The Undesired

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  ‘Accident?’ She knew perfectly well what he meant; this was a transparent attempt to buy herself time. Perhaps she’d grown so used to lying to him that she now did it automatically.

  ‘You know the one I mean. The accident that resulted in the deaths of two boys, Einar Allen and Thorbjörn, whose second name I can’t remember.’

  ‘Jónasson. Tobbi Jónasson.’ She said it so quietly that Ódinn had to strain his ears.

  ‘So you do remember?’

  ‘Yes. Will it be in the report?’

  ‘Among other things. But someone else will interview you about it.’ He longed to give her the third degree but knew she would only hang up on him. ‘Did Róberta contact you?’

  ‘No.’ She was lying. If Róberta hadn’t been in touch, Aldís would presumably have asked who he was talking about.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No. You don’t see anything.’ And with that their conversation was over.

  * * *

  ‘Don’t go. We’re expecting a visitor and this is as good a place as any to entertain guests.’ Diljá’s manner reminded Ódinn of his old cat when it used to bring home a bird or a mouse. ‘Unless you wouldn’t mind putting on the coffee and fetching the cups. We’ll have to be nice if we’re going to get anywhere.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ódinn had been on his way out of the meeting room. He had tried three times to call Aldís back before giving up.

  ‘Eyjalín wants to meet us, so I asked her to drop by. She must have a lot on her mind because she said she’d come straight over.’

  ‘Diljá, I’m not sure I should be present. Something’s come up that alters my position and I assume I’ll be transferred to another case.’

  ‘Another case? There aren’t any other cases.’ Diljá poked him with a long, green fingernail. ‘What’s going on? Are you cracking up?’

  ‘Yes, actually.’ He told her what had emerged from his interview with Lilja. ‘It would be wrong of me to have any further involvement in the inquiry. I hope you believe me when I assure you that I was completely unaware of this connection until just now.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, stop whining.’ She made a disgusted face. ‘Since when did family connections matter in Iceland? Are you nuts? Everyone’s related to everyone else. I’m not talking to this woman alone – I don’t know enough about the case, so you can just get off your moral high horse and wallow in corruption like the rest of us.’ She ushered him out. ‘Fetch some cups. I’ll see to the coffee.’

  Not long afterwards the receptionist announced Eyjalín. They rose to their feet and, after she had removed her leather gloves, shook hands. To Ódinn her hand felt unusually hot, slender and elegant. He was careful not to squeeze too hard for fear of crushing the delicate bones. ‘How do you do?’ This was the woman in the photo that Diljá had waved in his face in Róberta’s bedroom. Clearly he wasn’t the only one with a link to people involved in this case.

  The woman must have been around sixty, like his mother-in-law, but looked ten years younger. Maybe it was because she was so well turned out, in a coat with what appeared to be a genuine fur collar, under which she was wearing dark-brown trousers and a light-coloured cable-knit jumper that must have cost a packet. Around her neck she was wearing two gold chains that were worlds apart from Diljá’s costume jewellery. There was no grey to be seen in her shoulder-length dark hair, which was as thick as that of a much younger woman. Perhaps it was a wig. Her features were aristocratic: high cheekbones, large eyes and full lips. The only visible sign of ageing was the fine lines around her eyes. Almost everything else about her looked as if it were tailor-made. ‘How do you do?’ She smiled awkwardly, surveying the room. ‘This is cosy.’

  Diljá made a face behind her back, then offered her a seat and some coffee, both of which she accepted. She sipped from the clunky canteen crockery as if it were the finest bone china. ‘Nice and hot.’ Then she replaced the cup on its saucer and stared blankly into space. Ódinn was beginning to suspect that Eyjalín was a bit unbalanced, and feared she would break down in tears or display some other even more disconcerting behaviour. It was lucky Diljá was here; she’d know how to handle the situation.

  ‘We’d like to begin by thanking you for agreeing to meet us at such short notice. It’s only right you should know that Ódinn took over the case from Róberta and I’m only helping him out. As you’re aware, Róberta died very suddenly, so we’re rather at sea – we don’t know exactly what she did or didn’t discuss with you. So I’m afraid this may seem a bit repetitive.’ Diljá turned from the woman to Ódinn, and now they were both staring at him; Diljá as if she had succeeded in checkmating him; Eyjalín more innocently, eyes wide, as if she expected him to provide her with vital answers that she had long been waiting for.

  ‘Eyjalín,’ he began. The woman nodded as if to confirm who she was. ‘We’d be grateful if you could briefly outline your dealings with Róberta and explain how you met.’

  ‘She rang me.’ The woman gazed into her coffee cup as if she could read the answers there. ‘She’d found my letters among the papers from Krókur and the name’s not very common – except in my family, of course. Though since I was born no one’s wanted to use it. People might think the child was named after me.’

  ‘Oh,’ Diljá blurted out, then clamped her lips together.

  ‘Originally she wanted to know if I had any idea why the boys’ post had ended up in the home’s archives – whether it meant they’d never actually received the letters from their family and friends.’ She cleared her throat and sat up straighter. ‘And lovers.’

  Ódinn straightened his shoulders in an attempt to mirror the woman’s dignified posture. He had the feeling she’d be more cooperative if she thought he came from a similar background. ‘And were you able to enlighten her?’

  ‘Yes. The boys never received their post. There was no end to the vindictiveness of the couple who ran the home. As you can imagine, the people who sent the letters couldn’t understand why they never got an answer. Some of them are still coming to terms with it.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ódinn saw Diljá raise an eyebrow. He hoped Eyjalín hadn’t noticed. ‘We’ve seen the letters – let me assure you that we haven’t read them in detail but we have read enough to know that you wrote to Einar Allen, the boy who died during his time at Krókur.’ Eyjalín nodded without comment, so Ódinn continued: ‘It was treated as an accident, and no doubt it was, but I’ve heard rumours – completely unsubstantiated – that this wasn’t the case. Do you have anything to say about that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Again the woman sat up; she seemed to shrink whenever Ódinn spoke, then inflate when it was her turn to answer. ‘Einar and Thorbjörn were murdered. I’m convinced of it, and if it hadn’t been for my father, the incident would have been investigated properly at the time and the truth would have come out.’

  ‘Your father?’ Diljá leant over the table, her necklaces clinking. Eyjalín eyed the costume jewellery and Ódinn thought he detected a faint look of contempt. ‘How was he connected to the inquiry?’

  ‘My father was a judge. I can go through my ancestry if you like, but it would be extremely tedious for you. Let’s just say that members of my family have long held high positions in society and been considered…’ She searched for the right word: ‘… superior.’

  ‘But that doesn’t explain why your father put a stop to the investigation. I’d have thought his type would have wanted everything done by the book?’

  ‘He thought I’d killed them.’ Eyjalín took a sip of coffee. ‘Is this made from freshly ground beans?’

  Neither of them knew how to respond. Diljá was the first to break the silence. ‘Why did he think that?’

  ‘I was in rather a bad way at the time and had gone out there secretly several times to visit Einar. Or try to. I only wanted to see him. I was there that night, but I wasn’t involved in their deaths. I’d never have hurt a hair on his head. I loved him and he loved me.’ She g
ave a sad smile but there was a deranged glint in her eyes. ‘We were so in love.’ She put down her cup and patted her mouth with her fingers. ‘I’d written to him over and over again without getting an answer. You can understand how I felt, can’t you?’ Ódinn nodded fervently, trying to fake sincerity, and could see Diljá doing the same. ‘If those horrible people hadn’t withheld his post everything would have turned out differently. He’d have replied to my letters and I’d have been able to rest and recuperate as the doctor ordered.’

  Ódinn didn’t dare ask about her illness. The woman was such a bizarre mixture of formality and candour. Who knows what details might be volunteered? He let her talk. ‘Róberta was the first person who believed me. Everyone else thinks I’m crazy. If I so much as mention it, they start talking about having me put away, so I’ve learnt to keep quiet.’ She smiled. ‘It can be useful to know how to keep one’s mouth shut. But when I met Róberta I was allowed to talk at last. We became great friends and she understood me, and, what mattered more, she believed me. Losing her was terribly hard. She’d promised to do everything in her power to expose the truth.’

  ‘Do you know who was responsible – if it wasn’t an accident?’ Ódinn regretted having closed the window. It was hot and stuffy in the meeting room.

  ‘I’m not sure – but I have my suspicions.’

  ‘Would you be prepared to share them with us?’ Diljá enunciated the words embarrassingly clearly, as if addressing a simpleton.

  ‘I’m convinced Veigar was to blame. There was a rag blocking the exhaust pipe, but someone removed it and shovelled snow over the pipe instead. The most absurd part of the whole thing is that Daddy was so desperate to prevent suspicion falling on me that he made a deal with Veigar – the actual murderer – without realising what he was doing. He always thought I’d done it. So he wangled Veigar a good job and a cheap flat in town, and found a buyer for the farm. Everybody happy.’ She screwed up her face. ‘Except me.’

  ‘Your father must have acted fast.’ Ódinn wasn’t sure he fully understood the sequence of events. ‘Who found the rag and how did your father ensure it didn’t fall into the hands of the police? They must have been summoned immediately.’

  ‘Veigar found the rag. Or he and Daddy together. And me.’ Seeing that they didn’t follow, she elaborated: ‘Just before it happened, Veigar had caught me behind the buildings. I’d given up trying to see Einar and was on my way back to the road where I’d hidden Mummy’s car. I used to sneak over there at night sometimes. No one at home knew; they couldn’t understand why I slept so much during the day and attributed it to my illness. Anyway, Veigar caught me, hauled me into his office and demanded to know what I was doing there. When he realised who I was, he rang Daddy and asked him to fetch me. That’s why he was there when the whole thing was discovered.’

  ‘So your father and Veigar were the first on the scene?’ A light was beginning to dawn on Ódinn.

  Eyjalín nodded. ‘I was with them too. Daddy actually dragged me to the car. When he saw Einar and the other boy he tried to push me away but it was no good. I saw them. It was horrible.’

  ‘And you say that Veigar noticed the rag?’

  ‘Yes. I think I’ve remembered that right.’ Eyjalín closed her eyes and remained like that for a moment. Then she opened them wide. ‘Yes, that’s what happened. Veigar found it.’

  ‘But why would he have drawn attention to the rag if he’d put it in the exhaust himself? Surely he’d have taken you both inside, then disposed of it when nobody was looking? The police must have taken a while to arrive, so he’d have had plenty of time.’ The look of complacency faded from the woman’s face.

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ She ran her tongue over her lips, and her fingers, laden with gold rings, tapped out a nervous rhythm on the table. Her shoulders shivered as if she felt a sudden chill, but it couldn’t be with cold as the heat in the meeting room seemed to grow more oppressive by the minute. ‘Then it must have been her,’ she hissed from between clenched teeth.

  ‘Her?’ Diljá was mystified.

  ‘Her. The whore.’ Eyjalín placed a trembling hand on her heart. ‘Aldís. Of course.’

  Chapter 29

  March 1974

  At last it seemed the end of winter was in sight. The faint promise of spring in the air was enough to lighten Aldís’s step as she hurried from the little house over to the dining room. It was still an hour until sunrise but the darkness didn’t feel as impenetrable as it had lately; it was as if it had been diluted. The air wasn’t as cold in the lungs either, and didn’t sting her cheeks or fingers. The bird fluttered overhead, apparently aware of the same subtle shift. It had rallied recently, as if it believed the worst was over and winter wouldn’t last forever.

  In honour of the occasion she had dressed in her least scruffy clothes and left her hair loose. She had put on mascara too and for once felt satisfied with her reflection. She was looking good and so was the weather. But that wasn’t the only reason. If she’d been feeling as low as she had lately, she’d have dragged on her usual old rags and failed to notice the change in the weather and the light. But now the pain had lifted, and that was largely thanks to her mother’s letters. She’d read every word of them, in the right order, at least ten times. Her eyes kept misting over with tears. She missed her mother so badly that there was no more room for resentment. And she wept for the injustice of the fate that had driven them apart.

  In hindsight, it was as if neither had been in control of their reactions, as if inexplicable forces had been at work. The letters were a good example. If Aldís had been allowed to see her mother’s repeated pleas for forgiveness and expressions of unbearable sorrow and loss, her rage would have evaporated instead of intensifying. Admittedly, it still wasn’t clear why she’d thrown out that disgusting man, but at least she’d got rid of him almost as soon as Aldís left, which suggested that she had believed her and recognised what a creep he was.

  Today Aldís was going to hand in her notice. Today she was going to march into Veigar’s office, though she wasn’t due to clean it until tomorrow, and make that call to her mother. She wasn’t exactly looking forward to the conversation, but at the same time she couldn’t wait to be free of the last traces of anger.

  The bird whistled overhead, overshadowing Aldís’s satisfaction at her decision to leave. What would happen to the poor creature when she was gone? She dreaded breaking the news to Veigar and Lilja as well. She couldn’t decide which of them was likely to take it better, or if it would make more sense to face both at once. Now that she had finally made up her mind, she didn’t want to spend another day here.

  She’d have liked to pack this evening and leave Krókur first thing tomorrow, but that was wishful thinking. There was no one waiting to take her place and it was highly unlikely that Lilja would offer to take over her chores so she could get away sooner. Aldís was afraid they would force her to work out her notice; she wasn’t even sure how long that was. A week? Two weeks? A month? Or even until her successor could start? What if they couldn’t find anyone? Would she be stuck here forever? No. Aldís made a detour round a large snowdrift and resolved that if that were the case, she would simply walk out.

  The smell of coffee greeted her in the kitchen. That was unusual. Hákon was sitting nursing a steaming cup, the kitchen worktop was awash with water, and he appeared to have strewn the contents of the coffee packet over the table. She fetched a cloth from the sink, determined not to let this ruin her day. ‘You’re up early.’

  ‘Yes.’ He took a mouthful of coffee, staring into space. Once she was back up north or living in Reykjavík she would no longer have to be around people who barely noticed her.

  ‘Any particular reason?’ Aldís swept the water towards the sink with the cloth.

  ‘Haven’t been to bed yet. Just about to go.’ Despite this announcement, he took another gulp of caffeine. ‘Veigar ordered me to watch the place. He still thinks there’s someone prowling round here
at night.’ Hákon drank some more, watching her over the rim of his cup. ‘He thinks it’s you.’

  Feeling the blood rush to her cheeks, Aldís turned away to wring out the cloth. ‘I wasn’t outside last night, if that’s what you’re implying.’ Thank goodness she’d refused Einar’s request to meet up. She had to admit to herself that she was longing to be alone with him again: what held her back was the need to know more about him. Since she’d made no progress in finding out for herself, she’d probably have to ask him straight out. Perhaps she’d do it when they said goodbye. ‘What on earth makes him think I’m wandering around at night? Not that there’s any reason why I shouldn’t – there’s no reason for him to keep watch.’

  ‘I think he’s more worried it might not be you.’

  ‘Did you see anyone?’

  ‘Not a soul. Unless you count the man in the moon.’ Hákon put down his cup and brought out a snuff horn from the pocket of his shabby anorak. He shook out a thick line onto the back of his left hand. Before sniffing it up his nose, he locked eyes with Aldís. ‘You know that boy’s not for you, Aldís.’

  ‘What boy?’ She knew perfectly well who he meant.

  ‘I’m only telling you this in case you’re sneaking out at night to meet him. You’re too good for him.’ Crumbs of black snuff clung to his septum.

  ‘Well, I’m not.’ Her protest was feeble. ‘Why are you so sure he’s wrong for me, anyway?’ Her daydreams of a new life, far from this place, had sometimes included Einar, sometimes not. When she pictured a reunion with the girls from her class, he was part of the story, since most of them were now shacked up with boys from their school, uninspiring specimens though they were. Einar also had a bit part in the version where she was an air hostess, but he didn’t feature at all in her imagined meeting with her mother. Daydreams didn’t have to be realistic.

  ‘Like that, is it?’ A dark dribble of snuff oozed from one of Hákon’s nostrils, heading for his upper lip, and Aldís felt her stomach churn. She averted her eyes, gripped the sink with both hands and retched violently, bringing up nothing but slimy saliva. Behind her she heard Hákon repeat: ‘I said, like that, is it?’