‘Yes. You’ll find her, won’t you? You’ll find her for me.’
‘Yes, you can depend on that,’ he answered – a little hesitantly, though.
‘Sorry, I sometimes feel I never get any time off,’ he said to Aníta once he had ended the call.
‘Couldn’t she have thrown herself into the sea?’ Aníta asked.
Helgi was taken aback by the question.
‘Elín? What makes you think that?’
Aníta hesitated, then said: ‘It just slipped out. You see, my great-uncle, my grandfather’s brother, went missing years ago, and in the end they discovered that he’d drowned himself in the sea. He was heavily in debt and I don’t know what else. It was all terribly sad.’
It occurred to Helgi that this was the problem. Whoever he discussed the case with would come up with their own explanation, based on experience, news stories or fictional accounts. Because that’s how people’s minds worked; indirect, tenuous connections giving rise to theories. It was impossible to approach a case – any case – with complete objectivity. There was no such thing as a blank slate.
Helgi was now forced to confront the preconceptions that he himself had unwittingly brought to the case. In the first place, he had immediately thought of Hulda. After all, he sat in her office every day.
Of course, he wasn’t getting his hopes up that the keyto Elín’s disappearance could be found in Hulda’s – the world didn’t work that way – but tomorrow morning he meant to get in touch with Pétur, the man Hulda had been seeing. Having a chat with him would break up the routine, get Helgi’s mind working, and perhaps bring him one step closer to working out what had become of his predecessor.
I fall in love too easily, he heard Chet Baker sing.
Helgi looked at Aníta.
‘I finished that book earlier.’ He indicated the copy ofCicely Disappears. ‘It was a good read.’
Aníta shrugged, as if she didn’t really care but was nevertheless pleased that Helgi wanted to share this fact with her. It was all so effortless, their communication, everything they had to say, both spoken and unspoken.
‘I ordered pizza on my way home,’ she said, almost proudly. ‘I thought it was a good idea. Don’t you agree?’
He settled down on the sofa, the missing author suddenly relegated to the back of his mind. Hulda hovered like a ghost in the background, a stranger he had never even met. Now Aníta was the be all and end all, and work could wait until tomorrow.
‘Would you mind coming over here?’ he asked.
‘What do you think?’
She snuggled up to him, like an anchor that prevented him from drifting out to sea, into the infinite void.
SUNDAY
2012
Sunday, 4 November
The clouds had parted and the wintry sun cast the odd ray through the sitting-room window at the home of Pétur, the doctor Hulda had been involved with many years after she had lost her husband. Judging by the nameplate on the doorbell, he lived alone in the large house.
Helgi had meant to bring along the box of Hulda’s personal items from his office to give to Pétur, but at the last minute he had changed his mind. He wanted to have a rummage through the contents himself first in case there were any clues lurking there.
An impressive oil painting by Kristján Davídsson had greeted him as Pétur showed him into the sitting room.
‘Have you been collecting art for long?’ Helgi asked, to break the ice.
‘It’s in the blood, you know. My parents started collecting, and I’ve continued the tradition, though I stick mainly to the old Icelandic masters. I don’t have the samenose for art as my parents did, so I haven’t broadened my search. I’m afraid I don’t keep up to date with what’s happening on the contemporary art scene.’
‘Did Hulda appreciate art?’
‘We didn’t discuss it much,’ Pétur said. ‘We didn’t get a chance. But she appreciated these paintings, I’m glad to say. Especially the Kjarval – she was keen on his work. I rather took it for granted that she would move in here with me. It’s lonely rattling around in a big place like this. My wife died, you see. Like Hulda’s husband.’ After a moment he added reflectively: ‘Two lonely souls.’
‘Was she lonely, do you think?’
