Ashes to Dust

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  Thóra looked down at the bag, surprised. She took it from Jóhanna. ‘What are they?’

  Jóhanna looked apologetic and rubbed at her chin. ‘Alda always kept diaries and I knew they were kept in storage, with other things, at Mother and Father’s. Our house was one of those that wasn’t buried completely and was dug up later. After Father died, Mother put the house up for sale, but no one was interested. I helped her go through stuff and throw some of it out, so the house could be shown without her feeling ashamed of all the junk in the basement and the garage. I found these among some of Alda’s things that she left behind in the evacuation. I was going to bring the diaries to our meeting last weekend.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘Mother is in Reykjavik because of Alda’s death, and she doesn’t know I took them. I’m not sure she’d remember them, in all honesty.’

  Thóra could have kissed the woman, but restrained herself. It was clear to her that she shouldn’t accept the diaries, which could be used as evidence in the police investigation, but equally she knew that if she turned them over she wouldn’t get to see them again any time soon, and even then she’d probably never get to read every word. However, as a lawyer she had an obligation to do the right thing. ‘The most proper course of action would be for these diaries to go to the police,’ she said, holding the bag out to Jóhanna. ‘It’s possible that the diaries contain information they have the right to receive.’

  Jóhanna’s expression hardened and she stopped rubbing her jaw. ‘I won’t give these to Gudni and his colleagues. It’s out of the question. These are my sister’s private thoughts from her sensitive teenage years, and I don’t want them being made public for strangers to rip them apart.’

  ‘Have you read them?’ asked Thóra, still holding out the bag.

  ‘No,’ said Jóhanna, shaking her head. ‘I can’t bring myself to do it. At the time these diaries were the holiest things that Alda owned and she wouldn’t let me near them, even before I could read. I don’t want to know her secrets, no matter how trivial they might seem today.’ She looked imploringly at Thóra. ‘I trust you, although I don’t know you at all. You know how it is to be a young girl, and besides, you will be able to judge whether there’s anything relevant to the bodies and to Alda’s murder.’

  ‘It’s not definite that Alda was murdered,’ said Thóra, mainly as a formality. Jóhanna had clearly fixed the idea in her head and right now nothing Thóra could say or do would change that. ‘And even if the diaries shed some light on the case, that doesn’t mean they’ll explain her death.’

  ‘I understand that,’ replied Jóhanna, although her expression said otherwise. ‘Maybe there’s absolutely nothing there. But there might be something. We’ll just have to see.’ She took Thóra’s hand. ‘Could I ask you to read through them for me? If there’s nothing in them of interest to the police, then I could have them back and no one would need to know anything.’ She paused for a moment. ‘If you do find something, then I suppose that particular diary would go to the police, and that would be fine with me. I just can’t disrespect my sister by handing these over to the police if there’s no need for it.’

  Thóra looked at the woman standing before her. She was, as before, wearing the plain uniform of a bank clerk, and the green blouse she’d chosen to go with her blue suit didn’t match at all. There was a white spot of toothpaste at one corner of her mouth. Fashion and grooming are naturally not uppermost in one’s mind during times of grieving, and Thóra couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. ‘I’ll read these, but I’ll have to hand over everything that I think pertains to the case.’ She looked at the bag. ‘It would, of course, be best if you read them yourself.’

  Jóhanna shook her head briskly and her hairstyle, if you could call it that, went completely askew. ‘No. I don’t want to. You might think me silly or cowardly but it’s more than loyalty to my sister that stops me reading what’s in them.’ She inhaled through her nose and exhaled slowly. ‘Something went wrong between Alda and Father. I don’t remember them ever speaking, or meeting up. I’m too scared to find out what caused it, in case Father did something unforgivable to her. I want to remember them both as they were, and it’s too late to change anything. They’re both dead.’

  Thóra nodded. She got the picture. Incest cases were reported far too often, so of course Jóhanna was afraid this was the case. She said: ‘I understand. You can rest assured I won’t hand over anything that’s not directly related to the case. And I’ll get in touch with you before I give them anything.’

  Jóhanna smiled, relieved. ‘Good.’ She looked at the large clock hanging in reception. ‘God, I’ve got to get going. I’m really late.’

  Thóra watched the woman walk out through the hotel door and trudge off in the direction of her work, her eyes following her until she disappeared around a corner. The bag hung heavily from Thóra’s clenched fist, and she was itching to read the diaries. She sincerely hoped there was nothing in them that might cause Jóhanna unnecessary pain, but she feared there would be. Anything relevant was bound to be both negative and painful for the woman. What Matthew had said about hatred echoed in her mind, and Thóra asked herself if she really wanted to know how this tragic series of events had started.

  Bella plonked herself down next to Thóra at a table in the airport. She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, in the direction of the refreshment kiosk. ‘Load of rubbish. They don’t even stock it.’ She twisted round in her seat, and it looked to Thóra as if she were giving the cashier the evil eye. ‘And they call this an airport.’

  ‘The flight takes twenty minutes, Bella,’ said Thóra irritably. ‘I’m sure you can survive without nicotine gum.’ Now the evil eye fell on her so she looked away, in the direction of the boarding gate. ‘They’ll probably announce the flight soon,’ she said, just to have something to say. It wasn’t just Bella’s nonsense that made her impatient to get going, but the fact that she was waiting anxiously to dive into the diaries. She was in a hurry to read them, not just from excitement over what they might reveal, but also because if she had to hand them over to the police, it would obviously look better if she did so quickly. The police would be annoyed with her no matter how promptly she gave them the books, but it would reduce the damage if she did it as soon as possible after getting hold of them. If she could read through them today, it would be possible to make photocopies of them and return the diaries tomorrow.

  ‘They’re in no hurry,’ muttered Bella. ‘We’ve paid for our tickets and they can’t leave without us.’ She stood up. ‘I’m going out for a smoke.’ Thóra felt relieved to be left alone again, and her relief grew when she heard the call to board their flight to Reykjavik. She went to fetch Bella from the airport entrance, where she was leaning up against a statue honouring the visit to Iceland of Gorbachev and Reagan and blowing out one stream of smoke after another. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to miss our plane.’

  ‘It’s not going anywhere,’ said Bella confidently, but nevertheless took one last drag and stubbed out the cigarette. She pointed at the inscription on the statue’s base. ‘Who are these guys?’

  ‘Come on,’ said Thóra, not caring to tell the girl the story behind the world leaders. ‘They’re just some former big- shots who don’t matter any more.’ She hurried inside, even holding the door open for her secretary to chivvy her along, but they were still the last to board the plane and take their seats. As soon as she had fastened her seatbelt, Thóra took out the diaries.

  ‘What are those?’ asked Bella in surprise when she saw the multicoloured, slightly battered books in Thóra’s lap. She raised her pencilled eyebrows. ‘Diaries? I had some like that when I was a kid. Whose are they?’

  The tracks of Reagan and Gorbachev might have been covered over by time, but some things survived from generation to generation. Thóra had kept diaries herself, not unlike those lying at the top of the stack. ‘Oh, this is something that I need to go over,’ replied Thóra, not saying anything about who the diaries b
elonged to. ‘I don’t think they’re anything important.’ Thóra had hit the nail on the head, judging by the first diary. It was from 1970, and at first glance nothing in it appeared relevant to the investigation. Alda’s handwriting was typical for an adolescent girl: big rounded letters, the letter ‘i’ sometimes dotted with a heart. There was often a whole week between entries, which was perhaps the reason Alda had been able to keep her diaries going for years. Thóra had given up keeping a diary after six months, when the entries started to show her in black and white just how little happened in the life of an eleven-year-old, and she decided it would be better just to note down special events. She would have given a lot now to have the chance to peek into the mental world of her own childhood, which was now almost entirely lost to her.

  Thóra closed the first book and put it at the bottom of the pile. She found the diary from 1973, which stood out as it was the most tattered of all, and the spine cracked as she opened it. She turned to the first page and read the entry for New Year’s Day, in which Alda welcomed the new year and listed, with numbers, what she wanted to accomplish in the next twelve months. Thóra smiled as she read the girl’s resolutions:

  1. Go to a foreign country

  2. Do homework

  3. Get a record player

  4. Get a boyfriend

  5. Stop thinking about my hair — it will grow

  Although she didn’t understand the last item, the rest perfectly suited a fifteen-year-old girl taking her first steps into the adult world. Today this might seem more like a thirteen-year-old’s voice, but in 1973 things clearly moved a bit slower in a teenager’s life. Thóra went on to read about what a drag Alda’s parents had been after the party the night before, and how her little sister Jóhanna still hadn’t got over her fear of the fireworks, which had been even more beautiful than last year. This was followed by a short paragraph in which Alda talked of her concern about fireworks in the Islands, clearly torn between her delight in them and their negative effect on animals. The entry ended with a promise to be sure to make each day exciting enough to deserve a write-up in her new diary.

  Thóra read on, through a description of how that long- ago January had been spent. School started again after the Christmas break and Alda appeared not to be disappointed at all, even seeming to look forward to it, according to the diary. She had a crush on someone called Stebbi and had started to think it was mutual, but seemed not to have any interest in Markus except as a friend. It wasn’t clear to Thóra whether the girl had realized how much of a crush he had on her, but all the entries mentioning him were positive and appeared to be written with platonic affection. The fifteenth of January turned out to be a huge watershed, because Alda had kissed Stebbi outside the shop; this page was scribbled all over with hearts and flowers. The next day was less enjoyable because the family kitten went missing, an incident that escalated in drama over the next few days until it was finally found after an extensive search. Thóra wondered if the kitten had been one of the numerous cats left behind in the Islands, their numbers dwindling little by little as the eruption continued. From time to time there were also further reflections on hair that made no more sense to Thóra than the reference at the start of the year. The best that Thóra could come up with was that Alda had cut her hair short and been unhappy with the outcome, but she didn’t completely grasp why this seemed to be of such great concern to her.

  At the start of the third week of the month Alda appeared to be very excited about a school dance that was in the offing. It was clearly a big deal, and although Alda didn’t describe it in any great detail she appeared to be looking forward to it and dreading it in equal measure. There was a reference to something all the kids in her class were going to do, but Thóra couldn’t fathom what it was. When it came to the nineteenth of January Thóra was slightly startled. The date had been written at the top, but beneath it the page had been crossed over so heavily and repeatedly with a ballpoint pen that in some places there were holes in the paper. The facing page had been subjected to the same violent treatment. Something had happened, and no matter how Thóra scrutinized the scribbles she couldn’t make out what was written underneath. Perhaps Stebbi, the boy Alda had liked, had jilted her. However, the marks had been made so forcefully that Thóra found this explanation unlikely, even though the writer had been a teenager with raging hormones. She put the diary on her lap.

  ‘What’s this mess?’ said Bella, pointing at the scrawls. ‘Did a little kid get into the diary?’

  That hadn’t crossed Thóra’s mind. It was possible that Jóhanna had scrubbed these lines out in her sister’s book in a fit of pique or a tantrum. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied truthfully. ‘Up until now it has all been rather tidy.’ Bella snorted disbelievingly. ‘Yeah, right.’ She stared at the scribbled-out pages and Thóra couldn’t help but do the same. The flight attendant announced over the tannoy that they were commencing their descent into Reykjavik and that they should return their seats to the upright position and fasten their seatbelts. ‘Have you ever read about a plane crash in which the only ones who survived were those who put up their tray tables or had the backs of their seats in the upright position?’ asked Bella, loud enough for others to hear. ‘I think they’re just trying to protect the trays and seats if we crash. It’s bullshit.’ The passenger sitting across the aisle gave Bella an affronted look and fastened his table against the seat-back in front of him. Thóra busied herself looking straight ahead and acting nonchalantly. She turned to the next page, which turned out to be empty. There were no entries for the twentieth of January or the twenty-first. ‘Damn,’ she thought; up until now there had not been a single word that might relate to the head and box. The diary had been left behind during the evacuation, so Markus’s only hope was that Alda had written something significant in the entry for the twenty-second, the night the eruption started. Hopefully that page wasn’t empty. Thóra drew a deep breath and crossed her fingers before turning the page.

  Luckily, the next page was neither empty nor completely crossed out. Still, it looked as though Alda had been on drugs or had had a fever when she wrote the entry for that day. Thóra couldn’t make head or tail of the text which, unlike Alda’s previous entries, was written in waves all over the page instead of following the lines. The entry was composed of repetitions of the word disgusting disgusting disgusting and several instances of why did I go out? why? why? as well as I want to die. These sentences were all strung together and Thóra couldn’t discern any particular order in them. On a line below this jumble was the sentence:

  I’m not going to write any more. I’ll do this for God and Mum and Dad and then I’m going to kill myself. I’m not coming back here.

  This appeared to have been written in a calmer state, because the letters were straighter and better formed. There was nothing else. The pen had been dragged down along the margin and at the bottom of the page there was a single word in writing so tiny it was barely legible: Markus

  Thóra lowered the book and sighed. Why couldn’t Alda have been clearer? However, this did show something: it strongly suggested that the girl had experienced a shock. If Thóra used her imagination, Markus’s name might be interpreted as a declaration that he could help Alda. On the other hand, her client’s name on the page did not substantiate his statement. After this entry, the diary consisted only of empty pages.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wednesday 18 July2007

  Thóra put down the newspaper. She could take comfort in the fact that the photo on the front page could have been any prosperous fifty-year-old man. There were enough of them around. Hopefully that would be of some consolation to Markus, who stared at her from the grainy image like a convict. The press must have searched high and low for a photograph showing her client with a cruel expression. Although his face was quite blurry, the photo seemed to show a man who was capable of anything. The headline Four Dead — Autopsy Suggests Murder, was positioned in a way that made it quite clear Markus was being
portrayed as a criminal. The accompanying article barely elaborated on the headline except to say that Markus Magnusson, Reykjavik businessman, was helping police with their enquiries. A short biographical summary, in a separate box at the bottom of the page, pointed out that Markus had resided in the Westmann Islands at the time the men seemed likely to have been murdered. However, no mention was made of his youth at the time. Markus seemed not to have got around very much, because the photograph from the front page also accompanied an article later in the paper, along with two photos of the excavation site and an aerial photo of Heimaey. It was clear the newsmen hadn’t acquired a copy of the medical examiner’s report, and they still hadn’t connected

  Alda to the case. The main body of the article was a review of everything that was already known about the case of the discovery of the bodies, but with the addition of Markus’s involvement and the case becoming a murder investigation. Surely the media would soon make the connection and drag Alda’s name into it.

  Thóra felt it was important to thoroughly investigate the nurse’s role in all of this, but as soon as the media became interested in Alda, lots of doors would close. She thumbed through her notes and went over the little she’d written about Alda. She decided she ought to contact Isafjördur Junior College in the hope of tracking down her schoolfriends, speak to the plastic surgeon’s office where Alda had worked, then interview the employees of the A&E department where she’d taken evening and weekend shifts. Thóra wondered whether she should speak to a doctor there whom she knew quite well - her ex-husband - but decided not to so that she wouldn’t owe him a favour. Experience had taught her that the saying ‘an eye for an eye’ fit their relationship well.

  She looked up the number of the college and crossed her fingers, hoping someone would answer. It was midsummer, so she couldn’t be sure anyone would be there. Luckily, the school’s office was open and she spoke to the secretary, who was extremely obliging.