Page 13 of The Darkness
As usual, he was quick to answer. Typically brisk and on the ball.
‘I wondered,’ she said diffidently, ‘that is, I wondered if you’d like to pop over for coffee this evening.’ The moment the words had slipped out, she realized they could be misconstrued. Inviting a man round for coffee out of the blue like that … She wanted to add that she wasn’t asking him to spend the night, but she bit her lip and merely hoped he wouldn’t read more into her offer than she’d intended.
‘I’d love to,’ he answered, without a moment’s hesitation. He was always decisive, never one to get bogged down in details or make a mountain out of a molehill; qualities Hulda appreciated. Nevertheless, this was quite a big step for them, as she’d never invited him round to her place before. Was it that she was ashamed of her flat? she wondered. In comparison to their old house on Álftanes with its big windows and large garden – yes, maybe. But mainly it was due to the invisible defences she had raised around herself, defences she’d been reluctant to lower for him until now, when, in desperate need of company, she had decided to take the risk.
‘Shall I come round now?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sure, that would be great. If you can.’ She was ridiculously insecure when talking to him; it was so unlike her. Usually, she had every aspect of her life well under control.
‘Of course. Where do you live?’
She reeled off her address, finishing: ‘Fourth floor, my name’s on the bell.’
‘I’ll be straight over,’ he said, and rang off without saying goodbye.
‘About time you invited me round,’ was Pétur’s first comment when she opened the door. At getting on for seventy, he was a few years older than Hulda but wore his age well, looking neither much younger nor much older than he really was, though his grey beard did give him a slightly grandfatherly air. Hulda couldn’t stop herself from wondering, just for an instant, what Jón would have looked like at seventy.
Almost before she knew what was happening, Pétur was in the sitting room, making himself comfortable in her favourite chair. Hulda felt a twinge of irritation: her mother’s armchair was her spot, but of course she didn’t say this aloud. After all, she was pleased to have him there, happy that someone wanted to spend the evening with her. She had got used to the loneliness, as far as this was possible, but there was no real substitute for the company of another human being. She had sometimes tried going out by herself, to restaurants for lunch or dinner, but it had made her feel self-conscious and embarrassed, so now she tended to eat in the office canteen or alone at home.
She asked if he’d like a coffee.
‘Thanks, no milk.’
Pétur was a doctor. He’d taken early retirement at sixty, when his wife fell ill, and had told Hulda, without going into any details, that they’d managed some good years together before the end. This information was enough for her to be going on with; she had no wish to make him relive his grief and hoped he would be similarly understanding about not requiring her to reopen old wounds. All she had told him was that Jón had died suddenly at fifty-two. ‘Long before his time,’ she had added, stating the obvious.
Beneath Pétur’s comfortable manner there was a hint of steel, a combination which Hulda guessed would have made him a good doctor. He’d certainly done well for himself. She had visited his large house in the desirable neighbourhood of Fossvogur. It was spacious, with high ceilings and a living room graced with handsome furniture, oil paintings on the walls, a wide selection of books on the shelves and even a grand piano taking pride of place in the middle. Ever since seeing it, she had entertained fantasies about living there, spending her days ensconced in a lovely living room in a cultured home. She could ditch her dreary high-rise apartment, use the cash to pay off her debts and enjoy a comfortable retirement in a large house in a nice neighbourhood. But, of course, that wasn’t the main reason; the truth was she felt good in Pétur’s company, and she was gradually coming to the realization that she might be ready to move on, to commit again after all these years of loneliness.
‘I’ve had quite a day,’ she said, before stepping into the kitchen to fetch the coffee she’d made in advance.
When she came back into the cramped sitting room and handed Pétur a cup, he smiled his thanks and waited for her to continue with what she had been saying, radiating patience and sympathy. He’d been a surgeon, but she thought he’d have made an excellent psychiatrist: he was a man who knew how to listen.
‘I’m stopping work,’ she said, when the silence grew uncomfortable.
‘That was on the cards, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds, you know. You’ll have more time for your hobbies, more time to enjoy life.’
He certainly knew how to do that, she reflected, allowing a moment of envy to sour her thoughts. As a doctor with a successful career behind him, he didn’t have to face any financial worries in his old age.
‘Yes, it was on the cards,’ she agreed in a low voice, ‘but not quite yet.’ Best to be honest with him, not try to embellish the facts. ‘To tell the truth, I’ve been given my marching orders. I’ve only got two weeks left. They’ve hired some boy in my place.’
‘Bloody hell. And you took that lying down? It doesn’t sound like you.’
‘Well,’ she said, mentally cursing herself for not having put up more of a fight when Magnús broke the news, ‘at least I managed to wangle one final case out of my boss, to finish on.’
‘Now you’re talking. Anything interesting?’
‘A murder … I think.’
‘Are you serious? Two weeks to solve a murder? You’re not worried you won’t succeed and that it’ll prey on your mind after you retire?’
She hadn’t thought of that, but Pétur had a point.
‘Too late to back out now,’ she said, without much conviction. ‘Anyway, it’s not a hundred per cent certain that it was murder.’
‘What’s the case about?’ he asked, managing to sound genuinely interested.
‘A young woman found dead in a cove on Vatnsleysuströnd.’
‘Recently?’
