He drew a deep breath and glanced quickly both ways, though there was no traffic, before crossing the road. He was the only person around, and, looking over his shoulder, he saw that he had left a trail of footprints in the snow, leading to this door. Here he was out of sight – she couldn’t see him from the windows – and this gave him a temporary breathing space. But he had a nasty feeling he’d seen the curtains twitching in the upstairs flat: could the neighbour have spotted his approach? He remembered how the man had reported him to the police after a particularly bad argument with Bergthóra.
What was he going to say to Bergthóra?
How could he express his anger in words? Would it make any sort of impression on her? Would she react verbally or with her fists?
Underneath, he knew that the correct response was to go to the police. Make a formal complaint.
There had been two incidents now, and it was vital that they should be properly reported. Then the police could go round and speak to her, without Helgi having to be there. Yes, that would have been the sensible reaction. He ought to trust the system, given that he was part of it, and from his training he knew that it never paid to get into an altercation with a violent individual. Yet he hadn’t done the sensible thing, not yet. Deep down, he knew why. The complaint would have to be accompanied by detailed descriptions of Bergthóra’s previous behaviour; only then could he provide proper proof that the police might need to intervene. But Helgi simply couldn’t face it, even if it was a matter of life and death; couldn’t face sitting down in front of one of his colleagues to explain how he, a fit young police officer, had been subjected to domestic violence, then driven from his home by his girlfriend.
He was ashamed of the fact.
And ashamed of his shame.
That was why he was standing here in the snow, trying to muster the courage to knock on the door. And, if he was honest, he did want a chance to vent his rage too.
Things couldn’t go on like this. Bergthóra had to leave Aníta in peace – and Helgi too. They had only been registered as cohabiting, they weren’t married, and now they were separated for good. No special financial settlement was required; all they had to do was balance the final payments on the flat. The rental agreement was in his name, but it had taken him a long time to do anything about the situation, at which point he had realized thatthe contract had only six months left to run. That time was now coming to an end and Bergthóra would have to move out, unless she had taken the initiative and renewed the contract herself. They had taken it in turns to pay the rent ever since he left. Helgi had been digging into his savings to cover the payments. Bergthóra would have to reimburse him eventually, but he hadn’t come here to call in his debts. That could wait. Besides, he doubted Bergthóra would ever pay him back in full or that he would have the willpower to chase her for the money.
He was still standing at the door.
1976
Claustrophobia struck the instant Hulda entered the old stone prison building, known as ‘the penitentiary’, on Skólavördustígur; that horrible sense of suffocation that she never told anyone about. She didn’t even need to see the cramped cells; the thought alone was enough to rob her of her breath. It didn’t help that the building was so drab and cheerless, though it had a sizeable yard hidden away behind its high stone walls. She had regular business there, and always dreaded it, though she tried to put on a brave face. A good police officer didn’t show any signs of weakness, she knew that.
She presented herself at reception.
‘I’m here to see Einar Másson. My name’s Hulda Hermannsdóttir.’
The giant who received her, an old misogynist nearing retirement, knew perfectly well who she was but always faked ignorance. To counter this, she had developed the habit of announcing her name loud and clear every time she arrived.
‘Sign here.’ He showed her into the interview room, where she was kept waiting what felt like an unnecessarily long time for Einar.
She had never met him before, though of course she had read the news about the bank robbery when it happened. No one could come up with a satisfactory explanation for why a promising youth like him should have gone so badly astray. It was as if one day he’d simply had the idea of robbing a bank – to see if he could get away with it. Admittedly, security at Reykjavík’s banks had been pretty lax in those days, and, truth be told, it hadn’t improved much in the intervening years, although the robbery should have been a wake-up call. Given the situation at the time, Einar could probably have got away scot-free. The robbery had been well organized and timed, but the robbers hadn’t anticipated the possibility that one of the employees might resist – it turned out that an older man had been entrusted with the job of security guard alongside his duties as cashier. During the struggle, a shot had been fired and the man had been killed instantly.
The door opened to admit a man in handcuffs, currently serving the eleventh year of his sentence. He was thirty-four, yet he looked closer to sixty, his face heavily lined, dark circles under his eyes, his hands bony, his hair thinning, his eyes like those of a dead man. Any spark of life extinguished.
‘Hello, Einar. My name’s Hulda.’
He barely responded. She pulled out a chair for him.
‘I work for the police.’
‘I thought you might,’ he said in a low voice.
Hulda was aware that Einar must soon be coming up for parole but, seeing him now, she was afraid he wouldn’t last that long. The poor man looked terrible.
‘I just wanted to have a chat with you about that business back in ’65.’
‘The bank robbery, you mean? Isn’t it best to call it by its name?’
‘Yes, you’re right.’
‘I’ve said everything that needs to be said. God help me, I have nothing more to say, Hulda. Your name is Hulda, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
She didn’t add anything, just waited patiently.
‘I made my confession a long time ago and asked for forgiveness.’ His voice was hoarse, his breathing worryingly shallow and rapid. ‘I’ll never be forgiven, I know that. I can’t even forgive myself. One mistake, you know? One mistake that can never be undone. You and me might have been friends today, Hulda, if I’d finished my studies and gone out into the world, as intended. You’re not much younger than me, are you?’
