‘The house on Krókatún?’
‘That’s right. It’s been sold but I think we should drop round and see the new owners. Find out if they had a visit from her at the weekend.’
Hörður nodded. ‘OK, you take a look at the house, Elma. Sævar, you check what kind of car Eiríkur owns and see if you can find any holes in his alibi: was he caught on CCTV somewhere he shouldn’t have been? That sort of thing.’
Elma stood up and glanced at Sævar, who gave her a brief smile. She got the impression he’d been avoiding looking at her ever since they arrived. She noticed the dark circles under his eyes. He had left so abruptly the previous evening that she was worried she’d done something to scare him off.
Elma pulled up outside the house in the west of town. There was a bare lawn around it; no fence, just wind-blown trees and a lone swing rocking gently to and fro in the breeze. The front of the house facing the road was clad in white-painted timber and had triple-casement windows. The other side looked out over the sea, and in good visibility it would have a clear view of the Snæfellsnes Peninsula to the north-west. The place was obviously in need of maintenance as the concrete at the base of the walls was crumbling, and stained here and there with streaks of rust.
Elma climbed the cracked concrete steps to the front door, thinking that it was exactly the sort of old house that Davíð would have appreciated. She knocked at the door. After a short interval it opened and a woman in a baggy light-blue shirt and torn jeans gave her a cheerful welcome. Her fair hair was tied back in a pony-tail with a few strands hanging loose around her face.
‘Do come in,’ the woman said after Elma had explained what she wanted. She introduced herself as Gréta. Elma followed her into the kitchen while she was talking. There were cardboard boxes all over the place, some open, others yet to be unpacked. ‘We’ve just moved in,’ Gréta explained. ‘We’re going to do the place up and convert it into an Airbnb. It’s far too big for the two of us and I’ve been dreaming of opening a guesthouse for ages, so I finally decided to go for it.’ She motioned to Elma to sit down at the small kitchen table. ‘I’ve recently got divorced,’ she added.
‘I hear that Akranes is becoming ever more popular with tourists,’ Elma remarked, accepting the cup of coffee Gréta offered her.
‘Exactly,’ said Gréta. ‘Anyway, you were asking if I’d had any visitors, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, it’s to do with a case we’re investigating,’ Elma said. ‘This may sound a bit strange but you didn’t by any chance have a visit last weekend from a woman who used to live in this house as a child?’
‘Yes, I did,’ said Gréta, nodding eagerly. ‘She was very nice. Not pushy at all. She just asked politely if she could take a look round. She’d been meaning to come earlier, when the house was on the market, but hadn’t been able to for some reason.’
‘Was she alone?’
‘Yes, it was just her. I spotted her from the window. It was quite odd, actually.’ Gréta laughed. ‘I’d just got out of the shower and saw her standing behind the house, on the wild bit of garden down by the sea, just staring at the view. When I came out to see what she wanted, she was rather embarrassed and apologised. But as soon as she explained what she was doing there, I understood perfectly. You often feel a strong connection to the place where you lived as a child. I myself grew up in a blue house in Hafnarfjörður and I sometimes take a detour past it just to say hello, if you know what I mean.’
‘What did she say?’ Elma interrupted quickly, before Gréta could go off on a tangent about her own childhood. It was clear she enjoyed talking.
‘Oh, she didn’t say very much, actually. Just mentioned that she’d lived here with her mother and had always wanted to see the house again. She asked if she could be alone for a minute in her old room in the attic, which is Nói’s room now. I let her, of course, but you can picture Nói’s face when he was forced to look up from his computer for once. Then she just wandered round the house. I offered her a coffee but she said no thanks. She was very enthusiastic about the changes we’re planning to make. Very enthusiastic…’ She trailed off and Elma waited patiently for her to resume.
Gréta coughed and laughed awkwardly. ‘Sorry, it’s just … after she came downstairs from the attic she seemed in a strange mood. I got the feeling it had stirred up bad memories or something because she seemed so … sad. I asked if she’d been happy here. You know, it matters to us. Every owner leaves an aura behind, which helps to create a good atmosphere in the house. But she didn’t answer, just said thanks and left almost at once.’
Elma was sceptical about auras, good or bad, but nodded anyway. ‘I couldn’t possibly take a look at the attic myself, could I?’ she asked.
Gréta shrugged. ‘Sure, but there’s nothing there now except Nói’s stuff. He’s hardly lifted a finger since we moved in. The only thing he’s unpacked is his games console.’ She rolled her eyes, then yelled ‘Nói!’, so suddenly that Elma jumped. She looked towards the stairs and after a minute or two a gangly teenage boy appeared at the top of them, in skinny jeans and a baggy hoodie that reached almost to his knees. He came slowly downstairs in obedience to his mother’s impatient summons.
‘Nói, this is Elma. She works for the police and just wants to take a quick look at your room.’ Gréta put a hand on his shoulder. Nói looked at Elma then back at his mother. He opened his mouth to protest, then groaned and flopped down on the sofa.
Gréta went upstairs, beckoning Elma to follow her. ‘It’s such an old house that everything’s a bit cramped, but that’s part of its charm,’ she said, once they were on the landing.
Elma examined the attic room. She didn’t know exactly what she was doing up there or what she hoped to find. There was old parquet on the floor and a built-in cupboard running the length of the wall at the foot of the sloping ceiling. The floor was stacked with boxes. On one side of the room was a bed and opposite it a table had been set up with a TV and games console. Remote controls littered the crumpled duvet and on the bedside table was a half-full glass of some fizzy drink. Gréta reached up to the skylight and opened it wide.
‘Phew, it’s a bit stuffy in here,’ she exclaimed. ‘That cupboard would be good for storage but I can’t bring myself to put Nói’s clothes in there.’ She opened the door of the cupboard under the sloping roof. ‘Look how filthy it is. I still haven’t got round to cleaning it out.’
‘Mind if I have a look?’ Elma asked.
Gréta shrugged. ‘There’s nothing in there. At least, I hope not. Though I wouldn’t be surprised to find a dead mouse or even a rat.’
Elma used the small torch on her key ring to illuminate the interior. She had to crouch down to see inside as the cupboard roof was low and the space became more cramped the further back it went. The walls inside were grimy and sticky. There was a thin layer of dust on the floor and as it was stirred up Elma had to pinch her nose to suppress a sneeze. But there was nothing inside the dark cubbyhole. No sign of a dead rat or anything that could have belonged to the former owners. She was about to shut the door again when she noticed marks on the inside of it. She ran her fingertips over the rough wood.
‘Yes, I’d noticed that,’ Gréta said. ‘There must have been a mouse problem. It’ll take a while to restore the cupboard.’
Elma nodded absently. The inside of the door was covered in irregular scratches: circles and lines and something that looked like a picture or letters, which made it impossible that the marks could have been made by an animal. In places the wood was stained by something that had dripped down it. Although the scratches were shallow, the dark streaks were conspicuous on the light-coloured wood.
‘What do you think that is?’ Gréta bent down and peered at the marks.
‘Nothing in particular,’ Elma answered as she stood up again. She banged the dust from her trousers. ‘This must have been a child’s room.’
‘That would have been a while ago then, because the couple who lived here before us didn’
t have any kids.’
‘Yes, I expect the marks are old,’ Elma agreed. She felt suddenly overwhelmed with depression. Perhaps it was the effect of the airless room but, whatever it was, she needed to get out of there as quickly as possible.
Hendrik had decided that they should meet at the office as it seemed more appropriate in the circumstances. His brother was late as usual, and Hendrik reclined in his chair, waiting patiently.
He had always felt protective towards his little brother. Ever since they were boys it had always been Tómas who got into trouble. He went looking for fights and quarrels, never happier than when he was in the thick of the fray. And it was always Hendrik who had to bail Tómas out when he’d managed to turn everyone else against him. Hendrik had always been popular and enjoyed respect from the group, and Tómas had reaped the benefits. If it hadn’t been for Hendrik, Tómas would probably have had a rough ride.
Their father was Danish. He had met their mother when she was studying at the Folk High School in Denmark, and moved to Iceland with her, where they had eventually settled in Akranes. When Hendrik was ten, however, their father had moved back to Denmark and met a Danish woman with whom he went on to have three children. He never came back to visit his sons in Iceland. Tómas had only been six at the time, and Hendrik was sure that his younger brother had been much worse affected by their father leaving than he had been himself. Hendrik had always been their mother’s favourite, whereas Tómas and their father had been very alike. They had understood each other. Their mother hadn’t been particularly surprised when their father walked out on them. He was just made that way – impulsive, thinking only of himself – and Tómas was the same. Sometimes their mother had looked wearily at Tómas, shaking her head, and said that it was as if their father had never left: Tómas was the spitting image of him.
But Hendrik wasn’t sure that all Tómas’s faults could be blamed on their father. He had been the same as far back as Hendrik could remember: mischievous, restless and irresponsible – and their father couldn’t be blamed for bringing him up that way. Nowadays he would probably have been diagnosed with some kind of behavioural disorder but at that time such things were unheard of. Nevertheless, Hendrik couldn’t go on letting Tómas off the hook forever; his youthful escapades had given way to crimes that were far more serious.
Hendrik was not happy about the rumours currently doing the rounds: it seemed that everyone had heard about the way Tómas had treated that girl. Hendrik had forgiven his brother a lot over the years; he’d even turned a blind eye to his methods of collecting the rent on their properties, reasoning that at least it meant the women didn’t have to pay and could use the money for something else instead. Yet his conscience had always bothered him and belatedly he had put a stop to it. By then, people had started talking too. Those rumours were never proved, but it was different in this case, with the girl’s injuries so glaringly obvious.
‘Hiya,’ Tómas said, sauntering into his office without knocking, as usual.
Hendrik didn’t answer, just nodded and motioned to him to sit down.
‘What’s up?’ Tómas asked. His shirt could have done with an iron and he was unshaven. The rank smell of stale sweat carried to Hendrik across the desk. Once, Tómas had played an active role in running the company. He used to turn up to work every day, neatly presented, and had been an active business partner. But that was long ago and it had ended badly. When the company had gone through a rough patch, Tómas had skipped off so quickly that he couldn’t be seen for dust, and Hendrik had the feeling that he had never truly come back.
‘There’s no easy way to say this,’ Hendrik began, his face grim, ‘so I’ll just go ahead: I want to buy you out.’
‘Out of the company?’ Tómas asked.
Hendrik nodded.
Tómas looked grave for a moment or two, then, to Hendrik’s consternation, he began to smile. The smile widened until his yellowing teeth were exposed and he burst out laughing, his guffaws booming around the office.
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Tómas said, once he’d finally got himself under control again. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to say that for years but you never did. You don’t need to worry about me any longer, big brother; I can take care of myself.’
Hendrik was speechless. He had already prepared the contract, so he silently pushed it across the desk, showing his brother the sum of money he had in mind. Tómas merely nodded and signed without bothering to read the rest of the document.
As Tómas was leaving, he turned in the doorway, his face momentarily grave. ‘Are we quits now, bro?’
‘What do you mean?’ As he stared, frowning, at his brother, Hendrik was transported back to the days when they were little boys. When Tómas was always getting into scrapes and Hendrik had to clear up the mess. He could still remember his little brother’s guileless gaze as he said he was sorry. But he never apologised to his victims: he always left that to Hendrik.
Instead of explaining, Tómas merely smiled enigmatically and left. Hendrik sat in his office, his eyes resting unseeingly on the door, recalling long-forgotten memories of two little boys who had once been inseparable.
Elma decided to have a coffee while she was waiting for Sævar and Hörður. In the kitchen, she found Begga and Kári sitting round the table with Grétar, a uniformed officer Elma had only met in passing. She noticed that Begga was conspicuously less smiley than usual. She was staring out of the window but glanced round when Elma came in. Elma assumed her sombre mood was due to the case until Begga heaved a sigh and explained that her cat had got out two days ago and still hadn’t come home. ‘You haven’t seen him, have you?’ She held out her phone to show a large, ginger cat curled up in a brown armchair. Elma remembered the animal from when she had gone round to Begga’s flat. She had tried to push him away as politely as possible when the cat had rubbed against her legs, then jumped onto her lap uninvited. As soon as she got home, she had chucked her fur-covered clothes in the washing machine.
Elma shook her head. ‘No, sorry.’ In fact, she was fairly sure she wouldn’t recognise it if she encountered it on her way to work as she didn’t usually pay any attention to the cats that crossed her path. But she couldn’t say this to Begga when she was looking so dejected.
‘Pass me the picture, Begga.’ Kári leant over the table, holding out his hand. He examined the photo closely. ‘I think I saw a cat like that in my garden yesterday. Since we both live on Vesturgata, it could well have been him. If I were you, I’d check the area around the barber’s shop. I live behind it, as you know.’
Begga’s face brightened. ‘I’ll go and give Dad a call and ask him to drive past just in case. Thanks, Kári.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Kári posted an entire biscuit into his mouth.
‘It’s so awful,’ Grétar remarked, after they’d been silent for a while.
‘About Begga’s cat?’ Elma enquired, finding it hard not to smile.
‘No, about Elísabet,’ he said, frowning. ‘I remember her from school – we’re around the same age; she was in the year below me. I didn’t even know she lived just down the road in Hvalfjörður. I thought she’d moved away years ago. To be honest, I’d totally forgotten about her. She’s not on Facebook, so I didn’t really come across her at all.’
‘Why didn’t you mention this earlier?’ Elma asked, taking a proper look at Grétar. He had joined the police fairly recently, in spite of being older than her. She wondered why he had decided on the career change and what he had done previously. Perhaps she’d ask him when she got a chance.
Grétar shrugged. ‘I didn’t realise at first, but then it didn’t matter. It’s not like I really knew her.’
‘Do you remember what she was like at school?’ Elma asked. ‘Who she hung around with and so on?’
‘I can hardly remember who I hung around with myself,’ Grétar said with a laugh, but quickly grew serious again when he saw Elma’s impatient expression. ‘But I do remember that Elísabet wa
s a bit strange.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Only that she wasn’t like the other kids. She was different, somehow.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being different,’ Elma snapped. It came out rather more sharply than she’d intended. ‘We get the impression she didn’t have much support at home.’
Grétar thought for a moment. ‘I remember that her mother was a headcase.’
‘A headcase?’ Elma repeated, taken aback by his choice of language. She wondered what had prompted him to use such a word about Elísabet’s mother. Was that how people had talked about Halla in Akranes? If everyone knew she had mental problems, why had nobody intervened?
‘Yes, she was a bit mental,’ Grétar said, looking rather shamefaced. Reddening slightly, he added: ‘Some kids just never have a chance.’
‘You can say that again,’ Elma agreed. She drank the rest of her coffee, ignoring her rumbling stomach, and left the kitchen in a thoughtful frame of mind. Her phone began vibrating in her pocket the moment she sat down at her desk. The number that flashed up on the screen didn’t ring any bells but she answered anyway. She’d hardly had any calls in the last few weeks, except from her parents or on work-related business. She had the feeling people were avoiding her after what had happened.
‘Elma?’
She recognised the voice immediately.
‘Hi, Lára. What can I do for you?’ She could hear how cold her voice sounded; how distant, as if it didn’t belong to her.
There was a brief silence.
‘Oh, Elma … I should have rung before.’
‘Don’t be silly, I’m fine,’ Elma said, trying to force herself to sound breezy.
The Creak on the Stairs Page 14
