Hulda nodded, while taking the description with a pinch of salt, suspecting that this rosy view of Elena might be coloured to some extent by their friendship, and by the Syrian girl’s own feelings about what it must be like to be granted asylum.
The enclosed space was beginning to get to Hulda, affecting her ability to concentrate. She had broken out in a sweat, her hands were slippery and her heart was beating unnaturally fast. She had to wrap up this conversation quickly and get out of here. ‘Is it possible that she was brought to Iceland to work as a prostitute?’ she asked.
The question seemed to take Amena completely by surprise. ‘What? Prostitute? Elena? No. No, no, no. Not possible.’ She seemed to be groping for words, for a way to refute the tiny seed of doubt that Hulda’s question had sown in her mind. ‘No, no, I am sure. Elena was not prostitute.’
‘A man was seen picking her up in his car. He was short and fat, and drove a four-by-four – a big car. I thought maybe he was a client …’
‘No, no. Perhaps her lawyer. He drive a big car.’ Amena thought for a moment then qualified this: ‘But he is not fat. I don’t remember name. He is not my lawyer; my lawyer is a woman.’
‘Do you have any idea who the man in the big car could have been? Could he have been someone Elena knew?’
Amena shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
Hulda decided to bring their conversation to an end. Her claustrophobia was so bad now that she was drenched in sweat and mentally exhausted. But before she could say another word, Amena forestalled her: ‘Listen, you must help me. I help you. I cannot go home. I cannot!’ The raw desperation in her voice elicited an instinctive rush of pity in Hulda.
‘Well, I don’t suppose … but I’ll mention it to the police officer on duty. OK?’
‘Ask him to help me. Tell him I help you. Please.’
Hulda nodded again, then, changing the subject, asked: ‘Do you have any idea what really happened to Elena? Did anyone have a reason to murder her and, if so, who?’
‘No,’ Amena replied instantly. ‘No idea. She only know this lawyer. She have no enemies. Very good girl.’
‘I see. Well, thanks for talking to me. I hope things work out for you. It was good to meet someone who knew Elena. What happened to her was very sad. Were you close friends? Best friends?’
‘Best friends?’ Amena shook her head. ‘No, but we were good friends. Her best friend was Katja.’
‘Katja?’
‘Yes, also Russian.’
‘Russian?’ Hulda was so startled that she momentarily forgot her feeling of suffocation. ‘Were there two Russian girls?’
‘Yes. They come here together. Katja and Elena.’
Hell, Hulda thought: Katja had probably left the country months ago, which was frustrating, as Hulda would definitely have liked to talk to her. She needed to get closer to the victim, get a better sense of what had been going through her mind, who she associated with, whether she was afraid of someone, and whether she had really been trafficked to work in the sex industry.
‘Do you know where Katja is?’ she asked, assuming the answer would be no. ‘Was she granted a residence permit, too?’
‘I don’t know. Nobody know.’
‘What do you mean?’ Hulda felt her heart beating faster, though with excitement now, rather than panic.
‘She disappear.’
‘She disappeared? How do you mean?’
‘Yes, disappear. Or run away. She is hiding, maybe. Or leave country. I don’t know.’
‘When did this happen?’
The girl wrinkled her brow. ‘Before Elena die. Some weeks before. Maybe one month. I am not sure.’
‘Weren’t you worried? How did the police react?’
‘Yes … yes, sure. But she just run away. I should have done same … And nobody has found her, I think.’
‘What about Elena, how did she take the news? You say they were best friends?’
‘Well … At first she is angry. She think Katja is stupid. Think they both get permission to stay. But then …’ Amena’s face grew grave. ‘Then she is worried. Very worried.’
‘Was there any explanation for her disappearance?’ asked Hulda, not really expecting an answer.
Amena shook her head. ‘She just go, she don’t want to be told to leave country. People here are …’ She searched for the word. ‘Desperate. Yes, we are all desperate.’
‘What was Katja like?’
‘Nice. Friendly. Very beautiful.’
‘Is it possible that it was her, not Elena, who was working as a prostitute?’
‘No. No, I don’t believe it.’
‘I see.’ Hulda had been completely absorbed in the interview, but now the feeling of claustrophobia gripped her with renewed force.
Thanking Amena profusely for her help, she rapped on the door and waited, twitching with nerves, for ólíver to open it and let her out.
‘You remember,’ Amena said, breaking the silence. ‘You will help me.’
Hulda nodded: ‘I’ll do my best.’
At that moment, the door opened.
‘Get what you wanted?’ ólíver asked, without any real interest.
‘You and I need to talk. Now,’ Hulda snapped, her tone that of a senior officer addressing an underling.
She stole a single backward glance before ólíver locked the cell again, and saw the Syrian girl framed for an instant by the doorway, her face the picture of despair.
VI
The river had emerged on to the surface now and they were walking along its banks in the middle of a narrow valley surrounded by mountains.
‘Look,’ he said suddenly, gesturing into the darkness. ‘There’s the hut.’
She strained her eyes in the direction he was pointing, peering through the light haze of snow, but only when they drew closer was she able to make out a tiny black dot that gradually began to take shape against the backdrop of white, revealing itself as a pitched roof on top of dark wooden walls; a tiny hut, far from civilization.
When they reached it, they found the windows and door covered in snow. He scraped the drift away from the door, but it turned out to be frozen shut and opened only after a protracted struggle. Once inside, she took off her rucksack, relieved to be free of its dragging weight. It was pitch dark, but the beams from their head torches illuminated the interior wherever they fell, revealing bunks with sleeping places for four people, maybe more. She sank down on one of the thin mattresses to catch her breath.
The hut was primitive in the extreme. It contained nothing but a small table, a few chairs and the bunks. The idea was presumably to provide basic shelter for travellers – a way to survive the Icelandic wilderness – rather than any level of comfort.
‘Could you fetch us some water?’ He handed her the empty bottle.
‘Water?’
‘Yes. Go down to the river.’
Although daunted at the thought of having to go back outside into the night, alone this time, she obeyed, armed only with the head torch. The hut stood on a slope and the descent to the little river was steep. She edged her way down, taking tiny steps, as it was treacherously slippery and she was no longer wearing crampons: they had taken them off once the most difficult section of the route was behind them. The last thing she wanted was to take a tumble and slide down the slope, landing in the cold, wet snow at the bottom.
Having arrived safely on the river bank, she dipped the bottle into the icy water and waited for it to fill, then lingered a moment, sneaking the first drink. The water was pure, clear and bitterly cold, straight from the glacier, wonderfully refreshing after the long hike.
Back inside the hut again, she took off her jacket, still sweating from the climb up the slope from the river. Her companion was busy lighting candles: he had explained that there was no electricity or hot water in the hut. She joined in and soon there were ten small, flickering flames helping to dispel the gloom, though they didn’t give off much warmth.
‘You should put your coat back on,’ he said, ‘or you’ll soon start feeling chilled. It’s the same temperature in here as it is outside.’