The Darkness(16)

In an effort to distract herself, she started to think about Pétur, but that was problematic, too, because she didn’t want to risk investing too much hope in the future of their relationship. His visit had gone well, but now they needed to take the next step. She didn’t want to lose him, and she was scared that if she took things too slowly she might end up closing the door completely. And, realistically, how many more opportunities would she get?

Caught in this dilemma, she sat gazing abstractedly into her glass, taking occasional sips of wine, until, creeping out of the dark recesses of her mind, came the figures she didn’t want to think about, the figures she never stopped thinking about: Jón and her daughter.

At long last, she felt her eyelids drooping and knew she was tired enough to go to bed, safe in the knowledge that she would be able to get off to sleep without being tortured unnecessarily by her inner demons.

For once, she switched off the alarm clock on her bedside table, the clock that had for so many years woken her punctually at 6 a.m. every weekday, almost without exception. Well, this time the clock could have a rest, and so could Hulda. Without giving it much thought, she also switched her phone to silent, something she rarely did, as her job was all important to her and she liked to be available day and night. You couldn’t always, or maybe ever, conduct complex police investigations within normal office hours.

Closing her eyes, she let herself float away into the world of dreams.





Day Two




* * *





I


Hulda was stunned to discover that it was nearly eleven o’clock. She couldn’t remember the last time she had slept so late. The light was on in her bedroom, as usual. She didn’t like sleeping in the dark.

Disbelieving, she checked her alarm clock again, but there was no doubt. Her accumulated tiredness must have caught up with her. She lay there for a while, luxuriating in the fact that she wasn’t in a hurry for once, and as she did so, snatches of her dreams came back to her. Elena had turned up: Hulda could remember travelling back to Njardvík, to that comfortless little cell at the hostel. She couldn’t recapture all the details, only the sense that the dream had been disturbing, though nothing like as bad as the one that recurred almost nightly, which was so terrifying that she sometimes woke up gasping for breath. Terrifying, not because her imagination was running riot but, on the contrary, because it was in every detail a recollection of real events that Hulda could never, however hard she tried, forget.

Sitting up, she took a deep breath to dispel these phantoms. What she needed now was a cup of good strong coffee.

It occurred to her that she might actually be able to get used to not working. No commitments, no alarm clock. A comfortable if monotonous life as a pensioner in a fourth-floor apartment.

Except she had no intention of getting used to it.

She had to have a purpose in life. In the short term, she needed to solve the case of Elena’s death, or at least give it her best shot. She knew a success like that would allow her to leave her job in a cloud of glory, but, more than that, she felt an overwhelming urge to achieve some kind of justice for the poor girl. In the long term, she wanted to settle down with someone, escape the loneliness, and maybe – just maybe – Pétur was the one.

It didn’t occur to her to check her phone until she was halfway through her first cup of coffee because, unlike the current smartphone-obsessed generation, she wasn’t in thrall to her device. The younger members of CID could scarcely tear themselves away from their screens for a minute, whereas if she had the choice, Hulda would prefer never to have to look at hers at all.

So it came as a surprise that someone should have tried to ring her, twice, from a number she didn’t recognize. A call to directory enquiries revealed that the number belonged to the hostel that had featured so prominently in her dreams.

The phone was answered by a young man.

‘Good morning, this is Hulda Hermannsdóttir. I’m calling from the police.’

‘Right. Morning,’ he replied.

‘Someone was trying to reach me from this number at about eight o’clock this morning.’

‘Oh, yeah? From this number? Could’ve been Dóra, but then it could have been anyone, really. Wasn’t me, though,’ he said, running his words together in a barely audible mumble.

‘What do you mean by “anyone”?’ asked Hulda.

‘Well, you know, all the residents have access to this phone.’ He qualified this: ‘Only for domestic calls, though. International numbers are blocked, or you can bet the phone bill would be sky high.’ He laughed.

Hulda was in no laughing mood. ‘Is there any way of finding out who called me? Or could you just put me through to Dóra?’

‘Dóra? Sorry, no can do.’

‘Why not?’ Hulda asked, her patience wearing thin. Clearly, half a cup of coffee wasn’t enough.

‘She was on night shift so she’s asleep now. And there’s no point bothering her, as she’ll have her phone turned off.’

‘But this is urgent,’ Hulda protested, though for all she knew it might not be. ‘Just give me her landline, would you?’

The young man laughed again. ‘Landline? No one uses a landline any more.’

‘Well, then, can you just ask her to ring me?’