‘For Christ’s sake, is that really necessary?’ Eiríkur threw up his hands.
‘May I remind you that we’re doing everything in our power to find out who killed your wife,’ Elma said coolly, and could hear how provocative she sounded. ‘Surely you don’t have any objection to that?’
Eiríkur dithered for a beat, then sat down again, his eyes resting on Elma as if mentally reviewing his options. After staring across the table for a moment or two, he seemed to make up his mind. With a shrug, he leant back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. ‘OK. Fine, I admit it. Our relationship could have been better. But I don’t know why that should matter. I didn’t do anything to her,’ he said flatly.
‘Was Elísabet cheating on you?’ Hörður asked.
Eiríkur was silent, his gaze fixed on the papers in front of him. Then he looked up and shook his head. ‘No, I’m the one having an affair. Her name’s Bergþóra. We’ve been seeing each other for a while. She’s a single mother, with two boys the same age as Fjalar and Ernir.’
This wasn’t at all what Elma had been expecting. Eiríkur’s voice didn’t betray an ounce of regret and he met their eyes coldly as he told them.
‘Has the relationship been going on long?’ Elma asked, recovering from her surprise.
Eiríkur shrugged. ‘A year. Maybe longer. I can’t quite remember.’
‘Was that why Elísabet wanted a divorce?’ Hörður asked. ‘Because she found out you were cheating on her?’
‘No, she was totally unaware of that, as far as I know. And even if she had known, I’m sure she wouldn’t have cared.’
‘Then why did you object to giving her a divorce?’ Elma asked.
‘Because I loved her,’ Eiríkur said, and Elma caught the bitterness in his voice as he added: ‘But she never loved me. I’m not sure she ever loved anyone.’
‘Busy?’ Sævar asked, taking his eyes off the road to smile sideways at Elma. They were on their way to see Eiríkur’s mistress, Bergþóra, who lived on a farm in Hvalfjörður.
Elma had been absorbed in typing something on her phone but she glanced up and returned his smile. ‘What do you think?’ The low sun shone into the car, lending a golden sheen to her pale skin. Sævar noticed that her grey eyes had a hint of green in this light.
‘Any plans this evening?’ he asked.
Elma didn’t immediately answer. ‘I don’t know,’ she said after a pause. ‘I suppose it depends how long we have to work.’
Now that she had looked up from her phone, she saw that they were halfway down the fjord, with the long sheet of blue water to their right and low, smooth-topped mountains stretching green and brown on either side. Ahead, in the distance, the four distinctive peaks of Botnssúlur came into view, standing out starkly white against the darker fells. Closer at hand, on the shores of the fjord, the road was passing through an area of hayfields, dotted with white farm buildings with red roofs.
‘I think we want that turning.’ Belatedly Elma pointed to the left.
Sævar stamped on the brake so hard that she was thrown forwards and was only saved by the seatbelt from bashing her head on the dashboard.
‘Sorry,’ Sævar said.
‘No problem.’ Elma rubbed her breast where the seatbelt had tightened uncomfortably across it. ‘I’ll get my revenge later.’
They parked outside a single-storey house clad in white corrugated iron. Unlike most of the others they had seen, its roof was blue rather than red. Not far off they could see what must be sheep sheds but the paddock in front of them was empty. When they walked up to the gate, an Icelandic sheepdog ran out barking to greet them.
‘There’s no need for a doorbell with him around,’ a cheerful female voice called, and a woman came striding towards them, shielding her eyes from the sun. Her shabby anorak, big wellington boots and grimy gloves all showed that she’d been busy working. Pulling off a glove, she introduced herself and shook their hands. ‘Would you like to come in?’ she asked, opening the front door of the white bungalow. ‘I assume it’s me you’re here to talk to.’
Bergþóra was a robust-looking woman with fair hair, a weather-beaten face and red-veined cheeks. Elma thought Eiríkur could hardly have found a woman less like Elísabet. Bergþóra obviously wasn’t surprised or remotely abashed by their visit, and immediately set about making coffee and getting out some cinnamon buns.
‘It must be tough taking care of the farm and the children alone,’ Elma remarked.
‘Yes and no,’ Bergþóra boomed as she placed mugs and plates on the table. Speaking loudly seemed to come naturally to her. ‘I’ve got a good arrangement going with the neighbouring farm. We share the sheep shed, and I only have a small number of animals myself.’
Elma nodded. She hadn’t noticed the other farm, which was tucked away at the foot of the mountain, out of sight of the road, but she could see it now from Bergþóra’s kitchen window.
‘It’s beautiful here,’ Elma said, taking in the browns, greys and pale greens of the surrounding mountains, the gleaming sheet of water below. She indulged in a momentary fantasy of what it would be like to live in the midst of this dramatic scenery.
‘If you ask me, Hvalfjörður’s the most beautiful place on earth,’ Bergþóra said cheerfully. ‘I’ve always lived here and I expect I always will.’
‘The reason we’re here is to ask you about Eiríkur,’ Sævar intervened, feeling that the civilities had gone on long enough.
‘Just a mo.’ Bergþóra stood up. ‘You’ve come all this way to see me and no one leaves my house without a coffee inside them.’ She took their mugs, filled them, then pushed the plate of cinnamon buns in their direction. She seemed suddenly flustered and Elma wondered if the coffee was a diversionary tactic to buy her time to think.
‘Thanks very much,’ Sævar said, sipping the scalding coffee warily. ‘About Eiríkur – I gather you’ve been seeing each other for quite a while.’
Bergþóra nodded matter-of-factly. ‘It’s not something I’m proud of,’ she said. ‘Especially since I’ve been the victim of that sort of behaviour myself. My husband had an affair with another woman, which is one of the reasons why I threw him out and live here alone now with my two boys.’ She didn’t sound as if she had any regrets. ‘Eiríkur and I met through the kids. They often play here together. They’re exactly the same age, so it’s very convenient.’
‘Then presumably you’ll know that the boys’ mother died last weekend,’ Elma said, watching Bergþóra’s reaction closely.
‘Yes, I know,’ Bergþóra replied. ‘It’s an absolute tragedy and I really hope the person who did it is caught soon. God knows, whatever it might look like, I didn’t wish her any harm.’
‘Were you aware that Elísabet had asked Eiríkur for a divorce but that he was refusing to grant her one?’
Bergþóra’s mouth fell slightly open. ‘No, that’s the first I’ve heard of it.’
‘Are you surprised?’ Elma asked, noting that she seemed dazed, as if the information had completely wrong-footed her.
After a few moments’ silence, Bergþóra said flatly: ‘Yes. Yes, I have to say I am.’ Then she sighed. ‘We’ve talked so often about living together. About making it serious. He was always promising he’d … end it. But he didn’t want to hurt her – he said she was so fragile. And I can believe it. I mean, you never met her while she was alive but she came across as terribly vulnerable. That’s why I didn’t put any pressure on him.’ Her face hardening, she dropped her eyes to the coffee cup she was cradling. ‘If I’d known…’
‘If you’d known, what?’ Elma asked, looking at her searchingly.
‘If I’d known it was him who was putting up obstacles to getting a divorce, I’d never have opened the door to him yesterday.’
Sævar’s and Elma’s eyes met. Elma’s opinion of Eiríkur, which hadn’t been that high to begin with, now took a nosedive. Bergþóra, on the other hand, struck her as a very different, much more straightforward type,
and Elma wondered what on earth she saw in Eiríkur. They appeared to have so little in common.
‘Where were you on Saturday evening?’ Sævar asked.
‘I was at a reunion. We meet up once a year – our old class from the agricultural college at Hólar, that is,’ Bergþóra replied, her voice as muted as it ever got. ‘I stayed the night with friends – they can confirm that.’ Without their having to ask, she fetched a pen and paper and wrote down a phone number for them. ‘Here, you can ring them if you need to check.’
Elma accepted the piece of paper with a nod. ‘Tell me, did Eiríkur ever say anything to you that suggested he hoped something bad would happen to Elísabet?’
Bergþóra had been staring out of the window, her coffee forgotten, but now she turned to Elma. ‘Not that I remember. We never talked about Elísabet. He tried to sometimes but I stopped him. It made me so uncomfortable to think about her when we were together. I know I sound like a terrible person but I liked pretending everything was above board.’ She smiled in embarrassment and Elma noticed the heightened colour in her cheeks.
Once they had finished their coffee, Elma and Sævar rose to their feet and took their leave of Bergþóra. Elma could see how upset she was by their conversation and guessed that this would be the end of her relationship with Eiríkur.
‘There’s something I’ve been wondering about ever since I heard that Elísabet had been found dead,’ Bergþóra said, as they were standing in the hall. ‘You know how it is … children are always talking nonsense, but … now I’m wondering if it might be important.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, it was just something Fjalar said to me when he was round here several days ago. He said his mother had told him she had to go away for a while because there was something she needed to sort out.’ Bergþóra’s voice grew suddenly husky as she added: ‘This was only a few days before she died.’
Ása had dressed in her clothes from the night before and was sitting on the visitor’s chair by the bed, waiting for Hendrik to come and pick her up. When she had come to her senses yesterday evening it was to find herself lying in a white hospital bed with tubes sticking out of the back of her hand. She hadn’t immediately been able to work out what had happened, although she’d remembered the dinner party and felt an uncomfortable sensation deep inside her. She’d wondered if she were dying; if her time had finally come. When she tried to sit up, she’d felt a stabbing pain in her head. There had been some kind of dressing on her forehead and she’d thought perhaps she’d had a fall. The last thing she had been able to remember was sitting, drinking port with Þórný. It had occurred to her that she might have been involved in a car accident on the way home.
She had read that people sometimes lost their memory of the preceding days or even months after a severe head trauma. But she’d reasoned that she couldn’t have been that badly injured if she could remember her conversation with Þórný. Unless that had happened weeks ago. She had peered around her, searching for some clue to tell her what day it was. It was dark outside but that didn’t help much. It was almost always dark at this time of year.
A cheerful, fair-haired nurse had bustled into the room. ‘Hello, how are you doing?’
‘I … I’m fine,’ Ása had said, from habit. In truth, she had been feeling far from good, but it wasn’t like her to give in to self-pity. ‘What happened? Did I have an accident?’
‘Well, sort of. You fainted earlier this evening.’ The nurse had glanced at the clock. ‘It’s only twenty minutes since you came in. We took a blood test and sent it off for analysis, but it looks as if you just experienced a sudden drop in blood sugar.’
‘Oh,’ was all Ása had been able to think of to say.
‘Your friend was quite worried about you. She’s waiting outside.’
‘Þórný?’ Ása had asked.
‘Yes. Your husband’s here too. Do you want me to send them in to see you?’
Ása had nodded and the nurse had turned on her heel.
‘Darling, we were so worried about you.’ Þórný had hugged her. She’d still been wearing the same skirt as earlier. Ása had been relieved to discover that she hadn’t been unconscious for long. ‘I almost had a heart attack when I saw you collapse on the floor like that. How are you feeling?’
‘Tired,’ Ása had said truthfully. She was finding it hard to keep her eyes open.
‘I spoke to the doctor,’ Hendrik had said bracingly. ‘He doesn’t think it’s anything serious. And you can come home tomorrow.’ When he’d smiled at her and taken her limp hand in his, Ása had snatched it away, closing her eyes to block out their astonished expressions.
She had spent the night in hospital and now Hendrik was due any minute to pick her up. But Ása didn’t want to go home. She would give anything not to have to go back there.
‘Twenty-eight … twenty-nine …’ Elma drove slowly down the street, ducking and peering through the windscreen in an attempt to spot the house number. She stopped in front of a detached house and parked by the kerb. The house was white with a green edging round the roof and there were two cars in the drive: an SUV and a hatchback.
After briefly dropping into the police station, where Hörður had waved them away with an uncharacteristically preoccupied air when they told him about their meeting with Bergþóra, Elma had decided to start making serious enquiries into Elísabet’s childhood. To this end, she had found the address of Elísabet’s old form teacher, who still lived in Akranes but now taught at the local community college. Sævar had agreed to come with her. Following their interview with Eiríkur and visit to Bergþóra, he was increasingly coming round to the view that Elma was right. There was no evidence to suggest that Eiríkur had been responsible for Elísabet’s death. Not only that, but Sævar was convinced that Magnea was mixed up in it somehow.
The garden was neat and carefully tended although it was December and the grass was turning brown. There was a rake propped against the wall and a pair of gardening gloves lying on the path. To the left, a large deck ran the length of the house. The front door was round on the right-hand side, where the drive led to a garage. Elma pressed the bell and they heard it ringing inside. They weren’t kept waiting long before the door opened to reveal a tall, short-haired woman in her sixties, wearing a black shirt. She invited them inside, introducing herself as Björg.
Björg led them into the kitchen where Ingibjörn Grétarsson sat immersed in the local paper. He didn’t immediately acknowledge them, as if he wanted to finish the article he was reading first. Only then did he remove his thick glasses and close the paper. He was stout with greying hair and a short, snub nose, and wore a diamond-patterned jumper. From her research, Elma knew that he was in his sixties and taught Icelandic, but his staid manner made it hard to picture him teaching young children. He stood up, greeted them formally, then pointed to a couple of chairs facing him.
‘Excuse us for disturbing you just after work like this,’ Elma began.
‘You’re not really disturbing us, dear,’ Björg assured her, her friendliness making up for her husband’s off-putting manner. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
‘No, thanks. But if I could have a glass of water…’ Elma was still feeling a little queasy after Bergþóra’s powerful brew.
‘I’d be grateful for a glass of water too,’ Sævar said with a smile.
‘Of course.’ Björg ran the tap for a while before filling two glasses. ‘Is your visit to do with the woman who was found by the lighthouse?’ she asked, her eyes alight with curiosity.
‘Yes, it is, actually,’ Elma told her. ‘I understand she was in your class around thirty years ago,’ she added, turning to Ingibjörn.
He coughed. ‘Hmm, yes, that’s right. I couldn’t place the name at first but when they published her picture in the papers, it came back to me. I hadn’t seen her for years, though. To tell the truth, I’d forgotten all about her. So many children have crossed my path during my career. Some of them stay here in Akr
anes all their lives, others leave and you tend to forget those ones.’
‘I see.’ Elma nodded. Before she could carry on, Björg cut in: ‘Wait a minute, I haven’t seen you before. Are you new here?’ She had drawn up a chair beside Ingibjörn and was studying Elma with interest.
‘Yes, I recently moved here. Before that I was in the Reykjavík police.’
‘Oh, really? So you decided to have a change and come out here to the sticks?’ Björg clasped her fingers on the table. Her nails were long and painted with pale-pink polish.
‘Yes…’ Elma hesitated. ‘Actually, I grew up here.’
‘Oh, did you?’ Then came the inevitable Icelandic question: ‘Who are your parents?’
‘Jón and Aðalheiður,’ Elma replied, feeling as if the tables had been turned and she was the one being interrogated.
‘Jón and Heiða? Heiða who works for the council?’
‘That’s right,’ Elma said and Björg nodded, obviously pleased to be able to slot her into place. ‘I wanted to ask…’ Elma began, but got no further.
‘I recognise you, though,’ Björg interrupted, smiling flirtatiously at Sævar. He didn’t answer, merely nodded, but Elma saw that his eyes gleamed with amusement. Ingibjörn appeared oblivious. Elma coughed politely and returned to her question: ‘Anyway, about Elísabet: I understand she was a bit of a loner as a child – she didn’t have many friends. Is that correct?’
‘Oh, it’s so hard to remember,’ Ingibjörn sighed. ‘But yes, she was an unusually serious child, that’s true.’
‘Do you know if there were problems at home?’
‘I seem to recall that there were, yes. I remember her mother, Halla. I gather the woman wasn’t well. She lost her husband in that shipwreck. It was a terrible thing. A storm blew up out of nowhere and the fishing boat turned over with both men on board. Neither of them survived.’ Ingibjörn took out a cloth and wiped his glasses methodically before putting them away in a velour-covered case. ‘But that wasn’t what tipped her over the edge. It was the baby she had not long afterwards. The poor little boy only lived for a couple of weeks. Cot death, they said it was.’
The Creak on the Stairs Page 19