XXI
After a moment, he groped for one of the head torches on the table and switched it on. Then stared down at her, trying to come to terms with what he had done. He’d been in love with this woman, and now she was lying dead at his feet. He had killed her. It was all so bizarre, somehow.
He would have to salvage what he could of the situation. Think logically. Try to prevent too much blood from spilling on to the floor of the hut.
Think. The most important fact was that no one else had known about their trip. And no one would dream of looking for them here or of searching the hut for evidence of the crime.
It was still dark, which meant he had plenty of time. All he had to do was keep a cool head and act methodically.
It was the first time he had ever killed anyone, and, in truth, it had been disturbingly easy.
XXII
‘I think we’re on the right track,’ Bjartur said. ‘This is the valley Elena mentioned, though I’m not aware of any buildings here. But then it’s a long time since I last visited the area.’ Then he added: ‘Are you sure we should go here? I’m not really used to – you know, tracking a killer…’
‘We can’t turn back now we’ve travelled this far,’ Hulda said. ‘It’ll be OK. I don’t for a minute believe we’re in any danger. Is this the right direction? Do we keep heading up the valley?’ The road had dwindled to a gravel track, its surface deteriorating with every kilometre.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
As they continued their juddering progress up the valley, Hulda spared the odd fleeting thought for her Skoda, anxious that it might not be able to cope with the potholes, but other worries were crowding for attention in her head: the death at the hospital; the mother on her way to jail; the potential repercussions of this tragic incident for Hulda herself; the way she had ruined everything in one spectacularly horrible week. Elena was increasingly fading from view, pushed out by these other concerns.
It was a beautiful evening, the sun hung low in an almost cloudless sky, and a group of newly planted saplings cast long shadows over the pale grass of the valley. The slopes had yet to turn green, as spring was not as advanced up here as it was down in the city. For a moment, looking round at the wide-open spaces and boundless blue sky, Hulda experienced a feeling of freedom, that her potential was limitless. But then her tiredness reasserted itself and she would have given anything to be enjoying the weather somewhere else: preferably looking out over Pétur’s garden in Fossvogur.
‘Perhaps we should call it a day,’ she muttered, after five more minutes of bone-shaking progress.
‘Yeah, I agree,’ said Bjartur. ‘There’s a better turning spot just a hundred metres or so up ahead.’ Next moment, he shouted triumphantly: ‘House! Look, there’s a building. That’s new. It wasn’t there the last time I came up here.’
Hulda slowed down and followed Bjartur’s pointing finger.
‘Shall we check it out?’ he suggested. ‘I bet it’s the house Elena was referring to.’
‘Absolutely,’ Hulda said.
‘House’ was a bit of an exaggeration. As they drew nearer, it was revealed as a primitive hut or cabin, next to what appeared to be a building site. Although there was no sign of anyone at work, it was clear that these were the foundations for a larger house that was currently under construction. Hulda parked in front of the hut and, from habit, scanned the surroundings carefully before getting out of the car. It would have been impossible for anyone to hide out here in this open, grassy landscape, in the light summer night. There weren’t even any rocks. The only potential hiding place was the hut itself.
Hulda met Bjartur’s eye. ‘There’s nothing to see here.’
‘Shouldn’t we at least take a quick look inside?’ he asked.
‘We don’t have a warrant,’ she objected, though she felt sorely tempted to flout the rules. After all, what had she got to lose? Especially now they’d come all this way.
‘We could look in through the windows,’ Bjartur suggested.
Hulda shrugged. She could hardly stop him.
He made a circuit of the little hut, peering in at the windows. Then, without warning, he tried the handle and the door opened. ‘It’s unlocked,’ he called, and before she could react he had stepped inside.
‘Oh, what the hell,’ Hulda muttered, and set off unhurriedly after him, reflecting that, even if someone found out, she couldn’t be sacked twice.
As she entered the hut she could feel her heart beating faster in anticipation, the old adrenaline pulsing through her veins, and with that her brain suddenly seemed to awake from its torpor: Amena’s elusive comment, which had been niggling at her for the last couple of hours, came to her in a flash. The evening before she died, Elena had sat talking for ages on the phone in the hostel lobby. But Hulda now clearly recalled the receptionist telling her that international calls were blocked. And Elena only really spoke Russian. Was it possible that she had been talking to Bjartur?
Bjartur.
Where had he got to? She couldn’t see him anywhere inside the tiny hut. Before she could look round, she felt a heavy blow land on her head.
XXIII
It took a while to clean the hut, hampered by the dark, and even then it was clear that he would have to come back as soon as possible with stronger products to try to obliterate any remaining traces. He felt oddly detached, as though some other man had hit the woman over the head with the axe and he was saddled with the job of cleaning up after him. In a way, he felt sorry for Katja, yet at the same time he was furious with her for behaving so foolishly. She didn’t deserve to die but, in the circumstances, his reaction had been the only one possible.
A glance at the hut’s guestbook confirmed that days, even weeks, tended to pass between visits at this time of year, so he should be able to get away with it if he came straight back this evening.
But right now, the priority was to dispose of the body.
He had zipped it into her sleeping bag then dragged it all the way back to his car, confident that the falling snow would cover his tracks fairly quickly. In the dark hours before dawn, in the dead of winter, far from civilization, he was confident of being able to act without being seen or interrupted. The problem was how to get rid of the body. All the solutions he came up with would entail a risk, some greater than others.
In the end, he made up his mind to drive into the interior, heading for the nearest ice cap. He knew of a belt of crevasses that would be ideal for his purpose. The final stretch was inaccessible by car, but in these freezing, snowy conditions it would be safe to cover it on skis. Such a thing would never have been possible in summer, when the glaciers were crawling with tourists, but at this time of year it was worth the risk. So that’s where he was going now, and that’s where he would make sure that Katja disappeared for ever.
XXIV
For too long, Hulda had closed her eyes to the truth. She had lived with the devastating consequences of that fact for quarter of a century now. She wasn’t sure when she had realized what was going on but, by then, it was already too late. This she blamed partly on denial, partly on her blindness to what was going on right under her nose. The hideous irony of it didn’t escape her. After all, she had prided herself on her powers of perception, regarded herself as one of the best detectives on the force, precisely because nothing ever got past her, because she had a knack of seeing through all the lies and deception well ahead of her colleagues.
But when the crime was being committed in her own home, she hadn’t noticed a thing.
Or hadn’t wanted to notice.
Confronting the fact had been almost unthinkable. She had been in love with Jón for most of her adult life; they had married young, and he had always treated her well, been an honest, trustworthy husband. Their love had blossomed, at least for a time, and it had been true love; she remembered the first year of their courtship, she had been swept off her feet by this handsome, suave man, who seemed so urbane and worldly. So it had been all too easy to overloo
k certain clues, to convince herself that they meant something different.
They had both been so happy when Dimma was born, such proud parents. But when she turned ten, their daughter’s behaviour had undergone a change and she’d become moody and withdrawn, suffering from bouts of depression. Yet still Hulda hadn’t twigged. She had allowed herself the luxury of living in ignorance, persuading herself that the cause couldn’t lie at home.
Naturally, Hulda had tried to talk to her daughter. She’d asked her why she was feeling so bad, what had happened to upset her, but Dimma had proved stubbornly uncommunicative, refusing to provide any answers, determined to suffer in silence. In moments of desperation, Hulda even wondered, ridiculously, if they had somehow brought this on themselves by choosing such an unusual name for their daughter: Dimma, meaning ‘darkness’. It was as if they had condemned her from birth, although they had only chosen the name for its nice, poetic ring. In her saner moments, she dismissed such thoughts as foolish nonsense.
In hindsight, Hulda regretted that she hadn’t put more pressure on Dimma, that she hadn’t demanded an answer. The child had been trapped in a desperate dilemma, sinking further into the abyss with every day that passed.
In those last few weeks before Dimma killed herself at only thirteen years old, Hulda’s sleep had been restless, as though she had a foreboding of disaster. Yet even so, she had failed to intervene with the forcefulness that might have saved Dimma’s life.
The moment Dimma died, the moment she saw Jón’s reaction, the truth had come crashing home to her. She didn’t even need to ask. Her whole world had been transformed overnight. But for some reason, they had continued to put on an act, living in the same house, presenting a united face to the outside world, though their marriage had ended in that moment. Perhaps she had wanted to avoid the fallout from a direct confrontation with Jón, fearing that his terrible crime would somehow taint her by association. That tongues would wag, whispering that she must have known, that she could have done something, could have stopped him and saved her daughter. Saved Dimma’s life. The most unbearable part was that there might have been a grain of truth in those accusations. So she hadn’t said a word to the man she had once cared for. Never asked him what he had done to the daughter she had loved more than life itself. Didn’t want to know how long the abuse had been going on. But one thing she was sure of: Dimma’s suicide had been a direct consequence of that abuse. Dimma may have taken her own life, but Jón bore full responsibility for her death.
Besides, Hulda couldn’t bear to listen to any of the details, to picture any of the sickening acts to which he had subjected her daughter.
When Dimma died, something had died inside Hulda, too. In the depths of her suffering, when the grief felt unendurable, on the days when she felt to blame for what had happened – countless days, countless sleepless nights – the only thing that had kept her going was her violent hatred of Jón.
They never spoke of their daughter again, never mentioned her name to each other. Hulda couldn’t bring herself to speak about her in the presence of this stranger, this … monster. And Jón had had the sense never to refer to Dimma again in Hulda’s hearing.
XXV
It took Hulda a while to come to her senses. At first, she couldn’t remember what had happened, where she was or who was with her. But when the events finally came back to her and she tried to open her eyes, she became aware of a blinding headache.
She was lying somewhere. Overhead was the light night sky, but also … was that earth? Where was she?
She closed her eyes again. Christ, her head was splitting. He had hit her – Bjartur had hit her on the head. Opening her eyes a crack, she discovered, to her disbelieving horror, that she was lying in the foundation trench of the building site in the valley.
And then she caught sight of Bjartur.
She screamed: ‘What are you doing?’
Bjartur smiled, looking spookily calm.
‘To be honest, I’m not sure. I wasn’t expecting you to come round,’ he said slowly. ‘You can scream all you like: we’re alone here. The property belongs to a friend of mine. I’ve been helping him build a holiday cottage here.’
She struggled in vain to sit up.
‘I tied you up, anyway, just to be on the safe side,’ he added.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she swore, her fear momentarily giving way to incredulous anger.
‘I was thinking of making you disappear. Under the cottage.’
Her mind working frantically, Hulda played for time. ‘Can I … can I have a drink of water?’
‘Water?’
He thought about it. ‘No. It’s your own fault, you know. You should never have come nosing around, questioning me about Katja. No one had spotted the connection between Katja and Elena … and me. I can’t take any chances. Surely you must see that?’
‘You mean you’re going to kill me?’
Bjartur didn’t reply.
Her heart crashing against her ribcage, Hulda made a frenzied attempt to break free but found she could only wriggle from side to side.
‘Lie still!’
‘Is this … Is this how you got rid of Katja?’ Hulda asked. Anything to keep him talking.
‘Sort of. But she’s … lying somewhere else.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t think that’s any of your business. On the other hand, I don’t suppose you’ll be able to tell anyone. She’s in a colder place than you.’ He grinned. ‘She took a trip to the countryside with me as well, though the circumstances were very different. You see, I was in love with her and she knew it. I thought the trip was the beginning of a relationship, but she thought differently, and … well, what’s done is done.’
Hulda fought to steady her breathing, to resist the rising tide of panic so she could use her brain. She must be able to think her way out of this. Talk him round. To do that, she needed to win time, engage him in conversation.
‘You murdered Elena, didn’t you?’ she said, mastering her voice. ‘You two had a long phone conversation the evening before she died. You never mentioned that.’
‘Elena. She worked it out,’ Bjartur said. ‘Elena was the only person who knew that Katja and I were close friends. She wouldn’t stop pestering me about what had happened to her. At first, I lied and said I’d helped Katja give the authorities the slip; that she was hiding out in the countryside. But Elena kept nagging at me to let her see Katja. Then she rang me the evening she … she died. She was threatening to go to the police. I tried to convince her not to. I had to stop her, you must see that?’
Hulda nodded.
‘I invited her for a walk down by the sea later that evening. She had no reason to be afraid of me.’
XXVI
‘I’ve got to see Katja!’ Elena said over the phone. ‘I’ve got to!’
‘Well, you can’t,’ Bjartur said. He was sitting in his garage, or rather his parents’ garage. It had been a challenging month: too few jobs coming in, and he’d been feeling too listless to work on his own writing. The incident in the interior was preying on his mind. He kept replaying it in his head, the moment when he had been forced to kill the woman he loved. Katja, who had come to the country as an asylum-seeker; who he had met when he was hired to interpret for her. They’d hit it off so well from the start, or so he’d believed. And she was so beautiful. As Katja didn’t speak a word of English, she had often turned to him for help and, sometimes, they had ended up chatting all evening. They shared an interest in nature and Russian literature. He’d never found it easy to talk to women, not Icelandic women, anyway, and now that he was over forty he had pretty much resigned himself to being single, but then Katja had entered his life. He had fantasized about marrying her, which would automatically entitle her to a residence permit. Maybe he could move out of his parents’ place, or pack them off to an old people’s home and move into their house with Katja. In his imagination, he had already planned their future together and
was just waiting for the right moment, confident that Katja felt the same. That she loved him. Then she had casually dropped into conversation that she’d like to get out of town some time. He had immediately taken her at her word, aware that this was his chance. He would take her into the interior, where they could stay in a mountain hut. And there, when it was just the two of them, cut off from the outside world, their relationship would begin.
But things had turned out quite differently. He’d ended up having to kill her. Of course, he hadn’t wanted to but then, sometimes, you didn’t have a choice. Like in Elena’s case; he’d been forced to kill her as well. She was always asking about Katja, and he had to lie, claim that he’d helped her go into hiding; that Katja had heard she was unlikely to get her residence permit and panicked. Of course, this wasn’t true either, but he’d had to come up with a plausible reason for why she should have run away. Elena hadn’t questioned the story.
He had been praying that Elena would be deported from Iceland soon so he would never have to see her again. And that Katja’s fate would never come to light. The police had carried out a search for her, but no one had been aware of their trip to the mountains and no one – with the exception of Elena – knew that he and Katja had got on so well. Got on so well, that is, until the night in the hut.
But then came the day of Elena’s phone call. She had been told, as far as she could grasp with her limited English, that her application had been accepted. Her call to tell him the news had thrown him into a blind panic: she wanted to see Katja, to tell her the good news and persuade her to give herself up so they could start a new life together in Iceland.
‘I’ve got to see her,’ Elena insisted. ‘And you’re the only person who can help. Just tell me where she is – I won’t tell anyone. I just want to see her, talk to her.’
‘We can’t take the risk,’ he said.
The Darkness Page 18