Chapter 8
You could have heard a pin drop. Ódinn, who had always prided himself on being able to work under any conditions, found the silence oppressive. He even missed his colleagues’ chattering. He had persuaded himself that by coming into the office on a Saturday he could finish everything he’d neglected during the week, but this was just a pretext. There was nothing urgent awaiting his attention.
To be honest, he was sitting here to avoid being alone at home while Rún was at her grandmother’s. He couldn’t relax in the flat; he was constantly on edge, the hairs rising on the backs of his arms at the slightest noise or movement. What exactly he feared, he didn’t know. Hanging around at work was the lesser of two evils. He’d have preferred to spend the afternoon with his daughter, watching a film, going for an ice-cream, doing something she enjoyed, maybe even visiting the Family Zoo. But he hadn’t been able to get out of sending her to her grandmother’s or it would have been the fourth weekend in a row that they’d fobbed her off with feeble excuses. As usual, Rún had protested but given way in the end and now they were both sitting in their separate places, respectively checking the clock to see if the hands would go round any faster. Perhaps the day would have seemed shorter if he’d had a deadline to meet.
As if to underline how little reason he had to be in at the weekend, the coffee machine was refusing to work. The grounds had got inside the mechanism and the blockage wouldn’t shift, whatever tricks Ódinn tried. The instant coffee tasted as if the jar had been sitting there ever since the builders left, as if even the joiners who’d installed the office furniture had turned up their noses at it. Still, the noxious brew managed to perk him up slightly and went some way towards combatting the soporific humming of the computers that no one had bothered to switch off when they left on Friday. The gloom outside contributed to the soporific atmosphere; the grey, overcast sky blending in with the dirty snow that blanketed everything; no hint of blue anywhere. It was as if heaven and earth had merged into one. Yet another storm was forecast and the clouds were just waiting for their chance to dump another load of snow on the city. He hoped it wouldn’t arrive just yet. Rún’s grandmother lived in the town centre and he had no desire to negotiate the narrow one-way streets on his bald tyres. If it suddenly started coming down heavily, he would dash out and collect Rún early, regardless of their prior arrangement. Being late was out of the question. Rún’s grandmother wouldn’t mind if she stayed a bit longer, but his daughter’s well-being was paramount. Still, with any luck the snow would hold off and they could stick to the agreed time. Or his former mother-in-law would probably blame the blizzard on him too. You couldn’t please everyone. But then pleasing people had never been his forte.
When they were growing up, his brother Baldur had generally been the favourite. And Ódinn had never been the popular one in his group of friends; he was well enough liked but had always been in someone else’s shadow. Perhaps that was why he clung so tightly to Rún; it felt nice to be somebody’s number one.
Presumably the teenagers at Krókur weren’t exactly the apples of their parents’ eyes either. The documents Ódinn was currently looking at were accompanied by several photographs, showing boys who had clearly seen a thing or two, and none of it pretty. Instead of looking out at life with cheerful anticipation, their faces were those of people who expect the worst: clenched jaws, knitted brows. Ódinn doubted this was entirely down to Krókur. Although their stint there was unlikely to have been a particularly pleasant experience, it would have taken more than a few months to convert tender youths into such hardened cases, and few of these boys had been there more than a year.
In the seventies, places like Krókur had been regarded as a good method of preventing boys from going off the rails, but the outcome had proved disappointing. At any rate, the home had closed down and there was no evidence that the former residents had emerged as model citizens. Inquiries into other care homes, where even younger children of both sexes had been placed, had exposed appalling cruelty and mistreatment, to which people seemed to have turned a blind eye at the time. Like so many other attempts to solve social problems, the idea of removing children from their families and the environment they knew had proved disastrous – in hindsight. But the saddest part was that something equally wrong-headed was almost certainly common practice now, though no one would notice for decades, by which time it would be too late.
Ódinn felt depressed by such thoughts. His feelings of sluggishness didn’t help either. All he had achieved in the last two hours was to draw up a table of contents for the report. He decided to stand up, stretch his limbs and wander over to Róberta’s cubicle to go through her files again, in case he had missed something.
He sneezed as Diljá’s cloyingly sweet perfume tickled his nose, and the noise echoed through the deserted office. After it had died away, he could hear nothing but the humming of computers. Ódinn listened hard; it sounded as if Róberta’s computer was switched on. He thought of checking if she’d kept any files on her own hard drive instead of saving them onto the office server. She wouldn’t have been the only one; constant repairs and updates to the computer system had caused countless delays, which led to people ignoring office protocol. As he sat down it occurred to him that this was probably a breach of internal regulations, perhaps even illegal. But there was no harm in trying. If he could get into her computer, he’d go ahead. When he started work he’d been allocated a password and told to change it, but he hadn’t bothered. If Róberta hadn’t changed hers either, it could be interpreted as a sign that she didn’t mind other people accessing her files. He entered her first name and the numbers 789.
The computer welcomed Róberta Gunnarsdóttir. After a moment’s hesitation, Ódinn got down to business. He would only open work-related files; if he came across anything personal he’d close it at once. Perhaps it was a bit unethical but never mind.
There were no files on the desktop. This struck Ódinn as odd, since it was contrary to his own practice. At the bottom of the screen he noticed two open Word files but when he clicked on them he discovered to his surprise that both were blank. The files bore the names of the two boys who had died in the accident at Krókur: einar.docx and tobbi.docx. He tried clicking ‘undo’ several times in each, in case any text had been deleted, but nothing happened. There was no way of knowing what information Róberta had intended to collate in the documents, but it was unlikely to have been part of the report. The intention had never been to discuss the boys on a case-by-case basis, even if they had died at the home. The preliminary investigation was only supposed to establish whether any staff action might have made the state liable for compensation.
This must be a sign that Róberta had been suffering from a mental block about work, perhaps as a result of her poor health. The drafting of the report had obviously been too much for her – not necessarily the primary cause of her illness, as Diljá had implied, but more than she could cope with in the circumstances. Perhaps she’d become trapped in a vicious circle of feeling too ill to concentrate, resulting in stress that made her even more unwell, further hindering her progress on the case, and so on.
After looking through the folders on the computer Ódinn was fairly sure there was nothing relevant to Krókur apart from the two empty files. He wondered if he should risk checking her e-mail, as he was bound to encounter sensitive personal material. On the other hand, there had been no e-mails to or from Róberta about Krókur on the server, so if they existed it stood to reason that she must have saved them onto her own computer. Either he could act now or he could seek formal permission, which might take months. And by then he would long since have submitted his report. Ódinn opened her e-mail program.
A window sprang up containing all kinds of reminders: invitations to two internal meetings; an appointment to have the oil changed in her little car; a wedding and a hairdresser’s appointment earlier the same day. Ódinn wondered if the hairdresser had been notified that Róberta couldn’t come on accou
nt of her own death, or if she’d turned up to work and waited impatiently for the customer to show up. Ódinn deleted one reminder after another until the window vanished, then began to go through the calendar in case anything was hidden there, such as meetings with former Krókur residents. Apparently not.
The inbox contained only a hundred or so e-mails, of which sixteen were unopened. Ódinn scanned the subject lines of the most recent messages and saw that they were mostly advertisements or notifications from her bank about payments that Ódinn had no wish to pry into. He carried on down the list until he found a message that seemed promising. It had been sent from a Gmail account and was labelled ‘Krókur – urgent’. To further underline its importance, it was marked with a red exclamation mark. Ódinn opened the message expectantly. His failure to find anything so far had made him feel like a nosy fool, but all that would change if he stumbled on some information that might actually matter.
He blinked and reread the text to make sure he had understood it right. The sender had used capital letters for impact.
BLOODY NOSY BITCH.
LEAVE WELL ALONE.
OR YOU’LL REGRET IT.
Hastily reordering the messages by sender, Ódinn ascertained that Róberta had received seven similar communications, all from the same uninformative address: [email protected]. Why hadn’t she reported this? Or perhaps she had, and no one had told Ódinn? None of the messages appeared to have been forwarded or replied to, so she’d probably kept quiet about their threatening contents. Ódinn decided to read them in order.
They began politely enough. The first e-mail asked Róberta please not to go raking up stuff about Krókur. It would do no one any good, least of all those who had been residents there. They wouldn’t care anyway, almost forty years after the event. Róberta had sent an official-sounding reply, refusing to abort the inquiry and informing the recipient that he or she was welcome to submit an appeal. It was like adding fuel to the flames. The sender’s rage had escalated with each communication; the fate with which Róberta was threatened if she continued her investigation became increasingly nasty. Ódinn hastily forwarded the e-mails to himself. He wasn’t particularly keen to sit brooding over them in the deserted office.
All of a sudden he felt no better here than at home. He was acutely aware of his solitude and when he stood up and looked over the partition he thought he saw the shadows swiftly retreating under the furniture. As if they had crept out to smother the already gloomy light, then fled back into hiding so he wouldn’t see. Ódinn regretted now that he’d switched on only the light above his own desk. When he thought he heard something moving over by the coffee area, he turned off his monitor and hurriedly left. Just before the door slammed behind him he was convinced he heard the scraping of a chair. Not until he was sitting in the convenience store near Rún’s grandmother’s place did he feel himself again. They didn’t sell coffee, which is what he craved, so he made do with a Coke and a paper. He read it from cover to cover, including the small ads, then called it a day and went to pick up Rún. Who cared if he was twenty minutes early? Rún would be glad.
When his former mother-in-law opened the door to Ódinn, Rún came running out and jumped into his arms. The old woman was less pleased. ‘You’re early.’ The words were crabby, to match her expression.
‘Yes. They’re forecasting a storm and I didn’t want to risk getting stuck. I’m not in a four-wheel drive.’
‘When aren’t we expecting a storm?’
‘Perhaps the weather’ll be better next time.’
‘And when will “next time” be? I hope you won’t leave it another month between visits.’
‘No. Let’s hope not.’ Ódinn tried to send Rún a mental message to hurry up and put her shoes on. He smiled awkwardly at his ex mother-in-law who was standing there with her arms folded, looking worryingly thin and more haggard than he’d ever seen her. He realised there were so many things he wanted to ask her but couldn’t in front of Rún. He remembered how close she and Lára had been, since there had only been the two of them. After the divorce Lára must have turned to her mother for help, so the woman would know more than anyone about her situation before the accident. No doubt she could give a blow-by-blow account of her daughter’s relationship with Logi and judge whether there was the slightest chance that he could have pushed her out of the window in a fit of rage.
But with Rún present there was no way to bring up the subject and Ódinn couldn’t picture the two of them arranging to discuss the matter in private. As well as information on Logi, he wanted to know more about the scene of the accident, hear firsthand how Rún had reacted, whether it was conceivable that his daughter might have seen or heard something but was reluctant to tell, perhaps for fear of meeting the same fate as her mother. He also wanted to know if the woman had brought the laundry to Lára that morning and seen anything out of the ordinary – such as Logi. As far as he could remember, the police hadn’t asked about that, which he found odd. Or perhaps they had and the answers had satisfied them, so they had seen no need to include them in the report.
‘Bye, Rún dear. Come back soon.’ The woman stooped and kissed her granddaughter’s head with dry lips. Rún made no attempt to avoid the caress, but he could see her look of distaste. He wanted to ask if Rún had always been so cool towards her or if it was connected to the trauma she’d experienced. Her grandmother had broken the news to her and perhaps in her childish way she couldn’t forgive the messenger.
Once they were sitting in the car and Rún had fastened her seatbelt, he laid his hand lightly on her shoulder. ‘That was nice of you, Rún. Your granny loves you and she’d be sad if she never got to see you. We often have to do things we don’t enjoy, especially where our nearest and dearest are concerned. Later you’ll be glad you kept in touch.’
‘What do you mean, “concerned”?’ Rún stared straight in front of her, her face expressionless.
‘All I mean is that you’ve made an old woman, who loves you more than anything else in the world, happy. She has no one left but you.’ He smiled at her but she didn’t appear to notice, just continued to stare straight ahead. He added: ‘She’s not too fond of me, though.’
‘She’s mean.’ Rún clamped her lips shut and Ódinn guessed he would get no more out of her for the moment. He started the car and they drove in silence down the one-way street, past their old house. Rún kept her eyes firmly lowered, but Ódinn’s gaze wandered up the corrugated-iron cladding, with its flaking paint, to the window Lára had fallen out of. The flat had still not been sold and the darkened window told him nothing. A memory stirred at the back of his mind but for some reason he didn’t care to examine it, and felt relieved once they had driven past.
Chapter 9
January 1974
The grey ribbon of smoke rose vertically from Hákon’s glowing cigarette, before wandering in zigzags above his head. It was as if the smoke knew it must avoid his eyes, or the cigarette wouldn’t be allowed to dangle a moment longer in the corner of his mouth. Aldís sat patiently on a stool, watching him repair the washing machine, glad of the excuse to idle. ‘Why are you working here?’ She didn’t know why she had come out with the question now. After all, she’d lived under the same roof as him, Malli and Steini for months without ever bringing up the subject. None of the men talked much, except for the odd comment about the weather. It wasn’t that they were shy around her, since they hardly spoke to each other either.
Hákon turned slowly, looking surprised. Aldís couldn’t tell whether he was affronted by her curiosity or had been longing for a chance to talk about himself. ‘Why am I working here?’ The question required him to think, which he didn’t seem particularly pleased about. ‘Well, I don’t really know. Blokes like me can’t pick and choose where they work or what they do.’
‘Why not?’ Again the words escaped her before she could decide if they were a good idea.
They were both startled when his adjustable spanner clanged against a pi
pe on the wall; Aldís especially. ‘I’ve got to keep off the bloody booze. And this place is pretty good for that. No temptations, you see. None at all.’
This time Aldís stopped to think before she spoke. Lilja had been right, then. Not that it came as a surprise. Hákon certainly looked as if he’d drunk more than was good for him: the lines etched on his face, his coarse reddened skin, his hair as thin as that of an old doll. Bad teeth, too; though they were still hanging in there, the gaps between them were suspiciously wide and Aldís always had the feeling that if he took a bite out of an apple, he’d leave a tooth or two behind. ‘You’re not planning on staying here forever? Just because there’s no booze?’
Hákon shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘Might as well. Got nowhere better to go. At least I get my meals and a roof over my head.’ He took a drag without raising his hand to the cigarette. It perked up as he inhaled, then drooped again.
‘But there’s loads of other places to live. I’m going to rent a room when I leave. In town.’
Hákon pushed his tongue into his cheek. The action smoothed out his wrinkles. If he put on a bit of weight he might not be bad-looking. ‘They may be willing to rent you a room in Reykjavík but that’s not to say I’d be so lucky. You’re young and pretty and have your whole life ahead of you.’ He took another drag, an unusually short one this time; smoke in, smoke out. ‘Just use your opportunities wisely. You don’t want to end up like me.’
An involuntary expression of dismay crossed Aldís’s face. Hákon gave a hoarse laugh, but clearly he was hurt. She couldn’t think how to retrieve the situation, so sat there in silence, watching him work. He sucked on his cigarette one last time, then stubbed it out on the painted concrete floor. It left a black streak that Aldís would have to clean up and it occurred to her that he might have done it on purpose. A tiny act of revenge because she’d offended him. He finished repairing the machine without uttering another word. But when he’d gathered together his battered tools, he paused in the doorway, mulling something over, then turned and fixed his colourless eyes on Aldís. ‘If I were you I’d quit right now. No reason to hang about. This is no place for a young girl, Aldís. You don’t belong here.’ He hesitated, seeing her mulish expression, then added: ‘Get involved with anyone here and you’re asking for trouble. In your shoes I’d get out. Believe me, there’s no future in any of these boys.’ He disappeared, leaving her scarlet in the face. Was her crush on Einar so blindingly obvious? Was everyone talking about them? The thought made her dizzy. If there was one thing she couldn’t stand it was whispering and giggling behind her back. She’d had enough of that at school.
The Undesired Page 8
