She shuddered at the thought.
Switching on her torch again, she put her head down and set off doggedly in his wake. A gap had opened up between them and, picking up her pace, she tried to close it. She became reckless in her haste and, next thing she knew, the ground was giving way beneath her feet. Feeling herself sinking into soft snow, she started panicking that she had fallen into a hole and would never be able to get out. It turned out not to be as deep as she’d feared, but extricating herself from the clutches of the drift proved impossible, especially when weighed down by the backpack. She called out, first in a wavering voice, then louder, until he heard and, turning back, came to her rescue and heaved her out. On she went, trailing in his wake, hearing now and then the sound of water trickling under the snow, its gurgling providing a comfortingly familiar note amidst the inhuman silence of the mountains.
Abruptly, he halted, head turning this way and that, as if working out the lie of the land. She could just distinguish the dark shape of a mountain in the distance, its gully-scored slopes blurred by a layer of white.
She listened out for the river, but its gurgling had fallen quiet. Now, there was nothing but silence.
V
‘Looks like you’re in luck,’ said the duty sergeant, who had introduced himself as ólíver. He was tall, without an ounce of spare flesh on his lanky frame. ‘Very lucky. Because that Syrian girl’s still here. We were going to put her on a plane this morning, but her lawyer kicked up a stink. You know what it’s like.’
‘Her lawyer’s not Albert Albertsson, by any chance?’ Hulda asked.
‘Albert? No, don’t know him. The lawyer handling the Syrian’s case is a woman.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘I can’t remember what any of these lawyers are called.’
‘No, I meant the asylum-seeker.’
‘Hmm.’ ólíver frowned. ‘What was it again? … Amena, I think. Yes, Amena.’
‘Why are you deporting her?’
‘Some official’s made a decision. Nothing to do with me. I’m just responsible for seeing her on to the plane.’
‘Could I speak to her?’
ólíver shrugged. ‘Don’t see why not. Though I don’t know if she’ll agree to meet you. I can’t promise anything. Unsurprisingly, the Icelandic police aren’t her favourite people right now. Why do you want to speak to her?’
He must have been thirty years younger than Hulda, but neither by his voice nor his manner did he display the slightest deference to her seniority. It was often like that these days and it never failed to rile her, the way the younger generation were taking over, rendering her redundant, as if her experience no longer counted for anything.
Hulda sighed impatiently. ‘It’s in connection with a case I’m investigating – an asylum-seeker found dead on the coast near here.’
ólíver nodded. ‘Yes, at Flekkuvík. I remember. Me and my partner were called to the scene when the body was found. A foreign girl, wasn’t it? Couldn’t handle the waiting.’
‘She was Russian.’
‘Yeah, that was it.’
‘What do you remember about the scene?’ Hulda asked.
ólíver frowned: ‘Nothing in particular. It was just another suicide, you know. She was lying there in the shallow water, obviously dead. There was nothing we could do. Why are you looking into this?’
She resisted the urge to tell him to mind his own business. ‘New information. I’m not at liberty to go into details.’ Leaning towards him, she whispered confidentially: ‘The whole thing’s a bit delicate.’
He merely shrugged again. His interest in the case clearly didn’t go very deep and Hulda also got the distinct impression that he had little faith in the ability of an old bag like her to handle a police inquiry.
‘All right, I’ll let you speak to her, since you insist,’ he said, as if addressing a naughty child.
Hulda had to bite back an angry retort.
‘But both our interview rooms are in use,’ he continued. ‘Would you mind talking to her in her cell?’
That brought Hulda up short. She was on the point of thanking him politely and walking out, abandoning this line of investigation, when she thought better of it. ‘Yes, all right, I suppose that’ll do.’ Might as well try to achieve something worthwhile during her last few hours in the police.
‘Be right back.’
He disappeared, returning almost immediately.
‘Come with me.’
He led her to a cell, opened the door then locked it again behind her. A shudder ran through Hulda as she was shut in. Whenever she’d committed some misdemeanour as a child, her grandmother used to send her to the store cupboard to reflect on her sins. The cupboard had been dark and poky and, to make matters worse, her grandmother had always locked the door. Neither Hulda’s mother nor her grandfather had dared to stand up for her over the business of the naughty cupboard. Perhaps they’d thought it wasn’t so bad, but for Hulda it had been a torment which left her with a lifelong phobia of being confined in narrow, enclosed spaces. In an effort to distract herself now, she cast around for something positive to focus on: the upcoming evening with Pétur, that would do. She told herself she had to be strong, for her own and Elena’s sake.
The Syrian girl was a thin, wan figure, hunched in misery.
‘Hello, my name’s Hulda.’ The girl didn’t react, though Hulda had spoken in English. She was sitting on a bed that was bolted to the wall. There was no chair in the cell and, guessing that it would be unwise to sit down next to her at this stage, Hulda stayed by the door, respecting her personal space.
‘Hulda,’ she repeated, slowly and clearly. ‘Your name’s Amena, isn’t it?’
The girl glanced up, meeting Hulda’s eyes for an instant, before lowering her gaze to the floor again, her arms folded protectively across her chest. She was so young, not yet thirty, perhaps closer to twenty-five, and her manner was anxious, even fearful.
Hulda continued: ‘I’m from the police.’
Just when she had begun to wonder if ólíver had misinformed her about the young woman’s knowledge of English, Amena answered gruffly: ‘I know.’
‘I need to talk to you, just to ask a few questions.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘You want to send me out of country.’
‘That’s nothing to do with me,’ Hulda assured her, keeping her voice slow and gentle. ‘I’m investigating a case and I think maybe you can help me.’
‘You trick me. You want to send me home.’ Amena glared at Hulda, visibly seething with impotent rage.
‘No, this has nothing to do with you,’ Hulda reassured her. ‘It’s about a Russian girl who died. Her name was Elena.’
At this, Amena became suddenly animated. ‘Elena?’ she said, then added with vehemence: ‘I knew it. Finally.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When she die, there is something strange. I tell police officer.’
‘The police officer? Was it a man? Was his name Alexander?’
‘A man, yes. He don’t care,’ Amena said. Although her English was halting, she was perfectly capable of getting her message across.
Yet again, Hulda mentally cursed Alexander for his incompetence and prejudice. What else had he ‘forgotten’ to write in his report? The case had supposedly been solved, yet she felt she was fumbling her way in the dark.
‘Why did you think there was something strange about her death?’
‘She get permission to stay. Stay in Iceland. She get a yes.’ The Syrian girl was emphatic.
Hulda nodded to show she understood.
The girl carried on: ‘Nobody who get a yes do this. Jump in the sea. She was very happy, sit downstairs, in reception, talk all evening on the phone. Very happy. We were all very happy. She was a good girl. Warm heart. Honest. Have a difficult life in Russia. But then … next day she is dead. Just dead.’