The Darkness(39)

‘I can’t force my cooking on you every night. So that’s settled then.’

Hulda stood up and Pétur followed suit, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

‘The lamb was excellent,’ she said. ‘I wish I could barbecue meat like that.’

As they went into the hall Pétur asked abruptly: ‘What was she called?’

Hulda was taken aback. Although she knew what he was asking, she pretended she didn’t, to win time. ‘Sorry?’

‘Your daughter, what was she called?’ His voice was kind, his interest genuine.

Hulda realized all of a sudden that it was years since she had last spoken her daughter’s name aloud and felt ashamed of herself.

‘Dimma. Her name was Dimma. Unusual, I know.’ It meant ‘darkness’.





The Last Day




* * *





I


Hulda rolled over in bed, unwilling to get up. Burying her head in her pillow, she tried to drift off again, but the damage was done: it was too late to try to get back to sleep now. In the old days, she had been able to enjoy a proper lie-in but, with age, this ability had become ever more elusive.

Nevertheless, when she looked at her alarm clock, she discovered to her chagrin that she had slept as late as the day before; too late, in other words.

She needed to use every minute of the day if she was going to tie up the loose ends of her investigation but, as soon as she sat up, she was hit by a splitting headache. Wonderful though the evening with Pétur had been, she shouldn’t have drunk so much; she was out of practice. Normally, she had only the odd glass of wine with meals. Still, she would just have to ignore her hangover and focus on the case, though her interest in it was fast waning. Apart from a sense of duty towards the dead Russian girl, the only thing motivating her now was pure obstinacy. She simply couldn’t bear to let Magnús win. Having badgered him into granting her another twenty-four hours for the inquiry, she had to give it her best shot before turning in her report this evening and saying goodbye to the police for good.

It struck her that what she was really looking forward to was her next date with Pétur. She was counting down the hours until this evening’s dinner at Hótel Holt.





II


She tried to rise to her feet on the slippery snow, but that was easier said than done with the destabilizing weight of the rucksack on her back.

‘Come down,’ he called.

Obeying, she scrambled the rest of the way down and thanked her lucky stars when she made it safely to the bottom.

‘Give me the poles,’ he said. ‘We’ll put on the crampons and you can use your ice axe.’

Better equipped this time, she tackled the slope again, her heart in her mouth.

It was still an arduous climb but now, thanks to the crampons on her boots, she was able to get a better purchase on the snow. Inch by inch, she worked her way upwards, praying that she wouldn’t lose her footing again; keeping her gaze fixed on the ground in front of her, terrified of toppling over backwards at the steepest point. One laborious step at a time, until, noticing that her progress was becoming less of an effort, she realized she was past the worst and the way ahead seemed to be getting easier. Her knees buckling with relief, she sank down on to the snow to wait, feeling mentally and physically drained. The slope was so steep that she couldn’t see if he’d even started up it, let alone how far he had climbed, but she was afraid to call out to him, mindful of what he had said – half jokingly, it had seemed – about the danger of an avalanche. Why on earth had she let him talk her into this madness?





III


It was long past breakfast time and, anyway, Hulda couldn’t stomach the thought of eating. Deciding to take a quick breather instead, she walked round the corner to the local supermarket. The weather was gloomier than it had been yesterday, the sky obscured by a thick layer of grey cloud, and the wind was unseasonably blustery. Could spring really have come and gone in a single day?

The weather had a dampening effect on Hulda’s mood. As a rule she didn’t let the unpredictable Icelandic climate get to her, but she found herself wishing that today of all days, the last day of her old life, could have got off to a more promising start.

All night long, she had been haunted by dreams of Dimma, yet in spite of this she had slept well for once. Though the dreams had been shot through with sadness, at least she had been spared the recurrent nightmare that had plagued her for years. Maybe it was a coincidence, but she suspected that talking about Dimma had been beneficial, especially to a good listener like Pétur. Perhaps one day she would feel able to open up to him about her daughter, tell him stories about her, tell him what a dear, sweet girl she had been.

Hulda roamed aimlessly up and down the aisles of the supermarket, seeing nothing to tempt her, before eventually emerging with the only items that had caught her eye: a bottle of Coke and a packet of Prins Póló chocolate wafers. Prins Póló – that took her back, reminding her of the days when Iceland used to barter with Eastern Europe, Polish chocolate in exchange for Icelandic fish. How the world had changed.

Once she had pulled herself together, the first task of the day would be to drive out to the Reykjanes peninsula and try to kill two birds – more, if possible – with one stone. She needed to talk to the Syrian girl, if it wasn’t too late. Since the girl had been arrested yesterday, Hulda assumed she was being detained in the police cells at the airport, though it was equally possible that she had already been deported, sent home on one of the morning flights, which would mean Hulda had missed her chance to question her. For Christ’s sake, why hadn’t she made arrangements to interview her, or at the very least set an alarm this morning? She was really getting careless in the face of her imminent retirement.