Page 60 of The Darkness
It took a while to clean the hut, hampered by the dark, and even then it was clear that he would have to come back as soon as possible with stronger products to try to obliterate any remaining traces. He felt oddly detached, as though some other man had hit the woman over the head with the axe and he was saddled with the job of cleaning up after him. In a way, he felt sorry for Katja, yet at the same time he was furious with her for behaving so foolishly. She didn’t deserve to die but, in the circumstances, his reaction had been the only one possible.
A glance at the hut’s guestbook confirmed that days, even weeks, tended to pass between visits at this time of year, so he should be able to get away with it if he came straight back this evening.
But right now, the priority was to dispose of the body.
He had zipped it into her sleeping bag then dragged it all the way back to his car, confident that the falling snow would cover his tracks fairly quickly. In the dark hours before dawn, in the dead of winter, far from civilization, he was confident of being able to act without being seen or interrupted. The problem was how to get rid of the body. All the solutions he came up with would entail a risk, some greater than others.
In the end, he made up his mind to drive into the interior, heading for the nearest ice cap. He knew of a belt of crevasses that would be ideal for his purpose. The final stretch was inaccessible by car, but in these freezing, snowy conditions it would be safe to cover it on skis. Such a thing would never have been possible in summer, when the glaciers were crawling with tourists, but at this time of year it was worth the risk. So that’s where he was going now, and that’s where he would make sure that Katja disappeared for ever.
XXIV
For too long, Hulda had closed her eyes to the truth. She had lived with the devastating consequences of that fact for quarter of a century now. She wasn’t sure when she had realized what was going on but, by then, it was already too late. This she blamed partly on denial, partly on her blindness to what was going on right under her nose. The hideous irony of it didn’t escape her. After all, she had prided herself on her powers of perception, regarded herself as one of the best detectives on the force, precisely because nothing ever got past her, because she had a knack of seeing through all the lies and deception well ahead of her colleagues.
But when the crime was being committed in her own home, she hadn’t noticed a thing.
Or hadn’t wanted to notice.
Confronting the fact had been almost unthinkable. She had been in love with Jón for most of her adult life; they had married young, and he had always treated her well, been an honest, trustworthy husband. Their love had blossomed, at least for a time, and it had been true love; she remembered the first year of their courtship, she had been swept off her feet by this handsome, suave man, who seemed so urbane and worldly. So it had been all too easy to overlook certain clues, to convince herself that they meant something different.
They had both been so happy when Dimma was born, such proud parents. But when she turned ten, their daughter’s behaviour had undergone a change and she’d become moody and withdrawn, suffering from bouts of depression. Yet still Hulda hadn’t twigged. She had allowed herself the luxury of living in ignorance, persuading herself that the cause couldn’t lie at home.
Naturally, Hulda had tried to talk to her daughter. She’d asked her why she was feeling so bad, what had happened to upset her, but Dimma had proved stubbornly uncommunicative, refusing to provide any answers, determined to suffer in silence. In moments of desperation, Hulda even wondered, ridiculously, if they had somehow brought this on themselves by choosing such an unusual name for their daughter: Dimma, meaning ‘darkness’. It was as if they had condemned her from birth, although they had only chosen the name for its nice, poetic ring. In her saner moments, she dismissed such thoughts as foolish nonsense.
In hindsight, Hulda regretted that she hadn’t put more pressure on Dimma, that she hadn’t demanded an answer. The child had been trapped in a desperate dilemma, sinking further into the abyss with every day that passed.
In those last few weeks before Dimma killed herself at only thirteen years old, Hulda’s sleep had been restless, as though she had a foreboding of disaster. Yet even so, she had failed to intervene with the forcefulness that might have saved Dimma’s life.
The moment Dimma died, the moment she saw Jón’s reaction, the truth had come crashing home to her. She didn’t even need to ask. Her whole world had been transformed overnight. But for some reason, they had continued to put on an act, living in the same house, presenting a united face to the outside world, though their marriage had ended in that moment. Perhaps she had wanted to avoid the fallout from a direct confrontation with Jón, fearing that his terrible crime would somehow taint her by association. That tongues would wag, whispering that she must have known, that she could have done something, could have stopped him and saved her daughter. Saved Dimma’s life. The most unbearable part was that there might have been a grain of truth in those accusations. So she hadn’t said a word to the man she had once cared for. Never asked him what he had done to the daughter she had loved more than life itself. Didn’t want to know how long the abuse had been going on. But one thing she was sure of: Dimma’s suicide had been a direct consequence of that abuse. Dimma may have taken her own life, but Jón bore full responsibility for her death.
Besides, Hulda couldn’t bear to listen to any of the details, to picture any of the sickening acts to which he had subjected her daughter.
When Dimma died, something had died inside Hulda, too. In the depths of her suffering, when the grief felt unendurable, on the days when she felt to blame for what had happened – countless days, countless sleepless nights – the only thing that had kept her going was her violent hatred of Jón.
They never spoke of their daughter again, never mentioned her name to each other. Hulda couldn’t bring herself to speak about her in the presence of this stranger, this … monster. And Jón had had the sense never to refer to Dimma again in Hulda’s hearing.
XXV
It took Hulda a while to come to her senses. At first, she couldn’t remember what had happened, where she was or who was with her. But when the events finally came back to her and she tried to open her eyes, she became aware of a blinding headache.
She was lying somewhere. Overhead was the light night sky, but also … was that earth? Where was she?
She closed her eyes again. Christ, her head was splitting. He had hit her – Bjartur had hit her on the head. Opening her eyes a crack, she discovered, to her disbelieving horror, that she was lying in the foundation trench of the building site in the valley.
And then she caught sight of Bjartur holding a spade.
She tried to scream but, as soon as she opened her mouth, it filled with sand. Spitting it out, she managed to croak through parched lips: ‘What are you doing?’
Bjartur smiled, looking spookily calm.
‘To be honest, I wasn’t expecting you to come round,’ he said slowly. ‘You can scream all you like: we’re alone here. The property belongs to a friend of mine. I’ve been helping him build a holiday cottage here.’
She struggled in vain to sit up.
‘I tied you up, anyway, just to be on the safe side,’ he added, chucking a heaped spadeful of soil on top of her. The earth landed heavily on her face and chest. She had instinctively closed her eyes, and when she opened them again the grit made them sting.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she swore, her fear momentarily giving way to incredulous anger.
‘Burying you in the foundations, making sure you disappear. Under the cottage.’
