The Creak on the Stairs

by Eva Bjorg AEgisdóttir

  ‘I can’t believe what happened.’ Lára hesitated. ‘The thing is, I heard you’d left town and I wanted to give you time … Maybe it was wrong of me. But it’s been difficult for me too. I wish there was something I could say…’

  Elma was silent. She could feel a lump forming in her throat and knew if she said anything her voice would break. Damn it, she’d become far too sensitive.

  ‘You may not want to talk to me but I’m here when you’re ready. Call this number, Elma. Any time.’ She sounded sincere. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Elma mumbled a reply and hung up.

  ‘I got hold of the lawyer,’ Sævar announced. Elma looked up from her desk. ‘He couldn’t tell me much because of the duty of confidentiality but he did say that Elísabet had a lot on her mind when she came to see him.’

  Elma nodded. ‘So now we know. On Friday she leaves home, calls in sick at work, then goes to meet a lawyer in Reykjavík.’

  ‘Right,’ said Sævar. ‘The fact she hid it from her husband has to mean that the meeting had something to do with him.’

  ‘Yes.’ Elma paused. ‘Unless it was about something else, something she’d been keeping quiet about, which may not have had anything to do with her husband.’

  Sævar came and sat down facing her, his eyes fixed on her face. As she carried on talking, Elma tried to ignore the blush that she could feel stealing across her cheeks. ‘We still don’t know where she spent Friday night, but I’ve established that she visited the house on Krókatún on Saturday. You know, the house where she used to live with her mother.’

  ‘Ah, so she did, did she?’

  ‘Yes, and apparently she behaved quite oddly, according to the woman who lives there. Especially after she’d been up to the attic to see her old bedroom. Perhaps something bad had happened to her up there.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘There were some strange scratches inside the bedroom cupboard. Of course, I can’t be sure, but it looked as if someone had been clawing at the door. There were dark streaks, like … well, as if blood had dripped down from the scratches.’

  Sævar frowned. ‘There could—’ he began, but Elma interrupted.

  ‘I know there could be any number of other explanations for them but I was just wondering if we should widen our focus beyond the husband. Nothing’s emerged yet to suggest he’s done anything wrong and we haven’t found any proof that Elísabet had a lover. Whereas it does appear that she had a difficult childhood and that she overcame her distaste for Akranes enough to go and visit her old home.’ Elma paused again. When voiced aloud, the idea sounded more far-fetched than it had in her head. In her opinion, what they’d learnt about Elísabet’s behaviour seemed a strong indication that she’d suffered some kind of trauma in her youth. Whether that had any bearing on her death, however, was another matter.

  ‘Why did she go and see a lawyer, then?’ asked Sævar. ‘Surely it must be linked to her husband?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Elma. ‘She could have been checking her legal situation in relation to some incident in her youth.’

  ‘If you’re talking about sex abuse, it would probably still be within the statute of limitations. But, remember, there was no man in the house when she was growing up.’

  ‘No, that’s true,’ Elma conceded. ‘But if her mother was an alcoholic, who knows how many strange men were coming and going?’

  Sævar sighed heavily. ‘Well, if she was going to report a crime, I suppose it’s possible that someone wanted to silence her. I can’t believe it was just a case of bad luck – that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But why now, after all these years?’

  Elma shrugged. ‘It’s common for victims of sexual abuse to tell their story long after the event. Especially if the incidents happened when they were kids. I’d like to build up a better picture of her childhood. I could talk to her old teachers, classmates and neighbours. That way we might also find out if she’d been meeting someone here in Akranes.’

  ‘Would you be doing that purely from curiosity or do you really think it’s relevant to the case?’ Sævar asked with a grin.

  ‘I admit I’m curious,’ Elma said, returning his grin. ‘But I still think it could be relevant or I wouldn’t have brought it up. Don’t you find it a bit suspicious that she’d always avoided the town, and then, when she does finally come back, someone kills her? Was it the town she was avoiding or somebody who lives here?’

  Sævar shrugged.

  ‘I doubt the murder was premeditated,’ Elma went on. ‘It was too messy – too amateurish. But I do think she knew her killer. The location’s too out of the way. Someone has to have known that she’d be at the lighthouse.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll give you that. It certainly doesn’t look well organised,’ Sævar said. ‘But…’

  Before he could finish, Hörður stuck his head round the office door: ‘The car’s turned up.’

  Akranes 1990

  The man owned their house and Elísabet was to be nice to him. That’s what her mother had said. He came round regularly but never stayed long. Elísabet didn’t know what he did while he was there, but her mother always told her to go up to her room. Or to go outside and, better still, stay out.

  Her mother always dressed up for his visits. Put on lipstick, drank out of a long-stemmed glass and smoked one cigarette after another. Elísabet liked to sit and watch her getting ready but her mother couldn’t stand it. ‘What are you gawping at?’ she used to ask, blowing smoke in her direction.

  Although Elísabet was only seven, she knew her mother didn’t love her. She’d read about mothers in the books she borrowed from the school library and knew what they were supposed to be like; how they were supposed to behave. They were supposed to be like Sara’s mother: telling you to do your homework, making sure you had a bath, brushing your hair. Mothers were supposed to be kind and loving. Her mother wasn’t like that. She did none of those things. Elísabet couldn’t even remember her mother cuddling her, back before everything changed. It had always been her daddy, never her mother.

  One day in December her mother drank too much. Elísabet found her lying on the floor in the sitting room, a broken bottle and a large wet patch beside her. At first Elísabet was frightened, but then she saw that her mother’s ribcage was moving. She stood there at a loss, staring at her, wondering if she should fetch Solla or leave her mother alone. She had just decided to leave her to sleep it off when the doorbell rang. Elísabet answered it to find that it was him: the man who sometimes came round, the man who owned their house.

  ‘Hello, Elísabet,’ he said.

  Elísabet didn’t answer. She didn’t know why he was always visiting her mother but she did know that it had a bad effect on her. After he left, her mother would sit there for ages, smoking and staring vacantly at the wall. Her eyes and face seemed to change with every month that passed, and Elísabet was sure that in the end there would be nothing left of her; nothing resembling the mother she had once known.

  ‘Is your mum home?’ the man asked, peering inside.

  Elísabet shook her head and made to close the door, but the man put out a hand to hold it open. Then he came in and closed the door behind him.

  ‘Elísabet,’ he said gently and squatted down. He stroked a strand of dark hair back from her face and gazed into her eyes. ‘You’re a beautiful girl. Did you know that?’

  Elísabet was silent. He owned their house. She had to be nice.

  ‘I can’t for the life of me understand how the car got in here.’ The man was standing, looking perplexed, one hand on his hip, the other scratching his head. Beside him was his wife, dark-haired and tanned, in a white chiffon top and tight jeans. They ran a fashion boutique in town and had just returned from Tenerife, where they regularly spent time in November, before the Christmas rush began at the shop.

  ‘Were the garage doors closed when you got back?’ Hörður asked.

  ‘Definitely. Closed and locked,’ the man confirmed.


  The woman pursed her lips, shooting her husband an irritated glance. ‘You must have forgotten to lock them. I just hope nothing’s missing.’

  The man snorted. ‘There’s not exactly much of value in there. I doubt burglars would be interested in stealing tools or old children’s clothes.’

  ‘Does anyone else have keys to the house?’ Hörður asked.

  ‘No,’ said the woman. ‘Well, except for the kids, but I doubt they’d have left a strange car in there.’

  ‘Perhaps they came round and forgot to lock up after themselves,’ Hörður said. ‘Can you get into the house from the garage?’

  ‘Yes, but that door was locked and we can’t see any sign that an intruder’s been in the house.’

  Hörður nodded, surveying the garage. ‘Has anything else been touched?’

  ‘No, not as far as we can tell.’ The woman tried and failed to hold back a yawn. ‘It just doesn’t make any sense. What was the owner thinking of, parking their car in our garage? I mean, was it snowing outside and they couldn’t be bothered to scrape their windows or something?’

  Hörður didn’t reply. He picked up a cloth and used it to try the car door.

  ‘We’ve already tried to open it. It’s locked,’ the man said.

  Hörður sighed but didn’t comment. How were they to know that the car was linked to a murder investigation?

  ‘There’s sand on the tyres,’ Elma pointed out. She had been hanging back with Sævar, letting Hörður take charge of interviewing the couple. Hörður bent down and peered under the dirty car.

  ‘Can’t we push it out?’ the man asked. ‘I can’t be doing with a strange car in my garage. There’s supposed to be a frost tonight and I need to get the jeep under cover.’

  Hörður straightened up and gave the man a level look. ‘We need to investigate further so I’m afraid your jeep will just have to remain outside for the moment.’

  ‘Investigate…?’ the man asked, annoyed. ‘What kind of bullshit is this, Hörður? Can’t you just tow the car away?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. Though I hope we’ll be able to soon.’ Hörður didn’t elaborate.

  ‘Well, in that case I’m off to bed,’ the wife said in a resigned voice. ‘Come on.’ She took her husband by the hand and led him away before he could say another word.

  ‘The number plate matches,’ Hörður said, once the couple had gone indoors. ‘The car’s registered as belonging to Elísabet.’ He took out his phone to call forensics, walking off to one side.

  ‘There’s something inside the car,’ Elma said. She pressed her face against the window. ‘Clothes of some sort, rubbish and a pile of papers. She must have been quite a slob, which is odd when you think of how spotless their house was.’

  ‘She didn’t have any car keys on her when she was found,’ Sævar said thoughtfully. ‘Which suggests someone else hid her car here.’

  ‘But why here?’ Elma said. ‘It’s not like it wouldn’t be discovered eventually.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s hard to hide something as big as a car. The killer must have known that the couple who lived here were abroad.’

  ‘And had a key to their garage?’ Elma asked sceptically. Could the killer simply have been buying time? She had to admit that the trick had succeeded in holding up the investigation for several days. Could he or she have used the time to disappear – to leave the country, even?

  ‘Maybe.’ Sævar shrugged. ‘Unless the wife was right and her husband simply forgot to lock it.’

  ‘Forensics will be here in an hour,’ Hörður announced once he’d finished his phone call, ‘so we can examine the car then.’

  It began to rain. Heavy drops started landing on the roof with a loud drumming that echoed around the garage.

  ‘Well, we don’t all need to wait here,’ Hörður said, zipping his coat up to the neck and pulling on his fur-lined hat. ‘I’m going to nip back to the office, but call me when forensics turn up.’

  Once Hörður had gone, Elma pulled out a small stool from by the garage wall. She yawned and huddled into her coat, saying: ‘What I wouldn’t give for a coffee right now.’

  ‘Hey, why don’t I run out and buy us some?’ Sævar offered. ‘It’s not far to the Olís garage.’ He pulled up his hood and dashed out to the car.

  Elma remained behind in the garage, listening to the booming of the rain and the hissing of the hot-water pipes. Sævar was his usual self again and she felt silly for thinking that yesterday evening could have affected their relationship. It wasn’t as if anything had happened. There was no reason to believe his hurried departure had had anything to do with her. After all, she was hardly the sort of temptress who was constantly having to push men away.

  A cold draught sneaked under the garage door as the wind gained strength. When she walked to work that morning, it had been perfectly still and there had hardly been a cloud in the sky. You certainly couldn’t complain about the monotony of the weather at the moment. She got to her feet and began pacing around the garage to keep warm.

  The place was a mess. Stuff was crammed into shelves, cupboards and boxes, as if the owners never threw anything away. Few of the boxes were labelled. Elma opened a large cupboard and discovered that it was filled with what looked like dozens of shoes and coats. The place was littered with outdoor gear too: skis, snowboards, fishing rods and waders. None of it showed much wear and it had clearly been lying there untouched for a long time.

  What must all this gear have cost? Millions, no doubt. She knew the couple who lived there were well off. In addition to fashionwear, the wife sold all kinds of designer goods, sports gear and so on. This was often the way in country towns: shops couldn’t afford to specialise too much as the market wasn’t large enough to support outlets for individual types of goods. The couple had two kids, one of whom, the son, was the same age as Elma and had been at school with her. Yet there had been no sign that they recognised her – not that she had expected them to. She hadn’t exactly been friends with their son. He’d been one of the cool gang, always dressed in the latest fashions and tanned from frequent holidays abroad. The family had never made any attempt to hide their wealth; in fact, she suspected them of acting as if they had more money than they really did.

  The son’s name was Hrafn, but he had always been known as Krummi. When she was younger, she’d had a crush on him, like most of the other girls in her class, but as she grew older she had begun to see him with new eyes. She’d realised he was arrogant and incredibly cruel to the vulnerable kids in their class. Thinking back now, she remembered how he used to talk about one of the other boys, a shy, unattractive kid. Krummi used to go on loudly about what an ugly loser he was, even when the kid was only sitting a few feet away, and Elma had watched the boy slumping ever lower in his seat until eventually he had leapt up and run out of the classroom, followed by the jeering laughter of Krummi and his mates. She also recalled the time he had befriended Eyrún, a girl who was generally considered a bit weird, and promised that, if she sang a song she had made up herself in front of the whole class, he would invite her to the school disco. Naturally, he hadn’t been serious. The girl’s performance had brought the house down. Even the teacher had struggled to hide a smile. Elma could still remember the girl’s expression when she realised that everyone was laughing at her; that her fairy-tale prince would never take her to the dance.

  By the time Sævar returned, Elma’s stomach was tied up in knots and she felt as if a black fog had descended over everything. It was the effect that remembering her schooldays always had on her.

  ‘Coffee for the lady,’ Sævar announced, handing her a paper cup. ‘Black and sugarless. I’m getting to know your requirements.’

  Smiling at him, she took a sip. It felt good standing there in the garage with Sævar while the raindrops drummed on the roof. When she was younger, she used to fantasise about living in a cave, like the character from an Icelandic folktale. She would gaze dreamily towards Mount Akrafjall and imagine how she
would live there all alone in her dark lair, observing the world from a safe distance.

  ‘Why do you think Elísabet didn’t want to come back?’ she asked, after they’d stood there in companionable silence for a while, sipping their coffee.

  Sævar raised his brows enquiringly: ‘Where?’

  ‘Here – to Akranes.’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe she was unhappy at school – got bullied. Or suffered some kind of abuse at home, like we discussed. Or perhaps she just had no reason to come here.’

  ‘It’s got to have been more than that. Her husband said she hated the town. What would make a person hate a whole community? That’s putting it quite strongly, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, hate’s quite a strong word. Maybe she connected the town with something bad that had happened to her as a child. Perhaps there are people here she didn’t want to meet. I don’t know – it could be so many things. People tend to associate bad experiences with particular places.’

  Elma glanced up at him, raising an amused eyebrow.

  ‘I’m not joking,’ Sævar said, reluctantly giving way to laughter. ‘There’s a name for it. What is it again? You know, like the child and the cat? Or the dog being made to drool?’

  ‘The child and the rat, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, or the rat. You studied psychology, you should know.’

  ‘You mean the Little Albert experiment. They managed to associate a rat with fear in the baby’s mind by making a scary loud noise every time he touched it. In the end the presence of the rat alone was enough to make the baby cry. He associated his fear of the noise with the rat and ended up being afraid of all furry animals. It’s called classical conditioning.’

  ‘That’s it. Isn’t that often the reason why people develop phobias?’

  ‘Yes, possibly. Though it’s a bit far-fetched to feel fear or hatred for a whole town.’ Still, Elma thought, Sævar’s idea was actually quite plausible. She thought about her own reaction to her old school building. About how she was filled with the same sense of dread every time she passed it or set foot inside. About how she felt when she bumped into any of those people – Krummi and his gang, her former classmates.