‘Of who, you mean.’
‘An Icelander?’
‘Not sure.’ He wavered, seeming to think it over. ‘To be honest, I got the impression from what she said that she’d been brought over to Iceland solely for that purpose.’
‘Are you serious? You mean her application for asylum was just a cover?’
‘It’s possible. She was a bit vague about the whole thing, but it was very obvious that she didn’t want the news to get out.’
‘So her lawyer didn’t know?’
‘I don’t think so, no. I certainly didn’t tell him anything. I kept her secret.’ After a beat, he added, a little ashamed: ‘Until now, of course.’
‘Why on earth didn’t you tell anyone?’ Hulda demanded, sounding harsher than she’d intended.
There was another brief pause, then Bjartur replied, rather lamely: ‘Nobody asked.’
IX
The young mother walked home as usual, but this evening she was unusually tired. It had been a long day at Hótel Borg, the weather had been dark and dreary, the wind and rain dragging her down. Her job description at the landmark hotel in the town centre was rather vague; sometimes she was asked to clean the guestrooms and other times she helped out in the restaurant and bar, often well into the night. She took any shift she was offered, as long as it didn’t interfere with her visits to her daughter.
It had been a day of celebration, 1 December, Sovereignty Day, commemorating Iceland’s achievement of partial independence from Denmark thirty years earlier, in 1918. Students had gathered at the hotel during the evening for a party, and there had been lots of singing and speeches, and the well-known poet Tómas Gudmundsson had performed some of his works.
Christmas was fast approaching and she wanted to buy a present for her daughter, although she wasn’t sure what to get her. It had to be something special, that was all she knew. And she had to have some money to buy the gift. There was this film she really wanted to see at the Gamla Bíó, Boom Town, starring Clark Gable, but she would probably have to give it a miss, as she was saving every penny for her daughter.
How she had envied those young students tonight. How she had longed to be one of them. She knew she had the potential to make something of herself, but that it would never be fulfilled. Iceland was supposed to be a classless society, everyone was supposed to be equal, with no upper, middle or lower class. Everyone was supposed to have an equal chance of succeeding. But she knew this was a myth; she would never rise above her current status, working in low-paid jobs, with no security. A single mother from a poor background. She didn’t stand a chance.
But she was determined that things would be different for her daughter.
X
Bjartur’s revelation had put Hulda’s investigation – if you could call it an investigation – in a whole new light. This was dynamite. Not only had Alexander’s inquiry been exposed as perfunctory in the extreme, but the Russian girl’s death had acquired an entirely new angle. The question was at what point Hulda should inform her boss of this fresh twist. At the moment, Magnús didn’t even know which cold case she had chosen to reopen. No doubt he was busy congratulating himself on the neat way in which he had edged her out and, if he thought about her at all, would assume she was sitting at her desk, poring over old police files to while away the time as the clock ticked inexorably towards her retirement.
In fact, she hadn’t been near CID since this morning’s fateful meeting. To her surprise, the day had passed far more quickly than she had feared: all that rushing around had left her with no time at all to wallow in self-pity. She had the rest of the evening for that. But, no – she was planning to get an early night, have a good long sleep to clear her head, and put off any decision about what to do next until the morning. She could make up her mind then whether she had the energy – and the courage – to completely immerse herself in the Russian girl’s case or whether she should simply throw in the towel and start getting used to life as a pensioner. Admit to herself that her career in the police was over. Stop trying to resist the inevitable. Stop chasing phantoms that may never have existed.
Whatever her eventual decision, there was one loose end she still needed to tie up. Settling herself in her mother’s comfy old chair, phone in hand, she deliberated for a while, putting off dialling the number of the wretched nurse she had questioned the day before; the woman who had run down that evil bastard of a paedophile and shaken like a leaf from nerves and guilt throughout the interview. She must be going through a private hell right now, worried sick about being parted from her son and having to spend years behind bars. After all, she had confessed. But, so far, Hulda had not only failed to write up a formal report of their conversation, she had actually lied to her boss and said that the case was nowhere near being solved. The question she had to debate with her conscience, before ringing the poor woman, was whether to stick to the lie and do her damnedest to spare the mother and son any further injustice, or to write the truth in her report, in the knowledge that the woman would almost inevitably be sent down for her crime.
The answer was never really in doubt: there was only one course of action open to Hulda.
The woman had a mobile and a home phone number registered to her name. She didn’t answer the mobile and her landline rang for ages before she finally picked up. Hulda introduced herself: ‘This is Hulda Hermannsdóttir, from CID. We spoke yesterday.’
‘Oh … yes … of course,’ said the woman in a strangled voice. She drew a deep, shuddering breath.
‘I’ve been reviewing the incident,’ Hulda lied, resorting to deliberately formal police speak, ‘and I’ve come to the conclusion that we don’t have sufficient evidence to convict.’
‘What … what do you mean?’ the woman stammered. She sounded as if she was crying.
‘I’m not planning to take things any further, not as far as you’re concerned.’
There was a stunned silence at the other end, then the woman croaked: ‘But what about … what about the thing I told you?’
‘It wouldn’t serve any purpose to pursue it further, to drag you through the courts.’
Again, there was a silence. Then: ‘You … you mean you’re not going to … arrest me? I … I’ve hardly stopped shaking since … since we spoke. I thought I was going to –’
‘Quite. No, I’m not going to arrest you. And seeing as I’m about to retire, with any luck, this should be the last you hear of the matter.’ Retire. It was the first time she’d said it out loud and the word echoed oddly in her ears. She was struck yet again by how ridiculously unprepared she was for this milestone, foreseeable though it had been.
‘What about the other … what about your colleagues in the police?’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t mention your confession in my report. Of course, I can’t predict what’ll happen to the case after I leave, but as far as I’m concerned, you didn’t admit to anything when I interviewed you. Have I got that right?’
‘What? Oh, yes, of course. Thank you …’
Something compelled Hulda to add: ‘But don’t get me wrong: this doesn’t absolve you from guilt. Maybe I can understand why you did what you did, but the fact is that you’re going to have to live with it. Still, in my opinion, locking you up and depriving your son of his mother would only make matters worse.’