The Darkness(32)

She hung back, clutching her daughter’s hand, while her father walked slowly up to the house. The owners must be aware that they had arrived: there was no one else around.

She noticed that her daughter was shivering: perhaps it was the icy wind blowing down from the mountains in spite of the beautiful weather. Or perhaps the little girl could sense that something awful, something momentous, was about to happen.

How could I have let myself be talked into this? It was all the mother could think as she watched her father walking up to the front door.

Scooping the little girl into her arms, she hugged her tight, trying to stop her shivering. It had been a long journey by plane and road to get here. A young man, presumably one of the farmhands, had collected them from the airport. He was still sitting in the car, no doubt under orders not to intrude on the delicate meeting that was about to take place.

The door opened to reveal a man in late middle age, who greeted them warmly. And now there was no turning back. Tears were pouring down the mother’s cheeks. The little girl, seeing this, began to whimper as well. The two men, who were old friends, glanced at them then carried on their conversation. Mother and child were mere extras, with only a limited role in the great scheme of things. How ironic that the girl’s grandmother, the driving force behind this decision, had been unable to face coming with them.

The mother felt how quickly and surely her embrace calmed the little girl and stilled her shivering. It came to her then that she felt like the girl’s real mother, not just the lady behind the glass, and she hoped – maybe against hope – that the little girl felt the same about her.

There was a shout. Her father was calling them over, telling them to come inside. She balked, all her doubts rising to the surface. After taking a few halting steps towards the house, she stopped dead. The couple were both standing in the doorway now, wearing smiles intended to be kind, yet their kindness didn’t strike her as genuine. It was as if they were only smiling to win her over.

And suddenly her mind was made up: she wasn’t going to set foot in that house, wasn’t going to leave little Hulda with them.

‘I’m going home,’ she announced in a clear voice that surprised her with its firmness. Her father stared at her without speaking. ‘I’m going home,’ she repeated, ‘and Hulda’s coming with me.’

He came over, put his arms around them both and said: ‘Fair enough, it’s your choice.’

He was smiling.

She clasped her little girl tight, vowing never to let her go again.





XXIII


Hulda had been sitting in her car outside the police station for several minutes, unable to summon up the courage to go in, dreading the coming encounter with Magnús. Not that she regretted anything. It had been the right decision to take a closer look into Elena’s death and she had no intention of dropping her investigation without a fight. The visit to áki had been necessary, though in hindsight, perhaps she should have been in less of a hurry and done a bit more intelligence gathering first. But that was the fault of the tight deadline she had set herself to solve the case.

Almost without thinking, she found that she had taken out her phone and dialled Pétur’s number. He answered immediately.

‘Hulda,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to call.’ He seemed to be in a perpetual good mood, always positive and sunny tempered. Yes, she really liked him: how could she not?

‘Oh?’ she said, and instantly regretted this curt reply, which had been motivated by surprise at his statement rather than any intention to be rude.

‘Yes, I thought maybe we could meet up again this evening. I was going to offer to cook dinner for you at my place.’

‘That would be lovely,’ Hulda replied, tricked for a moment by the light evening into forgetting that it was long past suppertime. ‘I mean … it would have been great.’

‘Let’s do it, anyway. I can cook for you now. I’ve got all the ingredients, including a very nice joint of lamb – I can stick it on the barbecue while I’m waiting.’ As an afterthought, he added: ‘Unless you’ve already eaten?’

‘What? No, no, I haven’t actually.’ The hot dog didn’t count. ‘I, er, I’ll look forward to it.’ She realized she was short of breath, stressed about her impending conversation with Magnús, and hoped Pétur wouldn’t notice and start asking awkward questions.

She acknowledged to herself that she felt a warm glow inside at the thought of visiting him. She desperately needed to talk to someone: about Elena and the case, about giving up work. And then there were those other things she needed to tell him.

‘Great. Are you on your way? How long will you be?’

‘I’ve got to drop into the office first. Won’t be long.’ At least, she hoped not.

The corridor leading to Magnús’s office had never felt so endless. His door was open and, just as she raised her hand to tap on the glass and alert him to her presence, he glanced up. His brows were drawn together in a grave frown and she saw at once that their meeting was going to be difficult. She had an uneasy feeling that it was solely on her account that he had come in to work on this beautiful spring evening. What on earth had she done wrong? Should she have secured clearer permission to reopen the inquiry? Or had áki complained about her? She could easily imagine a man like him having influential friends in high places.