The name was familiar, all right, though Hulda couldn’t put a face to it. ‘Young or old?’
‘About forty. Lives in the west of town, in a flashy house that must have cost a packet.’
‘The wholesale business can pay well.’
‘Not that well, believe me. He’s up to his neck in it. But sometimes you just can’t get anything to stick, so you have to let it go and move on. For Christ’s sake, don’t spread it any further, though; officially, the man’s squeaky clean.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep it to myself,’ Hulda assured her. ‘It’s interesting, but I doubt it’ll help me directly. What I need is a link to the dead girl.’
‘I hear you. Anyway…’
And so they parted, with no warmth on either side. In spite of what she had said, Hulda had every intention of paying this wholesaler a visit. After all, what did she have to lose?
VI
Although life with her daughter was settling into a routine, it wasn’t quite how the mother had pictured it. She was finding it a hard, unrelenting struggle. The child was naughty, fractious and withdrawn, though the mother did her best to lavish on her all the love and kindness she was capable of. Evenings were the most difficult time: the little girl was still so afraid of the dark that she would only go to sleep with the light on. Their financial situation was precarious, too, and all the worries about her child, about money and the future, were taking their toll.
She had begun to regret that she had never told the girl’s father she was carrying his child. He was an American soldier, stationed briefly in Iceland after the war, and their relationship had been even briefer, lasting only a night or two. When she realized she was expecting a baby, she had lain awake night after night, agonizing over whether to look him up, but the barrier had seemed insurmountable. She simply couldn’t bring herself to do it, too ashamed of their relationship and what it had led to. Of course, they were both equally to blame for what had happened, but he was free to swan off back to his homeland, leaving her to face the consequences: pregnancy and an illegitimate child; having to look family and friends in the eye.
Now, of course, it was too late. He had gone back to America. Although she knew which state he lived in, that wouldn’t help much, since, incredible as it seemed, she didn’t know his second name. He must have told her at some point, but her English was limited and she had probably missed it. Besides, it would have seemed irrelevant at the time. If she hadn’t been so dreadfully ashamed, she could have got hold of him when she first found out she was pregnant, since he’d still been in Iceland then. But the thought of travelling out to the American base at Keflavík and asking to speak to a soldier, armed with nothing but his Christian name, her belly already beginning to show … God, no, she couldn’t do it. Yet, now, she could have kicked herself for being so pathetic. She wished she’d brazened it out for the child’s sake, for the little girl who’d had such a difficult beginning in life and would probably never get to know her father. And he would never know that he had a beautiful daughter in the cold wastes of Iceland. It had been just one of many postings for the handsome young soldier but, although he may have visited the country only once, he had left behind a permanent reminder of his presence.
She dreaded the thought of having to explain this to her daughter one day.
VII
Hulda was still at Kjarvalsstadir when Dóra from the hostel rang.
‘I couldn’t get hold of you this morning,’ Dóra said. ‘Am I interrupting anything?’
After Karen left, Hulda had stayed on in the café, feeling tired and flat. She needed to sit there a little longer before she could summon up the energy to go back outside into the Icelandic spring weather, which, this time, heralded an end rather than a beginning. The fact was she simply couldn’t come to terms with the idea of having to give up work. It wasn’t only her boss’s offhand manner of breaking the news to her that had brought on this state of bemused shock; nor was it only that she was upset about having to leave earlier than planned: she was upset about having to leave at all. Say what you like about her colleagues, their company was a lifeline for her. Even their bickering and envy were preferable to being cooped up within the four walls of her high-rise flat, where, with nothing to distract her, she would be overwhelmed by memories of the past. Not only overwhelmed, but suffocated. She had been a restless sleeper for as long as she could remember, even before the recurrent nightmares had begun. All that kept her going were her cases, her investigations, the pressure of the job. Last night had been typical – the dreams of the dead Russian girl had pushed aside those other, unwanted memories from the past: her regret, her guilt. Could she have done something differently…?
Hulda sat there, brooding on her fate. She was the only person left in the gallery café; even the tourists had gone. No one was interested in Icelandic art or Icelandic apple pie with cream on such a gloriously sunny day, despite the chill northerly breeze. After all, you could always find a sheltered spot outside somewhere.
Was this what all her days would be like once she was pensioned off? Sitting around in cafés, trying to fill the long, empty hours? She toyed with the idea of ringing Pétur and inviting him to join her for a coffee but checked the impulse, not wanting to come across as too keen.
And Dóra asked if she was interrupting anything. The irony.
‘No,’ said Hulda, telling the simple truth. ‘Sorry I didn’t hear the phone earlier. I hope it wasn’t anything urgent.’
‘Oh, no, not at all. To be honest, I can’t understand why you’re bothering with this. The girl died ages ago and everyone else is satisfied – if you know what I mean.’
Hulda did, only too well. With no one to speak up for her, the poor Russian girl had received shoddy treatment from the police. Although this wasn’t her fault, Hulda felt ashamed.
‘I just happened to remember something – it’s probably totally irrelevant but, you never know, it might be of use to you.’
Instantly, Hulda was on the edge of her seat, ears pricked.
‘Only there was some bloke who came to pick her up once – a stranger.’
‘A stranger?’
‘Yeah, not one of the lawyers who usually handle these asylum cases. Not that Russian interpreter guy either. Someone else.’
‘You say he picked her up?’
‘Yes, I saw her getting into his car outside the hostel. It’s only just come back to me.’ From the sound of her voice, Dóra was feeling rather pleased with herself about having new information to impart. ‘You see, I remember wondering where she was going with this bloke because, of course, she didn’t know any Icelanders.’
‘Was he an Icelander?’ Hulda asked, pulling out her notebook and jotting down the details. She felt suddenly energized.
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know? Did you talk to him?’
‘What, me? No. I just ran into them outside, though he must have gone in to ask for her at reception. I was on my way in to start my shift or something.’
‘How do you know he was an Icelander?’ Hulda repeated.
‘You can always tell an Icelander: they all look alike ‒ you know what I mean. Typical Icelandic face, Icelandic appearance.’
‘Could you describe him?’
‘No, it was too long ago.’
‘Was he skinny? Overweight?’ Hulda sighed privately at the thought of having to prise all the information out of this girl bit by bit.
‘Yes, overweight, that’s right. Kind of fat, and a bit of a minger, as far as I remember.’
‘Not your type, then?’ said Hulda.
‘God, no. I remember thinking maybe she’d found herself a boyfriend, but they seemed so badly suited – she was attractive, you know, tall and graceful, but he was short and fat.’
‘And you’d never seen him before?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Do you remember when this was?’
‘You must be kidding. I can’t even remember what I ha
d for breakfast. God, it was just, I don’t know, some time before she died,’ said Dóra, pointing out the obvious.
‘You think it could have been her boyfriend?’ From what she had learned during her conversation with Bjartur, Hulda had her own theory about what had been going on, but she wanted to know if a similar suspicion had struck Dóra. She didn’t ask straight out, though. There was no call to start a rumour – not yet, anyway.
‘Well, no, not really, it just crossed my mind. If she’d had an Icelandic boyfriend, I’m sure he’d have been much fitter than this bloke.’
‘Can you think what business he might have had with her?’
‘No. But then it was nothing to do with me. I have enough on my plate with running this place; what the residents get up to isn’t my problem.’
‘What sort of age was he?’
‘Hard to say. He was just a bloke. Sort of middle-aged, you know. Older than her.’
‘Did you see what kind of car he was driving?’
‘Hey, yeah, a big off-roader. Blokes like him all drive four-by-fours like that; black ones, usually.’
‘What kind of four-by-four?’
‘Don’t ask me, I can’t tell them apart. They all look the same.’
‘Could this have been the day she died?’
‘You know, I’m not sure,’ Dóra said. ‘It might have been the day before, but I doubt it. Surely I’d have connected the two things at the time?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Hulda pointed out.
‘No, right.’
‘Have you seen the man again since?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘This is all very interesting, Dóra. Thanks for ringing. Could you get back in touch if you remember anything else? Anything at all.’
‘Yeah, sure. This is kind of fun, isn’t it? This detective game. I mean, I sometimes read crime novels, but I never thought I’d get mixed up in a case myself.’
‘It’s not quite the same thing,’ Hulda began in a dampening tone, then, spying an opening, changed her tune and added in a more encouraging voice: ‘But could you do me a favour and keep your eyes peeled at your end?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Ask around, in case anyone remembers a detail that might be important. You see, I believe Elena was murdered, and it’s up to us to try and find the person responsible.’ She experienced a twinge of doubt: could she be putting this girl in a compromising position – in danger, even…? She dismissed the idea. That’s not how things worked in a peaceful little place like Iceland. Here, people killed only once: on the spur of the moment; under the influence of alcohol or drugs; in a fit of rage or jealousy. Premeditated murder was unheard of, let alone someone committing more than one killing of that type. She was on the trail of a murderer, all right, she had no doubt of that, but Dóra was safe.
‘Sure. I’ll ask around, no problem.’
‘What happened about the Syrian woman?’ Hulda asked. ‘Could I maybe talk to her now?’
‘No, sorry, you can’t. The police came and took her away.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s being deported. It happens. You know, it’s a bit like those games of musical chairs you play as a kid. The music starts, everyone gets up and walks in a circle and, when the music stops, one of the chairs is taken away and someone’s unlucky. Today, it was the Syrian woman’s turn.’
VIII
She had mentioned once or twice that she’d love to get out of town and see a bit more of Iceland. Get out into the countryside, away from the city – not that there was much of a city here. Even Reykjavík was hardly more than a village, compared with what she was used to.
She had only been half serious when she brought up the idea of the trip, never expecting anything to come of it, especially not in this inhospitable weather. A relentless icy gale blew off the sea, day in, day out, accompanied sometimes by rain, more often by snow. The pristine whiteness was beautiful when seen from the window, but the constantly changing conditions meant it seldom kept its postcard prettiness for long, turning first to grey slush, then to ice in the inevitable frosts that followed, before being covered again by a fresh fall of snow.
So it came as a surprise when he rang to suggest a short weekend trip, to see the snow, as he put it. She glanced out of the window at the driving rain, heard the howling of the wind through the glass, and shivered. But you only live once, she thought. Better to agree and experience something new, an adventure on the edge of the Arctic.
‘Won’t it be cold?’ she asked. ‘It looks so chilly out there.’
‘Colder than this,’ he replied, adding, as if he had read her mind: ‘It’ll be an adventure.’
So they were thinking along the same lines.
She heard herself say yes. But she had other questions, too: where are we going? How will we get there? What shall I bring?
He told her to relax. They’d be going in his four-by-four. Not that they’d be travelling far: the weather was unpredictable and they didn’t want to take any chances. Just far enough to get away from it all, to give her a taste of the wilderness.
She tried again: ‘Where are we going?’
He wouldn’t say.
‘You’ll see,’ he answered at last, then asked if she had a warm coat she could bring, like a down jacket. When she said she had nothing suitable, he offered to lend her one. She would need to get hold of some thick woollen underwear as well, to keep her warm on the journey, especially at night: that’s when the cold would really kick in.
For an instant, she wondered if she should change her mind about going, but she felt the pull, the appeal to her spirit of adventure. She told him, as he must already know, that she didn’t own any woollen underwear, and he offered to buy her some, to lend her the money. She could pay him back later.
IX
Was it possible that she was closing in on the truth? Was it possible that this unknown man had picked Elena up the day before her body was found; that he’d been a client? Hulda could picture the scene as if she’d been there herself. Could imagine how alone and abandoned Elena must have been feeling, forced into prostitution in an alien land. Perhaps he was her first client. Perhaps, when it came to it, she had said no. Could her refusal have cost her her life?
The idea filled Hulda with impotent rage and hatred. She would have to watch herself. What was it that Bishop Vídalín once wrote? Rage kindles an inferno in the eyes; a feeling she knew only too well.
Deciding that this merited another phone call to Bjartur, she rang and asked if Elena had ever referred to any clients – by name or occupation, for example. Bjartur was eager to help but said that, sadly, Elena hadn’t shared any details with him.
The next step was to go and see Áki, the businessman suspected of operating a prostitution ring. Having tracked down his address, Hulda drove over to the upmarket area in the west of town where he lived. His house turned out to be an old single-storey detached villa with a well-kept garden. The branches of the trees were still bare, but there was a sense of expectancy about them, as if they were poised to put out the first buds of spring. An aura of peace hung over the unassuming house in the expensive neighbourhood, as if nobody was home, an impression supported by the absence of a car on the drive. She tried the doorbell, but got no reply, so she decided to wait for a while in her car, in case the owner returned. This was the best tip she had received so far and she wanted to ambush Áki in person, bombard him with questions before he had a chance to prepare his replies. Besides, she had nowhere else to go. Backing up a little, she parked the old Skoda at a discreet distance, in a spot where she still had a good view of the house.
She’d lost count of the hours she’d spent waiting in her car during her career – it had the comfort of long habit – but by the time two hours had passed she was itching to stand up and stretch her legs. Best stick it out a bit longer, she told herself. Or should she knock on the door on the off-chance? After all, he might be in; he might have been home
all day.
As she was weighing up her options, a four-by-four pulled into the drive. Out stepped a lean, youngish-looking man with cropped hair and a brisk, decisive manner. Hulda watched him enter the house and gave it a couple of minutes before following in his footsteps and knocking on the door. The man answered it himself, still in his outdoor shoes and jacket.
He seemed surprised by the visit and waited, still and watchful, for her to state her business.
‘Áki?’ Hulda did her best to sound calm and collected.
He nodded, his lips twitching in a rather charming smile.
‘Could I have a word?’
‘That depends. What about?’ His voice was soft, with a hint of firmness underneath.
‘My name’s Hulda Hermannsdóttir. I’m with the police.’ She reached into her pocket, hoping her ID was there.
‘The police,’ he said pensively. ‘I see. You’d better come in. Has something happened?’
She wanted to say yes, recalling the photographs of Elena’s body on the beach, but stopped herself: ‘No, nothing like that. I’m just making a few inquiries, if that’s all right with you.’ She was as polite as she could be in the circumstances, unwilling to give Áki any reason to call his solicitor. Better keep things simple for the time being. It would be difficult to justify this visit on the basis of the evidence currently available to her. Just prod him a little and see what happened, try to get a sense of what he was like.
He offered her a seat in the living room – possibly one of several, since the house seemed larger inside than it had appeared from the outside. The decor was modern and minimalist, the colour scheme dominated by monochrome and steel. Hulda took a seat on a black sofa made of some shiny material that felt icy to the touch, while Áki perched facing her on a footstool, part of a set with a handsome armchair.
‘I’m a bit pushed for time, actually,’ was his opening comment, as if to mark his territory, convey the message that she was only there on his terms.
The Darkness Page 7