Page 19 of The Darkness
‘Yes, right. Same here,’ Hulda said insincerely. ‘Anyway, there’s a little matter Magnús asked me to clear up before I go; something he needed an experienced officer to cast an eye over.’ This was being economical with the truth, but then Hulda was getting used to that.
‘Really, did Maggi do that?’ Karen sounded unflatteringly surprised.
It would never have occurred to Hulda to refer to her boss as ‘Maggi’.
‘Yes, he did. It concerns a young Russian woman who died a little over a year ago. She may have been working as a prostitute here, under cover of being an asylum-seeker.’
Karen’s face had taken on a vacant look. She glanced at her watch and smiled in a perfunctory way, clearly impatient to be off.
After a short, rather awkward silence, she said: ‘Sorry, I don’t think I can help you there. I’ve never heard of the case and, anyway, I’ve moved on.’
‘Yes, I’m aware of that,’ Hulda said calmly, ‘but I was under the impression that you were quite well informed about that world – familiar with the main names and faces. But maybe I’ve misunderstood the kind of jobs you were …’ She left it dangling. It had crossed her mind to ask bluntly if this meant that Karen hadn’t been entrusted with anythingimportant, but she reckoned she’d got the message across loud and clear.
‘No, you were right. Shoot,’ said Karen, taking the bait.
‘Are there any characters we still haven’t managed to nail who are suspected of … well, of being in that line of business?’
‘I’m not sure what the scene’s like today, but there is one candidate who springs to mind. Though …’ Karen dried up, but Hulda wasn’t about to let her off the hook. She waited … then waited a little longer: that was one thing she knew how to do. Sure enough, Karen soon felt compelled to continue: ‘But it was difficult to pin anything on him, so we more or less gave up. His name’s Áki Ákason – you may have heard of him. He runs a wholesale business.’
The name was familiar, all right, though Hulda couldn’t put a face to it. ‘Young or old?’
‘About forty. Lives in the west of town, in a flashy house that must have cost a packet.’
‘The wholesale business can pay well.’
‘Not that well, believe me. He’s up to his neck in it. But sometimes you just can’t get anything to stick, so you have to let it go and move on. For Christ’s sake, don’t spread it any further, though; officially, the man’s squeaky clean.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep it to myself,’ Hulda assured her. ‘It’s interesting, but I doubt it’ll help me directly. What I need is a link to the dead girl.’
‘I hear you. Anyway …’
And so they parted, with no warmth on either side. In spite of what she had said, Hulda had every intention of paying this wholesaler a visit. After all, what did she have to lose?
VI
Although life with her daughter was settling into a routine, it wasn’t quite how the mother had pictured it. She was finding it a hard, unrelenting struggle. The child was naughty, fractious and withdrawn, though the mother did her best to lavish on her all the love and kindness she was capable of. Evenings were the most difficult time: the little girl was still so afraid of the dark that she would only go to sleep with the light on. Their financial situation was precarious, too, and all the worries about her child, about money and the future, were taking their toll.
She had begun to regret that she had never told the girl’s father she was carrying his child. He was an American soldier, stationed briefly in Iceland after the war, and their relationship had been even briefer, lasting only a night or two. When she realized she was expecting a baby, she had lain awake night after night, agonizing over whether to look him up, but the barrier had seemed insurmountable. She simply couldn’t bring herself to do it, too ashamed of their relationship and what it had led to. Of course, they were both equally to blame for what had happened, but he was free to swan off back to his homeland, leaving her to face the consequences: pregnancy and an illegitimate child; having to look family and friends in the eye.
Now, of course, it was too late. He had gone back to America. Although she knew which state he lived in, that wouldn’t help much, since, incredible as it seemed, she didn’t know his second name. He must have told her at some point, but her English was limited and she had probably missed it. Besides, it would have seemed irrelevant at the time. If she hadn’t been so dreadfully ashamed, she could have got hold of him when she first found out she was pregnant, since he’d still been in Iceland then. But the thought of travelling out to the American base at Keflavík and asking to speak to a soldier, armed with nothing but his Christian name, her belly already beginning to show … God, no, she couldn’t do it. Yet, now, she could have kicked herself for being so pathetic. She wished she’d brazened it out for the child’s sake, for the little girl who’d had such a difficult beginning in life and would probably never get to know her father. And he would never know that he had a beautiful daughter in the cold wastes of Iceland. It had been just one of many postings for the handsome young soldier but, although he may have visited the country only once, he had left behind a permanent reminder of his presence.
She dreaded the thought of having to explain this to her daughter one day.
VII
Hulda was still at Kjarvalsstadir when Dóra from the hostel rang.
‘I couldn’t get hold of you this morning,’ Dóra said. ‘Am I interrupting anything?’
After Karen left, Hulda had stayed on in the café, feeling tired and flat. She needed to sit there a little longer before she could summon up the energy to go back outside into the Icelandic spring weather, which, this time, heralded an end rather than a beginning. The fact was she simply couldn’t come to terms with the idea of having to give up work. It wasn’t only her boss’s offhand manner of breaking the news to her that had brought on this state of bemused shock; nor was it only that she was upset about having to leave earlier than planned: she was upset about having to leave at all. Say what you like about her colleagues, their company was a lifeline for her. Even their bickering and envy were preferable to being cooped up within the four walls of her high-rise flat, where, with nothing to distract her, she would be overwhelmed by memories of the past. Not only overwhelmed, but suffocated. She had been a restless sleeper for as long as she could remember, even before the recurrent nightmares had begun. All that kept her going were her cases, her investigations, the pressure of the job. Last night had been typical – the dreams of the dead Russian girl had pushed aside those other, unwanted memories from the past: her regret, her guilt. Could she have done something differently …?
Hulda sat there, brooding on her fate. She was the only person left in the gallery café; even the tourists had gone. No one was interested in Icelandic art or Icelandic apple pie with cream on such a gloriously sunny day, despite the chill northerly breeze. After all, you could always find a sheltered spot outside somewhere.
Was this what all her days would be like once she was pensioned off? Sitting around in cafés, trying to fill the long, empty hours? She toyed with the idea of ringing Pétur and inviting him to join her for a coffee but checked the impulse, not wanting to come across as too keen.
And Dóra asked if she was interrupting anything. The irony.
‘No,’ said Hulda, telling the simple truth. ‘Sorry I didn’t hear the phone earlier. I hope it wasn’t anything urgent.’
