‘How long will it take us to walk there?’ she asked doubtfully.
ólíver gave her a measuring look, his expression betraying what he was thinking: how fast could an old woman like her be expected to move?
‘Quarter of an hour either way, give or take,’ he guessed, then, with a glance at his watch, added: ‘Look, I really haven’t got time for this and, anyway, it’s not like there’s anything to see down there.’
It was his reaction that tipped the scales. He was annoying her so much – though, in fairness, that might be partly the fault of her hangover – that she decided she was damn well going to drag him all the way down to the sea.
‘We’ll just have to make the best of it,’ she said briskly, getting out of the car and setting off down the track. A glance over her shoulder revealed that ólíver was following, albeit reluctantly. It was still drizzling and the wind was gusting hard here by the coast, but she found the effect invigorating. With any luck, it would blow away the cobwebs and, with them, the remnants of her headache. Being close to the sea improved her mood, too: she could feel her tension easing with every step. They trudged along the rough stony track, heads down into the wind, surrounded on either side by the moss-carpeted lava-field, which possessed its own brand of desolate beauty. Apart from the odd bird flying overhead, she and ólíver were the only moving figures in the landscape. You’d never guess that there were farms not far off, since this area was sufficiently out of the way that you could be quite alone here. As she walked, Hulda wondered what in the world Elena had been doing in such a lonely spot: had she come here of her own accord and died by accident? Had she taken her own life, or had she been lured here and murdered by some person unknown?
‘You didn’t come across a vehicle out here, did you?’ Hulda asked, raising her voice to be heard over the wind.
‘What? No,’ grunted ólíver, his hunched shoulders and sour expression conveying the message that he had more important things to take care of than trekking down to the shore with some old bag from Reykjavík CID.
They must be more than twenty kilometres from the hostel in Njardvík, Hulda reflected: not what you would call within easy walking distance. In this, as in other respects, Alexander’s report had been deficient, failing to pinpoint exactly where the body had been found. Someone must have given Elena a lift – it stood to reason. And surely it was significant that the final stretch down to the sea was impassable to vehicles, though Alexander had omitted that detail, too.
‘Was this track closed to traffic recently?’ Hulda asked.
‘Oh, no, that happened ages ago. No one lives here now. There’s nothing out this way but a couple of derelict buildings.’
‘So it’s unlikely that someone would have lugged a dead body down to the beach?’
‘Are you crazy? She must have died in the cove. If you ask me, it was an accident or suicide. You’re wasting your time trying to solve a crime that was never committed,’ he added bluntly. ‘There are more than enough urgent cases to be getting on with.’
The scenery was bleak and inhospitable; only the odd hardy plant clinging on here and there, and a lone, skeletal tree.
It didn’t take them long to reach the buildings, which were unmistakeably derelict. One, a two-storey house, was nothing more than a hollow shell: its twin-gabled roof still intact but the grey concrete blocks of its walls stripped bare by the elements, its windows and doors gaping holes so you could see right through it. The other house was a smaller, single-storey affair, with a red roof and peeling white paint on its walls. Once they were beside them, Hulda paused to take stock of their surroundings, noticing that they weren’t overlooked by any human habitation. Even the police car parked up by the road was out of sight. More than ever, she felt convinced that Elena had been murdered in this godforsaken spot, with no witnesses. What on earth were you doing out here, Elena? she asked herself again. And who were you with?
If it was lonely and inhospitable now in May, what would it have been like when Elena came here in the dead of winter? What had been going through her mind? Did she have any inkling of what was going to happen? It was important to remember that she had just learned that she would be allowed to stay in Iceland. She must have been over the moon and perhaps this had made her more careless than usual, so she didn’t perceive the risk from her companion until …
‘It was sheer chance that the body was found so soon,’ ólíver said, interrupting her train of thought. ‘Not many people come down here, especially not in winter, but a group of walkers stumbled on her. They rang the police, and me and my partner attended the scene.’
No sooner had he spoken than the cove came into view.
Although not large, it was beautiful in an austere sort of way and the sea had an air of tranquillity, in spite of the buffeting gale. Hulda experienced a momentary sense of well-being, the sight and smell of the sea transporting her for an instant back to their old home on álftanes, to the bosom of her family, in the days before disaster fell. Then the feeling passed and her thoughts returned to Elena, who must have stood in this same spot more than a year ago, seen the same view, perhaps experienced the same sense of peace.
‘They found her lying face down on the beach. She had head injuries, though there’s no way of knowing exactly how she got them. Probably fell, banged her head and knocked herself out. The cause of death was drowning.’
Hulda started to pick her way gingerly over the slippery rocks towards the water’s edge, feeling a need to get as close to Elena as possible, though her body was long gone.
‘For Christ’s sake, be careful!’ ólíver shouted. ‘I’m not carrying you back to the car if you break a leg.’
Hulda stopped. This was probably far enough. She could picture Elena lying there in the shallow water. The sea was so ruthless: giving life to the Icelanders, but exacting a terrible price. She gazed out over Faxaflói bay towards the great, snow-capped bulk of Mount Esja, her heart bleeding not just for Elena but for herself. She missed her old life, the good old days, and although she had gained a new friend in Pétur, she felt so utterly alone in the world. The feeling had never been stronger than in that moment.
X
‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ ólíver grumbled as they got back into the squad car.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ Hulda said.
‘Where did you leave your car? At the police station?’
‘I … didn’t come by car,’ she admitted, a little sheepishly, trying to pretend this was a perfectly normal way of working.
She thought she detected a sly grin on ólíver’s face.
‘Should I drive you back to Reykjavík?’ he offered, with no great enthusiasm. ‘It’s not that far now that we’ve already come all this way.’
‘Thanks, but I need to drop by the hostel in Njardvík. It would be great if you could give me a lift there instead.’
‘Right you are,’ he said.
Although the rain had temporarily let up, the clouds were still hanging low over Keflavík, threatening another downpour any minute.
‘Thanks very much for your help,’ said Hulda once they had reached their destination, and hurriedly exited the car. She watched as ólíver drove off.
Elena’s last dwelling place.
In the short time that had passed since Hulda had decided to delve into Elena’s death, she had developed a strong feeling of connection to the young woman. And now, as she stood outside the hostel in the sudden spring cloudburst, the feeling was stronger than ever. She couldn’t give up now, not when all her instincts told her she was closing in on the truth. But she was afraid that this one day, her last day, wouldn’t be enough.
As it turned out, she was in luck. Dóra was sitting at the reception desk, absorbed in a newspaper.
‘Hello again,’ Hulda said.
Dóra looked up. ‘Oh, hi there. Back again?’