Page 37 of The Darkness
‘God … You’ve really been through the wringer, Hulda.’
‘I can’t talk about it, sorry. Anyway, that’s what happened. Then Jón died and I’ve been alone ever since.’
‘That could be about to change,’ Pétur said.
Hulda tried to smile but felt suddenly ambushed by tiredness. She’d had enough; she needed to go home.
Pétur seemed intuitively to know how she was feeling. ‘Should we call it a night?’
Hulda shrugged. ‘Yes, maybe. I had a very nice time, Pétur.’
‘Shall we do it again tomorrow evening?’
‘Yes,’ she said, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘That would be lovely.’
‘Perhaps we could go out for a meal somewhere? Celebrate your retirement. I’ll buy you dinner at Hótel Holt. How does that sound?’
This was generous indeed. ‘Gosh, yes, that would be wonderful. I haven’t been there for ages. It must be more than twenty or thirty years.’ The restaurant at Hótel Holt was one of the swishest establishments in Reykjavík, and Hulda did in fact remember her last visit there very well. It had been an anniversary dinner, with her husband and daughter, a happy occasion, expensive but memorable.
‘I can’t force my cooking on you every night. So that’s settled then.’
Hulda stood up and Pétur followed suit, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.
‘The lamb was excellent,’ she said. ‘I wish I could barbecue meat like that.’
As they went into the hall Pétur asked abruptly: ‘What was she called?’
Hulda was taken aback. Although she knew what he was asking, she pretended she didn’t, to win time. ‘Sorry?’
‘Your daughter, what was she called?’ His voice was kind, his interest genuine.
Hulda realized all of a sudden that it was years since she had last spoken her daughter’s name aloud and felt ashamed of herself.
‘Dimma. Her name was Dimma. Unusual, I know.’ It meant ‘darkness’.
The Last Day
I
Hulda rolled over in bed, unwilling to get up. Burying her head in her pillow, she tried to drift off again, but the damage was done: it was too late to try to get back to sleep now. In the old days, she had been able to enjoy a proper lie-in but, with age, this ability had become ever more elusive.
Nevertheless, when she looked at her alarm clock, she discovered to her chagrin that she had slept as late as the day before; too late, in other words.
She needed to use every minute of the day if she was going to tie up the loose ends of her investigation but, as soon as she sat up, she was hit by a splitting headache. Wonderful though the evening with Pétur had been, she shouldn’t have drunk so much; she was out of practice. Normally, she had only the odd glass of wine with meals. Still, she would just have to ignore her hangover and focus on the case, though her interest in it was fast waning. Apart from a sense of duty towards the dead Russian girl, the only thing motivating her now was pure obstinacy. She simply couldn’t bear to let Magnús win. Having badgered him into granting her another twenty-four hours for the inquiry, she had to give it her best shot before turning in her report this evening and saying goodbye to the police for good.
It struck her that what she was really looking forward to was her next date with Pétur. She was counting down the hours until this evening’s dinner at Hótel Holt.
II
She tried to rise to her feet on the slippery snow, but that was easier said than done with the destabilizing weight of the rucksack on her back.
‘Come down,’ he called.
Obeying, she scrambled the rest of the way down and thanked her lucky stars when she made it safely to the bottom.
‘Give me the poles,’ he said. ‘We’ll put on the crampons and you can use your ice axe.’
Better equipped this time, she tackled the slope again, her heart in her mouth.
