The Darkness

by Ragnar Jónasson

  Only as an adult had she learned the concept of constructive criticism, something completely alien to her grandmother.

  And now, yet again, she felt the shame of having made a mistake.

  She could do better than this.

  XVIII

  This time, Hulda didn’t waste time going to the house but marched straight round to Bjartur’s garage and knocked on the door. As she did so, she noticed a neat sign in the window: ‘Bjartur Hartmannsson, interpreter and translator.’

  He answered the door quickly and looked surprised to see Hulda.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, Bjartur, me again,’ she said apologetically, aware that she was forever tilting at windmills, on a mission to solve a case that was almost certainly a lost cause.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said with a smile, scratching his blond thatch. ‘Looks like I’m becoming an old friend of the police.’

  Hulda wondered idly how old he was; she hadn’t bothered to look him up but guessed that, despite his boyish appearance, he must be pushing forty. The woman – presumably his mother – who had answered the door on Hulda’s first visit had looked to be around seventy.

  ‘Plenty to do?’ she asked in a friendly voice.

  ‘Yeah, sure, well … not so much in the translation line, but plenty of Russian tour groups. I swear the tourist dollar’s the only thing keeping Iceland afloat these days. But things are quiet today. I’m just … writing, you know, working on my book.’

  The surge in tourism since the collapse of the Icelandic banking system – and the subsequent collapse of the Icelandic króna – was certainly helping to get the country back on track, since the tourists brought in valuable foreign currency. The outlook was a bit brighter than before, but the financial crisis had cast a long shadow, and Hulda, momentarily distracted, reflected that tourism would do little to boost her personal finances. Her job didn’t pay that well, and now all she had to look forward to was a fixed income from her government pension.

  ‘Come in,’ Bjartur said, breaking into her thoughts. ‘It’s still a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. I haven’t got round to buying a chair for visitors so you’ll have to make do with the bed.’ He turned red. ‘I mean, you know, you’ll have to sit on the bed.’

  Hulda found a space free of clutter where she could park herself while Bjartur sat down in his superannuated office chair. The air in the room was unpleasantly stuffy: Hulda’s unexpected arrival had given him no chance to open a window.

  ‘Do you live out here in the garage?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘Yes, I do, actually. I sleep and work in here. It’s more private, you see. Mum and Dad have the house, but I couldn’t live with them any longer. It all got too much, living on top of each other like that. Unfortunately, there’s no basement or I’d have moved down there, but they let me do up the garage.’

  Hulda wanted to ask why he hadn’t simply moved into a flat of his own but didn’t like to, in case it sounded rude.

  Bjartur seemed to guess the unspoken question: ‘There’s no point getting a flat of my own, not yet; it’s way too expensive, whether you rent or buy. House prices are going through the roof and I don’t have a regular income. It’s all pretty hand to mouth – translation work, tour-guide gigs. Sometimes I’m rushed off my feet, especially in the summers, but often there’s not enough work to go round. I’m managing to save up a bit, though. It’ll all work out in the end. And Mum and Dad are getting on, so they’re bound to want to downsize at some point.’

  Or die, Hulda read from his expression.

  ‘I wanted to ask you a small favour,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, yes? What’s that?’

  She handed him the envelope of papers Albert had passed on to her.

  ‘It contains some documents that Elena’s lawyer dug out. I don’t know if there’s anything of interest, but “no stone unturned”, and all that.’ She smiled, making light of it.

  ‘I get you. How’s the investigation going, by the way? I see you’re still on the case.’

  ‘Yes … sure, I’m not planning to give up,’ she lied. The truth was that she would happily have abandoned it right now. Today of all days, when she was still reeling from the news Magnús had broken to her, pursuing this case was the last thing she felt like doing, though it was the only thing she had left.

  There was no getting away from the fact that a man had died because of her. But he had been a child abuser, and that made it easier to square with her conscience: some crimes were quite simply unforgiveable.

  And there was a good chance that she had sabotaged her colleagues’ investigation into Áki’s activities. Her career as a detective inspector lay in smoking ruins. No wonder she wasn’t in any fit state to be working. Yet, in spite of everything, she persisted, too pig-headed to quit, caught up in a last race against time.

  ‘Of course I’ll take a look at them for you,’ Bjartur said, swivelling his chair round to face the desk, where he drew the papers from the envelope and spread them out in front of him. ‘Just give me a few minutes to run through them.’

  ‘Of course.’ On a sudden hunch, she added: ‘Could you pay particular attention to any mentions of somebody called Katja.’

  ‘Katja?’ he queried, still poring over the pages.

  ‘Yes, I gather she was a friend of hers.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You didn’t know her? Interpret for her?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘The thing is, she went missing.’

  ‘Went missing?’

  ‘Well, either that or did a disappearing act. She was a Russian asylum-seeker, too, and it occurred to me that the cases might be linked.’

  ‘OK. Nothing yet. This first document is just some kind of residence certificate from Russia; she must have brought it with her to prove her identity.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Hulda, a little disappointed. She knew she was clutching at straws, but these papers were her last chance. ‘Please read them carefully,’ she added, as politely as she could.

  ‘Sure.’

  Bjartur read on without speaking, his back to Hulda, while she perched uncomfortably on the edge of his bed, waiting in an agony of suspense. The silence dragged out interminably until finally Bjartur showed some kind of reaction.

  ‘Whoa,’ he said, and it was evident from his tone that he’d found something unexpected. ‘Whoa,’ he repeated.

  ‘What?’ Hulda got up and peered over his shoulder. He was reading the last sheet of paper, which was handwritten.

  ‘Have you found something?’ she demanded impatiently.

  ‘Well … I wouldn’t like to … though…’

  ‘What?’ she asked, her voice sharpening. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘She’s talking about a trip she made to the countryside with a friend who she refers to as K. Could it have been Katja?’

  ‘Yes, could be, could be.’ Hulda felt herself tensing with excitement. At last.

  ‘And someone … I’m not sure if it’s a man or a woman…’

  ‘Come on, out with it…’

  ‘She’s used an initial again. But from the context it looks like there was a man with them.’

  ‘What’s the initial?’

  ‘An A.’

  XIX

  He laughed.

  ‘Put the axe down and we’ll talk. You don’t have the guts to use it, anyway.’

  Beside herself with terror, she braced herself against the door, brandishing the axe in front of her with one hand while groping for the door handle with the other.

  He didn’t seem in the least fazed and took a step closer. Then, in one fell swoop, he was on her and had torn the axe from her hand.

  For an instant, he stood quite still.

  She was paralysed by fear, though all her instincts were screaming at her to get outside.

  Then he lunged.

  Had the axe hit her on the head? She experienced a split second of bewildered disbelief, still too numb with the cold to register what had ha
ppened.

  Then, raising a hand to her scalp, she felt the hot blood seeping out.

  XX

  ‘An A?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t mean…?’

  ‘That was my immediate thought, too,’ said Bjartur with a nod, looking dismayed.

  Hulda said it out loud: ‘Albert?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But maybe, maybe it was all perfectly harmless. Something to do with preparing their cases. Could he have been Katja’s lawyer, too?’

  Bjartur shrugged. ‘It doesn’t sound harmless, though. She’s hinting at some kind of violence – this reads like an excerpt from a diary. Maybe she wanted to put it down in writing in case something happened. At least, I’m assuming Elena wrote this. She spoke very little English so, naturally, she’d have written in Russian.’

  ‘What, and Albert came across it, ignorant of what it contained, and passed it on to me?’

  ‘The irony,’ said Bjartur. ‘You know, I feel as if I’m in the middle of a whodunnit. I used to read a lot of those when I was younger.’ He grinned, as if relishing the role of detective’s assistant.

  ‘Christ…’ Hulda muttered. Which way was she to turn on this one? Was it conceivable that it was Albert himself, not his brother, who had something to hide?

  ‘Let me finish it,’ said Bjartur, and bent his head over the page again, nodding as he read: ‘Yes, yes.’ He was really getting into the role. ‘You know what?’ he said, raising his eyes from the paper. ‘I reckon I know where they went. It’s a bit of a way, about an hour and a half’s drive from Reykjavík.’ He mentioned a valley that Hulda hadn’t heard of, but then she was more into mountains herself: valleys didn’t hold the same thrill.

  Bjartur went on: ‘It’s odd, though, because she mentions a house, but as far as I know, the valley’s uninhabited.’

  ‘Could you point to it on a map?’ Hulda asked.

  ‘I can do better than that: I can take you there,’ he offered eagerly. ‘I’ve got nothing else on.’

  ‘Yes, OK. Thanks. I’ll talk to Albert afterwards. Could you translate the document for me, word for word?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll tell you what it says while we’re driving. Er, could we go in your car? I don’t, er, I haven’t got quite enough in my tank to get us there.’

  Life as a translator clearly meant only just scraping by, Hulda thought, feeling a twinge of pity for the man.

  * * *

  She got behind the wheel of her trusty old Skoda. Bjartur climbed into the passenger seat, where he acted as navigator, in between filling her in on the contents of the handwritten account. Elena had gone on a trip to the valley in the company of two other people, a woman whose name began with a K and a man whose name began with an A. They had spent the night in a summer cabin, but the weekend had ended prematurely when the man had physically assaulted the other woman.

  Although Hulda found it hard to believe that Albert could be involved, she couldn’t entirely rule it out. Was it conceivable that he could have murdered both women, both Katja and Elena? And where did his brother come into it?

  When her phone started ringing, she sent up a fervent prayer that it wasn’t Magnús yet again. She was still in shock after their last two conversations, still hadn’t managed to piece everything together. Really, she could have done with another day to wrap up this case, a day when she was feeling more herself. And perhaps, she caught herself thinking, loath though she was to admit it, perhaps she could have done with being ten years younger.

  Pulling over to the side of the road, she took out her phone and answered, although the caller ID was unfamiliar.

  ‘Hulda? Hello, this is Baldur, Baldur Albertsson. Albert’s brother.’

  ‘What? Oh, yes. Hello.’ The timing seemed uncannily apt.

  ‘Albert said you wanted a word with me…’ He sounded nervous.

  ‘Yes, I do. It’s about Elena, the Russian girl your brother was representing.’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Did you know her at all?’

  ‘Me? No…’ He hesitated, and Hulda waited. ‘No … but I, that is, I met her once or twice. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Would you mind telling me where you met her?’

  ‘I collected her from Njardvík a couple of times.’

  ‘Oh? Why was that?’

  ‘As a favour to my brother. He needed to see her but hadn’t time to go and collect her himself. He was busy with meetings or something. So I borrowed his jeep and drove over to fetch her. It’s no big deal. We put it down on expenses – you know, the time it took and the cost of the petrol. That’s not a problem, is it? It was all above board, even though, strictly speaking, Albert didn’t do the driving himself. I help him out when I’m free – it’s the least I can do in return for getting to live with him. I like to make a contribution, if I can.’ Baldur’s breathing sounded fast and ragged over the phone.

  Was that all it amounted to? Had Baldur simply been doing his brother a favour?

  ‘Thanks, Baldur. It’s not a problem. I just wanted to check so I can eliminate you from my inquiries. Someone saw you collecting her from Njardvík and I needed to know why, that’s all. Don’t worry, it’s absolutely fine.’

  ‘OK, thanks,’ he said. ‘I … only, I’m not used to getting mixed up in police investigations.’

  ‘Quite. Just as well.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  Hulda still needed to know if Albert had also represented the other Russian girl, Katja.

  ‘By the way,’ she asked, as casually as she could, ‘is your brother with you, Baldur? I have a couple of questions for him, too.’

  There was a silence at the other end of the line.

  ‘Well … no, he’s not here.’ After a hesitation, Baldur added: ‘I’m not sure where he is, actually.’

  ‘OK, Baldur, no problem. Thanks for calling.’

  She tried Albert’s mobile. She felt a growing sense of urgency about getting hold of him, afraid that, if he was the killer, he might be trying to leave the country or something.

  There was no reply.

  As she hung up, her thoughts suddenly flew to the Syrian girl, Amena. Something was niggling at the back of her mind. Some comment Amena had let slip … a significant detail that Hulda had overlooked the first time round. Damn it. She’d been more conscientious about taking notes in the old days, and her memory had been better then, too. It was some … something she’d said … Hulda summoned up an image of the girl in her cell. Prostitution, yes: Amena had vehemently denied that Elena had been involved in prostitution. Her denial had been convincing, too. She’d also alerted Hulda to the existence of the other Russian woman, Katja. And she’d referred to the residence permit – that Elena had been granted the right to stay … yes, that was it … it was something related to that. But what the hell was it? The memory still eluded her, remaining tantalizingly just out of reach.

  ‘Sorry, but could I possibly borrow your phone a minute?’ Bjartur asked, breaking into her thoughts before she could start the car again. ‘Only, I forgot to tell my parents I was going out. And I, well, I don’t have any credit left on mine.’ His face reddened again.

  ‘Of course.’ She handed him her mobile.

  He punched in the number and waited. ‘Hi, Dad, listen … yes, I know … Mum’ll just have to do it herself … No, Dad, I can’t do it now … I’m helping this lady from the police … We’re working on a case…’ He rolled his eyes at her and got out of the car, still talking.

  Hulda remembered the days when she would have been referred to as a girl, not a lady.

  While he was gone, Hulda seized the chance to switch on the radio and lie back in her seat for a minute. It had been a long day and it wasn’t over yet. But the sky was blue and, after the unpromising start, it had turned into a beautiful sunny evening. Hulda reflected that May was definitely the best time of year in her chilly northern homeland.

  After a couple of minutes, Bjartur got back into the car.
‘Sorry about that, we can go on now.’ He smiled. ‘It’s only another half an hour or so.’

  They had been driving for an hour already, and Hulda was aware of a gnawing hunger: she’d had nothing to eat since this morning’s Prins Póló biscuits. She was growing increasingly tired, too. Perhaps she could ask Bjartur to drive on the way back. This journey had better not turn out to be a waste of time. She had made herself a promise that she would abandon the case at the end of the day, but would she be capable of keeping that promise? She still felt uneasy about not being able to contact Albert. She had to speak to him.

  Or would she simply obey orders: take all the evidence she had gathered to Magnús and let him finish the case? It would be no joke telling Magnús that she suspected their old colleague Albert of double murder. The lads had a habit of sticking together, and Albert had been accepted as part of the gang, despite being a lawyer rather than a detective.

  She cursed under her breath. Maybe she should just drop it. Get this journey over and done with.

  She missed Pétur, and suddenly realized that she was almost happy to be retiring after all, that she was excited at the prospect of spending her golden years with him. They could do so many things together, travel around Iceland, abroad even, and enjoy life in each other’s company. She would keep up her hiking, now with Pétur, but she could discover new hobbies, too; she was still fit and needed to stay active. She might even take up golf, the hobby of choice for so many of her colleagues. Only sixty-four, and so many things to look forward to; maybe she could try – with Pétur’s help – to put the darkness of the past behind her. She hadn’t seen things so clearly in a long while.

  She was very much looking forward to going home to bed and starting a new life when the sun came up tomorrow: a new life with Pétur.