Although life with her daughter was settling into a routine, it wasn’t quite how the mother had pictured it. She was finding it a hard, unrelenting struggle. The child was naughty, fractious and withdrawn, though the mother did her best to lavish on her all the love and kindness she was capable of. Evenings were the most difficult time: the little girl was still so afraid of the dark that she would only go to sleep with the light on. Their financial situation was precarious, too, and all the worries about her child, about money and the future, were taking their toll.
She had begun to regret that she had never told the girl’s father she was carrying his child. He was an American soldier, stationed briefly in Iceland after the war, and their relationship had been even briefer, lasting only a night or two. When she realized she was expecting a baby, she had lain awake night after night, agonizing over whether to look him up, but the barrier had seemed insurmountable. She simply couldn’t bring herself to do it, too ashamed of their relationship and what it had led to. Of course, they were both equally to blame for what had happened, but he was free to swan off back to his homeland, leaving her to face the consequences: pregnancy and an illegitimate child; having to look family and friends in the eye.
Now, of course, it was too late. He had gone back to America. Although she knew which state he lived in, that wouldn’t help much, since, incredible as it seemed, she didn’t know his second name. He must have told her at some point, but her English was limited and she had probably missed it. Besides, it would have seemed irrelevant at the time. If she hadn’t been so dreadfully ashamed, she could have got hold of him when she first found out she was pregnant, since he’d still been in Iceland then. But the thought of travelling out to the American base at Keflavík and asking to speak to a soldier, armed with nothing but his Christian name, her belly already beginning to show … God, no, she couldn’t do it. Yet, now, she could have kicked herself for being so pathetic. She wished she’d brazened it out for the child’s sake, for the little girl who’d had such a difficult beginning in life and would probably never get to know her father. And he would never know that he had a beautiful daughter in the cold wastes of Iceland. It had been just one of many postings for the handsome young soldier but, although he may have visited the country only once, he had left behind a permanent reminder of his presence.
She dreaded the thought of having to explain this to her daughter one day.
VII
Hulda was still at Kjarvalsstadir when Dóra from the hostel rang.
‘I couldn’t get hold of you this morning,’ Dóra said. ‘Am I interrupting anything?’
After Karen left, Hulda had stayed on in the café, feeling tired and flat. She needed to sit there a little longer before she could summon up the energy to go back outside into the Icelandic spring weather, which, this time, heralded an end rather than a beginning. The fact was she simply couldn’t come to terms with the idea of having to give up work. It wasn’t only her boss’s offhand manner of breaking the news to her that had brought on this state of bemused shock; nor was it only that she was upset about having to leave earlier than planned: she was upset about having to leave at all. Say what you like about her colleagues, their company was a lifeline for her. Even their bickering and envy were preferable to being cooped up within the four walls of her high-rise flat, where, with nothing to distract her, she would be overwhelmed by memories of the past. Not only overwhelmed, but suffocated. She had been a restless sleeper for as long as she could remember, even before the recurrent nightmares had begun. All that kept her going were her cases, her investigations, the pressure of the job. Last night had been typical – the dreams of the dead Russian girl had pushed aside those other, unwanted memories from the past: her regret, her guilt. Could she have done something differently …?
Hulda sat there, brooding on her fate. She was the only person left in the gallery café; even the tourists had gone. No one was interested in Icelandic art or Icelandic apple pie with cream on such a gloriously sunny day, despite the chill northerly breeze. After all, you could always find a sheltered spot outside somewhere.
Was this what all her days would be like once she was pensioned off? Sitting around in cafés, trying to fill the long, empty hours? She toyed with the idea of ringing Pétur and inviting him to join her for a coffee but checked the impulse, not wanting to come across as too keen.
And Dóra asked if she was interrupting anything. The irony.
‘No,’ said Hulda, telling the simple truth. ‘Sorry I didn’t hear the phone earlier. I hope it wasn’t anything urgent.’
‘Oh, no, not at all. To be honest, I can’t understand why you’re bothering with this. The girl died ages ago and everyone else is satisfied – if you know what I mean.’
Hulda did, only too well. With no one to speak up for her, the poor Russian girl had received shoddy treatment from the police. Although this wasn’t her fault, Hulda felt ashamed.
‘I just happened to remember something – it’s probably totally irrelevant but, you never know, it might be of use to you.’
Instantly, Hulda was on the edge of her seat, ears pricked.
‘Only there was some bloke who came to pick her up once – a stranger.’
‘A stranger?’
‘Yeah, not one of the lawyers who usually handle these asylum cases. Not that Russian interpreter guy either. Someone else.’
‘You say he picked her up?’
‘Yes, I saw her getting into his car outside the hostel. It’s only just come back to me.’ From the sound of her voice, Dóra was feeling rather pleased with herself about having new information to impart. ‘You see, I remember wondering where she was going with this bloke because, of course, she didn’t know any Icelanders.’
‘Was he an Icelander?’ Hulda asked, pulling out her notebook and jotting down the details. She felt suddenly energized.
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know? Did you talk to him?’
‘What, me? No. I just ran into them outside, though he must have gone in to ask for her at reception. I was on my way in to start my shift or something.’
‘How do you know he was an Icelander?’ Hulda repeated.
‘You can always tell an Icelander: they all look alike – you know what I mean. Typical Icelandic face, Icelandic appearance.’
‘Could you describe him?’
‘No, it was too long ago.’
‘Was he skinny? Overweight?’ Hulda sighed privately at the thought of having to prise all the information out of this girl bit by bit.
‘Yes, overweight, that’s right. Kind of fat, and a bit of a minger, as far as I remember.’
‘Not your type, then?’ said Hulda.
‘God, no. I remember thinking maybe she’d found herself a boyfriend, but they seemed so badly suited – she was attractive, you know, tall and graceful, but he was short and fat.’
‘And you’d never seen him before?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Do you remember when this was?’
‘You must be kidding. I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast. God, it was just, I don’t know, some time before she died,’ said Dóra, pointing out the obvious.
‘You think it could have been her boyfriend?’ From what she had learned during her conversation with Bjartur, Hulda had her own theory about what had been going on, but she wanted to know if a similar suspicion had struck Dóra. She didn’t ask straight out, though. There was no call to start a rumour – not yet, anyway.
‘Well, no, not really, it just crossed my mind. If she’d had an Icelandic boyfriend, I’m sure he’d have been much fitter than this bloke.’
‘Can you think what business he might have had with her?’
‘No. But then it was nothing to do with me. I have enough on my plate with running this place; what the residents get up to isn’t my problem.’
‘What sort of age was he?’
‘Hard to say. He was just a bloke. Sort of middle-aged, you know. Older than her.’
‘Did you see what kind of car he was driving?’
‘Hey, yeah, a big off-roader. Blokes like him all drive four-by-fours like that; black ones, usually.’
‘What kind of four-by-four?’
‘Don’t ask me, I can’t tell them apart. They all look the same.’
‘Could this have been the day she died?’
‘You know, I’m not sure,’ Dóra said. ‘It might have been the day before, but I doubt it. Surely I’d have connected the two things at the time?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Hulda pointed out.