The Darkness(22)

‘Yes.’

‘How do you know? Did you talk to him?’

‘What, me? No. I just ran into them outside, though he must have gone in to ask for her at reception. I was on my way in to start my shift or something.’

‘How do you know he was an Icelander?’ Hulda repeated.

‘You can always tell an Icelander: they all look alike – you know what I mean. Typical Icelandic face, Icelandic appearance.’

‘Could you describe him?’

‘No, it was too long ago.’

‘Was he skinny? Overweight?’ Hulda sighed privately at the thought of having to prise all the information out of this girl bit by bit.

‘Yes, overweight, that’s right. Kind of fat, and a bit of a minger, as far as I remember.’

‘Not your type, then?’ said Hulda.

‘God, no. I remember thinking maybe she’d found herself a boyfriend, but they seemed so badly suited – she was attractive, you know, tall and graceful, but he was short and fat.’

‘And you’d never seen him before?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Do you remember when this was?’

‘You must be kidding. I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast. God, it was just, I don’t know, some time before she died,’ said Dóra, pointing out the obvious.

‘You think it could have been her boyfriend?’ From what she had learned during her conversation with Bjartur, Hulda had her own theory about what had been going on, but she wanted to know if a similar suspicion had struck Dóra. She didn’t ask straight out, though. There was no call to start a rumour – not yet, anyway.

‘Well, no, not really, it just crossed my mind. If she’d had an Icelandic boyfriend, I’m sure he’d have been much fitter than this bloke.’

‘Can you think what business he might have had with her?’

‘No. But then it was nothing to do with me. I have enough on my plate with running this place; what the residents get up to isn’t my problem.’

‘What sort of age was he?’

‘Hard to say. He was just a bloke. Sort of middle-aged, you know. Older than her.’

‘Did you see what kind of car he was driving?’

‘Hey, yeah, a big off-roader. Blokes like him all drive four-by-fours like that; black ones, usually.’

‘What kind of four-by-four?’

‘Don’t ask me, I can’t tell them apart. They all look the same.’

‘Could this have been the day she died?’

‘You know, I’m not sure,’ Dóra said. ‘It might have been the day before, but I doubt it. Surely I’d have connected the two things at the time?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Hulda pointed out.

‘No, right.’

‘Have you seen the man again since?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘This is all very interesting, Dóra. Thanks for ringing. Could you get back in touch if you remember anything else? Anything at all.’

‘Yeah, sure. This is kind of fun, isn’t it? This detective game. I mean, I sometimes read crime novels, but I never thought I’d get mixed up in a case myself.’

‘It’s not quite the same thing,’ Hulda began in a dampening tone, then, spying an opening, changed her tune and added in a more encouraging voice: ‘But could you do me a favour and keep your eyes peeled at your end?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Ask around, in case anyone remembers a detail that might be important. You see, I believe Elena was murdered, and it’s up to us to try and find the person responsible.’ She experienced a twinge of doubt: could she be putting this girl in a compromising position – in danger, even …? She dismissed the idea. That’s not how things worked in a peaceful little place like Iceland. Here, people killed only once: on the spur of the moment; under the influence of alcohol or drugs; in a fit of rage or jealousy. Premeditated murder was unheard of, let alone someone committing more than one killing of that type. She was on the trail of a murderer, all right, she had no doubt of that, but Dóra was safe.

‘Sure. I’ll ask around, no problem.’

‘What happened about the Syrian woman?’ Hulda asked. ‘Could I maybe talk to her now?’

‘No, sorry, you can’t. The police came and took her away.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She’s being deported. It happens. You know, it’s a bit like those games of musical chairs you play as a kid. The music starts, everyone gets up and walks in a circle and, when the music stops, one of the chairs is taken away and someone’s unlucky. Today, it was the Syrian woman’s turn.’





VIII


She had mentioned once or twice that she’d love to get out of town and see a bit more of Iceland. Get out into the countryside, away from the city – not that there was much of a city here. Even Reykjavík was hardly more than a village, compared with what she was used to.

She had only been half serious when she brought up the idea of the trip, never expecting anything to come of it, especially not in this inhospitable weather. A relentless icy gale blew off the sea, day in, day out, accompanied sometimes by rain, more often by snow. The pristine whiteness was beautiful when seen from the window, but the constantly changing conditions meant it seldom kept its postcard prettiness for long, turning first to grey slush, then to ice in the inevitable frosts that followed, before being covered again by a fresh fall of snow.