‘Couldn’t her mother have taken it?’ Hörður asked. He bent forwards and examined the photo.
‘I very much doubt it,’ Elma said. The truth was, she hadn’t even considered the possibility. ‘Mothers don’t take pictures like that,’ she added, but, even as she said it, she was no longer sure. Could Elísabet have been that frightened of Halla?
‘Quite aside from that, we can’t be sure that it’s Elísabet,’ Hörður pointed out.
Elma silently replaced the Polaroid in the envelope. She was positive she was right and in that moment was filled with a determination to pursue this line of inquiry. But she didn’t tell Hörður that, merely changed the subject and asked instead: ‘What did Magnea have to say?’
Hörður told her about the visit and what had emerged.
‘And you really believe Magnea didn’t know anything? She must have some idea what Elísabet wanted to talk about,’ Elma objected. ‘No one would come to see you after so many years without a very good reason. And, if not, why wasn’t Magnea interested? Why did she just tell Elísabet to go away? I know I’d have been dying of curiosity if some long-forgotten classmate had come round urgently wanting to talk to me.’
‘I agree,’ Sævar said. ‘I definitely got the feeling she wasn’t being straight with us.’
‘Magnea knew Elísabet was at the lighthouse,’ Elma persisted, trying unsuccessfully to catch Hörður’s eye. ‘She may have been the only person who knew.’
Hörður nodded reluctantly. ‘Yes, you’re right – at least, she’s the only person we’re aware of. Though someone could have followed Elísabet and seized their chance while she was standing there alone. It’s quite an isolated spot at that time of night, as you said yourself.’
Elma sighed. Although they now had a clearer picture of Elísabet’s movements and had established who she had visited shortly before she went out to the lighthouse, they were still none the wiser about her killer’s identity or motive. The case just kept throwing up more questions than answers. Elma’s stomach chose that moment to growl loudly in the hushed meeting room, and she took a quick bite of crispbread. She was reassuring herself that no one had noticed when she caught Sævar’s lips twitching.
‘At any rate,’ he said, ‘we need to talk to Bjarni and Magnea’s friends and confirm that they spent the evening with them.’
‘Yes, right. And we’ll call Eiríkur in tomorrow,’ Hörður said. ‘Even though there’s no real evidence to suggest he was with Elísabet that evening, their marriage was clearly rockier than he’s willing to admit.’
Hörður’s frown had been deepening ever since they’d got back to the police station. He sat leafing distractedly through the case file, pausing from time to time to read a line or two, then continuing dispiritedly to turn the pages. Finally, he seemed to pull himself together. He closed the file, straightened his back and said with sudden decision: ‘I think we’ve missed a trick in relation to Eiríkur. His only alibi is his boys, but they were almost certainly asleep at the time. He must have found out that she was planning to divorce him. You know, I have a feeling we’re on the verge of a breakthrough.’ He rose, picked up his jacket and walked out of the meeting room, humming.
Elma and Sævar looked at each other. Neither of them shared Hörður’s confidence that the solution was in sight.
As Elma was approaching her building, she noticed a young man get out of a car parked outside and head to the front door. Although she had lived there for several weeks, she had never seen him before. He was wearing a tracksuit and had a backpack slung over one shoulder. ‘Have you just moved in?’ he asked, holding the door open for her.
‘Yes,’ Elma said, smiling. ‘Several weeks ago, actually.’ He must be slightly younger than her; in his late twenties, no more.
‘Sorry not to have said hello before but I’ve hardly been home. I work on a freezer trawler and I’m usually away for a month at a time.’
So not all her neighbours were pensioners. The thought cheered Elma up. Since moving back to Akranes and renting this flat, she hadn’t known what to feel. Sometimes she felt as old as her pensioner neighbours; at least, her life seemed to follow the same pattern as theirs: long evenings spent alone at home, interspersed with walks at weekends. But another part of her felt like a teenager again, hardly ever cooking for herself, just going round to her parents’ house, where she lay on the sofa and watched the news with her father while her mother got the meal ready. Just like she used to fifteen years ago.
‘Do you get a good break between trips?’ she asked, once they were inside.
‘Yes, I’ve got a month off now. But I use the time to study, so it’s not much of a holiday.’ He paused in the corridor, smiling. ‘What do you do? You haven’t just finished work, have you?’
‘Yes, I’m in the police. It was a long day today,’ she said, yawning as if to prove how tired she was.
The young man nodded and, pausing before entering his flat, which was opposite hers, he told her to knock on his door if she ever needed any eggs or sugar. Not that he had either, but it was always nice to have a visitor, he added with a wink.
Once Elma had closed her door behind her, she became acutely aware of the silence. But in no time she had banished it with the sound of running water as she filled a bath for herself. Pulling off her clothes, she chucked them on the dark tiles of the bathroom floor. The pile of dirty laundry was growing by the day but she didn’t care: the flat was already such a tip that a few more clothes were neither here nor there. The bags from the furniture shop were still in the kitchen, waiting to be unpacked. The milk in the fridge hadn’t even been opened, though it had passed its use-by date several days ago. There had been no time this week to get her life in order.
She lowered herself carefully into the hot water and felt the tension flowing out of her limbs. She couldn’t resist the urge to dip her head under the water, then immediately regretted it. If she went to sleep with wet hair, it invariably stuck up in wild tufts, like a badly tended lawn, when she woke up next morning.
The plan was to bring Eiríkur in for a formal interview tomorrow. Hörður had seized on the divorce papers as confirmation of his guilt, but Elma was sceptical. For one thing, they still couldn’t explain how he could have parked Elísabet’s car in the garage since he had no known connection to the couple who owned it. Elma was clinging to the hope that forensics would find some clue in the car that would help to clarify what had happened. She was also haunted by the Polaroid of the little girl, who she was convinced was Elísabet. Had the mysterious person behind the camera been the reason for Elísabet’s unwillingness to visit the town? Did he or she still live in Akranes?
Elma’s eyelids grew heavy and gradually she ceased to be aware of her body. As her breathing slowed, the bath water became almost perfectly smooth.
She was lying in a soft bed, tucked up in white sheets embroidered with flowers. The heat in the dark room was suffocating. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to her, his head turned to the window. There was nothing to see out there but darkness and the glow of the streetlights reflecting off the black tarmac. She sat up in bed and reached out to touch his bare back. ‘Davíð,’ she whispered, but her hand caught at thin air.
She opened her eyes with a jolt. The white wall tiles screamed at her. The bathwater had gone cold. She stood up clumsily and wrapped her soft dressing gown tightly around herself to stop her shivering. When she finally fell asleep, the night passed without dreams but when she awoke next morning the sense of loss was almost more than she could bear.
The evening began much as it usually did. Ása followed Hendrik up to the dark-blue house and before they could ring the bell the door opened and Þórný was standing there with a wide smile of welcome on her lips. As ever, Ása immediately felt inferior. Þórný was always so elegant, dressed this time in a perfectly fitting blouse, tasteful skirt and high heels. Ása’s own clothes had cost a fortune but however hard she tried, she would never be as glamorou
s as Þórný. She knew Hendrik thought so too. As usual, they clashed cheeks, then went inside and took off their coats.
‘Something smells good,’ Hendrik said hoarsely, inhaling appreciatively. He’d drunk a whisky before coming out and the alcohol had deepened and thickened his voice. But the whisky hadn’t deterred him from driving and Ása had long ago given up objecting. As if the police would ever dream of pulling over Hendrik Larsen. The very idea was preposterous, he said. But Ása secretly hoped they would stop him one day. Every time they passed a white police vehicle she would stare pointedly at the officers inside, only to be infuriated when they did nothing but nod a respectful greeting to Hendrik. He was never stopped.
‘Haraldur’s in the kitchen, Hendrik. Do go and find him. Us girls have got some catching up to do.’ Þórný winked at Ása. Taking her by the arm, she led her into the better sitting room and waved her to the sofa. ‘What news of the family?’ Þórný took out two crystal glasses from a large cabinet and half-filled them with port. Then she sat down close beside Ása on the sofa as if creating an air of cosy intimacy and fixed her with her grey-blue eyes.
‘Not much,’ Ása replied, sipping her port.
‘How’s Hendrik been since he stopped work? He must be impossible around the house – a man like him, used to working hard enough for three people.’ Þórný crossed her legs and demurely pulled down her skirt.
‘I hardly see him. He’s always on the golf course.’ Ása took another sip and felt the warmth spreading inside her.
Þórný gave a tinkling laugh. ‘Darling, you need to find a hobby. Come out with my walking group. It’s not just about the exercise, though we all need that, of course. It’s about company.’
Ása sighed under her breath. Þórný had been pestering her to join this group for years. As far as she could work out, they only walked half the time and spent the rest guzzling cake and coffee. So much for the benefits of exercise.
‘I’ll see,’ Ása said noncommittally. She knew from long experience that there was no point arguing with Þórný.
‘It would do you good. It’s so important to have a hobby,’ Þórný persisted, giving Ása an encouraging smile. ‘Now, where’s your glass? I’ll get you a refill.’
Ása looked down. She hadn’t realised how quickly she’d polished off the port. She drank so rarely and when she did, she usually only had a drop. Perhaps it was from habit. She had always held back to compensate for the amount Hendrik put away, because someone in the house had to be sober. But these days who did she have to worry about but herself? She had no children, nothing … The port made her head feel pleasantly fuzzy, lending everything a vaguely unreal air. It made a welcome change. Recently, the world had been only too grimly real. All she wanted was to retreat and forget everything for a while.
‘I always used to go to a sewing group in the evenings,’ she piped up suddenly. And, as she said it, those days came back to her so vividly: the needles, the brown canvas chairs, the companionable sound of women’s voices. ‘Now I just knit alone at home.’
And she remembered why she had stopped.
‘Why did you stop?’ Þórný asked cheerfully.
‘Hendrik used to be home in the evenings to babysit. But later he started working so late that I had to be there to take care of the children.’ Ása relaxed against the back of the sofa. She yawned and sank deeper into the dark-brown leather, picturing the evenings she had spent away from home. The house they had lived in, with the carpeted sitting room and the beams in their attic bedroom. Waves breaking on the black sand. And she saw in her mind’s eye a blonde head and a pair of blue eyes. For a moment she felt an unfamiliar pricking in the corners of her eyes. She hadn’t cried for years; not since the accident. Afterwards, she had done nothing but cry for months, but in the end there had been nothing left. It was as if she had drained the well of tears dry. Poured out enough for a lifetime. She didn’t cry now either; this feeling was different.
It began like a numbness in her fingers, a numbness that travelled up her arms and back. She felt her skin prickling, then the pain struck, sharp, like a sudden blow. She heard her name being called a long way off until the voice faded into silence like everything else.
Akranes 1990
‘What have you done?’ Sara looked from her to the cat and back again.
‘It was only a stray, Sara,’ Elísabet said, rooting in the sand with her stick. ‘No one will miss it.’
Sara didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
They walked on in silence. Elísabet had begun to regret what she had done. Not because she felt sorry for the cat but because she couldn’t bear the accusing note in Sara’s voice. Or the way her friend was staring at her as if she was weird. She was filled with a cold fear that Sara wouldn’t want to be her friend anymore, now that she knew how wicked she was; the things she was capable of.
But the cat had been more dead than alive when she found it among the rocks on the beach. There had been a big gash on its face, half its ear was missing and it was dragging one leg. It had stopped and hissed when it saw Elísabet; a loud, threatening hiss, baring its sharp little teeth.
Without stopping to think, Elísabet had stooped and picked up a stone. The stone had caught the cat right between the eyes. Elísabet had walked calmly over to its feebly twitching body. As she drew near, it had tried to hiss again but this time when it opened its mouth hardly any noise had come out. Elísabet had picked up another stone, aimed at its head and struck. The cat hadn’t moved any more after that.
She had been standing there, contemplating its body, when Sara appeared without warning behind her.
‘Shall we dig a grave for it?’ Elísabet asked, with her sweetest smile. ‘Then at least it’ll go to heaven.’
‘Elísabet, you…’ Sara sighed with an expression of motherly reproach. ‘You mustn’t do things like that. If anyone found out…’
Feigning shame, Elísabet lowered her eyes to the sand. Then she raised them again and nodded, as if she agreed. As if she wasn’t really a bad person. ‘I promise never to do it again,’ she said meekly.
Sara was regarding her gravely. ‘Do you promise?’
Elísabet nodded vehemently.
After a moment Sara smiled. ‘All right, then. Where shall we dig the grave?’
Relief flooded Elísabet. It was dawning on her that it would be wiser to keep quiet about some of the things she thought and did.
Friday, 1 December 2017
Eiríkur arrived punctually at the police station, his black Lexus SUV pulling into the car park a few minutes before ten. Elma watched from the window as he sat for a minute in his car before opening the door, climbing out and walking briskly towards the building.
Once he was inside, Eiríkur shook hands with them all, smiling politely. Hörður gestured to him to take a seat in the meeting room, facing them across the table. He sat down and waited patiently for one of them to begin. His features were finely etched in the harsh glare of the ceiling light and Elma thought he appeared much younger than he was. He was neatly dressed as before, in a light-blue jumper and dark-blue trousers.
Hörður cleared his throat. ‘To start off, I’d like to update you on the progress of the investigation. Yesterday we found Elísabet’s car.’
‘Where was it?’ Eiríkur sat up.
‘It turned up in a garage belonging to a couple here in Akranes. They discovered it yesterday when they got home from a holiday abroad.’
Eiríkur was staring at them, his eyes wide. ‘In their garage? Doesn’t that mean they must be involved?’
‘No. Like I said, they were abroad at the time Elísabet died.’ Hörður read out the couple’s name. ‘Do you know these people or did Elísabet have any contact with them that you’re aware of?’
Eiríkur shook his head. ‘No, I’ve never heard their names before. But then I’m not familiar with Akranes. I even had to use sat nav to find the police station.’
‘You must have come here at some point,
surely?’ Elma said, though she knew that few people from Reykjavík bothered to visit the town. Stuck out at the end of the Skagi Peninsula, Akranes wasn’t on the way anywhere and most Icelanders simply passed it by, continuing north to Borgarnes or south to the capital.
‘No. Except when I was younger and came to the swimming pool. I once attended a football tournament here too, I think. Apart from that, I just can’t remember ever having any reason to come here. Did you find anything in the car?’
Hörður glanced down at his notepad, then back at Eiríkur. ‘I know we’ve already asked you this, but could you describe your relationship with Elísabet for me?’
‘Our relationship?’ Eiríkur echoed. ‘What do you mean? We were married and had children, with all that goes with it. One minute sunshine, the next showers.’ His smile was unconvincing.
Without a word, Hörður slid the divorce papers across the table to Eiríkur, who skimmed them quickly, then sat back, his lips stretched in a humourless grin that gave Elma an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. ‘I hadn’t a clue she’d gone that far,’ he said. ‘She mentioned something a while ago about wanting a divorce but then said no more about it.’
‘Did you refuse?’
Eiríkur snorted. ‘Refuse? Yes and no. I thought we should give it another go, but it’s not like I’d have refused if she’d been serious. I just knew she wasn’t. Elísabet was … well, she could be a bit up and down. Her moods changed from day to day.’
‘What was her mood like in the days before she left?’
‘I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary or I’d have told you,’ Eiríkur replied. ‘Look, are we done here?’ He pushed back his chair and stood up.
Elma intervened before he could go anywhere: ‘In light of this information I’m afraid we need to take a closer look at your relationship.’ Eiríkur’s head swung round to her and she went on: ‘We may need to talk to the school, your employers and anyone else you both had dealings with.’
The Creak on the Stairs Page 18