‘Oh, sure,’ he said airily, ‘but then I got the hang of it years ago.’
‘So you had no problem communicating with Elena?’
‘Problem? No, of course not.’
‘So what did you two talk about?’
‘Not much, really,’ he admitted. ‘Mostly, I just interpreted for her at meetings with her lawyer.’
‘He mentioned that she was keen on music,’ Hulda said, in an effort to keep the conversation moving forward.
‘Oh, yes, that’s right. As a matter of fact, she did talk to me about that. She writes … used to write music. She had no chance of doing it professionally in Russia, but that was the dream: to work as a composer here. She played a tune for us once at the lawyer’s office. She was quite good – well, not bad, you know. But it was totally unrealistic. No one can make a living as a composer in Iceland.’
‘Any more than they can as a translator?’
Bjartur smiled but didn’t rise to this. Instead, after a brief pause, he said: ‘Actually, there was something else…’
‘Something else?’ Hulda asked encouragingly. She could tell from his expression that he was in two minds about whether to go on.
‘You’d better keep it to yourself, though.’
‘Keep what to myself?’
‘Look, I don’t want to get dragged into anything … I can’t…’
‘What happened?’ Hulda asked, employing her friendliest voice.
‘It was just something she said … By the way, this is strictly off the record.’
Hulda forced herself to smile politely, resisting the urge to point out the difference between a police officer and a journalist. Although she had no intention of making any promises, she maintained a diplomatic silence, not wishing to frighten him off.
Her tactic worked. After a moment’s hesitation, Bjartur continued: ‘I think she might have been on the game.’
‘On the game? Working as a prostitute, you mean?’ Hulda asked. ‘What reason do you have for thinking that?’
‘She told me.’
‘This didn’t come out in any of the reports,’ Hulda said angrily, though her anger was directed more at the absent figure of Alexander than at Bjartur.
‘No, it wouldn’t have. She told me the first time we met but insisted she didn’t want anyone else to know. I got the feeling she was scared.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of who, you mean.’
‘An Icelander?’
‘Not sure.’ He wavered, seeming to think it over. ‘To be honest, I got the impression from what she said that she’d been brought over to Iceland solely for that purpose.’
‘Are you serious? You mean her application for asylum was just a cover?’
‘It’s possible. She was a bit vague about the whole thing, but it was very obvious that she didn’t want the news to get out.’
‘So her lawyer didn’t know?’
‘I don’t think so, no. I certainly didn’t tell him anything. I kept her secret.’ After a beat, he added, a little ashamed: ‘Until now, of course.’
‘Why on earth didn’t you tell anyone?’ Hulda demanded, sounding harsher than she’d intended.
There was another brief pause, then Bjartur replied, rather lamely: ‘Nobody asked.’
IX
The young mother walked home as usual, but this evening she was unusually tired. It had been a long day at Hótel Borg, the weather had been dark and dreary, the wind and rain dragging her down. Her job description at the landmark hotel in the town centre was rather vague; sometimes she was asked to clean the guestrooms and other times she helped out in the restaurant and bar, often well into the night. She took any shift she was offered, as long as it didn’t interfere with her visits to her daughter.
It had been a day of celebration, 1 December, Sovereignty Day, commemorating Iceland’s achievement of partial independence from Denmark thirty years earlier, in 1918. Students had gathered at the hotel during the evening for a party, and there had been lots of singing and speeches, and the well-known poet Tómas Gudmundsson had performed some of his works.
Christmas was fast approaching and she wanted to buy a present for her daughter, although she wasn’t sure what to get her. It had to be something special, that was all she knew. And she had to have some money to buy the gift. There was this film she really wanted to see at the Gamla Bíó, Boom Town, starring Clark Gable, but she would probably have to give it a miss, as she was saving every penny for her daughter.
How she had envied those young students tonight. How she had longed to be one of them. She knew she had the potential to make something of herself, but that it would never be fulfilled. Iceland was supposed to be a classless society, everyone was supposed to be equal, with no upper, middle or lower class. Everyone was supposed to have an equal chance of succeeding. But she knew this was a myth; she would never rise above her current status, working in low-paid jobs, with no security. A single mother from a poor background. She didn’t stand a chance.
But she was determined that things would be different for her daughter.
X
Bjartur’s revelation had put Hulda’s investigation – if you could call it an investigation – in a whole new light. This was dynamite. Not only had Alexander’s inquiry been exposed as perfunctory in the extreme, but the Russian girl’s death had acquired an entirely new angle. The question was at what point Hulda should inform her boss of this fresh twist. At the moment, Magnús didn’t even know which cold case she had chosen to reopen. No doubt he was busy congratulating himself on the neat way in which he had edged her out and, if he thought about her at all, would assume she was sitting at her desk, poring over old police files to while away the time as the clock ticked inexorably towards her retirement.
In fact, she hadn’t been near CID since this morning’s fateful meeting. To her surprise, the day had passed far more quickly than she had feared: all that rushing around had left her with no time at all to wallow in self-pity. She had the rest of the evening for that. But, no – she was planning to get an early night, have a good long sleep to clear her head, and put off any decision about what to do next until the morning. She could make up her mind then whether she had the energy – and the courage – to completely immerse herself in the Russian girl’s case or whether she should simply throw in the towel and start getting used to life as a pensioner. Admit to herself that her career in the police was over. Stop trying to resist the inevitable. Stop chasing phantoms that may never have existed.
Whatever her eventual decision, there was one loose end she still needed to tie up. Settling herself in her mother’s comfy old chair, phone in hand, she deliberated for a while, putting off dialling the number of the wretched nurse she had questioned the day before; the woman who had run down that evil bastard of a paedophile and shaken like a leaf from nerves and guilt throughout the interview. She must be going through a private hell right now, worried sick about being parted from her son and having to spend years behind bars. After all, she had confessed. But, so far, Hulda had not only failed to write up a formal report of their conversation, she had actually lied to her boss and said that the case was nowhere near being solved. The question she had to debate with her conscience, before ringing the poor woman, was whether to stick to the lie and do her damnedest to spare the mother and son any further injustice, or to write the truth in her report, in the knowledge that the woman would almost inevitably be sent down for her crime.
The answer was never really in doubt: there was only one course of action open to Hulda.
The woman had a mobile and a home phone number registered to her name. She didn’t answer the mobile and her landline rang for ages before she finally picked up. Hulda introduced herself: ‘This is Hulda Hermannsdóttir, from CID. We spoke yesterday.’
‘Oh … yes … of course,’ said the woman in a strangled voice. She drew a deep, shuddering breath.
‘I’ve been reviewing the incident,’ Hulda lied, resorting to deliberately formal police spe
ak, ‘and I’ve come to the conclusion that we don’t have sufficient evidence to convict.’
‘What … what do you mean?’ the woman stammered. She sounded as if she was crying.
‘I’m not planning to take things any further, not as far as you’re concerned.’
There was a stunned silence at the other end, then the woman croaked: ‘But what about … what about the thing I told you?’
‘It wouldn’t serve any purpose to pursue it further, to drag you through the courts.’
Again, there was a silence. Then: ‘You … you mean you’re not going to … arrest me? I … I’ve hardly stopped shaking since … since we spoke. I thought I was going to ‒’
‘Quite. No, I’m not going to arrest you. And seeing as I’m about to retire, with any luck, this should be the last you hear of the matter.’ Retire. It was the first time she’d said it out loud and the word echoed oddly in her ears. She was struck yet again by how ridiculously unprepared she was for this milestone, foreseeable though it had been.
‘What about the other … what about your colleagues in the police?’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t mention your confession in my report. Of course, I can’t predict what’ll happen to the case after I leave, but as far as I’m concerned, you didn’t admit to anything when I interviewed you. Have I got that right?’
‘What? Oh, yes, of course. Thank you…’
Something compelled Hulda to add: ‘But don’t get me wrong: this doesn’t absolve you from guilt. Maybe I can understand why you did what you did, but the fact is that you’re going to have to live with it. Still, in my opinion, locking you up and depriving your son of his mother would only make matters worse.’
‘Thank you,’ the woman repeated in heartfelt tones, her sobbing now clearly audible down the line. ‘Thank you,’ she managed to gasp again before Hulda rang off.
When busy or under pressure, Hulda often forgot to eat, but she made sure she had something now. Her supper was the same as last night’s: cheese on toast. Since Jón died, she had given up cooking altogether. At first, she had tried to make the effort, but as the years went by and she got used to living alone, she’d made do with a hot meal in the work canteen at midday and survived mainly on a diet of fast food or sandwiches in the evenings.
She was in the middle of her simple snack, listening to the radio news, when the phone rang. Seeing who it was, she felt an impulse to ignore it, but habit and a sense of duty made her pick up. Characteristically, he launched straight in without even bothering to give his name, but then Alexander had never had any manners: ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he stormed. She pictured him at the other end: features twisted in a scowl, the double chin, the drooping eyelids under heavy brows.
She wasn’t going to let him fluster her. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked in as normal a voice as she could manage.
‘Come off it, Hulda. You know as well as I do. For fuck’s sake. That Russian girl who drowned herself.’
‘Can’t you even remember her name?’
The question apparently caught him off-guard. He was speechless for a moment, which was unlike him. But he soon recovered. ‘What’s that got to do with anything? What I want to ‒’
‘Her name was Elena,’ Hulda interrupted.
‘I don’t give a shit!’ His voice rose. No doubt his face had flushed dark red. ‘Why are you sticking your nose into this, Hulda? I thought you’d left.’
So the news had spread.
‘You must have been misinformed,’ she said levelly.
‘Oh? From what I heard…’ He thought better of it. ‘Whatever. Why are you muscling in on my case?’
‘Because Magnús asked me to,’ Hulda said. This was stretching the truth, but never mind.
‘You’re deliberately trying to undermine me, that’s what this is. I’ve already dealt with that case.’
‘Not in a way that does you any credit,’ Hulda said coolly.
‘There was nothing dodgy about it,’ Alexander blustered, almost shouting now. ‘The poor cow was about to be deported so she threw herself in the sea. End of story.’
‘On the contrary, her request for asylum was about to be granted, and she knew it.’
There was a sudden silence at the other end. After a moment, Alexander spluttered: ‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘The case is far from closed, that’s all there is to it. And you’re interrupting my supper, so if there’s nothing else…’
‘Interrupting your supper? Yeah, right – a lonely sandwich in front of the TV,’ he said nastily. Having delivered this parting shot, he hung up.
That was below the belt. The truth was that she was always alone; the only single woman among a group of men, most of whom were married, if not to their first, then to their second wives, and surrounded by big extended families. It wasn’t the first time she’d been the butt of this kind of remark. It went with the territory, along with the tasteless jokes, the outright bullying. She could be prickly in her dealings with other people, she knew, but then she’d had to develop a thick skin to survive, and in return it seemed this gave the lads a licence to take pot shots at her.
Of course, she should have been able to shrug off Alexander’s spiteful dig but, instead, to prove him wrong, she decided to call Pétur from the walking club. She still thought of him as a friend rather than a boyfriend – their relationship felt too platonic for that. Whenever they were together she found herself wishing she was twenty, thirty years younger; then it wouldn’t have been as hard to make that next move, progress from the polite pecks on the cheek to something more intimate. Then again, there were times on the phone to him when she felt as shy as a girl again; a sign, she thought, that their relationship was on the right track, that maybe she did want more.
As usual, he was quick to answer. Typically brisk and on the ball.
‘I wondered,’ she said diffidently, ‘that is, I wondered if you’d like to pop over for coffee this evening.’ The moment the words had slipped out, she realized they could be misconstrued. Inviting a man round for coffee out of the blue like that … She wanted to add that she wasn’t asking him to spend the night, but she bit her lip and merely hoped he wouldn’t read more into her offer than she’d intended.
‘I’d love to,’ he answered, without a moment’s hesitation. He was always decisive, never one to get bogged down in details or make a mountain out of a molehill; qualities Hulda appreciated. Nevertheless, this was quite a big step for them, as she’d never invited him round to her place before. Was it that she was ashamed of her flat? she wondered. In comparison to their old house on Álftanes with its big windows and large garden – yes, maybe. But mainly it was due to the invisible defences she had raised around herself, defences she’d been reluctant to lower for him until now, when, in desperate need of company, she had decided to take the risk.
‘Shall I come round now?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sure, that would be great. If you can.’ She was ridiculously insecure when talking to him; it was so unlike her. Usually, she had every aspect of her life well under control.
‘Of course. Where do you live?’
She reeled off her address, finishing: ‘Fourth floor, my name’s on the bell.’
‘I’ll be straight over,’ he said, and rang off without saying goodbye.
* * *
‘About time you invited me round,’ was Pétur’s first comment when she opened the door. At getting on for seventy, he was a few years older than Hulda but wore his age well, looking neither much younger nor much older than he really was, though his grey beard did give him a slightly grandfatherly air. Hulda couldn’t stop herself from wondering, just for an instant, what Jón would have looked like at seventy.
Almost before she knew what was happening, Pétur was in the sitting room, making himself comfortable in her favourite chair. Hulda felt a twinge of irritation: her mother’s armchair was her spot, but of course she didn’t say this aloud. After all, she w
as pleased to have him there, happy that someone wanted to spend the evening with her. She had got used to the loneliness, as far as this was possible, but there was no real substitute for the company of another human being. She had sometimes tried going out by herself, to restaurants for lunch or dinner, but it had made her feel self-conscious and embarrassed, so now she tended to eat in the office canteen or alone at home.
She asked if he’d like a coffee.
‘Thanks, no milk.’
Pétur was a doctor. He’d taken early retirement at sixty, when his wife fell ill, and had told Hulda, without going into any details, that they’d managed some good years together before the end. This information was enough for her to be going on with; she had no wish to make him relive his grief and hoped he would be similarly understanding about not requiring her to reopen old wounds. All she had told him was that Jón had died suddenly at fifty-two. ‘Long before his time,’ she had added, stating the obvious.
Beneath Pétur’s comfortable manner there was a hint of steel, a combination which Hulda guessed would have made him a good doctor. He’d certainly done well for himself. She had visited his large house in the desirable neighbourhood of Fossvogur. It was spacious, with high ceilings and a living room graced with handsome furniture, oil paintings on the walls, a wide selection of books on the shelves and even a grand piano taking pride of place in the middle. Ever since seeing it, she had entertained fantasies about living there, spending her days ensconced in a lovely living room in a cultured home. She could ditch her dreary high-rise apartment, use the cash to pay off her debts and enjoy a comfortable retirement in a large house in a nice neighbourhood. But, of course, that wasn’t the main reason; the truth was she felt good in Pétur’s company, and she was gradually coming to the realization that she might be ready to move on, to commit again after all these years of loneliness.
‘I’ve had quite a day,’ she said, before stepping into the kitchen to fetch the coffee she’d made in advance.
When she came back into the cramped sitting room and handed Pétur a cup, he smiled his thanks and waited for her to continue with what she had been saying, radiating patience and sympathy. He’d been a surgeon, but she thought he’d have made an excellent psychiatrist: he was a man who knew how to listen.
The Darkness Page 4