The Darkness(12)

Whatever her eventual decision, there was one loose end she still needed to tie up. Settling herself in her mother’s comfy old chair, phone in hand, she deliberated for a while, putting off dialling the number of the wretched nurse she had questioned the day before; the woman who had run down that evil bastard of a paedophile and shaken like a leaf from nerves and guilt throughout the interview. She must be going through a private hell right now, worried sick about being parted from her son and having to spend years behind bars. After all, she had confessed. But, so far, Hulda had not only failed to write up a formal report of their conversation, she had actually lied to her boss and said that the case was nowhere near being solved. The question she had to debate with her conscience, before ringing the poor woman, was whether to stick to the lie and do her damnedest to spare the mother and son any further injustice, or to write the truth in her report, in the knowledge that the woman would almost inevitably be sent down for her crime.

The answer was never really in doubt: there was only one course of action open to Hulda.

The woman had a mobile and a home phone number registered to her name. She didn’t answer the mobile and her landline rang for ages before she finally picked up. Hulda introduced herself: ‘This is Hulda Hermannsdóttir, from CID. We spoke yesterday.’

‘Oh … yes … of course,’ said the woman in a strangled voice. She drew a deep, shuddering breath.

‘I’ve been reviewing the incident,’ Hulda lied, resorting to deliberately formal police speak, ‘and I’ve come to the conclusion that we don’t have sufficient evidence to convict.’

‘What … what do you mean?’ the woman stammered. She sounded as if she was crying.

‘I’m not planning to take things any further, not as far as you’re concerned.’

There was a stunned silence at the other end, then the woman croaked: ‘But what about … what about the thing I told you?’

‘It wouldn’t serve any purpose to pursue it further, to drag you through the courts.’

Again, there was a silence. Then: ‘You … you mean you’re not going to … arrest me? I … I’ve hardly stopped shaking since … since we spoke. I thought I was going to –’

‘Quite. No, I’m not going to arrest you. And seeing as I’m about to retire, with any luck, this should be the last you hear of the matter.’ Retire. It was the first time she’d said it out loud and the word echoed oddly in her ears. She was struck yet again by how ridiculously unprepared she was for this milestone, foreseeable though it had been.

‘What about the other … what about your colleagues in the police?’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t mention your confession in my report. Of course, I can’t predict what’ll happen to the case after I leave, but as far as I’m concerned, you didn’t admit to anything when I interviewed you. Have I got that right?’

‘What? Oh, yes, of course. Thank you …’

Something compelled Hulda to add: ‘But don’t get me wrong: this doesn’t absolve you from guilt. Maybe I can understand why you did what you did, but the fact is that you’re going to have to live with it. Still, in my opinion, locking you up and depriving your son of his mother would only make matters worse.’

‘Thank you,’ the woman repeated in heartfelt tones, her sobbing now clearly audible down the line. ‘Thank you,’ she managed to gasp again before Hulda rang off.

When busy or under pressure, Hulda often forgot to eat, but she made sure she had something now. Her supper was the same as last night’s: cheese on toast. Since Jón died, she had given up cooking altogether. At first, she had tried to make the effort, but as the years went by and she got used to living alone, she’d made do with a hot meal in the work canteen at midday and survived mainly on a diet of fast food or sandwiches in the evenings.

She was in the middle of her simple snack, listening to the radio news, when the phone rang. Seeing who it was, she felt an impulse to ignore it, but habit and a sense of duty made her pick up. Characteristically, he launched straight in without even bothering to give his name, but then Alexander had never had any manners: ‘What the hell are you playing at?’ he stormed. She pictured him at the other end: features twisted in a scowl, the double chin, the drooping eyelids under heavy brows.

She wasn’t going to let him fluster her. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked in as normal a voice as she could manage.

‘Come off it, Hulda. You know as well as I do. For fuck’s sake. That Russian girl who drowned herself.’

‘Can’t you even remember her name?’

The question apparently caught him off-guard. He was speechless for a moment, which was unlike him. But he soon recovered. ‘What’s that got to do with anything? What I want to –’

‘Her name was Elena,’ Hulda interrupted.

‘I don’t give a shit!’ His voice rose. No doubt his face had flushed dark red. ‘Why are you sticking your nose into this, Hulda? I thought you’d left.’

So the news had spread.

‘You must have been misinformed,’ she said levelly.

‘Oh? From what I heard …’ He thought better of it. ‘Whatever. Why are you muscling in on my case?’

‘Because Magnús asked me to,’ Hulda said. This was stretching the truth, but never mind.