‘No, I’m afraid not. There’s no news, and Einar’s still in prison.’
‘I was so angry at first,’ Elísabet said, inviting Hulda to take a seat at the kitchen table, then joining her. ‘But I’m not any longer. You can’t go on nursing your anger, it just eats away at you inside. I sometimes take refuge in my faith; that helps. But the worst part is being alone.’
Her words had an extraordinary effect on Hulda, suddenly filling her with a crushing awareness of what it would feel like to be alone in the world. She reminded herself that she had Jón and Dimma, and made a private vow never to be left on her own like this poor widow.
‘Will you tell me about your husband?’
Hulda hadn’t discussed this visit with anyone, not even with her boss or Jón. She had simply slipped away from the police station for undisclosed reasons.
‘Hinrik was… oh, such a dear man. That describes him pretty well. We both grew up in the west, in the countryside near Hvanneyri. Our parents knew each other as our farms weren’t far apart and we used to play together as children. I never expected to fall in love with him, though.’
‘Then later you moved to the city?’
The tragedy felt almost palpable to Hulda as she sat there across the table from Elísabet.
Hulda had felt for Einar when she met him in prison, but she mustn’t forget ‘the irreparable damage’ he had caused, as Jón had put it over supper.
Elísabet must sit at this kitchen table day in, day out, all alone, trying to read the future in her coffee grounds.
But Einar hadn’t been the only one responsible; somewhere his accomplice was still walking free, and it had never been satisfactorily proved – except by Einar’s confession – who had fired the gun.
‘Yes, we both had older siblings who eventually took over our respective farms. Hinrik got a job in a fish factory in Reykjavík, then went to night school. He ended up working in a bank. Have you ever worked in a bank?’
Hulda shook her head.
‘It was great. Job security, good pay, a respectable position. He worked his way up; never to the top, mind – he would have had to stay on longer at school for that – but by the end he was an experienced cashier with quite a bit of responsibility. Part of his job was to react to any threats and call the police if necessary. He took this duty seriously – too seriously, the dear man – and fate saw to the rest. I’ve gone over that day repeatedly in my mind. You see, Hinrik was a bit out of sorts that morning; he had a cold, and I said to him – I remember it so well:Hinrik, dear, stay in bed today. They’ll manage without you.But he was so conscientious – he’d learnt at home on the farm never to slack – so he put a brave face on it. He enjoyed his job. He’d been at the bank for years and didn’t have much time left before he could draw his pension. We’d been looking forward to it, to spending more time together, but sometimes…’ Her words trailed off.
Hulda was just about to jump in when Elísabet surprised her by continuing: ‘Have you found the other man?’
Although Elísabet’s voice betrayed how important thiswas to her, it was also clear that she wasn’t getting her hopes up.
Hulda wished she could give a positive answer, but all she could say was: ‘I’m doing my best.’
‘Would you like to see a photo of my Hinrik?’
‘Yes, please.’
Elísabet got up and quickly returned with a battered photo album.
She opened it.
‘This one’s the best,’ she said, pointing to a black-and-white picture, and Hulda found herself meeting the gaze of a handsome young man wearing a light-coloured suit on a long-ago summer’s day.
The man Einar Másson had murdered.
2012
Sunday, 4 November
It was fairly late when Helgi got home. The little sitting room in the basement flat was as snug as ever, but he couldn’t help contrasting it with the grand drawing room at Baldur’s house. The lawyer’s home was testament to a level of affluence that Helgi couldn’t see himself ever being able to match. But that was fine, as he didn’t actually have any ambitions in that direction. On the other hand, he wanted to move out of this basement the first chance he got, once he was free of the monthly payments on the flat Bergthóra was currently occupying. Though any plans for finding somewhere better would have to wait while he and Aníta were settling into their relationship, because he envisaged taking his next steps on the housing ladder with her. Perhaps she could sell her flat and they could invest in a little terraced house together, somewhere in the suburbs. In time, no doubt, they would become the average Icelandic family, because that’s what he dreamtabout, not riches and a swanky house in Thingholt. If he had an ambition, it was to make a name for himself in the police and rise up the ranks, and the first step in that process would be to find out what had happened to Elín.
He had a hunch that he was closer to the truth than he knew.
His day hadn’t gone quite as planned; first there had been Lovísa’s phone call, then he had found himself gatecrashing a birthday party. Now, though, he was ensconced on the sofa with a book he had taken from the shelf that morning but hadn’t yet had a chance to start:A Graveyard to Letby Carter Dickson, alias John Dickson Carr. Helgi had never read it; indeed, he’d never got on particularly well with Carr’s work, as it was very focused on so-called impossible crimes. Other golden-age authors tended to appeal to him more. Nevertheless, he had included this novel in his ‘to read’ pile at the beginning of the investigation because it centred on a missing-persons case. In fact, the plot wasn’t dissimilar to the whodunnit he had just been reading by Van Dine – a man dives into a swimming pool, fully clothed, and vanishes…
The trouble was, Helgi was missing Aníta; he had to admit it to himself. She was staying at her place this evening as she had friends visiting and they were likely to stay until late. ‘So it’s not worth my coming over,’ she had told him.
He had rarely experienced this feeling with Bergthóra. He’d looked forward to the evenings when she had been out with her friends – not that she had many – as that had been his opportunity to relax and read. Yet now he foundhe didn’t feel like opening the book in his hand. Perhaps it was the author, perhaps he was too restless – his mind whirring with theories about the two missing women, Elín and Hulda – or perhaps he was just so in love that he couldn’t wait to see Aníta again.
