ahead and by the time they reached the house he had already gone inside to warn his wife. This annoyed Sævar, though he refrained from saying so to Hörður. Personally, he felt it was important to observe the initial reactions of the subjects they interviewed. An evasive glance, unnaturally fast breathing or hesitation when answering – they all told their own story about the person’s state of mind. But, in this case, Magnea would have had time to recover and prepare what she wanted to say.
Before they could knock, the door opened and there she was, smiling a welcome, in a loose, pastel roll-neck jumper and black leggings. Her hair was drawn up in a high knot, with a few loose curls artfully framing her face. She looked quite different from the times Sævar had seen her before. Usually, she was so smartly dressed that she gave the impression of working in a bank rather than a school.
Magnea greeted them and invited them in. Having wiped his wet shoes conscientiously on the mat, Sævar followed her through the hall. Inside, the ceiling was high and the house smelled of newly varnished wood.
‘We only moved in recently,’ Magnea said, as if reading his mind. ‘That’s why it’s not finished yet. I keep nagging Bjarni about the skirting board, but you know how it is. There’s always so much to do, but for some reason it doesn’t seem to bother him as much as me.’ She laughed.
Sævar hadn’t noticed any unfinished touches but now saw that the skirting board hadn’t yet been attached in the kitchen.
‘Coffee?’ Magnea looked at them both, her eyebrows raised enquiringly.
‘I wouldn’t mind, if it’s not too much trouble,’ said Hörður. Sævar merely nodded. He didn’t usually drink coffee in the evening but today seemed like it was never going to end.
Magnea reached up to a glass-fronted cupboard and took down two cups. No one spoke while the coffee machine was grinding the beans, then filling the cups. Magnea poured herself a glass of water and sat down facing them. ‘Bjarni told me my number had come up in connection with the inquiry into Elísabet’s death.’
‘That’s right. We found her car earlier today, and the thing is, it appears she wrote down your and Bjarni’s phone number and address,’ Hörður said. ‘Or, rather, your mobile number. So we were wondering if Elísabet had tried to get in touch with you.’
Magnea nodded composedly. ‘Yes, she did. Elísabet came round here last Saturday. She’d emailed me. I kept meaning to answer but forgot. I hadn’t heard from her for years.’
‘You used to know her, then?’ Sævar asked. He wondered how the team going through Elísabet’s computer could have failed to notice the email or emails. Was it possible she had sent them from a different address? From another email account that Eiríkur wasn’t aware of?
Magnea shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t exactly say I knew her. We were in the same class at school but we were never friends.’
‘Then why did she get in touch with you after all these years?’
‘She wanted to meet me. She seemed worked up about something.’ Magnea glanced down the hallway as a television was switched on loudly in another part of the house. ‘I didn’t have time to talk to her, though, because we were having a dinner party that evening.’ Magnea turned her gaze back to the two policemen. ‘But she came round anyway, uninvited, and knocked on the door.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Not much. I mean, she wanted to talk but I’m afraid I was a bit short with her, and I regret it now, after what … happened to her.’ Magnea took a mouthful of water.
‘And she just went away again?’
‘Yes, I told her I’d talk to her later in the evening. She wanted to meet me by the lighthouse, of all places.’ Magnea shook her head and took another drink of water. ‘I was expecting our guests to arrive any minute, so I just said OK.’
‘And did you go and meet her?’ Sævar asked.
‘No, of course not,’ Magnea snapped, then smiled apologetically when she realised how sharply she had spoken. ‘I’d drunk a couple of glasses of wine by then and didn’t want to drive. And, anyway, dinner went on so late that, to be honest, our meeting completely slipped my mind. It only came back to me when I heard she’d been found dead.’
‘I see,’ said Hörður. ‘Do you know what she wanted to talk to you about?’
‘No. I’ve absolutely no idea.’
‘What was Elísabet like at school?’ Sævar asked, changing tack.
‘God, it’s been so long – almost thirty years,’ Magnea said. She drew a deep breath and her gaze strayed to the window. ‘She was very quiet. I don’t remember particularly noticing her. Except maybe because she was so scruffy. And she always stank of smoke.’
‘Cigarette smoke?’
‘Yes, she always stank of cigarettes. Of course, it was more common for people to smoke in those days. I mean, my parents used to.’ Magnea smiled. ‘But they were careful not to do it indoors. I imagine Elísabet’s parents didn’t even bother to open a window. The poor kid smelled like an ashtray.’
‘Times have certainly changed,’ Hörður said. When the TV abruptly went silent, he shot an uneasy glance into the hallway.
‘What about friends?’ Sævar asked. ‘Did Elísabet have any friends that you can remember?’
‘No, none. She always seemed to be alone.’ Magnea dropped her eyes to her glass as she answered. From the evasiveness of her gaze, Sævar had the feeling she wasn’t telling them everything she knew.
‘Well, how’s it going?’ Bjarni came into the kitchen. ‘I hope we’ve been able to help you.’
Hörður cleared his throat and rose to his feet. ‘We’re about done here,’ he said, and shook hands with both Magnea and Bjarni. Reluctantly, Sævar followed his example.
‘Just one more thing,’ Sævar said as they were going to the front door. ‘Why didn’t you let us know she’d come round? You must have heard our appeal for information.’
‘I’m afraid it just didn’t occur to me that it was important,’ Magnea replied, with an unnaturally forced laugh. ‘I mean, I spoke to her for all of two minutes, then I never saw her again.’
Sævar merely nodded and said goodbye. He didn’t believe a word she’d said.
‘Well, that wasn’t much use,’ Hörður remarked, once they were back in the car.
‘At least we now know she had something on her mind that she wanted to talk about.’ Sævar stared distractedly out of the window. ‘Actually, I reckon Magnea knows more than she’s letting on. Elísabet can’t have come round to her house for no reason.’
‘Oh, I’m not so sure.’ Hörður turned the key in the ignition. ‘Going by what we’ve heard about Elísabet, she doesn’t seem to have been very stable.’
Sævar mumbled a noncommittal reply but on the way home he couldn’t help thinking that maybe Elma was right after all; maybe the case had nothing to do with the husband or a lover but with something else entirely.
Magnea felt sick. The moment the police had gone, she hurried to the bathroom, turned on the shower and threw up in the toilet. Then she sank down to sit on the floor, leaning her head against the cool wall tiles as the room gradually filled with steam. She wished she’d had the courage to confess to the police about the secret that had been weighing on her conscience all these years. But she wasn’t brave enough. She knew that if she did, she would lose everything. It would mean moving and starting a new life somewhere else, where nobody knew who she was.
It had been hard enough finding an explanation that would satisfy Bjarni. He hadn’t been aware that Elísabet had come round that evening and had been perplexed and su
spicious about her failure to mention it. She shouldn’t have lied to him; it always looked worse. She didn’t know why she always lied. Ever since she was a little girl she had got herself into trouble by telling little fibs. She had embellished her stories, lied to her friends about what she’d done at the weekend, made up stuff about people she didn’t know. It wasn’t a cry for attention because she’d always been the centre of attention. The words just came out before she could stop them.
But there was one lie she would have to live with. One lie that she would never be able to shrug off.
She stroked her flat belly and felt the warmth spreading through her as it always did when she thought about her unborn child. She knew she would never be able to tell anyone. Bjarni would never forgive her. And Akranes society certainly wouldn’t. No, she couldn’t reveal her secret. She’d have to take it to her grave. But at least now she no longer had to be afraid that someone else would tell, since the only other person who had shared the secret was dead. And her own lips were sealed.
Akranes 1990
Sometimes she did bad things. She didn’t know why and couldn’t possibly explain it but she knew there was something wicked inside her.
She thought about this as she watched the spider venture out of its lair under the stones by their house and start to crawl up the wall. Then she picked it up between finger and thumb and began tearing off its legs, one by one. When she had finished, she put what was left of the spider on the step and watched it jerking feebly.
It was a Saturday and she was going round to Sara’s later but it was still too early and everyone was asleep in the house. She wondered if it was too early to go to Solla’s. Her stomach was rumbling and Solla often had something nice to eat at weekends: freshly baked bread or cinnamon rolls sprinkled with sugar. She was fond of Solla. She didn’t know what she’d do if Solla wasn’t next door to look after her. Putting her finger on the spider’s abdomen, which had almost stopped twitching, she squashed it until there was nothing left but a small black mark on the concrete step.
Sara was unbelievably lucky. She lived nearby, in a big house with a beautiful garden, and her mother was always home. She baked cakes and made delicious food and sometimes gave them money for ice-cream. Then they would run out to the Einarsbúð grocery or the kiosk to buy ice lollies.
Sara’s long, blonde hair was perfectly straight and smooth, unlike her own unruly mop that stuck out wildly in all directions. Sara always wore new, clean clothes too and came to school with a packed lunch so generous that she used to share it with Elísabet. They walked home from school together almost every day and played together well into the evenings. Sometimes they played outside, but best of all was when they went round to Sara’s house. She had a pretty, pink bedroom and an enormous doll’s house full of furniture and dolls, which they used to dress up. Everything Sara owned was pink and smelled nice. Her bed, her clothes, her room. She herself smelled of such nice shampoo that Elísabet used to furtively sniff her hair when she wasn’t looking.
Elísabet had never had a friend before. It changed everything. But she was terribly afraid that if she told Sara the things she did and how wicked she was, Sara would stop being her friend. So she said nothing and kept her secret, even though she wanted to tell her so badly that she thought one day she might burst if she didn’t.
Elma couldn’t get the photo of the little girl out of her mind. She squinted at the glowing computer screen. According to the Icelandic land registry, the house on Krókatún had changed hands four times since 1980. Up until 1982, it had been owned by one Sighvatur Kristjánsson. Elma’s eyes opened wide when she saw that Hendrik Larsen had bought the house from him and owned it until 2006, but she soon realised that this didn’t necessarily mean anything. Hendrik owned a lot of rental property in the town through his estate agent business, Fastnes Ltd, so it was unlikely he had ever actually lived in this particular house himself. Besides, he had no daughter, only a son, Bjarni.
A couple called Andrea Fransdóttir and Haraldur Traustason had bought the house in 2006 and owned it until 2009, when it was repossessed by the Housing Financing Fund, the government-owned mortgage lender. When Elma searched for Sighvatur Kristjánsson’s current residence she drew a blank, but Andrea and Haraldur were both living in Reykjavík, though at different addresses. Elma wondered if their financial difficulties had led to the breakdown of their marriage, as was so often the case. After checking their Facebook pages, she was sure that they couldn’t have had any offspring together. The children with them in the pictures were too young to have been born before 2009.
She entered Sighvatur Kristjánsson’s name in the search engine. The results included an obituary, obviously for the right man, reporting that he had died a little under ten years ago at the Höfði Nursing Home in Akranes. He had been born in 1926, lived in Akranes all his life and had four children, three boys and one girl. They had all written obituaries in which they praised their father, describing him as hardworking and a loving father and grandfather who used to take them on fishing trips on his boat in the summers, letting them cast out lines and sell the fish they caught. The photograph showed a weather-beaten, middle-aged man, clad in a traditional lopapeysa jumper and smiling into the sun. It wasn’t the usual sort of obituary portrait and had obviously been taken years before he died, but perhaps it was the picture that best captured his character. His children concluded their memories of him by saying that he was now with their mother in the afterlife, whatever that might mean. Elma looked up Sighvatur’s daughter and saw that she was so fair that there was no chance she could have been the girl in the photo.
It could only have been Elísabet. She had lived in the house during the period when it belonged to Hendrik, so, logically, her mother must have been renting from him. Bearing that in mind, could it be a coincidence that his son’s name had cropped up in the course of the investigation?
Elma called up Hendrik’s Facebook page. His profile picture showed him in the act of swinging back a golf club. He was wearing light khaki trousers, a dark-blue polo-neck and a peaked cap. Elma remembered seeing him around town in her youth, but from what she could see of his face now, he appeared to be in his sixties and had the sort of tan you only get from expensive holidays in the sun. Judging by the palm trees in the background, the photo must have been taken in some tropical paradise.
She scrolled down the page, pausing at a family picture taken on some special occasion. There was Hendrik in a suit, standing next to a petite woman who was staring unsmilingly at the camera. Beside her was a stunning younger woman with a thick mane of blonde hair, her white teeth bared in a dazzling smile. She was tagged as Magnea Arngrímsdóttir – the woman Sævar and Hörður were interviewing at this very moment. Bjarni had his arm around her waist. He was very like his father: tall and tanned, wearing the same smile, though he was fair where Hendrik was dark. Elma had recognised him immediately when he came to the station. Although he was several years older than her, she remembered him well from her youth.
Elma closed the website and sat back in her chair, thinking. She recalled the face of the young woman she had visited just over a week ago, marred with bruises where her much older boyfriend had taken his fists to her. Tómas, Hendrik’s brother, was a partner in the family business. And it wouldn’t be long now before Bjarni took over.
Hunching over the keyboard again, Elma opened the Akranes photography archive and tracked down the picture of Elísabet with a couple of her classmates in 1989. Yes, there could be no doubt: it was the same girl in both pictures. Not many people in Akranes possessed such dark hair or such long, naturally dark eyelashes. Elma rested her chin on her hand as she studied the old Polaroid of Elísabet in her underwear. Who had taken it? Who had been with Elísabet in her room that day?
Elma sat in the kitchen waiting impatiently for Hörður and Sævar to get back from interviewing Magnea. She toyed with the crispbread she had buttered herself but found she had no appetite, in spite of her empty stomach. S
he had finished going through all the material from the car but had discovered nothing else of interest, only the divorce papers and the photo. The image was etched on her retinas; she couldn’t stop thinking about the child and what she might have suffered.
‘What’s this?’ Sævar asked, taking the papers she held out to them the moment they walked through the door.
‘I reckon we’ve solved the mystery of her visit to the lawyer,’ Elma said. ‘It turns out she was applying for a divorce through the courts.’
‘Meaning what?’ Sævar asked.
‘Basically, that they hadn’t agreed to a separation before a magistrate,’ Elma explained. ‘Usually that’s because one of the couple is resisting a divorce.’
‘So,’ Hörður said, ‘in other words, Eiríkur must have refused to grant her a divorce, as we originally suspected. Yes, that has to be it.’
‘I found this too,’ Elma said, before Hörður could get too excited about the news. She placed the Polaroid of the girl on the table.
‘Is that Elísabet?’ Sævar sat down and examined the picture.
Elma nodded. ‘I think so. Of course it’s impossible to say for sure, but it definitely looks like her. See, here’s a photo of her aged six, taken at school.’ Elma pointed to the picture on her computer screen. ‘The girl in the Polaroid is a little older but I don’t think there’s much doubt it’s Elísabet. And I recognise the room – it’s the attic in the house on Krókatún.’
‘Who do you think took the photo? Could someone have…?’
‘I think the photographer was someone the girl was afraid of,’ Elma said. ‘Look at the way she’s standing. It’s clear she’s uncomfortable. If you ask me, the person behind the camera had done something to her.’ Elma met Hörður’s eye. ‘I think we should at least consider the possibility that this is why Elísabet came to Akranes. That she wanted to confront the person who took that picture. There has to be a reason why she brought it with her.’
The Creak on the Stairs Page 17