Page 22 of The Darkness
She tried again: ‘Where are we going?’
He wouldn’t say.
‘You’ll see,’ he answered at last, then asked if she had a warm coat she could bring, like a down jacket. When she said she had nothing suitable, he offered to lend her one. She would need to get hold of some thick woollen underwear as well, to keep her warm on the journey, especially at night: that’s when the cold would really kick in.
For an instant, she wondered if she should change her mind about going, but she felt the pull, the appeal to her spirit of adventure. She told him, as he must already know, that she didn’t own any woollen underwear, and he offered to buy her some, to lend her the money. She could pay him back later.
IX
Was it possible that she was closing in on the truth? Was it possible that this unknown man had picked Elena up the day before her body was found; that he’d been a client? Hulda could picture the scene as if she’d been there herself. Could imagine how alone and abandoned Elena must have been feeling, forced into prostitution in an alien land. Perhaps he was her first client. Perhaps, when it came to it, she had said no. Could her refusal have cost her her life?
The idea filled Hulda with impotent rage and hatred. She would have to watch herself. What was it that Bishop Vídalín once wrote?Rage kindles an inferno in the eyes; a feeling she knew only too well.
Deciding that this merited another phone call to Bjartur, she rang and asked if Elena had ever referred to any clients – by name or occupation, for example. Bjartur was eager to help but said that, sadly, Elena hadn’t shared any details with him.
The next step was to go and see Áki, the businessman suspected of operating a prostitution ring. Having tracked down his address, Hulda drove over to the upmarket area in the west of town where he lived. His house turned out to be an old single-storey detached villa with a well-kept garden. The branches of the trees were still bare, but there was a sense of expectancy about them, as if they were poised to put out the first buds of spring. An aura of peace hung over the unassuming house in the expensive neighbourhood, as if nobody was home, an impression supported by the absence of a car on the drive. She tried the doorbell, but got no reply, so she decided to wait for a while in her car, in case the owner returned. This was the best tip she had received so far and she wanted to ambush Áki in person, bombard him with questions before he had a chance to prepare his replies. Besides, she had nowhere else to go. Backing up a little, she parked the old Skoda at a discreet distance, in a spot where she still had a good view of the house.
She’d lost count of the hours she’d spent waiting in her car during her career – it had the comfort of long habit – but by the time two hours had passed she was itching to stand up and stretch her legs. Best stick it out a bit longer, she told herself. Or should she knock on the door on the off-chance? After all, he might be in; he might have been home all day.
As she was weighing up her options, a four-by-four pulled into the drive. Out stepped a lean, youngish-looking man with cropped hair and a brisk, decisive manner. Hulda watched him enter the house and gave it a couple of minutes before following in his footsteps and knocking on the door. The man answered it himself, still in his outdoor shoes and jacket.
He seemed surprised by the visit and waited, still and watchful, for her to state her business.
‘Áki?’ Hulda did her best to sound calm and collected.
He nodded, his lips twitching in a rather charming smile.
‘Could I have a word?’
‘That depends. What about?’ His voice was soft, with a hint of firmness underneath.
‘My name’s Hulda Hermannsdóttir. I’m with the police.’ She reached into her pocket, hoping her ID was there.
‘The police,’ he said pensively. ‘I see. You’d better come in. Has something happened?’
She wanted to say yes, recalling the photographs of Elena’s body on the beach, but stopped herself: ‘No, nothing like that. I’m just making a few inquiries, if that’s all right with you.’ She was as polite as she could be in the circumstances, unwilling to give Áki any reason to call his solicitor. Better keep things simple for the time being. It would be difficult to justify this visit on the basis of the evidence currently available to her. Just prod him a little and see what happened, try to get a sense of what he was like.
He offered her a seat in the living room – possibly one of several, since the house seemed larger inside than it had appeared from the outside. The decor was modern and minimalist, the colour scheme dominated by monochrome and steel. Hulda took a seat on a black sofa made of some shiny material that felt icy to the touch, while Áki perched facing her on a footstool, part of a set with a handsome armchair.
‘I’m a bit pushed for time, actually,’ was his opening comment, as if to mark his territory, convey the message that she was only there on his terms.
‘Me, too,’ she said, conscious that her days as a police officer were numbered. ‘I wanted to ask you about a young woman from Russia …’ She allowed a brief silence to develop, in which she studied Áki’s reaction and thought she detected signs that he knew what she was talking about. His gaze flickered away for a second then locked with hers again.
‘Russia?’
‘She came to Iceland as an asylum-seeker,’ Hulda elaborated, deciding to plunge straight in without giving him any warning, ‘but it seems likely she was actually a victim of sex trafficking.’ This was the theory she was working on, so she might as well go ahead and state it as a fact.
‘I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about, Hulda.’ His gaze remained locked with hers. ‘I’m not with you at all. Are you under the impression that I know this woman?’
Know, in the present tense. A sign that he knew nothing about Elena and what had happened to her, or that he was guilty and trying to throw her off the scent?
‘She’s dead,’ Hulda stated bluntly. ‘Her name was Elena. Her body turned up in a cove on Vatnsleysuströnd.’
Áki’s face remained expressionless.
But he didn’t seem about to show Hulda the door. He sat tight: self-possessed, outwardly respectable, in dark-blue jeans, white shirt, black leather jacket and shiny black shoes. His entire appearance, like his house and car, signalled affluence.
‘Nice house, by the way,’ Hulda remarked, surveying her surroundings. ‘What do you do for a living?’
