Pétur was a doctor. He’d taken early retirement at sixty, when his wife fell ill, and had told Hulda, without going into any details, that they’d managed some good years together before the end. This information was enough for her to be going on with; she had no wish to make him relive his grief and hoped he would be similarly understanding about not requiring her to reopen old wounds. All she had told him was that Jón had died suddenly at fifty-two. ‘Long before his time,’ she had added, stating the obvious.
Beneath Pétur’s comfortable manner there was a hint of steel, a combination which Hulda guessed would have made him a good doctor. He’d certainly done well for himself. She had visited his large house in the desirable neighbourhood of Fossvogur. It was spacious, with high ceilings and a living room graced with handsome furniture, oil paintings on the walls, a wide selection of books on the shelves and even a grand piano taking pride of place in the middle. Ever since seeing it, she had entertained fantasies about living there, spending her days ensconced in a lovely living room in a cultured home. She could ditch her dreary high-rise apartment, use the cash to pay off her debts and enjoy a comfortable retirement in a large house in a nice neighbourhood. But, of course, that wasn’t the main reason; the truth was she felt good in Pétur’s company, and she was gradually coming to the realization that she might be ready to move on, to commit again after all these years of loneliness.
‘I’ve had quite a day,’ she said, before stepping into the kitchen to fetch the coffee she’d made in advance.
When she came back into the cramped sitting room and handed Pétur a cup, he smiled his thanks and waited for her to continue with what she had been saying, radiating patience and sympathy. He’d been a surgeon, but she thought he’d have made an excellent psychiatrist: he was a man who knew how to listen.
‘I’m stopping work,’ she said, when the silence grew uncomfortable.
‘That was on the cards, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds, you know. You’ll have more time for your hobbies, more time to enjoy life.’
He certainly knew how to do that, she reflected, allowing a moment of envy to sour her thoughts. As a doctor with a successful career behind him, he didn’t have to face any financial worries in his old age.
‘Yes, it was on the cards,’ she agreed in a low voice, ‘but not quite yet.’ Best to be honest with him, not try to embellish the facts. ‘To tell the truth, I’ve been given my marching orders. I’ve only got two weeks left. They’ve hired some boy in my place.’
‘Bloody hell. And you took that lying down? It doesn’t sound like you.’
‘Well,’ she said, mentally cursing herself for not having put up more of a fight when Magnús broke the news, ‘at least I managed to wangle one final case out of my boss, to finish on.’
‘Now you’re talking. Anything interesting?’
‘A murder … I think.’
‘Are you serious? Two weeks to solve a murder? You’re not worried you won’t succeed and that it’ll prey on your mind after you retire?’
She hadn’t thought of that, but Pétur had a point.
‘Too late to back out now,’ she said, without much conviction. ‘Anyway, it’s not a hundred per cent certain that it was murder.’
‘What’s the case about?’ he asked, managing to sound genuinely interested.
‘A young woman found dead in a cove on Vatnsleysustr?nd.’
‘Recently?’
‘More than a year ago.’
Pétur frowned. ‘I don’t remember that.’
‘It didn’t attract much media coverage at the time. She was an asylum-seeker.’
‘An asylum-seeker … No, I definitely didn’t hear about that.’
Not many people did, Hulda thought.
‘How did she die?’ he asked.
‘She drowned, but there were injuries on her body. The detective who handled the case – not one of our best men, I might add – dismissed it as suicide. I’m not so sure.’
Feeling pleased with the progress she’d made that day, she gave him a brief account of her discoveries but, to her disappointment, Pétur looked sceptical.
‘Are you sure,’ he asked hesitantly, ‘are you sure you’re not building this up to be bigger than it really is?’
Hulda was a little taken aback by his frankness, but another part of her appreciated it.
‘No, I’m not at all sure,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m determined to follow it up.’
‘Fair enough,’ he said.
It was getting late. They had swapped their coffee for red wine a couple of hours ago. Pétur had stayed longer than anticipated but, far from complaining, Hulda welcomed the company. The rain clouds had finally departed, making way for the sun, and the sky was deceptively light outside, belying the lateness of the hour.
The wine hadn’t been Hulda’s idea. After finishing his coffee, Pétur had asked if she happened to have a drop of brandy, and she apologized but said she did have a couple of bottles of wine knocking about somewhere.
‘I like the sound of that. Good for the old ticker,’ he’d said, and who was she to question the word of a medical man?
‘It strikes me as a bit unusual,’ Pétur remarked warily, feeling his way, ‘that you don’t have any family photos on display.’
The observation took Hulda by surprise, but she tried to sound casual: ‘I’ve never been one for that kind of thing. I don’t know why.’
‘I suppose I understand. I probably have too many photos of my wife around the place. Maybe that’s why it’s taken me so long to get over her. I’m stuck in the past, quite literally.’ He heaved a sigh. They were on to their second bottle now. ‘What about your parents? Your brothers and sisters? No pictures of them either?’
‘I don’t have any brothers or sisters,’ Hulda said. She didn’t immediately go on, but Pétur waited patiently, sipping his wine. ‘My mother and I were never particularly close,’ she said eventually, as if justifying the absence of photographs, though there was no reason why she should have to make excuses.
‘How long ago did she die?’
‘Fifteen years ago. She wasn’t that old, only seventy,’ Hulda said, conscious of how scarily soon she would be that age herself: in just over five years. And the last five years had gone by in a flash.
‘She can’t have been very old when she had you,’ Pétur remarked, after doing some quick mental arithmetic.
‘Twenty … though I don’t think that would have counted as particularly young in those days.’
‘And your father?’
‘Never met him.’
‘Really? Did he die before you were born?’
‘No. I just never knew him – he was a foreigner.’ Her thoughts wandered back. ‘Actually, once, years ago, I did go abroad to try and trace him, but that’s another story …’
She smiled politely at Pétur. Though she tolerated these personal questions, she wasn’t keen on them. No doubt he expected her to respond in kind, by asking about his family and past life, to bring them closer. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not yet. She felt she knew enough about him to be going on with: he’d lost his wife and lived alone (in a house that was far too big for him), and, more importantly, he came across as a decent, kind man; honest and reliable. That would do for Hulda.
‘Yes,’ he said, breaking the silence, sounding a little tipsy now. ‘We’re two lonely souls, all right. Some people take the decision early in life … to be alone, I mean. But in our case, I think it was fate.’ He paused. ‘My wife and I made a conscious decision to put off having children – until it was too late for us to change our minds. Towards the end, we often discussed whether it had been a mistake.’ After a moment, he added: ‘I don’t believe in having regrets: life is what it is, it plays out one way or another. But having said that, I really wish I weren’t so alone at this point in mine.’
Hulda hadn’t been expecting this level of candour. She didn’t know what to say, and after a brief silence Pétur went on: ‘I don’t know how you two ended up childless, and I don’t mean to pry, but that sort of thing, decisions like that, they have a profound impact on our lives. They matter, really matter. Don’t you agree?’
Hulda nodded, glancing discreetly at the clock, then at the bottle, and Pétur got the hint: it was time to say goodnight.
XI