‘No, right.’
‘Have you seen the man again since?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘This is all very interesting, Dóra. Thanks for ringing. Could you get back in touch if you remember anything else? Anything at all.’
‘Yeah, sure. This is kind of fun, isn’t it? This detective game. I mean, I sometimes read crime novels, but I never thought I’d get mixed up in a case myself.’
‘It’s not quite the same thing,’ Hulda began in a dampening tone, then, spying an opening, changed her tune and added in a more encouraging voice: ‘But could you do me a favour and keep your eyes peeled at your end?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Ask around, in case anyone remembers a detail that might be important. You see, I believe Elena was murdered, and it’s up to us to try and find the person responsible.’ She experienced a twinge of doubt: could she be putting this girl in a compromising position – in danger, even …? She dismissed the idea. That’s not how things worked in a peaceful little place like Iceland. Here, people killed only once: on the spur of the moment; under the influence of alcohol or drugs; in a fit of rage or jealousy. Premeditated murder was unheard of, let alone someone committing more than one killing of that type. She was on the trail of a murderer, all right, she had no doubt of that, but Dóra was safe.
‘Sure. I’ll ask around, no problem.’
‘What happened about the Syrian woman?’ Hulda asked. ‘Could I maybe talk to her now?’
‘No, sorry, you can’t. The police came and took her away.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s being deported. It happens. You know, it’s a bit like those games of musical chairs you play as a kid. The music starts, everyone gets up and walks in a circle and, when the music stops, one of the chairs is taken away and someone’s unlucky. Today, it was the Syrian woman’s turn.’
VIII
She had mentioned once or twice that she’d love to get out of town and see a bit more of Iceland. Get out into the countryside, away from the city – not that there was much of a city here. Even Reykjavík was hardly more than a village, compared with what she was used to.
She had only been half serious when she brought up the idea of the trip, never expecting anything to come of it, especially not in this inhospitable weather. A relentless icy gale blew off the sea, day in, day out, accompanied sometimes by rain, more often by snow. The pristine whiteness was beautiful when seen from the window, but the constantly changing conditions meant it seldom kept its postcard prettiness for long, turning first to grey slush, then to ice in the inevitable frosts that followed, before being covered again by a fresh fall of snow.
So it came as a surprise when he rang to suggest a short weekend trip, to see the snow, as he put it. She glanced out of the window at the driving rain, heard the howling of the wind through the glass, and shivered. But you only live once, she thought. Better to agree and experience something new, an adventure on the edge of the Arctic.
‘Won’t it be cold?’ she asked. ‘It looks so chilly out there.’
‘Colder than this,’ he replied, adding, as if he had read her mind: ‘It’ll be an adventure.’
So they were thinking along the same lines.
She heard herself say yes. But she had other questions, too: where are we going? How will we get there? What shall I bring?
He told her to relax. They’d be going in his four-by-four. Not that they’d be travelling far: the weather was unpredictable and they didn’t want to take any chances. Just far enough to get away from it all, to give her a taste of the wilderness.
She tried again: ‘Where are we going?’
He wouldn’t say.
‘You’ll see,’ he answered at last, then asked if she had a warm coat she could bring, like a down jacket. When she said she had nothing suitable, he offered to lend her one. She would need to get hold of some thick woollen underwear as well, to keep her warm on the journey, especially at night: that’s when the cold would really kick in.
For an instant, she wondered if she should change her mind about going, but she felt the pull, the appeal to her spirit of adventure. She told him, as he must already know, that she didn’t own any woollen underwear, and he offered to buy her some, to lend her the money. She could pay him back later.
IX
Was it possible that she was closing in on the truth? Was it possible that this unknown man had picked Elena up the day before her body was found; that he’d been a client? Hulda could picture the scene as if she’d been there herself. Could imagine how alone and abandoned Elena must have been feeling, forced into prostitution in an alien land. Perhaps he was her first client. Perhaps, when it came to it, she had said no. Could her refusal have cost her her life?
The idea filled Hulda with impotent rage and hatred. She would have to watch herself. What was it that Bishop Vídalín once wrote? Rage kindles an inferno in the eyes; a feeling she knew only too well.
Deciding that this merited another phone call to Bjartur, she rang and asked if Elena had ever referred to any clients – by name or occupation, for example. Bjartur was eager to help but said that, sadly, Elena hadn’t shared any details with him.
The next step was to go and see áki, the businessman suspected of operating a prostitution ring. Having tracked down his address, Hulda drove over to the upmarket area in the west of town where he lived. His house turned out to be an old single-storey detached villa with a well-kept garden. The branches of the trees were still bare, but there was a sense of expectancy about them, as if they were poised to put out the first buds of spring. An aura of peace hung over the unassuming house in the expensive neighbourhood, as if nobody was home, an impression supported by the absence of a car on the drive. She tried the doorbell, but got no reply, so she decided to wait for a while in her car, in case the owner returned. This was the best tip she had received so far and she wanted to ambush áki in person, bombard him with questions before he had a chance to prepare his replies. Besides, she had nowhere else to go. Backing up a little, she parked the old Skoda at a discreet distance, in a spot where she still had a good view of the house.
She’d lost count of the hours she’d spent waiting in her car during her career – it had the comfort of long habit – but by the time two hours had passed she was itching to stand up and stretch her legs. Best stick it out a bit longer, she told herself. Or should she knock on the door on the off-chance? After all, he might be in; he might have been home all day.
As she was weighing up her options, a four-by-four pulled into the drive. Out stepped a lean, youngish-looking man with cropped hair and a brisk, decisive manner. Hulda watched him enter the house and gave it a couple of minutes before following in his footsteps and knocking on the door. The man answered it himself, still in his outdoor shoes and jacket.
He seemed surprised by the visit and waited, still and watchful, for her to state her business.
‘áki?’ Hulda did her best to sound calm and collected.
He nodded, his lips twitching in a rather charming smile.
‘Could I have a word?’
‘That depends. What about?’ His voice was soft, with a hint of firmness underneath.
‘My name’s Hulda Hermannsdóttir. I’m with the police.’ She reached into her pocket, hoping her ID was there.