The Darkness(19)
‘I’m sorry, Hulda,’ he said again, ‘but I haven’t the foggiest. It’s not as straightforward as you seem to think. Fortunately, we don’t have much organized crime of that sort in Iceland. Sorry, look, I really do have to go now: if I’m late, I’ll miss my tee time.’
She nodded, though the golfing term meant nothing to her. ‘Thanks, anyway, Thrándur. It was good to be able to pick your brains.’
‘No problem, Hulda. Any time.’ Then he added, and she thought she detected a hint of sarcasm in his voice: ‘Enjoy your retirement.’
She watched him lugging his golf clubs up the path to a small knoll where three other golfers were standing, evidently waiting for him. It was a lovely day for it. The sky was a pure, cloudless blue: a sight for sore eyes after the dreary winter, though there was still a distinct nip in the air.
It looked as though Thrándur was going to be first to tee off, or whatever it was called. He reached into his bag for a club then, noticing that Hulda was still standing in the car park, watching him, he gave her an awkward smile and paused, waiting for her to leave. She waved back, not budging an inch, enjoying his discomfort. He looked away and took up position, his back to Hulda, club raised aloft like a weapon, then, swinging it back, struck the ball a tremendous clout. It flew off the fairway and landed on the other side of a barbed-wire fence. From the reactions of Thrándur and his companions, she gathered that this had not been the intention.
IV
The girl was still locked in her shell, showing little emotion apart from the constant crying, but her mother refused to give up. The gulf between them had to be bridged somehow. It was as if her daughter was punishing her for her absence, which was terribly unfair because the mother had been powerless to act any differently. She’d had no real choice. And now here she was, alone with her child, hardly able to sleep at night for anxiety about the future. How was she to combine work with bringing up a child on her own? Almost all the women she knew were married housewives, with plenty of time for their homes and children. It wasn’t only society that was against her: even these so-called friends didn’t hide their disapproval of her status as a single mother. Meanwhile, her parents, still adamant that the little girl should have been given up for adoption, had reacted badly to her decision to go it alone and were keeping their distance. Most days, she felt she had nowhere to turn for help.
Far from being toughened up by adversity, she felt herself being worn down, a little more every day.
When she was at work, the mother had no choice but to entrust her daughter to a childminder who lived nearby, a cold, strict woman with old-fashioned notions about bringing up children. Every weekday, it was a wrench for the mother to leave her little girl in the childminder’s stuffy basement flat, which reeked of cigarette smoke. But she had to work, or she wouldn’t be able to support herself and her daughter, and this woman offered the only day-care services she could afford in her neighbourhood.
Saying goodbye to her daughter never got any easier. Although she knew she would be collecting her again at the end of the day, each parting seemed a repetition of their original separation. She prayed that the little girl didn’t feel the same way. The child wept every time, but it wasn’t clear that being parted from her mother was the cause of her tears.
She told herself that everything would be all right in the end, that the relationship between mother and daughter would eventually become normal. Normal was all she asked for. But, deep down, she felt – she knew – that this would never be the case. The damage was irreparable.
V
Thrándur had been withholding information, that much was clear, but Hulda wasn’t going to let this deter her. Among her few friends on the force there was one person who had the necessary contacts in the shady world in which Thrándur spent his days.
Since Hulda had absolutely no desire to set foot in CID, she arranged to meet her friend in the café at Kjarvalsstadir, an art gallery just outside the centre of town. The case was certainly keeping her busy. Although she felt a sense of duty towards Elena for some reason, she also knew that the case was a means of deflecting the gut-wrenching sense of rejection that flooded her every time she relived her conversation with Magnús.
There was hardly anyone else in the café apart from a young couple – tourists, judging by their backpacks and camera – who were tucking into slices of apple pie. They were so obviously in love, like her and Jón back in the day. Her heart wasn’t easily won, but she had fallen deeply in love with him once and the memory was still painfully vivid. No such powerful emotion stirred in her breast for Pétur, but that was all right: she genuinely liked him and could envisage some sort of future with him. That was enough. She’d probably lost the capacity to love – not just probably; definitely – and she knew precisely the moment at which that had happened.
The apple pie looked so tempting that Hulda ordered a slice while she waited and was just finishing the last mouthful when her friend walked into the gallery café. Karen was twenty years younger than her, but they had always got on well. Hulda had taken her under her wing – not in a maternal way, since she could never have thought of Karen as a daughter, but like a teacher with a pupil. Seeing herself in the younger woman, she had tried to guide her through the labyrinthine world of the police patriarchy. Karen had proved an apt pupil. She was now on a fast track up through the ranks, getting opportunities and positions that Hulda could only have dreamed of. Hulda had watched her protégée’s meteoric rise with a pride not unmixed with envy, a little voice inside her asking: why didn’t you rise any higher yourself?