The man listened, then asked exactly what they were looking for. She told him: a man who might still need a leg brace.
‘Then I can’t help you,’ he said, opening the door wide so that both his legs were visible. He wore no brace.
‘Do you remember any other boy at the Isolation Clinic who might have had to use a brace? In later life, I mean.’
‘None of your business, my dear,’ said the man. ‘Goodbye now.’
That was the end of the interview. The man was the third one that Elínborg had spoken to who had been in the Isolation Clinic. Hitherto she had received friendly responses but had got nowhere.
The next name on Elínborg’s list was that of a man who lived in a townhouse in the eastern suburbs. When he heard what Elínborg wanted he was more helpful than her last interviewee had been. He welcomed her warmly and invited her in. He wore no brace, but she noticed that his left arm was withered.
‘People all over the country caught polio in that epidemic,’ said the man, whose name was Lúkas. He was in his sixties, slim and lithe.
‘I was fourteen, living in Selfoss. I shall always remember how terribly ill I was, you know. My whole body ached, like with a bad case of flu, and I was paralysed from head to toe. I couldn’t move a muscle. I’ve never felt worse in my life.’
‘It must have been an awful illness,’ said Elínborg.
‘It didn’t occur to anyone that it could be polio,’ Lúkas explained. ‘Never even considered it. They assumed it was just the usual flu epidemic. But it turned out to be much, much worse.’
‘And they took you to the Isolation Clinic?’
‘Yes, they put me in quarantine once they realised what was really going on, and they took me to that house, the one they called the Isolation Clinic. There were people there from all over the country, mostly children and youngsters. I think I was lucky. I made a pretty good recovery, thanks to the rehabilitation at the clinic, but my arm’s been useless ever since.’
‘Do you remember any man or boy at the Clinic who had to use a brace — a leg brace, perhaps? — I don’t know much about these things.’
‘And I don’t know how they did in the end, the lads I met there. You lose touch, you see. So I don’t suppose I can tell you anything useful. But there’s one thing I will say: the youngsters I was with there, there was no way they were going to give up.’
‘I’m sure people dealt with their problems in different ways,’ said Elínborg.
‘As I often say, our futures were put on hold for a while,’ Lúkas continued. ‘But we were determined to pick up and go on, and that’s what we did. I think we were all determined not to let it break us. It never occurred to us to give up. Never crossed our minds.’
Elínborg took the tunnel under Hvalfjördur and drove up to Akranes. A brisk northerly wind was blowing. She had arranged to meet the parents of Lilja, the girl who had vanished six years before. She had spoken to the mother, who still contacted the police occasionally to ask if any progress on the case had been made. When she first heard from Elínborg, the mother had thought initially that there might be a new lead, but the detective was quick to disabuse her and say that, regrettably, she had no new evidence. She only wanted to review the events and establish whether Lilja’s parents might have anything new to contribute to the investigation.
‘I thought the case was closed,’ the woman had said on the phone.
‘No, nothing new has come up, we don’t know any more than we did then.’
‘So what do you want?’ asked Hallgerdur, Lilja’s mother. ‘What are you ringing me for?’
‘I gather that you get in touch with us now and then to ask about the case,’ said Elínborg. ‘A colleague mentioned Lilja the other day. I played a small part in the investigation at the time, and it occurred to me that you might be prepared to refresh my memory, run through the events. We try to learn from cases like Lilja’s. We’re always learning something new.’
‘Absolutely,’ replied the woman.
She was waiting for her visitor and had opened the front door before Elínborg was out of her car. They shook hands in the chilly breeze, and Hallgerdur ushered her in. She was some years older than Elínborg, very slender, and appeared to be highly strung. She was clearly tense about being visited by the police. She said she was alone in the house. Her husband, an engineer on a fishing boat, had gone out to sea that morning. The couple lived in an old detached house with a large garden which showed the ravages of autumn weather. In the living room Elínborg saw a large photograph of Lilja, taken about two years before her disappearance. She recognised it as the photo that had been published in the media at the time of the search. It showed the cheery face of a young girl with dark hair and pretty brown eyes. The photograph was displayed in a heavy black mourning frame on top of a fine chest of drawers. In front of it a votive candle flickered.
‘She was just a normal child,’ said Hallgerdur, when they had taken their seats. ‘A really lovely girl. She was so interested in all sorts of things, and loved being with her gran and grandad in Hvalfjördur. She spent all her time there with the horses. But she had a lot of friends here in town: you could speak to Áslaug — the two of them were inseparable, ever since infant school. She works in the bakery now, she’s got two children of her own. Married a good lad from nearby. Áslaug’s a treasure. She always stays in touch, pops in for a chat. She brings her two little girls, such pretty children.’
Elínborg detected a fleeting, delicate tinge of regret in Hallgerdur’s voice.
‘What do you think happened?’ asked Elínborg.
‘I’ve been torturing myself all these years, and all I know for sure now is that it was God’s will. I know now that she must be dead and I’ve accepted it, and I know she’s with God. As to what happened to her, I have no idea. No more than you do.’
‘And she intended to stay the night with a friend, did she?’
‘Yes, with Áslaug. They’d been talking about meeting up that evening and seeing a film. They often stayed the night with each other, without planning it specifically. Sometimes Lilja would ring to say she was at Áslaug’s and was going to stay over, and the same went for Áslaug when she came here. They didn’t necessarily decide in advance, but this time Lilja had said she meant to go to Áslaug’s that evening.’
‘When did you last speak to her?’
‘It was that Friday, the day she disappeared. See you, she said. It was the last thing she ever said to me. See you. There was nothing special about the conversation. Just a routine call, to let me know. No more than that. I said a proper goodbye, I think. Bye, sweetheart, I said. That was a comfort to me, afterwards. That was all there was to it. Bye, sweetheart. That was all.’
‘So she hadn’t been feeling depressed in the days before, or seemed unhappy about something?’
‘Not at all. Our Lilja was never depressed. Always cheerful, and positive, and willing to help. She was pure in heart, an innocent, as really good people are. She treated others well and they treated her well in return. That was the way it was. She was trusting, didn’t see evil in anyone, because she’d never encountered it. She had only ever known good people.’
‘There’s a lot of talk now about bullying in schools, and ways to prevent it,’ said Elínborg.
‘No, there was nothing like that going on,’ Hallgerdur replied.
‘And was she happy at school?’
‘Yes. Lilja was a good student. Maths was her favourite subject, and she used to talk about doing something scientific at university — physics or maths. She wanted to go abroad to study, to America. She said their universities were the best for those subjects.’
‘Was the science teaching good at the college?’
‘So far as I know. I never heard anyone complain about it.’
‘Did she ever talk about the teaching? Or the teachers — anything like that?’
‘No.’
‘Did she ever mention a teacher called Edvard?’
‘E
dvard?’
‘He taught her science subjects,’ Elínborg explained.
‘Why are you asking about him?’
‘I …’
‘Did he know my daughter, or something?’
‘He taught her during the school year before she disappeared. He’s an acquaintance of mine, that’s all. I know he was teaching here around that time.’
‘She never mentioned any Edvard. Is he from here? I don’t remember her ever talking about him specifically, no more than any other teacher.’
‘No, no, of course. I just thought of asking, because I know him slightly. Edvard lives in Reykjavík. He used to commute by car. He was quite young then. He has a friend named Runólfur. Do you remember Lilja ever saying anything about them?’
‘Runólfur? Is he a friend of yours too?’
‘No,’ answered Elínborg, realising that she had got herself into an awkward position. She could not bring herself to tell Hallgerdur the truth, or explain her suspicion — really no more than a hunch — that a link might exist between Lilja and a suspected rapist in Reykjavík. She did not want to add to the woman’s distress any more than necessary, especially since she had so little to go on, but she wanted to float the names in case Hallgerdur had any relevant knowledge.
‘Why are you asking about Lilja now, and why are you asking about those men?’ asked Hallgerdur. ‘Is there new evidence you don’t want to tell me about? What are you after?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Elínborg. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought up any names. They have nothing to do with Lilja’s disappearance.’
‘I don’t know them.’
‘No, I didn’t expect you to.’
‘Runólfur? Isn’t that the name of that man who was murdered in Reykjavík?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Is that him? The one you’re asking about?’
Elínborg hesitated. ‘Edvard knew Runólfur,’ she said.
‘Knew Runólfur? Is that why you’re here? Is this Runólfur involved with my daughter’s case?’
‘No,’ replied Elínborg. ‘Nothing new has come to light. All we know is that Edvard and Runólfur were friends.’
‘I don’t know them — I’ve never heard those names.’
‘No, I didn’t expect so.’
‘What’s their connection with Lilja, then?’
‘Nothing.’
‘But didn’t you come here to ask about them?’
‘I just wanted to find out if you might recognise the names. That was all.’
‘It’s good to know that Lilja’s case isn’t forgotten.’
‘We do our best.’ Elínborg hurriedly changed the subject, asking Lilja’s mother more about their daily routine and assuring her that the police were receptive to information, even after so many years. Elínborg sat with her for some time, and when she took her leave dusk was falling. Hallgerdur came out to the car with her and stood in the sharp northerly wind, apparently not noticing it.
‘Have you lost anyone close to you in this way?’ she asked Elínborg.
‘No, not in the same way, if you mean …’
‘It’s as if time stands still, and it can’t start again until we know what happened.’
‘Of course it’s a terrible experience.’
‘The tragedy is that it never ends. We can’t say goodbye to her, because we don’t know anything,’ said Hallgerdur, smiling faintly and with her arms crossed across her chest. ‘When Lilja vanished, a part of us went with her which we will never get back.’
She ran a hand through her hair. ‘Maybe we lost ourselves.’
The bakery where Áslaug worked was quiet. A bell hung against the door, and it jangled harshly when Elínborg called in on her way out of town. The northerly wind was rising and Elínborg found herself almost physically blown inside the shop. Inside she was met with the comforting aroma of freshly baked bread. A young woman wearing an apron was handing change to a customer. She closed the till and smiled at Elínborg.
‘Do you have any ciabatta?’ asked Elínborg.
The woman scanned the shelves. ‘Yes, we’ve got two left.’
‘I’ll take them, and a sliced wholemeal loaf, please.’
The assistant put the ciabatta in a bag and placed the wholemeal loaf on the counter. They were alone in the shop.
‘Here you are,’ said the young woman.
Elínborg handed over her credit card. ‘I gather that you were a good friend of Lilja?’ said Elínborg. ‘You’re Áslaug, aren’t you?’
The woman looked at her. She did not appear surprised. ‘Yes,’ she replied, tapping her name badge with a finger. ‘My name is Áslaug. Did you know Lilja?’
‘No, I’m from the Reykjavík police, just passing through. I met some colleagues here and we got talking about Lilja and how she vanished. They said you were her best friend.’
‘Yes,’ said Áslaug. ‘I was. We were … she was such a nice girl. So you were talking about us?’
‘Lilja’s disappearance came up in conversation,’ answered Elínborg as Áslaug passed back her card. ‘Lilja was planning to stay over with you, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes, that was what she said to her mum. I thought she’d changed her mind and gone to see her grandparents. She often did. I didn’t think any more of it. I’d spoken to her that morning — we were thinking of going to the cinema in the evening, and then back to my place. We were planning a trip to Denmark. Just the two of us. Then … then it happened.’
‘It was as if she disappeared into thin air,’ said Elínborg.
‘It was just so unbelievable,’ said Áslaug. ‘So ridiculous. So ridiculous that it could happen. I just know she didn’t kill herself. She must have had some freak accident and … She often used to go down to the seashore. All I can imagine is that maybe she slipped and fell, and was knocked unconscious, then drowned when the tide came in — or something like that.’
‘You’re sure it couldn’t have been suicide?’
‘Absolutely not. That’s a daft suggestion. She was trying to find a birthday present for her grandad. She mentioned it to me that morning, and she was seen in a sports shop that sells riding equipment. Her grandad loves horses. That was the last sighting. Then she disappeared. And nobody has any idea what happened to her.’
‘But apparently the shop didn’t have what she wanted?’ said Elínborg, who had read the witness statements.
‘No.’
‘And that’s the end of the trail.’
‘As I say, it doesn’t make any sense. I never thought to get in touch when I didn’t hear from her that evening. We hadn’t made any firm plans, and she often went out to the farm without telling anyone beforehand. I just assumed she’d gone there.’
The bell rang and a new customer entered. Áslaug sold him a Danish pastry and some rolls. Another customer arrived, and Elínborg waited patiently.
‘How have her parents been coping?’ she asked when they were alone again.
‘They’re up and down,’ said Áslaug. ‘It put a great strain on their marriage. Hallgerdur became very religious and joined a fundamentalist church. Lilja’s dad, Áki, is quite different. He just doesn’t mention it.’
‘You were at school together, weren’t you?’
‘For as long as we could remember.’
‘And at the comprehensive college too?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was she happy there?’
‘Yes, very much so. We both were. She was brilliant at maths. Physics and the other sciences were her favourite subjects. I was more on the languages side. We had even considered going to Denmark to study. That would have been …’
‘Apparently she also talked about going to America.’
‘Yes, she wanted to try living abroad.’
The door opened once more. Áslaug served four customers before Elínborg could ask her about Edvard. She was grateful to Áslaug for not talking about Lilja when other people were in the shop. ‘Did she have any favourite teacher?’ sh
e asked. ‘At the college?’
‘No, not that I know of,’ said Áslaug. ‘They were all really nice.’
‘Do you remember a teacher called Edvard? He taught science subjects, I think.’
‘Yes, I do. He left ages ago. He never taught me. He taught Lilja, though, I’m sure of that.’
‘Did she ever talk about him?’
‘No, not that I can remember.’
‘Yet you recall him clearly?’
‘Yes. He once gave me a lift into town.’
‘Town? Do you mean the town centre here?’
Áslaug smiled for the first time during their conversation. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Edvard lived in Reykjavík, and he once offered me a lift there. To Reykjavík.’
‘Recently?’
‘No, no. It was years ago, when he was teaching here. It must have been before Lilja vanished, because I remember telling her. He was very nice. Why do you ask?’
‘Then what? Did he drop you off when you got to Reykjavík?’
‘Yes, I was waiting for the bus when he stopped and offered me a lift. I was going shopping in Reykjavík and he drove me to the Kringlan mall.’
‘Did he often give people lifts?’
‘I don’t know,’ Áslaug replied. ‘But he was very friendly. Invited me to come round, if I wanted.’
‘Come round to his home?’
‘Yes. What is it? Why are you asking about him?’
‘And did you go round?’
‘No.’
‘Did he ever give Lilja a lift?’
‘I don’t know.’
The door opened to admit another customer, followed by yet another, and before long the bakery was crowded. Elínborg picked up her loaves, called goodbye to Áslaug and left the bakery with the noise of the shop bell ringing in her ears.
Elínborg drove back to Reykjavík, arriving at the Asian food shop just before it closed. Jóhanna was not there and the shop was being minded by a girl who said she sometimes covered for her. Elínborg did not recall seeing her there before. She explained that she knew Jóhanna well, and had hoped to speak to her. The young woman, Jóhanna’s twenty-five-year-old niece, was friendly and helpful. She had been helping Jóhanna out with the shop more and more over the past year, she said, as her aunt’s health had been declining. The cause was not clear — probably exhaustion, she observed frankly, adding that her aunt worked too hard and did not take proper care of herself. Elínborg had the impression that it had been a slow day in the shop, and the girl was pleased to have someone to talk to.
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