The Darkness

by Ragnar Jónasson

  She couldn’t stop thinking about her conversation with Áki, though it was clear that he was nothing like the description of the man in the four-by-four who, according to Dóra, had picked Elena up.

  A pity, as it would have been so handy, establishing a link with Elena and moving the case along.

  She tried to answer her mobile without dropping her hot dog or spilling Coke, mustard, ketchup or remoulade down her jacket, a juggling act she had perfected through long practice. Hulda had been patronizing this van for years. It had always been popular but, recently, the queue had grown appreciably longer, thanks to the massive increase in tourist numbers. A crowd of them were now milling around it, either waiting to be served or struggling to eat their own hot dogs without dripping the contents down their fronts.

  ‘Hulda – Albert Albertsson here.’ The solicitor’s voice was as mellifluous as ever, inspiring trust from the first word, and for an instant Hulda let herself be lulled into believing that he had good news for her: surely a man with a voice like that couldn’t be the bearer of bad tidings?

  ‘Hello, Albert.’

  ‘How are you getting on with the … investigation?’

  ‘Reasonably well, thanks.’

  ‘Great. I thought I’d give you a bell because I’ve come across some paperwork relating to Elena. It was in my “filing cabinet” here at home.’ Hulda thought she detected a hint of irony when Albert mentioned the filing cabinet and, remembering the chaos in his office, guessed he’d found the papers at the bottom of some pile. But this was good news: additional documents might contain further clues, and she could do with some of those right now.

  ‘Excellent,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve got to go out to Litla-Hraun Prison tomorrow morning to meet a client, but I can take the papers to the office with me in the afternoon. Would you like to drop by then?’

  Hulda thought for a moment. ‘No, I’ll come and pick them up now, if that’s OK. Did you say you were at home?’

  ‘Yes, I am, but I’m on my way out – I’m already late, in fact. Though if you’re in that much of a hurry, I suppose my brother could give you the paperwork. He lives with me. I’ll leave the envelope with him.’

  ‘Great. Where do you live?’

  He gave her his address then asked again how the inquiry was progressing and if she really believed Elena had been murdered.

  ‘I’m convinced,’ Hulda told him, and rang off.

  The evening was still young. Getting hold of the papers wasn’t quite as urgent as she’d led him to believe, but she felt a desperate need to keep herself busy. Anything was better than going home alone and trying in vain to get to sleep in the knowledge that she was one day closer to retirement, one day closer to the aching void of enforced inactivity that was all she had to look forward to.

  XVI

  Suddenly, she shivered, in spite of the heat in the car. She felt instinctively that she shouldn’t be here, that she had made a mistake in coming. Nothing concrete had happened to trigger this feeling, yet she found herself breathing unnaturally fast. Maybe it was the inhuman emptiness, the vastness of the landscape, the obliterating blankness of the snow?

  ‘Do you enjoy living here?’ she asked, to counter the incipient feeling of panic.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied: ‘Or at least I think I do. Though, having said that, the weather can be a bit tricky and we don’t get too many days of summer, but I sort of enjoy the cold, the snow. Maybe you can understand that, as a Russian?’

  She just nodded.

  ‘I think you’ll learn to like it,’ he added, his voice friendly.

  He was being nice to her; she shouldn’t be scared of him.

  Of course, really, she was scared about her own future, about getting permission to stay in Iceland and what would happen if she didn’t.

  She tried to relax, to breathe normally. She could worry about the future tomorrow, today she was determined to enjoy the trip. Everything would be just fine.

  XVII

  It was late summer, over a year after Jón had died.

  Hulda was standing on top of Esja, the long, flat-topped mountain that reared up on the northern side of Faxaflói bay from Reykjavík. It wasn’t a very difficult hike ‒ she was used to more challenging climbs in the highlands ‒ but it was one she always enjoyed. It was close enough to the city that you could go there after work in the long, light evenings of spring and summer, and the brisk walk up the mountain took well under an hour.

  She’d been feeling off-colour all day at work and had decided to go out and climb the mountain by herself. Of course, there were other hikers up there, but she was in her own private world, breathing in the fresh mountain air and taking in the amazing views of what felt like the whole south-western corner of Iceland, from the urban sprawl of Reykjavík across the bay, to the Reykjanes peninsula beyond it to the south and a great tract of the uninhabited highlands and ice caps to the east.

  It was getting late, and she knew she had to start down again soon, but she wanted to postpone the moment as long as possible. Here, she was in her element; here, she could almost forget everything else. Almost.

  But she knew that when she got home and fell asleep, the nightmares would close in again and she would be haunted as always by the same question: Should I have known?

  XVIII

  In the rear-view mirror, she caught a gleam of the low evening sun ‒ or perhaps it was still the afternoon sun, peeping through the clouds. Evening came early in Iceland at this time of year, though they still had a little breathing space before darkness closed in.

  The snow covering the road grew deeper and deeper until, finally, the moment she had dreaded arrived: the car got stuck in a drift, wheels spinning, engine screaming. He switched off the ignition, telling her not to worry; she should grab the chance to get out and stretch her legs. It was a relief to escape the overheated, stuffy atmosphere and fill her lungs with great draughts of pure, icy mountain air. Just as well he’d provided her with suitably warm clothes, so the intense cold was invigorating rather than painful.

  She took a few tentative steps back and forth, staying close to the car, hesitant at first to step off the road, for fear of what the terrain might be like underneath the smooth, white surface. Seeing this, he grinned at her and gestured to indicate that it was perfectly safe. The snow crunched underfoot and the tracks she left behind were the only ones marring its perfection; the snow was hers and hers alone. As far as the eye could see, there was no other sign of humans, only the empty landscape stretching to the horizon. They were completely alone out here. But her initial apprehension had worn off. What was the worst that could happen?

  She watched as he released some air from the tyres to lower the pressure and increase their surface area then jumped back into the driver’s seat and started easing the four-by-four out of the drift, inch by inch, until, finally, it was free. At almost the same moment, the first feather-light flakes of snow began to float down and land, ever so gently, on the sleeves of her coat.

  XIX

  On the day the little girl’s grandfather first raised the subject, Reykjavík was basking in unaccustomed sunshine. The mother was standing in a sheltered spot in the yard behind the house, watching her daughter play. The girl made a charming sight in the sunlight, happily absorbed in her game. Perhaps it was unfair to describe such a young child as unhappy, but she rarely looked contented like this.

  The proposal knocked the mother sideways, coming as it did from her father, of all people, who had formed such a close relationship with his grandchild. From his voice, she thought perhaps his heart wasn’t in it, that he was only echoing the sentiments of the girl’s grandmother, who had shown nothing but disapproval from the start. She had left them in no doubt about her opinion that it wasn’t desirable for anyone to give birth to a bastard, however endearing the child turned out to be. It brought shame on the whole family – not only on the mother but on her parents as well.

  As they stood in that sunny spo
t in the yard, the grandfather had tentatively suggested having the little girl fostered, maybe even adopted. He knew of a couple out east who were in a position to give her everything she needed, ensuring her a much better life than she could look forward to here in Reykjavík. Good people, he had said, but his voice lacked conviction. Perhaps they weren’t good, or perhaps it was the idea itself that wasn’t a good one. Nevertheless, his daughter listened, aware how hard it would be for her to say no to the man who had given them a roof over their heads. She couldn’t support herself and her daughter on her own; she had failed at the first attempt and needed more time to save up before she could try again.

  As the tears welled up in her eyes, she had promised to think about it.

  XX

  The lawyer’s house in the leafy suburb of Grafarvogur reminded Hulda a little of her old home on Álftanes. Though the neighbourhood was very different in character, there was something about the house itself that triggered a rush of nostalgia – the cosy, old-world air, perhaps. Not that it took much to set her off at the moment. Since receiving notice of her dismissal, her thoughts had been turning to the past with unusual frequency. Her budding relationship with Pétur had stirred things up, too, making her uneasily aware of all that she hadn’t yet told him.

  She rang the doorbell and waited.

  Though the man who answered the door was a much shorter, stockier figure than Albert, the family resemblance was unmistakeable. He appeared to be considerably older than his brother, maybe as much as a decade, Hulda guessed, and much thicker about the waist.

  ‘You must be Hulda,’ the brother said, smiling; his voice with its smooth radio announcer’s tones also giving away his relationship to Albert.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Come in.’ He led her into a sitting room crowded with mismatched furniture, most of it deeply unfashionable to Hulda’s admittedly limited eye for such things. Taking pride of place was a boxy old television set with a large, extremely comfortable-looking recliner planted in front of it.

  ‘I’m Baldur Albertsson, Albert’s brother.’

  Albert and Baldur: their parents obviously hadn’t leafed very far through the book of baby names before plumping for those two, Hulda thought. Next moment, she was struck by a fact she should have noticed straight away: Albert’s brother was a perfect match for the description Dóra had given of the man in the four-by-four ‒ short and fat. She caught her breath, at the same time telling herself to get a grip. What was the likelihood that the lawyer’s brother could be the man she was after? Admittedly, he had a connection to the case, but only an indirect one. And, anyway, Dóra’s vague description could refer to any number of people. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to use this opportunity to ask the man a few questions. She toyed with the idea of asking him straight out if he had ever picked Elena up from the hostel, but something told her this would be jumping the gun. Better to let Dóra identify him first, then put him on the spot.

  Recalling how jumpy she had felt in Áki’s house, Hulda reflected on the contrast now. In spite of her awakening suspicions, Baldur Albertsson continued to come across as an affable, unthreatening presence.

  ‘I gather Albert’s not in,’ she said, in an attempt at small talk.

  ‘No, he’s at a meeting. Always on the go.’

  ‘Are you a lawyer, too?’

  Baldur gave a polite chuckle. It had a well-rehearsed sound. Doubtless, it was a question he was often asked. ‘Good Lord, no. That’s Albert’s area – the first and only lawyer in the family. I … I’m between jobs at present.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hulda, and waited, knowing from experience that direct questions were often unnecessary.

  ‘Albert very generously lets me stay with him,’ Baldur elaborated, then, after a brief pause, corrected himself: ‘“Stay”’s probably the wrong word: I live here, have done for the last two years, ever since I lost my job. This used to be our parents’ house, but Albert bought the place off them when they downsized.’

  Hulda took a moment to respond to this, trying to think of a diplomatic answer. ‘That sounds like a good arrangement … assuming you get on well together.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s never been a problem.’ Changing the subject, he asked: ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  Hulda nodded. She wasn’t about to pass up on the opportunity to get to know this man a little better, if there was even an outside chance that he was mixed up in the case. Anyway, he gave the impression of being more in need of company than caffeine.

  There was a lengthy interval before he returned with the coffee, which, after all that, turned out to be undrinkable. Never mind, it provided the perfect excuse for a longer chat.

  While she was waiting, Hulda had used the time to hunt around the room for a picture of Baldur. She needed one to show Dóra and had thought of using the camera on her phone to take a shot of any photo she found, though the quality wouldn’t have been very good, given the knackered state of her mobile. To her frustration, there were none. She wondered if she could surreptitiously snap a picture of him without rousing his suspicions but knew this would tax her agility. She was all fingers and thumbs with her phone and taking a photo required pressing too many buttons.

  They sat on either side of a large dining table, and Hulda reflected on how much she would rather have spent this time with Pétur. Then again, maybe it wasn’t too late: there was no real distinction between day and night at this time of year; night was nothing more than a state of mind. Thinking about Pétur brought with it the dawning realization that maybe she’d had enough of work after all; there might be something to be said for unlimited evenings off, with no distractions, either direct or indirect, from her job. She was far too inclined to take work home with her, even when there was no need for it. Her mind was always in overdrive. She had never been able to tear herself away from her cases, to switch off completely. Jón used to complain about that, but it was simply how she was made.

  ‘Delicious coffee,’ she lied. ‘I can only stay for a minute, though. There’s somewhere else I’ve got to be.’ She took a sip.

  ‘I tried once,’ Baldur remarked. ‘To join the police, I mean. Didn’t get in.’ He patted his impressive paunch. ‘Never been in good enough shape, and it’s too late to do anything about that now. Albert was always the skinny one.’

  There was no hint of resentment in Baldur’s words, though this was the second time he had praised his brother at his own expense: earlier, he had mentioned that Albert had been the first in the family to qualify as a lawyer. His admiration of his brother appeared genuine, free from all envy.

  ‘Is he older or younger than you?’ Hulda asked tactfully, although the answer was obvious.

  ‘He’s ten years younger, as I’m sure you can tell. He was an afterthought – a nice surprise for our parents.’

  ‘Does he handle a lot of these cases?’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘Representing asylum-seekers.’

  ‘Yes, I think so. For him, the human rights angle’s more important than the money.’

  ‘Presumably he gets paid, though.’

  ‘Yes, of course, but he’s mainly in it for the people. He wants to help.’

  ‘What did you do?’ Hulda risked a third sip of coffee, but it was so bitter that she discreetly pushed the cup away.

  ‘Do?’

  ‘For a living. Before you moved here. Before losing your job.’

  At that moment, Hulda’s phone interrupted with a noisy ringing and vibrating on the table beside her cup. She sighed inwardly when she saw that it was Magnús, the last person she wanted to speak to right now. For a moment, she dithered over whether to answer, then decided it could wait. Unsure how to turn off the volume mid-ring, or if that was even possible, she cut the call, seizing the opportunity while she was fumbling with the phone to activate the camera. It required a bit of fiddling, but she hoped Baldur wouldn’t cotton on. She pressed ‘Capture’, and the resulting click seemed to echo around the room. Sh
ooting her companion an apologetic look, she said: ‘Sorry, I’m hopeless with this thing. I was trying to switch it to mute.’

  ‘I know what you mean. I’m not too handy with mine either,’ Baldur said, apparently indifferent to having his picture snapped, if he even realized that this is what she had done.

  ‘I worked as a caretaker for several years,’ he carried on, in answer to her earlier question, ‘but they were getting rid of people and I was one of the first they let go. Apart from that, I’ve changed jobs a lot, never stuck at one thing for long. I used to work for tradesmen, mostly, working with my hands, you know the sort of thing.’

  Hulda had to admit to herself that she couldn’t picture Baldur in the role of murderer; he seemed the type who wouldn’t hurt a fly. And while appearances could be deceptive, she reckoned she was quite a good judge of character after so many years in the police, dealing with all sorts of people, both on the wrong and the right side of the law. Her judgement wasn’t infallible, though. It had let her down badly in one instance … And that had been her greatest mistake, changing her life for ever.

  And even if she was right in her view that Baldur would be incapable of murdering a woman in cold blood, there was still an outside chance that he could be implicated in Elena’s death. For all Hulda knew, he could, at some point in the past, have accepted the offer of a dodgy but well-remunerated job and fallen in with the wrong crowd as a result.

  ‘Your brother had some papers for me,’ she reminded him politely.

  Baldur’s face fell. Clearly, he had been hoping she would stick around a bit longer, chatting over bad coffee.

  ‘Of course.’ He got up and left the room, returning almost immediately with a brown envelope. ‘Here you go. I don’t know what’s in it, but I hope it’ll come in useful. Albert should know, as a former cop.’