That first day, the girl did not take kindly to her new home or to the presence of her mother. She refused to talk and avoided her mother’s eye. To begin with, she wouldn’t even eat, though she relented in the end. And, inevitably, when evening came, she refused to go to sleep. Lullabies didn’t work for long and, in her desperation, the young woman began to wonder if she’d made a terrible mistake. Perhaps she should have given her baby up for adoption straight away instead of settling for this compromise, which had left her a mother in name only. Now, she was just the woman who had regularly appeared on the other side of a glass screen, trying to think of things to say, mouthing platitudes that could never be a substitute for real love and security.
The little girl couldn’t fight off her tiredness for ever, though she did her best. At long last, the mother succeeded in getting her to sleep by leaving a light on in the bedroom. Exhausted, she fell asleep herself immediately afterwards, lying beside her daughter in bed. She had never felt happier than in that moment.
III
Hulda was a little surprised not to have heard from Magnús. After the earful Alexander had given her yesterday evening, she had been expecting a similar call from her boss. There were only two possible explanations for why this hadn’t happened: the first was that Magnús had decided to ignore Alexander’s complaints and let Hulda get on with investigating the case in peace. Which was highly unlikely, since those two were as thick as thieves and, if Alexander had complained, you could be sure that Magnús would have backed him up. The second, more likely, explanation was that Alexander hadn’t run telling tales to Magnús after all, perhaps because he knew deep down that he had screwed up the inquiry. He must be praying that Hulda would fail to dig up any new information so the whole affair could quietly sink without trace. She did wonder how Alexander had known she was looking into Elena’s death, but the most likely explanation was that Albert had told him, since they knew each other from Albert’s time in the police.
Convenient as Magnús’s non-intervention was, Hulda knew she couldn’t rely on it for long. She had been given two weeks’ grace to work on the case, but there was a real risk she would be ordered to wrap up her inquiry before that, perhaps with only a day’s notice to clear her desk, so it was vital to use her remaining time well. The first task on the agenda was to follow up the lead she’d got from the interpreter, Bjartur. And when it came to the sex industry or human trafficking, the fount of all wisdom in the police was an officer known as Thrándur. He’d actually been christened Tróndur, since he was half Faroese, but as he’d lived in Iceland all his life he usually went by the local version of the name. Hulda had never particularly warmed to the man, though he’d always been perfectly polite to her. His manner struck her as too smarmy, but she had to admit that her opinion of Thrándur and various other male colleagues was bound to be coloured by the fact that she wasn’t part of their clique. To give him credit, though, at least Thrándur was a competent detective: he was cautious, intelligent and generally got good results, unlike Alexander.
Thrándur didn’t answer his desk phone, so she tried his mobile. It rang for ages until, finally, he picked up.
‘Thrándur speaking,’ he said formally. To her chagrin, she realized this meant he hadn’t bothered to add her number to his contacts list, in spite of all the years they’d worked together.
‘Thrándur, it’s Hulda here. Could I see you for a quick chat?’
‘Why, Hulda! It’s been ages,’ he said, with a politeness she felt was put on. ‘I’ve got the day off, actually – had to use up a bit of leave left over from last summer. Can it wait until tomorrow?’
She thought for a moment. Time was of the essence: she had to make some sort of progress today and this was the most promising lead she had.
‘I’m sorry, it’s urgent.’
‘OK, fire away.’
‘Could I come and see you?’ She knew this would be more likely to produce a result: if he lied to her, she’d have a better chance of spotting it from his body language.
‘Well, I’m on the golf course.’ This didn’t surprise her: Thrándur was the police team’s star player. ‘And I’m about to tee off. Can you be quick?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Urridavellir.’
This didn’t mean anything to her.
‘The course up at Heidmörk,’ he clarified, when she didn’t react. He gave her directions.
‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ she lied, well aware that her old Skoda wouldn’t be up to the challenge.
As she drove south-east out of town, she found her thoughts dwelling on Pétur. On what a good evening they’d had and how much she’d missed that kind of companionship. She also reflected on what she’d told him about her past, and even more on what she’d left unsaid. For now. There would be plenty of time for that later.
Just beyond the outskirts of the city, the Heidmörk Nature Reserve greeted her in all its fresh spring greenery, the conifers, birches and low-lying scrub caught midway between the drabness of winter and their full summer glory. In the ever-expanding concrete jungle of Reykjavík, Heidmörk offered a calm oasis of trees and hiking trails where people could enjoy days out with their families.
Thrándur’s directions had been clear, and a long career in the police had taught her to pay attention to details, so the way to the golf course wasn’t hard to find. In spite of the tortuous winding of the narrow gravel road that made it impossible to see any oncoming traffic, Hulda and the Skoda made it to their destination in one piece.
Thrándur was standing waiting for her in the car park, dressed up to the nines in a natty golfing costume of diamond-patterned jumper and peaked cap, a trolley and a set of clubs at his side. Hulda had no basis on which to judge his outfit but, given Thrándur’s golfing mania, she assumed he would have no truck with anything but the best.
‘I’m a bit pressed for time,’ he said as she approached, unable to keep a note of impatience out of his voice. As if for emphasis, he glanced over at the large clock on the clubhouse. ‘What was it you wanted to discuss?’
Hulda wasn’t used to being chivvied but, clearly, Thrándur wasn’t prepared to let anything get in the way of his game.
She came straight to the point. ‘It’s about a Russian girl who died a year ago. Her name was Elena.’
‘Doesn’t ring any bells, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Wish I could help you.’ He was politeness personified, in spite of his evident hurry.
‘She came to the country as an asylum-seeker, then turned up dead on a beach on Vatnsleysuströnd. The original investigation was a bit sketchy, but I’ve just learned that she may have been brought over to work as a prostitute, possibly as part of a trafficking ring.’ She kept a close eye on Thrándur’s reaction, noting that she had piqued his interest. ‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you,’ she finished.
‘I … I don’t know anything about that,’ he said in an altered tone, more hesitant now, and evasive. ‘I’ve never heard of any Elena.’ Then, as an afterthought: ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s not unheard of, though, is it?’ Hulda persisted. ‘For people to come to this country on the pretext of seeking asylum when they’re actually part of some kind of organized prostitution network?’ She had done some quick research online before coming out and had found enough to justify this assertion, at least for the purpose of probing Thrándur for more information.
‘Well, yes, sure, it does happen, I suppose, but it’s not something we’re looking into at present. It sounds as though you’ve been given some misleading information.’
‘If something like that was going on,’ Hulda persevered, ‘are there any names you could give me; anyone who might be involved in that kind of racket? Anyone based here in Iceland?’
‘No one comes to mind,’ he replied, a shade too quickly, she thought; without even pausing to think, as if he’d prefer her to stay well away from investigating anything along those lines. ‘Maybe it was a one-off: someone brought her to the coun
try then made himself scarce. That’s the most likely scenario, don’t you think?’
‘It’s possible,’ she said slowly, ‘I suppose. Who would be the most likely candidates in that case? If anyone ought to know, it’s you.’ She was polite but insistent.
‘I’m sorry, Hulda,’ he said again, ‘but I haven’t the foggiest. It’s not as straightforward as you seem to think. Fortunately, we don’t have much organized crime of that sort in Iceland. Sorry, look, I really do have to go now: if I’m late, I’ll miss my tee time.’
She nodded, though the golfing term meant nothing to her. ‘Thanks, anyway, Thrándur. It was good to be able to pick your brains.’
‘No problem, Hulda. Any time.’ Then he added, and she thought she detected a hint of sarcasm in his voice: ‘Enjoy your retirement.’
She watched him lugging his golf clubs up the path to a small knoll where three other golfers were standing, evidently waiting for him. It was a lovely day for it. The sky was a pure, cloudless blue: a sight for sore eyes after the dreary winter, though there was still a distinct nip in the air.
It looked as though Thrándur was going to be first to tee off, or whatever it was called. He reached into his bag for a club then, noticing that Hulda was still standing in the car park, watching him, he gave her an awkward smile and paused, waiting for her to leave. She waved back, not budging an inch, enjoying his discomfort. He looked away and took up position, his back to Hulda, club raised aloft like a weapon, then, swinging it back, struck the ball a tremendous clout. It flew off the fairway and landed on the other side of a barbed-wire fence. From the reactions of Thrándur and his companions, she gathered that this had not been the intention.
IV
The girl was still locked in her shell, showing little emotion apart from the constant crying, but her mother refused to give up. The gulf between them had to be bridged somehow. It was as if her daughter was punishing her for her absence, which was terribly unfair because the mother had been powerless to act any differently. She’d had no real choice. And now here she was, alone with her child, hardly able to sleep at night for anxiety about the future. How was she to combine work with bringing up a child on her own? Almost all the women she knew were married housewives, with plenty of time for their homes and children. It wasn’t only society that was against her: even these so-called friends didn’t hide their disapproval of her status as a single mother. Meanwhile, her parents, still adamant that the little girl should have been given up for adoption, had reacted badly to her decision to go it alone and were keeping their distance. Most days, she felt she had nowhere to turn for help.
Far from being toughened up by adversity, she felt herself being worn down, a little more every day.
When she was at work, the mother had no choice but to entrust her daughter to a childminder who lived nearby, a cold, strict woman with old-fashioned notions about bringing up children. Every weekday, it was a wrench for the mother to leave her little girl in the childminder’s stuffy basement flat, which reeked of cigarette smoke. But she had to work, or she wouldn’t be able to support herself and her daughter, and this woman offered the only day-care services she could afford in her neighbourhood.
Saying goodbye to her daughter never got any easier. Although she knew she would be collecting her again at the end of the day, each parting seemed a repetition of their original separation. She prayed that the little girl didn’t feel the same way. The child wept every time, but it wasn’t clear that being parted from her mother was the cause of her tears.
She told herself that everything would be all right in the end, that the relationship between mother and daughter would eventually become normal. Normal was all she asked for. But, deep down, she felt ‒ she knew ‒ that this would never be the case. The damage was irreparable.
V
Thrándur had been withholding information, that much was clear, but Hulda wasn’t going to let this deter her. Among her few friends on the force there was one person who had the necessary contacts in the shady world in which Thrándur spent his days.
Since Hulda had absolutely no desire to set foot in CID, she arranged to meet her friend in the café at Kjarvalsstadir, an art gallery just outside the centre of town. The case was certainly keeping her busy. Although she felt a sense of duty towards Elena for some reason, she also knew that the case was a means of deflecting the gut-wrenching sense of rejection that flooded her every time she relived her conversation with Magnús.
There was hardly anyone else in the café apart from a young couple – tourists, judging by their backpacks and camera – who were tucking into slices of apple pie. They were so obviously in love, like her and Jón back in the day. Her heart wasn’t easily won, but she had fallen deeply in love with him once and the memory was still painfully vivid. No such powerful emotion stirred in her breast for Pétur, but that was all right: she genuinely liked him and could envisage some sort of future with him. That was enough. She’d probably lost the capacity to love – not just probably; definitely – and she knew precisely the moment at which that had happened.
The apple pie looked so tempting that Hulda ordered a slice while she waited and was just finishing the last mouthful when her friend walked into the gallery café. Karen was twenty years younger than her, but they had always got on well. Hulda had taken her under her wing – not in a maternal way, since she could never have thought of Karen as a daughter, but like a teacher with a pupil. Seeing herself in the younger woman, she had tried to guide her through the labyrinthine world of the police patriarchy. Karen had proved an apt pupil. She was now on a fast track up through the ranks, getting opportunities and positions that Hulda could only have dreamed of. Hulda had watched her protégée’s meteoric rise with a pride not unmixed with envy, a little voice inside her asking: why didn’t you rise any higher yourself?
It was a question to which she hadn’t found a satisfactory answer. No doubt there had been all kinds of contributing factors, including attitudes to women back in the day, but the truth was that she’d always found it difficult to bond with her colleagues, always kept them at arm’s length, and had paid the price for that in her career.
‘Hulda, hon, how are you? Is it true you’re leaving? Have you already left?’ Karen slipped into the chair opposite her. ‘I’m afraid I can’t stay long – rushed off my feet at work, you know how it is.’
Karen used to work for Thrándur in the vice squad, but now she had taken the next step up the ladder.
‘Won’t you have a coffee?’ asked Hulda. ‘And some cake?’
‘Definitely no cake, I’m gluten free these days, but I’ll have a coffee.’ Karen stood up again. ‘I’ll fetch it myself.’
‘No, please, let me ‒’
‘No, I won’t hear of it,’ Karen interrupted, in what sounded to Hulda like a pitying tone. Like one cup of coffee would bankrupt her, now that she was retiring. If there was one thing Hulda couldn’t stand, it was being pitied. Still, she wasn’t going to waste her time arguing over something this trivial, so she let it go.
‘We really must do lunch from time to time,’ said Karen, returning with a cappuccino, ‘so we don’t lose touch. Of course, I knew you were older than me, but I didn’t realize you were that old.’ Astonishingly, Karen seemed to regard this as a compliment. She beamed, not the least embarrassed by her faux pas. Perhaps she thought Hulda would be flattered by this reference to her youthful appearance.
Hulda tried to shrug off her irritation, but it was dawning on her that they had never really been friends after all. Karen had needed her support and friendship while she was clawing her way up through the hierarchy, but now, clearly, Hulda had served her purpose and could be tossed aside. She silently cursed herself for not having realized this before, but right now she needed Karen.
‘I’m retiring,’ she said.
‘Yes, I heard. We’ll all miss you terribly, hon, you know that.’
‘Yes, right. Same here,’ Hulda said insincerely. ‘Anyway, there’s a
little matter Magnús asked me to clear up before I go; something he needed an experienced officer to cast an eye over.’ This was being economical with the truth, but then Hulda was getting used to that.
‘Really, did Maggi do that?’ Karen sounded unflatteringly surprised.
It would never have occurred to Hulda to refer to her boss as ‘Maggi’.
‘Yes, he did. It concerns a young Russian woman who died a little over a year ago. She may have been working as a prostitute here, under cover of being an asylum-seeker.’
Karen’s face had taken on a vacant look. She glanced at her watch and smiled in a perfunctory way, clearly impatient to be off.
After a short, rather awkward silence, she said: ‘Sorry, I don’t think I can help you there. I’ve never heard of the case and, anyway, I’ve moved on.’
‘Yes, I’m aware of that,’ Hulda said calmly, ‘but I was under the impression that you were quite well informed about that world – familiar with the main names and faces. But maybe I’ve misunderstood the kind of jobs you were…’ She left it dangling. It had crossed her mind to ask bluntly if this meant that Karen hadn’t been entrusted with anything important, but she reckoned she’d got the message across loud and clear.
‘No, you were right. Shoot,’ said Karen, taking the bait.
‘Are there any characters we still haven’t managed to nail who are suspected of … well, of being in that line of business?’
‘I’m not sure what the scene’s like today, but there is one candidate who springs to mind. Though…’ Karen dried up, but Hulda wasn’t about to let her off the hook. She waited … then waited a little longer: that was one thing she knew how to do. Sure enough, Karen soon felt compelled to continue: ‘But it was difficult to pin anything on him, so we more or less gave up. His name’s Áki Ákason – you may have heard of him. He runs a wholesale business.’
The Darkness Page 6