Page 9 of The Darkness
‘Did you tell Alexander?’
‘Naturally, though I don’t really see how it’s relevant.’
Alexander had ‘forgotten’ to mention the fact in his report.
‘Well, it reduces the likelihood that she’d have taken her own life,’ Hulda pointed out.
‘Not necessarily,’ Albert argued. ‘The whole process puts the applicants under a huge amount of strain.’
‘How did she strike you – in general, I mean? Was she the cheerful type? Or inclined to be depressive?’
‘Hard to say.’ Albert leaned forward over his desk. ‘Hard to say,’ he repeated, ‘since she spoke very little English and I don’t know any Russian.’
‘You used an interpreter, then?’
‘Yes, when required. The process generated quite a bit of paperwork.’
‘Maybe I should talk to the interpreter,’ Hulda muttered, more to herself than to Albert.
‘If you think it’ll help. His name’s Bjartur. He lives in the west of town, works from home. But it’s all in the files. You can borrow them, if you’d like.’
‘Thanks, that would be great.’
‘She was musical,’ Albert added suddenly, as an afterthought.
‘Musical?’
‘Yes, I gather she loved music. My partner keeps a guitar in the office and Elena once picked it up and strummed a couple of tunes for us.’
‘What else did you know about her?’ Hulda asked.
‘What else …? Nothing much,’ Albert replied. ‘We never really learn much about the asylum-seekers we represent, and I try not to get too personal. They usually get sent back, you know.’ He was silent for a moment, then added: ‘It was all very sad. The poor girl. But then, suicide always is.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Yes. Wasn’t that what Alexander’s investigation concluded?’
‘Yes, quite. Alexander’s investigation.’
VIII
‘I thought the case was closed.’ The interpreter, Bjartur, settled himself in an office chair so old and rickety it must have dated back to the eighties. ‘But, if not, I’d be glad to offer any help I can.’
‘Thanks. Did Alexander talk to you at the time? Were you able to provide him with any information?’
‘Alexander?’ Bjartur’s face was blank under his handsome blond mane. He was well named. Bjartur meant ‘bright’. They were sitting in a converted garage, attached to a small detached house in an affluent suburb in the west of town. Surrounded by sea on three sides, the location was pleasant, if windy. When Hulda arrived, she’d rung the bell by the front door and an elderly lady had directed her round to the garage ‘where Bjartur has his office’. There was no chair for visitors, so Hulda made do with perching on the edge of an old bed that was buried under books, many of them in Russian, or so she deduced from the lettering on the spines. Although she had called ahead to warn him she was coming, Bjartur seemed to have made no effort to tidy up. The floor was littered with piles of papers, walking boots and pizza boxes, and there was a heap of dirty clothes in one corner.
‘Alexander’s a colleague of mine from CID,’ she explained, a bad taste in her mouth. ‘He was in charge of the investigation.’
‘Oh, well, I never met him. You’re the first person who’s ever spoken to me about this.’
Hulda felt the bitter resentment flaring up inside her again. If she’d been promoted above Alexander, as she’d deserved, she’d have given him his marching orders long ago.
‘What’s up?’ asked Bjartur, breaking into her thoughts. ‘Has something new come to light?’
Hulda resorted to the same answer she had given the lawyer earlier: ‘Nothing I can comment on at present.’ The truth was that she had nothing to go on apart from a gut feeling, but there was no need to admit the fact. Besides, the conviction had been steadily growing inside her all day that her decision to reopen the inquiry had been the right one: whatever the cause of Elena’s death, it was obvious that the original investigation had been disgracefully slack. ‘Did you meet her often?’
‘Not that often, no. I take on these jobs when they come up. They don’t involve a lot of work and the pay’s pretty good. It’s hard to live off translation alone.’
