The Undesired

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  Aldís slammed down the receiver. Eyes wide, she stared at the phone, which sat there impassively, as if the conversation had never taken place. She couldn’t bring herself to ring again. Not now. Perhaps not ever. Her mother didn’t have the answers she needed.

  But in that instant the phone started ringing, her resolve melted away and she snatched up the receiver. ‘Mum?’

  ‘Hello? Who’s that?’ It wasn’t her mother but some other woman.

  ‘Aldís.’ She dried her tears with the sleeve of her shabby jumper, the bobbles scratching her tender eyelids.

  ‘Hello. Was it you I talked to the other day? I was so glad to finally speak to someone that I forgot to write down your name.’

  It was Einar’s mother. Aldís drew a breath, puffing out her cheeks till they hurt, then slowly exhaled. This just wasn’t her day. ‘I can’t talk to you. I’m not supposed to answer the phone. The person you need to talk to is called Veigar and he’s not here right now.’

  For a moment there was silence at the other end, then the woman spoke again, sounding even more sombre than in their previous conversation. ‘The other day you said I could get in touch. I tried to ring last week at the time you mentioned but no one answered. Is something wrong? Has something changed?’

  ‘No. Nothing,’ Aldís answered brusquely. She didn’t dare say more for fear of reverting to her friendly old self. She couldn’t afford to; she had enough troubles of her own without shouldering other people’s.

  ‘Something’s wrong. I can hear it in your voice. Has something happened to Einar?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong. I’m not allowed to talk on the phone, that’s all.’ Aldís wondered if she should hang up, as she had with her mother, but there was a risk the woman might be offended and complain to Veigar. Then he’d find out that Aldís had been answering his calls. ‘Really. There’s nothing wrong.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure.’ Of course this wasn’t entirely true. There was a great deal wrong with Einar, but it wasn’t the fault of the care home. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why’s Einar here? What did he do?’

  The woman was silent again. Aldís could hear her breathing. ‘He slipped up. Badly.’

  ‘This isn’t Casualty. What did he do?’ Aldís crossed her fingers in the hope that the woman would take the bait.

  ‘I can’t discuss it, I’m afraid. I’d tell you if I could.’

  ‘Who’s stopping you? Einar?’

  ‘No. Not Einar.’ The woman sounded evasive and Aldís thought she might hang up. But what if she did? Why should Aldís want to prolong the conversation? The woman wouldn’t tell her anything and it was bound to end up with Aldís having to act as messenger again.

  ‘Why is he here, given his age? Shouldn’t he be in prison if he’s committed a crime?’

  ‘I can’t answer that. I just can’t.’ The woman’s voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘Please give Einar my love. Tell him I’ve seen Eyjalín. She’s still very ill. He’s actually lucky he’s not at home at the moment.’ She paused to draw breath, as if to give Aldís a chance to reply, then added: ‘I’d be so grateful if you’d do this for me.’ Without waiting for an answer, she hung up.

  Aldís glanced around in the hope of finding some distraction to take her mind off the phone call. Why hadn’t she taken the day off? Moping in bed, alone with her thoughts, could hardly have been any worse than this. She scanned Veigar’s shelves hopefully but couldn’t see anything of interest. Just a jumble of papers, files and the odd religious ornament. She felt an inclination to smash something.

  Then suddenly it dawned on her.

  There was no one about, and the storm made it unlikely that Veigar and Lilja would look in. The answers might be right here and she probably wouldn’t get another opportunity like this to search for them. Usually she could rely on one or other of the managers to stick their nose in to check up on her. Searching through all the papers would take time and this could be her only chance. Without stopping to consider the consequences, Aldís pulled a thick file off the shelf. Leafing through it, she quickly realised that the contents were of no interest. Receipts and contracts, many of them ancient, nothing to do with the home. The next three files contained the same sort of stuff; she couldn’t understand why Veigar held on to such trivial paperwork. All kinds of letters from ministries and a variety of government bodies, all of which seemed to contain standard wording. Judging from what she read, Krókur’s existence was necessary but unpopular; people would rather not have to know about it. The fifth file contained final demands and threats of debt-collection measures that would shortly be put into place. Aldís snapped it shut; as long as her wages were paid she didn’t care.

  She perked up when she saw the sixth file. The spine was labelled with the current and previous year, and when she opened it she saw that Veigar had organised it alphabetically, each divider marked with a boy’s initials. She tore it open at EA, for Einar Allen. It contained a single page, which did not appear to be a standard letter. Aldís started to read, oblivious to the shrieking of the wind.

  Chapter 21

  Ódinn was becoming reconciled to the idea that he was mad. In a way it was a relief; he no longer had to fear the worst because it had already happened. Nanna’s explanation that the sounds he was hearing had always been there without his noticing was some comfort, but it wasn’t enough. So much else was out of kilter with his idea of reality.

  For the last few days, however, his mind had been almost entirely occupied with the question of whether he could conceivably have been involved in Lára’s death. The taxi receipt and timing of the accident in the police reports indicated as much; he had been in the area and left the street shortly after Lára fell. Hazy memories of an ambulance and sirens kept coming back to him. Yet, in spite of this, he found it impossible to believe he could have been responsible. He wasn’t a violent man; he hadn’t even got into fights as a boy. And though he and Lára hadn’t exactly seen eye to eye on a lot of things, he’d never once laid a finger on her. Sure, they’d both slammed doors and sworn at each other, but never so much as slapped one another’s face, let alone anything worse. The fact that he’d been drunk and in the area at the time of her death didn’t alter that fact. So why would he have gone and killed her, so long after their divorce? By far the most likely scenario was that he’d never gone through with the visit, either because he was too tired or because he’d come to his senses by then. His drinking buddy, the guy on his stag do, had left in a taxi, and without him the fun had soon palled.

  Another worry at the moment was the way Rún seemed to be going downhill since she’d started seeing the therapist. She had constant nightmares in which her mother chased or lay in wait for her, at school, in the sports hall, the shop, or anywhere else she visited on a daily basis. The only place she could sleep peacefully, undisturbed by bad dreams, was at Baldur and Sigga’s house, and she pleaded so hard to be allowed to go and stay that it had become embarrassing.

  Nanna had been hesitant about drawing any significant conclusions from this. Rún was probably finally beginning to come to terms with the loss of her mother, and no one said that would be easy. But the more Ódinn thought about it, the more he began to suspect that something much worse lay at the root of her distress, so he phoned Nanna and asked straight out if Rún could conceivably have witnessed her mother’s fall and repressed the memory; whether her nightmares could be triggered by the incident returning to the surface as a result of the therapy sessions. Nanna had been disconcerted – repressed memory was a controversial topic in her field – but even so she’d been unwilling to dismiss the possibility.

  The urge to just ask Rún straight out was almost more than he could bear. He found himself staring at her as if he could force an answer out of her by telepathy. But he couldn’t ask directly because he was afraid he wouldn’t be satisfied with a simple no. And that would be disastrous. He was scared of m
aking matters worse, of confusing or destroying her memory. Of course, there was a chance Rún might be able to confirm that he hadn’t been in the flat. But what terrified him was the alternative, that she might have witnessed him using violence against her mother.

  His personal problems had become so overwhelming that for the first time since he’d started there, Ódinn actively looked forward to going to the office in the mornings. He enjoyed hanging up his coat, filling his coffee mug, sitting down with his headphones, turning on the radio, and opening his files – seeking refuge in the little cubicle that he’d originally found so claustrophobic. There he could forget himself, hearing nothing but the prattling of DJs, interspersed with music; pretend nothing was wrong by immersing himself in his investigation of Krókur. As a result he was making good progress, faster than he would have dared hope, which made him the star of the Monday meeting for the second week in a row.

  ‘I’ve interviewed four former residents now and they all have a similar tale to tell,’ he informed his co-workers. ‘Although they don’t say so in as many words, it’s clear that things were not as they should have been.’ Ódinn noticed that his colleagues dodged his gaze when he looked at them, as if they felt responsible for the past operation of the home. ‘It’s a wonder no one’s come forward before now.’

  ‘Is it possible they’re getting a kick out of the attention and exaggerating what really went on?’ Heimir was sitting in his place at the head of the table and he at least didn’t try to avoid Ódinn’s gaze, though his lazy eye did its usual sideways dive. ‘I’m not sure the testimony of four men is sufficient to remove all doubt.’

  ‘Of course not, but their stories are a strong indication that the state will be liable to pay compensation.’

  ‘Why haven’t they spoken out before? Of their own accord?’

  ‘For a number of reasons, I suspect. None of them wanted to become the public face of the home, since admitting they did time there isn’t exactly something to be proud of. We mustn’t forget that, unlike Breidavík for example, Krókur was a detention centre for young offenders. Three of the old boys I spoke to are now respectable family men and, although they were prepared to talk to me, they wouldn’t go to the press. The fourth is a homeless addict who’s trying to sort out his life. He didn’t follow the Breidavík case in any detail since he was either on the streets or in rehab at the time. He’d heard about it, of course, but it hadn’t occurred to him that Krókur might fall into the same category. And even if it had, he probably wouldn’t have felt up to coming forward.’

  ‘Right, well, I don’t like it but of course I’m pleased you’re making such good progress.’ Heimir directed a pointed look at the others present, as if to imply that they should pull their socks up. ‘Have you spoken to any former staff?’ Heimir’s lips continued moving after he stopped speaking, as if his volume had been turned down. He was probably trying to work out how old they would be now.

  ‘The manager died about ten years ago, but tomorrow I’m going to see his widow, who ran the home with him. I can’t find any proper information about the other staff. Róberta didn’t seem to have any records of them.’ Ódinn had repeatedly searched through her files. ‘The old boys I talked to didn’t know the full names of anyone who worked there, so I wanted to ask if you could request a list of them, Heimir. You’re right, I need to interview a couple of former employees. They’re bound to view the home in a very different light from the woman who ran it.’

  Heimir frowned. ‘Róberta had a list somewhere, I’m fairly sure of that.’

  ‘Then she must have hidden it well. There’s nothing about staff in any of the documents I’ve found. The odd name crops up here and there, but either the last name’s missing or the full name’s so common that it’s as good as useless. I’d need a date of birth or some other information to narrow the search. I’m guessing you don’t want me to ring round everyone with the same name, on the off-chance?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Heimir. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He seemed annoyed, and when they spoke after the meeting, Ódinn understood why. It transpired that the office had received a large number of original documents, which he had passed on to Róberta, and he would prefer not to have to inform the ministry that these had been mislaid. However, he promised to look into the matter. Their conversation had the air of a confidential chat, as if they were friends swapping secrets, and Ódinn was on the verge of telling him what Pytti had said about the accident. But the homeless man’s story had been so far-fetched that Ódinn didn’t like to repeat it in case Heimir thought he was mad. There was no way, thirty-seven years after the event, to find out if Pytti was right. Two of the other old boys he’d spoken to had been at the home before the accident and the third shortly afterwards, so he only knew of it by hearsay, and the rumours he’d heard were even more outlandish than Pytti’s account. Ódinn had no idea what to believe.

  ‘Ideally I’d like to get permission to go through Róberta’s computer – her e-mail and so on. Maybe I’ll find something there. She may have scanned in the documents and not had a chance to save them in the appropriate folders.’ Ódinn still hadn’t dared tell Heimir about the threatening messages and had almost given up hope of finding a plausible excuse for needing to access her e-mail. Perhaps this was it.

  Heimir put on a martyred expression but said he would grant permission.

  Instead of returning to his desk and rereading the documents he already knew pretty much by heart, Ódinn decided to check yet again whether he had overlooked something among Róberta’s records.

  ‘Why weren’t you at the meeting?’ Ódinn sat down in Róberta’s chair and rolled it over to the filing cabinet under her desk. Staff meetings were obligatory, so he had assumed Diljá was off sick.

  ‘I just couldn’t be bothered.’ Diljá was on her feet, looking over the partition. ‘I know you’ll keep your mouth shut but, if he asks, tell him I was waiting for an important phone call. Hopefully he won’t ask who from.’

  ‘Tell him it was your gynaecologist. That’ll stop him in his tracks.’ Ódinn opened one drawer after another, rummaging inside. ‘Do you know if Róberta ever took work home with her?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘You never saw her with files in her bag or anything like that?’

  ‘Well, naturally she carried a bag sometimes. Who doesn’t?’

  Ódinn raised his eyes from the filing cabinet to Diljá’s face and was rewarded with a mocking smile and a heady waft of her perfume. ‘I mean, did she ever come in with an empty bag, or box, and take it home full of files?’

  ‘I’m not a security guard, am I? She could have come here with a hundred empty bags in the morning, filled them and taken them home without my noticing. Róberta usually got in before me and left after I’d gone.’ Diljá smiled again, more warmly this time. Suddenly her scent smelled nice to Ódinn. She seemed to sense this and fluttered her heavily mascaraed lashes.

  Ódinn looked away. ‘Shit. What’s she done with the stuff? Some of the documents are definitely missing.’ He ran his eyes over the pictures on the wall as if hoping to find a safe hidden behind them. Something was niggling at him; something he’d overlooked. That was probably why he kept coming back to Róberta’s desk. It certainly wasn’t Diljá’s flirting that drew him there.

  When she spoke again she had dropped the coy act. ‘How’s your daughter?’

  ‘She’s fine, thanks.’ Ódinn tried to appear unconcerned but his fingers felt a sudden urge to drum the desktop. He looked back at the wall, and paused at the photo of the boys that Rún had found so unsettling. She was right – there was something about that damn picture.

  ‘You’ve got a good girl there.’

  ‘Yes, I have.’ Ódinn’s gaze fell on a key that was hanging from a hook between two pictures. He took it down. It was an ordinary ASSA key, which would fit any type of door. Except here at the office where the locks were all electronic. ‘Any idea what this key’s for?’

/>   ‘Yes, it’s Róberta’s spare house-key. She started keeping it here after she locked herself out twice in a row.’

  Ódinn stared at the key in his hand. Could this have been what was niggling at him? Had his subconscious snapped a picture of it and been politely insisting that he find out what it opened? No, that wasn’t it. ‘Where did she live?’

  ‘On Kleppsvegur. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, no reason. Silly, really. Of course there’s nothing there. I expect someone else has moved in by now.’

  ‘No idea. And there’s only one way to find out.’ Diljá’s eyes widened. ‘Come on. Let’s go and see. God, I’m dying for a change of scenery. We can call it a field trip on our timesheets, and maybe stop off at a café or a bar on the way back.’

  It was hard not to be infected by Diljá’s enthusiasm. Perhaps it would turn out to be a mistake, like his brainwave of visiting Lára at the crack of dawn with the young guy on his stag do. But this time he wouldn’t be left in the lurch; Diljá wouldn’t jump in a taxi at the last minute. ‘OK, I’m up for it.’ The worst-case scenario was that they would walk in on complete strangers, but they could avoid that if they knocked loudly first. It was too late to back out now, anyway; Diljá had her bag on her shoulder and was chivvying him to get a move on. Ódinn gave Róberta’s workstation one more glance. It wasn’t the key that had been bothering him. It was something else. But what?

  Chapter 22

  As it was the middle of a weekday, there were plenty of free parking spaces in front of the block of flats on Kleppsvegur. Diljá immediately identified Róberta’s mailbox in the lobby by the sheaf of letters sticking out of it like a bunch of flowers. ‘Looks as if no one’s moved in yet.’ She gingerly extracted an envelope, causing several others to fall out. Ignoring them, she examined the one in her hand. ‘Pension fund. Probably her end-of-year statement. Who do you suppose’ll get the money now?’