‘Right, our new home,’ I say, opening the door. I often do that these days – talk aloud, to myself and her, but there’s no one there to answer anymore; nothing but an oppressive silence.
I’m not prepared for the stench of mildew that hits me. My shoes leave wet marks on the worn parquet as I carry the girl inside. It’s actually not that bad. Kitchen, living room and two bedrooms. A battered, black-leather sofa in the living room and a small dining table in the kitchen. Apart from that the flat is empty. It’s nothing like the house I grew up in: there’s no grand piano in the sitting room or fireplace to fill the evenings with a cosy crackling. The only sounds in this flat are those that carry through the badly insulated walls from the neighbours, and the heavy roar of traffic from the street outside the kitchen window.
My shoulders and back are aching, so I put the girl down on the floor again. Her grey eyes take in her surroundings as she examines our new home. She’s still too big, as she has been from birth. Much bigger than other children her age. A few days after she was born, her face started to break out in small pimples. The midwives said it was perfectly normal, but I couldn’t touch them without feeling sick. Luckily, her skin is nice and smooth now, but she still doesn’t look like other babies. There’s something adult about her expression. She doesn’t babble or drool or smile. But she knows how to cry and scream when she’s not happy, though she doesn’t shed any tears and there’s no way to pacify her. All you can do is wait until she stops of her own accord. The rest of the time, she just stares into space, making me feel like a failure. Of course, she’s only a baby, as I’m always reminding myself, but I can’t shake off the feeling that she’s watching me, judging me.
I sit on the sofa and light a cigarette. It’s not as if the smell could get any worse in here. As the grey smoke curls up to the ceiling, I decide it will be my last. There’s no one to smoke with any longer. My friends have all melted away. My parents too. No one’s been in touch since I moved. Like I care. They were nothing but a bunch of losers with no future, only a past. I’m not like them.
When the cigarette’s burnt down, I open the window and flick it out. I watch as it makes a little mark in the snow below. I don’t know these streets or buildings; they’re completely new to me. I’ve never visited this neighbourhood before except to view the flat, but the unfamiliarity is good because it means no one will recognise me, and for as long as that lasts, I’ll be safe.
As long as that lasts, I’ll have nothing to fear.
Monday
Bergrún couldn’t stand people who took it for granted that they could have children. Perhaps that’s why she had never liked Maríanna. She stood up, scraped the rest of the porridge into the bin and put her bowl in the dishwasher.
The coffee machine ground the beans with the usual racket. Then the black liquid trickled into the cup, and after that there was complete silence. Bergrún’s hair was still damp from her shower and her body felt pleasantly lethargic after her morning’s exercise. But her thoughts kept returning to Maríanna, which prevented her from enjoying this time of day as much as she usually did. She saw again the casual, offhand manner, the constant attempts to get people to feel sorry for her. Sometimes Bergrún had wanted to yell at Maríanna that the world didn’t revolve around her. Yet she had pitied the girl the day they first met. Bergrún sat down again with the newspaper, but instead of opening it, she stared out of the window.
The day she had met Maríanna had been defined by two fateful phone calls. The first had been from the hospital to tell her that her third attempt at IVF had failed. Unable to believe it, she had laughed hysterically, saying there must be some mistake. They’d better double-check the results. Could they have got them muddled up with somebody else’s? Because she could feel it, feel the strange movements in her womb, as if tiny soap bubbles were floating around inside her. ‘Hello, little person,’ she had whispered as she stroked her belly the night before. ‘Hello, you.’ She could have sworn that someone inside her had returned her greeting with a little kick or wave or whatever it was that babies did in the womb.
In the end Fannar had taken the phone out of her hand and put his arms around her. Hugged her before she even realised she was crying. Had she really screamed at the friendly doctor? She, who never lost her temper with anyone. Her father used to say she was completely bloodless. Was she even alive? She didn’t feel like it. Not when she wept in Fannar’s arms and felt the soap bubbles bursting, one by one. Pop, pop, pop. ‘Goodbye, little person. Goodbye, little soul who never existed.’
That had been the first phone call. The second had been a great improvement. It had been the Child Protection Agency ringing to say they had a young child who needed fostering. Would they be willing? While she hadn’t exactly been over the moon, a small spark of hope had kindled inside her. Fannar had been doubtful, and she herself had seriously wondered if she would be able to cope, but as she scrolled through online forums full of pregnant women complaining about aches, tiredness, reflux and insomnia, she knew she was stronger than them. So she said yes, and then the child arrived and she had never regretted it for a second.
Hekla. With her dark, unruly hair and her shy smile and her odd questions. Bergrún knew she was special – a bit different from other children. A little backward and withdrawn. Which might be the effect of an upbringing that Bergrún didn’t even want to think about. She believed that Hekla’s arrival was no coincidence but, rather, some sort of compensation from God for the child she couldn’t have. So it had been a devastating shock six months later when she got a phone call to tell her that Hekla’s mother was ready to take her back again. Bergrún had wept even more than she had when she received the three fateful phone calls from the hospital. Because this time the child wasn’t merely a figment of her imagination: she had held Hekla in her arms, lain beside her while she slept, held her hand in countless playgrounds, kissed a hundred grazes better and wiped away even more tears.
Fortunately, Maríanna had agreed that Hekla should spend every other weekend with them, which was better than nothing. Bergrún had invited Hekla on holiday with them and to the summer house they rented at Easter, but handing her back had become ever more of a wrench. Bergrún had done her best to maintain a good relationship with Maríanna, in the hope that one day the other woman would recognise that Hekla would be better off with them. But Maríanna didn’t seem to care. Bergrún had tried repeatedly to persuade her, in a friendly way, of course, only too aware that she could lose Hekla for good if Maríanna chose to end the arrangement. But nothing she said and no amount of pleading on Hekla’s part, made any difference: Maríanna wouldn’t listen.
Hearing footsteps in the hallway, Bergrún finished her coffee. She had a long day ahead at the dental practice and needed to get on with preparing packed lunches, sorting out clothes and making breakfast for two. She couldn’t help smiling. Bergur was seven; he’d come to them for fostering at six months old. Several months later it had become clear that the arrangement would be permanent. At last. It had taken Bergrún a long time to accept the fact, and she hadn’t been able to relax properly until she had the adoption papers in her hands. Unlike Maríanna, Bergur’s mother had done what was best for her child and given him up. Whereas Maríanna stubbornly insisted on holding on to her daughter, regardless of Hekla’s own wishes and what was obviously in her best interests. Maríanna didn’t even seem to like Hekla that much. Her own daughter! If there was one thing Bergrún was sure of it was that Maríanna had never deserved Hekla.
The post-mortem was due to begin at nine. Elma, Sævar and Hörður trooped into the house on the corner, which was part of Reykjavík’s National Hospital, although from the outside it looked like a residential property. There were no signs on the front and few people would have suspected that the basement contained rows of corpses in specially designed cold chambers; that it was a place where bodies were opened and their internal organs removed and placed on steel trays.
Elma, who had attended post
-mortems before, had a pretty good idea of what the procedure entailed. However, as soon as the examination began she realised that she had never been present at the post-mortem of a corpse in this state. While the pathologist was searching methodically through the clothes, she found herself staring at the skull. It looked different under the lights of the pathology lab. Much more real, yet, simultaneously, more unreal. Elma always found it hard to get her head around the fact that everyone was like this under the skin, regardless of their external appearance. Regardless of their thoughts, feelings or character. When it came down to it, everyone was just flesh and bone that would ultimately decompose, break down and disappear.
As the pathologist carefully snipped off the clothes to reveal the flesh underneath, Elma’s stomach began to churn. The skin was mottled pale brown and grey. The pathologist explained that he would have to be especially careful because the skin had decayed to the point where it wouldn’t take much for it to disintegrate. It yielded to his touch like soft cheese or porridge.
‘It’s lucky conditions in the cave were so favourable,’ he said. ‘It was a wet summer, hardly any sunlight penetrated inside and the temperature remained suitably low and constant.’ As he spoke, he placed the clothes in a plastic bag and laid them to one side.
‘Shouldn’t moisture speed up decomposition?’ Sævar asked.
‘Good question.’ The pathologist became positively animated. ‘Yes, usually moisture would cause the tissues to break down faster, but certain conditions result in the formation of a greyish, waxy substance in the tissues called adipocere. The chemical reaction involved prevents bacteria and insects from consuming the tissue. It’s common in lakes and bogs, for example.’
‘But the body was found in a cave,’ Sævar pointed out.
‘Quite.’ The pathologist smiled. ‘The reaction can also take place in narrow, damp caves where the air is static. The floor was covered in a layer of wet clay and moss, and the body had sunk into this, the skin underneath fusing with the clay.’
The remaining tissues no longer resembled skin. Where the red blood had once flowed through veins and arteries, there were now only rusty brown flecks. Elma made an effort to control her breathing as she watched. She didn’t want to disgrace herself by throwing up like Sævar yesterday.
‘This doesn’t apply to the whole body, though,’ the pathologist continued. ‘The parts that were less protected, like the hands and face, have mostly been reduced to the bare bones, though there are remnants of tendons and ligaments, since these are generally slower to decompose. The brain and eyes have completely vanished, of course, but the abdomen has retained considerably more flesh, as you can see. Soft tissue has also been preserved on the skull, tendons and so on. Mainly on the back of the head, though, and in other areas where the body was in contact with the ground.’
‘Is there any chance of spotting injuries?’ Elma asked, averting her gaze.
‘Yes, we’ll try,’ the pathologist said. ‘If you look here, for example, you can immediately see dark patches on the skin of the stomach and breasts that could be evidence of kicks or blows.’ He pointed a gloved finger at the chest, then picked up a camera and snapped some shots. ‘The skull fracture is so negligible that I doubt it would have been fatal. Death is more likely to have resulted from the haemorrhaging caused by the blows. The fracture is on the forehead, here, indicating that the person who inflicted it must either have been standing over Maríanna at the time or else have been shorter than her.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Hörður, who up to now had been silent.
‘Well, because if the assailant had been taller than Maríanna, the fracture would have been higher up on the skull. That’s assuming that a blunt instrument was used to beat her over the head. But if Maríanna was on the ground at the time, there’s no way of working out the height of the person who hit her, and that would also be consistent with the other injuries. That’s to say, that she was lying down when she was struck.’
‘But why would she have bled so heavily if she was beaten?’ Hörður asked. ‘Wouldn’t the haemorrhaging have been mainly internal, if no edged weapon was used?’
‘Well, she was hit on the head with some kind of blunt instrument, though I can’t tell precisely what it was,’ the pathologist replied. ‘I can’t quite work out where most of the blood would have come from. There’s evidence of some internal haemorrhaging but also of considerable blood loss.’ He frowned at the body, then pulled over a steel trolley and contemplated the array of scalpels lying on it.
‘Do you think she was dead when she entered the cave?’ Elma asked.
‘Yes, I believe so. I gather they found very little blood at the scene, so it would be the logical conclusion.’
‘Was she beaten to death?’ Hörður asked.
The pathologist put down the camera and looked at them. ‘Yes, that would be my guess,’ he said. ‘Of course, with decomposition this far advanced, it’s hard to say with any certainty whether death was a result of the beating, but judging by the bruising on her body and the fracture to her skull, I’d say it’s highly likely. However, I’m still not sure of the precise cause of death. We’ll have a better idea of that after we’ve examined her internal organs. They often preserve evidence of injuries.’ He picked up a scalpel and gave them an encouraging smile before getting down to work.
‘I’ll compare the teeth to Maríanna Þórsdóttir’s dental records for confirmation, but I think it’s safe to assume it’s her,’ the pathologist told them two hours later. They were standing outside the pathology lab, and although the smell was better out there and there was no dissected corpse before her eyes, Elma was still feeling faint.
Traces of blood had been found in Maríanna’s throat, and although the skin of her face had not been preserved, the pathologist was fairly confident that she had received a full-frontal blow that had broken her nose, which would have accounted for most of the blood loss. The blood would have run down her throat, filling her airways and making it hard for her to breathe. But he couldn’t say for sure whether the cause of death had been blood loss, internal haemorrhaging or suffocation. Still, it was quite clear that Maríanna had been beaten to a pulp and that the injuries would have brought about her death in a relatively short space of time.
‘Right, we’ll be in touch.’ Hörður was already halfway up the stairs.
‘One more thing,’ Elma said. ‘Do you have any idea why the killer didn’t try to conceal her body, by putting her in a bin bag, for example?’
The pathologist shrugged. ‘That kind of speculation isn’t really my job,’ he reminded her. ‘But I can tell you that when a body is put in a thick refuse sack, everything is preserved far better – hair, bodily fluids and DNA. Perhaps the person who deposited her in the cave was hoping that nature would take its course and destroy all that sort of evidence. And in normal circumstances that wouldn’t have been such a bad idea. But I doubt the killer could have predicted the chemical reaction that would take place thanks to conditions in the cave.’
‘Could she have been transported there in a plastic bag?’
‘It’s possible, of course, but unfortunately I can’t prove it.’
Elma nodded. She had been wondering how it would be possible to cart a dead body over the rough terrain at that time of year without being spotted. At the beginning of May, sunset didn’t occur until just before midnight, and it would have remained light for some time after that. In addition, it seemed unlikely that anyone could have lugged the body around the lava field while searching for a good hiding place. All she could think was that the person who hid the body must have been very familiar with the area and probably knew about the cave beforehand. Something else she was fairly confident about was that it would have taken two people to carry Maríanna.
‘I’ll send you the photos and the preliminary report later today,’ the pathologist said in parting.
Once they were outside, Elma gratefully filled her lungs with cold, fresh air an
d immediately felt better. She couldn’t get used to watching post-mortems. It was beyond her how anyone could do them for a living. Presumably you became accustomed to them, like anything else. The pathologist went about his work with an air of calm deliberation and showed no sign of being affected by the body, whereas Sævar and Hörður’s ashen faces betrayed the fact that they were in the same boat as her. After they got into the car, no one spoke for a while.
‘Maybe we should get a bite to eat,’ Sævar suggested eventually.
‘I couldn’t face food right now, to be honest,’ Hörður said, but he agreed to stop at a petrol station that sold sandwiches.
Elma felt more herself after half a can of fizzy drink and a piece of chocolate, but that was all she could stomach.
‘We’ll have to review the whole thing from the beginning,’ she said. ‘The case is quite different now from how it looked in the spring.’
‘There was nothing suspicious about it at the time. That’s why it seems so unbelievable.’ Sævar scrunched up the wrapper of his prawn sandwich. ‘I mean, she left a note for her daughter – a message that looked like a goodbye note – and we just took it for granted that Maríanna had driven herself up to Bifröst. The whole thing looked like a premeditated suicide.’
‘I know,’ Elma said. ‘What made the search so difficult was that her car was found near the bus stop at Bifröst, which meant she could theoretically have gone anywhere in the country, though none of the bus drivers could remember her. And since the dogs didn’t pick up any trail near the car, that made it a reasonable conjecture.’
‘Then there was her phone, of course,’ Sævar said.
‘Her phone?’ Elma turned to look at him.
‘We tracked the movements of her phone and the last signal came from Akranes, remember? That was why we focused our search there to begin with. Then, after her car turned up at Bifröst, the focus changed. It was all a bit of a mess.’
Girls Who Lie Page 5