The Darkness(64)

‘But there were two people above all who occupied the most important place in Hulda’s heart. One was her husband, Jón, whom she met young and married after only a short acquaintance; a happy decision; they have been described as true soul-mates. Hulda and Jón stuck together through thick and thin, shared many interests and complemented one another, as good companions should. Friends testify to the fact that they never exchanged a cross word. They made their home by the sea on álftanes, still a rural area in those days, and perhaps it was there that Hulda’s passion for the Icelandic landscape was first kindled.

‘It was also there that the apple of their eye, their daughter, Dimma, was born. Dimma was popular at school and a model pupil, a little girl of great promise, and, unsurprisingly, Hulda and Jón were enormously proud of her. So her tragic death in her early teens came as a devastating blow to her parents. They coped with stoicism and courage, inseparable as ever, no doubt drawing great comfort from one another. They continued to live on álftanes and eventually returned to work: Hulda to the police, Jón to his job in investment. Then, two years later, Hulda also lost Jón, the love of her life. He had been diagnosed with a heart condition several years earlier, but no one had expected him to die so young. Once again, Hulda was called on to cope with a dreadful shock and responded with indomitable courage, getting back on her feet, tackling life and continuing to make her mark in a demanding profession.

‘Hulda never forgot Jón or Dimma. And, as we are aware, she always remained true to her Christian faith, in the conviction that she would be reunited with her loved ones in the next life. For all of us who miss Hulda so keenly, there is comfort in the knowledge that she is resting now in the arms of Jón and Dimma, whom she loved more than life itself.

‘God bless the memory of Hulda Hermannsdóttir.’





Special thanks are due to Haukur Eggertsson for his advice on expeditions to the highlands and interior, and to prosecutor Hulda María Stefánsdóttir for her assistance with police procedure.





Prelude


Kópavogur, 1988


The babysitter was late.

The couple hardly ever went out in the evening, so they had been careful to check her availability well in advance. She had babysat for them a few times before and lived in the next street, but apart from that they didn’t know much about her. Or her family either, though they knew her mother to speak to when they ran into her in the neighbourhood. Their seven-year-old daughter looked up to the girl, who was twenty-one and seemed very grown up and glamorous to her. She was always talking about what fun she was, what pretty clothes she wore, what exciting bedtime stories she told, and so on. Their daughter’s eagerness to have her round to babysit made the couple feel less guilty about accepting the invitation; they felt reassured that their little girl would not only be in good hands but would enjoy herself, too. They had arranged for the girl to babysit from six until midnight, but it was already past six, getting on for half past in fact, and the dinner was due to start at seven. The husband wanted to ring and ask what had happened to her, but his wife was reluctant to make a fuss: she’d turn up.

It was a Saturday evening in March and the atmosphere had been one of happy anticipation until the babysitter failed to turn up on time. The couple were looking forward to an entertaining evening with the wife’s colleagues from the ministry and their daughter was excited about spending the evening watching films with the babysitter. They didn’t own a VCR, but, as it was a special occasion, father and daughter had gone down to the local video store and rented a machine and three tapes, and the little girl had permission to stay up as late as she liked, until she ran out of steam.

It was just after half six when the doorbell finally rang. The family lived on the second floor of a small block of flats in Kópavogur, the town immediately to the south of Reykjavík. The mother picked up the entryphone. It was the babysitter at last. She appeared at their door a few moments later, soaked to the skin, and explained that she’d walked over. It was raining so hard it was like having a bucket emptied over your head. She apologized, embarrassed, for being so late.

The couple waved away her apologies, determined not to let the delay spoil their evening. They thanked her for standing in for them, reminded her of the main house rules and asked if she knew how to work a video recorder, at which point their daughter broke in to say she didn’t need any help. Clearly, she could hardly wait to bundle her parents out of the door so the video fest could begin, though the family invariably spent their Saturday evenings glued to the television as it was.

In spite of the taxi waiting outside, the couple couldn’t tear themselves away. They just weren’t used to leaving their daughter. ‘Don’t worry,’ the babysitter said at last, ‘I’ll take good care of her.’ She looked comfortingly reliable as she said this, and as she’d always done a good job of looking after their daughter in the past, it was in a fairly cheerful frame of mind that they finally headed out into the downpour.

The evening went well, but as it wore on, the mother began to feel increasingly anxious about their daughter.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said her husband. ‘I bet she’s having a whale of a time.’ Glancing at his watch, he added, ‘She’ll be on her second or third film by now, and they’ll have polished off all the ice cream.’