He paused, his gaze arrested by one of the family photos on the sitting-room wall. It had been taken at their old house in 1989. In the background, there was a glimpse of pale-pink curtains and the white pelmet Ása had crocheted. He stood there for a long moment, gazing at the picture, and felt his breathing grow laboured again as he was hit by a wave of grief. He missed Sara so much that the pain was sometimes physical.
He tried to calm his breathing, afraid that his heart was on the verge of packing up after decades of grief and loss. It couldn’t take much pressure anymore. That was one of the reasons why he had decided to give up work. He had already undergone two angioplasties and any kind of strain was difficult for him. He had first been diagnosed with an irregular heartbeat shortly after Sara’s disappearance, when the grief hadn’t yet fully sunk in. He could remember little from that time, only the gulf he had been aware of between himself and other people. He hadn’t been there for Ása and she hadn’t been there for him. But at least she’d had her friends. People had gone out of their way to comfort her whereas they had made do with slapping him on the shoulder – as if a mother’s grief was more profound, more heartfelt, than a father’s. He remembered clearly that Tómas hadn’t shown his face for days, and although Hendrik had never revealed the fact, his brother’s betrayal had hurt.
He had always been there for Tómas.
There was another creak from the parquet, closer to the kitchen this time. He walked quickly back into the kitchen, but there was nobody there and nothing had been touched.
He dropped into a chair by the round table, bending forwards over his knees and wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. When he looked up, the sweat sprang out again: one of the kitchen drawers was pulled right out. He rose slowly to his feet, leaning on the kitchen worktop, and closed the drawer with a trembling hand. Now he was quite sure that something strange was going on. The drawer had been closed a few minutes ago, surely? Or had it? Suddenly, he wasn’t sure. The tap was still dripping but apart from that all was quiet.
He started moving slowly from room to room. There weren’t that many. One contained a desk and bookshelves, another a made-up spare bed and the third was his and Ása’s bedroom. As soon as he opened the door, he saw that the bed was unmade and the curtains hadn’t been opened. Had Ása gone out without making the bed? Impossible. He knew his wife and knew she would never have left their room in that state. Only then did it dawn on him that something might have happened to Ása. It was only a couple of days since she’d had a turn and fainted. Perhaps it had happened again. But, if so, where was she?
The only room left to check was the en-suite bathroom. When he opened the door he was met by his own face in the mirror above the sink. But it wasn’t alone: there was another face there too.
Before he could say a word or turn, the cold blade of a knife was driven into his neck.
Akranes 1992
They were all looking at her with the sort of concerned expression that she couldn’t stand. She felt as if she ought to be crying. As if they were waiting for her to. She almost wanted to do them the favour. To cry her eyes out so they could comfort her and tell her that everything would be all right, but she couldn’t; the tears wouldn’t come, so she simply stared out of the window and tried not to think about anything.
‘We’ve called your mother and she’s on her way,’ the headteacher said. Elísabet didn’t answer. She hadn’t said a word since she sat down in his office.
‘Andrés’s parents are coming to pick him up too. He’ll probably need stitches.’ The headteacher’s tone was accusatory. The woman next to him gave him a look and sighed. Then she leant over the table.
‘Elísabet, can you tell us what happened? I know Andrés shouldn’t have grabbed you like that but…’ The woman’s voice was soothing. She had said she was a psychologist. No doubt many people would have been won over by those observant eyes and that persuasive voice, but not Elísabet. She merely continued to stare out of the window, though she did wonder if she should report that she’d seen Magnea whispering in Andrés’s ear before he came running over to her. That she had almost certainly egged him on, in the same way that she ordered everyone else around. But Elísabet knew it was pointless: they wouldn’t listen. Grown-ups never listened.
‘How are things at home?’ the woman continued. ‘Is there something you’d like to tell us?’
The door opened and there stood her mother, her hair tied back in a pony-tail to hide the bald patch at the back of her head. Apart from her usual heavy, black eye make-up she looked quite presentable. And the stink of smoke was only obvious when she came closer.
The headteacher and psychologist greeted her mother and offered her a seat. While they were filling her in on what had happened, she nodded impassively, without so much as a glance at Elísabet.
‘Given the violence of her over-reaction, we were wondering if the root of the problem could lie elsewhere,’ the psychologist said. ‘Do you think there could be something bothering Elísabet at school, or at home, maybe?’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ her mother said. She looked so small sitting there in the chair by the desk, almost as if she had shrunk. This absurd idea made Elísabet smile, and the headteacher noticed.
‘She doesn’t seem to be taking it very seriously,’ he remarked.
Elísabet lowered her eyelids as if ashamed.
The psychologist, ignoring his comment, gave Elísabet a friendly smile. ‘I recommend that Elísabet comes for an appointment with me. She might find it helpful to speak to someone neutral. A stranger.’
‘If you ask me, that’s completely unnecessary,’ her mother said quickly. ‘And, anyway, we can’t afford to pay for that sort of thing.’
‘It would be part of the service offered by the school,’ the psychologist assured her. ‘What do you say, Elísabet? Don’t you think that would be a good solution?’
Elísabet met the psychologist’s eyes for the first time. She took care to keep a straight face as she nodded.
‘Right, that’s that then,’ the psychologist said, standing up as a sign that the meeting was over. Elísabet’s mother smiled coldly and laid a hand on Elísabet’s shoulder.
As they were leaving, Elísabet saw Sara and Magnea standing a little way off, watching them. She was sure they were both grinning.
When they got home, her mother slammed the door behind them, then grabbed Elísabet by the arm and shoved her so hard that she fell on the floor and grazed her elbow. She could feel her mother’s eyes burning into hers and hurriedly looked away.
‘How dare you do that to me?’ her mother hissed. She took out a cigarette, lit it and sat down at the kitchen table. Drumming her fingers, she sucked the smoke deep into her lungs.
‘Go to your room,’ she said, without even looking at Elísabet. She just sat there, her face turned to the window, smoking.
Elísabet got up, rubbing her elbow. She went upstairs to her room, as usual avoiding the stair that creaked loudest.
The cord of her bedside lamp was long enough to reach into the cupboard under the sloping ceiling. She pulled the duvet off her bed and pushed it into the cupboard along with her pillow. The yellow glow of the lamp lit up the cramped space, making her feel strangely safe in there, almost as if she were in another world. She sat down and started running her fingers over the scratches on the door. Sometimes she imagined she was in a cave. They had learnt about cavemen at school. Her teacher had shown them the pictures they had scratched on the walls, pictures that told whole stories.
But the scratches in her cupboard didn’t tell any stories, except perhaps her own, which no one but her would understand. She wrapped her duvet tightly around herself and eventually drifted off to sleep to the sound of the wind whistling in the gaps between the boards.
She didn’t wake up until evening, when she was disturbed by the familiar creaking of the top stair.
A dim light now showed inside the house and there was a black jeep parked in the drive. If it hadn�
��t been for the ambulance and police cars outside, they would have assumed it was an evening like any other. And so it was for most people. Weary parents were standing by stoves, stirring saucepans. The smell of cooking was beginning to emerge from the houses to mingle with the odour of wet tarmac. The rush-hour traffic was thinning out with every minute that passed. Everywhere they looked, windows were illuminated by flickering television screens. Elma pictured children sprawled on sofas, transfixed by the antics of colourful cartoon figures, their jumpers stained, their hair, which had been so tidy that morning, a tangled mess. The only times Elma could remember her sister voluntarily spending with her were those hours in front of the TV while supper was bubbling away in the kitchen. She wondered if the family who owned the house in front of her had ever enjoyed such times. Whether the little girl had sat beside her brother, watching cartoons while her mother was cooking. Had they been happy before disaster fell?
Kári and Grétar were standing outside the house, Grétar on the phone, Kári at his side, his hands buried in his pockets. His small eyes looked even blacker than usual in the gloom.
‘What the hell happened?’ Sævar asked. The phone had rung just as they were leaving Rúnar’s, and after that things had happened quickly. They had run down the steps, driven through town as fast as they dared, and Elma had opened the door and leapt out before the car had even stopped moving.
‘She stabbed him,’ Kári said. ‘She just went and stabbed him.’
‘What … Why did she do that?’ Elma asked, but Kári merely shrugged in bewilderment. ‘Where is she now?’
‘She’s in there with Hörður. I gather they’re going to take her to the station.’
The house was as tidy as it had been earlier that day when Elma had gone round to see Ása, apart from the dirt trampled over the floors. The smell was different too. Instead of the scent of freshly baked bread, a strange, metallic odour hung in the air. She could hear Hörður talking somewhere in the house and the sound of low voices issued from the bedroom where forensics were at work. Sævar followed the voices but Elma remained in the hall. The tiled floor was largely covered by a Persian rug. The walls were hung with paintings and a collection of objects were arranged on an imposing sideboard: figurines, a silver bowl and a vase on a crocheted white doily. There was a framed photo of the siblings – a little girl and an older boy. It was summer in the picture and the children’s blond hair was almost white. The boy had his arm around his sister. She was beaming from ear to ear; he wore a knowing smirk. Elma flinched when the grandfather clock emitted a hollow chime. One stroke. It was half past six.
When Elma peered into the sitting room she saw Hörður sitting on the sofa beside Ása. They hadn’t switched on the lamps and the only illumination came from the outdoor lights on the decking. Ása was sitting bolt upright with a knitted shawl over her shoulders. Her eyes were blank and she didn’t react to Elma’s approach. Hörður rose to his feet, beckoning Elma to go back into the hall with him.
‘She still hasn’t said a word,’ he whispered. ‘Of course we’ll wait until we get to the station before we question her, but she’s just sitting there, staring into space. I think she must be in shock.’
‘Is it definite that she stabbed Hendrik?’
‘She called emergency services herself,’ Hörður confirmed. ‘She said Hendrik was lying unconscious on the floor and that she had stabbed him. Apparently she sounded very calm on the phone, and when Kári and Grétar arrived, the door was unlocked and they found her sitting in the bedroom, holding out a blood-stained knife to them.’
Elma glanced disbelievingly into the sitting room. The petite woman sitting in there looked barely capable of standing up, let alone of stabbing a man so much bigger than herself.
‘Apparently the scene was horrific,’ Hörður went on. ‘Hendrik was lying on the bathroom floor bleeding heavily, while she just sat on the bed and watched. There was no sign that anyone else had been there. But still, I find it hard to believe she could have done it. I mean, I know them both so well. It’s completely incomprehensible.’
‘Is Hendrik alive?’
Hörður shrugged. ‘He was alive but unconscious when the paramedics arrived. I haven’t heard any news since then.’ He drew a deep breath and looked back towards the sitting room. ‘I just can’t work it out. What in God’s name happened here?’
‘Why hasn’t she been taken to the station?’ Elma asked, regarding Hörður in astonishment.
He shrugged again and sighed. ‘I’ll get Kári and Grétar to do that now. You stay with her while I’m gone.’
He left and Elma went into the sitting room and sat down warily beside Ása on the sofa. She didn’t know how to behave or what to say. Ása didn’t look round, just adjusted her shawl a little, wrapping it more tightly around her shoulders. Her hair, which had been fussily blow-dried when Elma first met her, now hung limply on either side of her pale face. Yet in spite of this she seemed oddly dignified.
‘We’ll have to take you down to the station in a minute,’ Elma said, after a short silence.
Ása turned slowly to look at her, and Elma was taken aback when she smiled a cold, sad smile. ‘I didn’t believe her.’ As Ása said it, her expression grew stony and her lips tightened. Her face, which up to now had been blank, suddenly contorted and Elma felt an urge to put an arm round her shoulders. When Ása spoke again her voice was choked and her eyes were fierce. ‘I didn’t believe it when she told me. She came and told me what he’d done. She told me everything but I didn’t believe it.’
‘Who told you everything?’ Elma asked in dawning surprise. ‘Are you talking about Elísabet?’
Ása nodded, then reached down and drew a small envelope from under the rug. She handed it to Elma, who took it, casting an uncertain glance towards the hall before cautiously opening it. Inside were three photographs, similar to the one from Elísabet’s car. Elma saw immediately that one of them was of Elísabet as a child, standing in nothing but her knickers, with an unmade bed in the background. A duvet without a cover and a ragdoll. Elísabet was looking directly into the camera. Her hands were clasped behind her back and her long hair fell over her bony chest. The picture must have been taken at the same time as the one found in her car. It was the same room, the same setting.
But the other two pictures showed a blonde girl lying on a large bed, her knees drawn up to her chest. She had both arms clasped over her bare ribcage and her eyes were lowered. Elma became aware of a bad taste in her mouth and could feel her face growing hot.
‘Who gave you these pictures?’ she asked. ‘Did you find them here?’
‘Hendrik did that to her,’ Ása whispered, dropping her gaze to her hands that were lying in her lap. Elma noticed that she kept stroking her finger and remembered that she had been wearing a ring earlier.
‘He did that to my girl. To my little baby.’
Her weeping continued to echo in the house even after she had gone, rending the silence, piercing to the bone. Elma knew that the sound would pursue her into the night.
When Ása had finally stood up she was so weak that Elma had to support her. Kári and Grétar had escorted her down to the station where she would spend the night before formal questioning began in the morning. This evening she would have to undress and submit to a body search, as well as giving various samples and having her mugshot taken. Elma felt genuinely sorry for her. She had helped her into her beautiful black leather coat, wrapped the shawl round her neck and eased her feet into her shoes, while the whole time Ása had kept up a quiet, heartbroken sobbing, like a small child.
Elma had shown the pictures to Hörður and Sævar, after which neither of them had said much. They needed time to take in the implications. Hörður spent the rest of the time there either talking on the phone, speaking to the forensics team in the bedroom or walking round the house in search of goodness knows what. Large patches of sweat stained his light-blue shirt.
‘She needs to rest. We’ll talk to her pr
operly tomorrow,’ he told them later in the evening.
‘Ása said that Elísabet came to see her,’ Elma said. ‘Apparently, Elísabet told her about Hendrik and what he had done to her and Sara.’ In that instant, she remembered the car in the garage. Before either Hörður or Sævar could say a word, Elma had spun round and was off. The garage was locked, as it had been earlier that day, but after a brief search she located the key in a small cupboard in the hall. The garage lights came on automatically after flickering for a few moments, to reveal a small grey car.
‘Look,’ Elma called to Sævar, who had followed her out of the house. She was standing by the front wing on the left-hand side. ‘There’s a small dent here but it’s hard to say what caused it. We’ll have to get forensics to take a look.’
‘That dent could have been caused by anything,’ Sævar said, examining it.
‘Yes, it could have been caused by anything,’ Elma repeated, but instinct told her he was wrong. They stood there in silence for a while, contemplating the car. The sequence of events was becoming clearer to Elma. The picture she had found in Elísabet’s car was like the ones Ása had shown her – same girl, same place. And the girl in the other pictures had been Ása’s daughter Sara. There could be no doubt about that.
‘Which of them do you think was driving?’ Sævar asked. ‘Was it Ása, or did Hendrik know that Elísabet had been here, wanting to tell her story?’
‘I don’t know. Ása didn’t say. All she said was that she hadn’t believed Elísabet when she claimed Hendrik had abused her. She didn’t believe it until she was sent the photos.’
‘Did Elísabet send them to her?’
‘I doubt it,’ Elma said. ‘Or presumably Ása would have acted sooner.’
Sævar sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. The lights went out and Elma pressed the switch to turn them on again.
‘Perhaps they were afraid Elísabet would repeat her accusations to a wider audience,’ Sævar said. ‘In any case, they had a motive to want to shut her up.’
The Creak on the Stairs Page 28
