Rósa Thrastardóttir, who ran away yesterday, is safe and sound. There is no need to be concerned about her welfare during her absence. She will come back when she’s ready.
There was no signature and the wording was always the same. A report on the girl’s disappearances mentioned that she refused to reveal where she went during her absences or who had written the letters. The person who compiled the report thought it possible that Rósa sent the letters herself but noted that the adult wording made this unlikely. Moreover, the girl’s relatives all flatly denied sheltering her or writing the letters. Their author, and Rósa’s whereabouts during her absences, remained a mystery.
Early that morning Freyja had finally been granted access to the juveniles’ full records in the Child Protection Agency database. She’d managed to take a quick look at Rósa’s file and get a better picture of her history before she’d had to come into the police station. The authors of the documents on the USB stick had made it tantalisingly clear that they were aware of her history, meaning that none of them had bothered to repeat it. This left Freyja feeling as though she’d switched on the radio in the middle of a programme and never discovered who was being interviewed.
What she read had left her thoughtful but no less baffled. Rósa had endured more than her fair share of traumas. She’d lost her father at six and her mother at eleven. The first of these traumas could have had a lasting psychological impact, but not of the type exhibited by Rósa. According to the reports, she displayed no signs of anxiety or separation angst. The second trauma was therefore more likely to have been the trigger for the peculiar symptoms recorded in her file, though the earlier loss had no doubt been a contributing factor; a devastating blow, followed by a second, even more shattering one. In Freyja’s opinion, the loss of her father could have formed cracks in Rósa’s mental health, which her mother’s death a few years later had widened into chasms. The fact that her closest relatives had proved unfit to take her in afterwards must have turned these chasms into serious faultlines.
An eleven-year-old girl who had lost both father and mother would automatically fall under the remit of children’s services. They would, as a matter of course, try to solve the problem of guardianship by approaching her closest relatives. But this wasn’t always possible, as in Rósa’s case. She’d had little contact with her father’s family and, anyway, her paternal grandparents lived in Norway, which automatically ruled them out. The Child Protection Agency didn’t send Icelandic children abroad in cases like this. The girl’s paternal aunt, meanwhile, had learning difficulties and lived in a group home, which made her ineligible to care for the girl.
Rósa’s mother had one brother who was unmarried and worked as a night security guard. Although he’d expressed willingness to change his working hours and provide Rósa with a home, he had failed to satisfy the authorities’ stringent criteria. That had left Rósa’s maternal grandparents, who had taken her in temporarily, but the arrangement had been cancelled when her grandmother lapsed and started drinking heavily as a result of the strain and grief following her daughter’s death. All the couple’s promises to clean up their act and go into rehab were futile. A mere six months after her mother’s death, Rósa had ended up in care, as a juvenile with little or no family support. What had followed was a succession of foster homes from which Rósa had run away and refused to return to. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the foster carers had expressed few regrets over this fact.
For Rósa, it seemed, was adamant that her parents had been murdered; first her father, then, five years later, her mother. After reading her file, Freyja had been left with the impression that for the first three years after Rósa had been taken away from her grandparents, she had talked only of her mother being murdered. The addition of her father had begun about a year ago.
Childhood obsessions were difficult to treat. It was futile trying to reason with a child and the more peculiar the obsession, the more difficult it was for the child to see sense. Rósa’s obsession clearly belonged in the most serious category. She didn’t claim her mother had been murdered by a ‘bad man’. Or a burglar. Or a rapist. Or a criminal.
No. The girl insisted that a demonic doll had caused her mother’s death. How, she didn’t explain. Nor did she say whether the doll had been implicated in her father’s death as well. But one thing was crystal clear in Rósa’s mind: she herself would be next.
The notes on the girl’s obsession mentioned several times that both her parents had died in accidents. Their deaths had been investigated at the time and her mother’s was considered to have had another, more obvious explanation than a murderous doll. Her father’s death appeared to have been similarly straightforward. Yet nothing would convince Rósa to change her mind. Until recently, anyway. The latest report suggested that she might have abandoned the idea since she was no longer willing to discuss it – unless it had finally hit home that there was no point sharing her bizarre story with adults. Before this, she had brought up the doll in every single interview.
Gudlaugur came over to their table carrying three mugs. Turning from him to Huldar, Freyja said: ‘There is one detail I can share with you, since it relates to the police rather than to the girl’s personal circumstances.’
Huldar took a mug of coffee. ‘Go on.’
‘Rósa’s mother died several years ago. The girl claims she was murdered but the police came to a different conclusion after investigating her death. Is it possible you could have made a mistake?’ Freyja decided to leave Rósa’s father out of it for now. Huldar and Gudlaugur were bound to be dismissive if she raised the issue of both parents’ deaths. Her question sounded foolish enough as it was.
‘It happens.’ Huldar took a sip of coffee, which, from the way he winced, must have been scalding. ‘But – a very big but – presumably the girl’s theory would have been considered at the time, so I’m guessing it must be nonsense. Families sometimes get an idea in their heads and it can be hard to talk them out of it. Paranoia kicks in and they refuse to face facts. Instead, they start coming out with claims of a cover-up, and there’s practically nothing we can do to change their minds. Did the girl elaborate on her murder theory? Or did she just grab hold of it as a way of avoiding dealing with her grief? That sort of reaction’s not uncommon.’
Freyja hid behind her coffee mug while trying to come up with an answer to this. She could hardly tell him that Rósa claimed a doll had killed her mother. ‘She had some vague theory but nothing concrete to build on.’
Huldar raised his eyebrows. ‘Then what are you suggesting? That we ought to bring up the old case when we interview her? I can’t see how it would encourage her to open up if we remind her that the police wouldn’t listen to her crackpot ideas about her mother’s death.’
‘No.’ The coffee was still far too hot and Freyja put down her mug. ‘I just wanted to warn you in case she brings it up.’ If any remnants of the doll theory remained in Rósa’s mind, it wasn’t impossible that she would mention it during the interview. She was unlikely to pass up the opportunity to put it to the police again.
Huldar blew on his coffee, then made another attempt to drink it. ‘Let’s hope she can tell us something useful, regardless. I understand, from Tristan’s interview, that they became good friends. He claims he told her his secret, which makes it all the more urgent that we track her down, Gudlaugur.’
‘She’ll turn up. Apparently they always do,’ said Gudlaugur. But he didn’t look optimistic.
After lunch, they managed to fit in two more interviews before Freyja had to leave to pick up Saga. The plan had been to talk to three teenagers, but one of the boys, who was known to have a drink problem, hadn’t turned up at the agreed time. Since he couldn’t be contacted via his phone or Facebook, they’d had no choice but to sit and wait for the third.
During the break they left the little interview room and Huldar offered Freyja yet another coffee. She said no thanks, then asked if he’d given up smoking since he hadn’t immediately
nipped out for a cigarette. When he hesitated, she could see in his face that he was wondering whether to lie. But in the end he admitted that he was still smoking and asked, rather shamefaced, if she wanted to come outside with him. To Freyja’s own surprise, she accepted, blaming the stuffy atmosphere in the interview room. Smoke-polluted air outdoors would be preferable to being starved of oxygen inside.
They lingered in the yard behind the police station long after he had stubbed out his cigarette, neither of them particularly eager to go back in. They chatted mostly about general topics, barely touching on the case. He asked after Saga and Baldur, and she answered at length about her niece, but avoided saying a word about Baldur. She had an ingrained dislike of discussing her brother with the police, however harmless the question.
Huldar seemed to sense this and stuck to the topic of Saga. She had assumed he was working his way round to inviting her out but, somewhat to her surprise, he didn’t raise the subject. Aware of a vague feeling of disappointment, she put it down to her oath of celibacy. If she kept on like this, she would end up flirting with the fit guy in the advert at the supermarket that reminded men to go for a prostate check-up.
When Freyja left the police station after the final interview of the day, Huldar walked her to her car. Nothing useful had emerged from either of that afternoon’s sessions. Freyja couldn’t tell whether the kids were concealing something or telling the truth, and concluded that it would have been better to conduct the interviews in the more relaxed atmosphere of the Children’s House. Then the subjects would have been less agitated and it would have been easier to work out from their body language whether they were being honest. She put this to Huldar before getting in the car and he promised to ask Hafthór if he’d reconsider, but added that he thought it was about as likely as the government and the opposition parties agreeing over the budget. In that case, she said, could he at least make sure the interview room was given a makeover. He agreed, but didn’t seem particularly optimistic that anything would happen.
Freyja was out for a walk with Molly, pushing Saga in her buggy, when Huldar rang. She was on a slight slope at the time and had her hands full grappling with the lead and the buggy while simultaneously pressing the phone to her ear. Instead of getting straight to the point, he asked her if she could get out of the wind as he could hardly hear a word she was saying. She pointed out, rather acidly, that she was out at the end of Seltjarnarnes where there was no shelter of any kind to be found, then asked what he wanted, bracing herself to hear an invitation to go out to dinner, to a bar or even just to bed.
‘I had a look at Rósa’s mother’s case after you left. I called up the old files.’
‘And?’ Freyja watched a crumpled shopping bag blowing along the path. Clearly, it had reached the end of its life.
‘I’d like to go over it with you tomorrow as it throws up quite a few questions. The girl’s statement, in particular. In some inexplicable way it appears to be linked to the case we’re currently investigating.’
‘Tristan’s case? How’s that possible? Did her mother know Bergur?’
Huldar coughed, then said: ‘I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the discovery of the bones in Faxaflói Bay. The story that’s all over the news.’
Chapter 9
Tuesday
Rósa couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t the first time sleep had eluded her. Usually when it happened, she tried not to get worked up since she had long ago learnt that nothing in life came easily – not to her. It was unfair, of course, but that was just the way it was.
It had taken her a long time to come to terms with this fact. Most of her memories from the first few years after she had lost her mother were associated with anger. Anger at the people who had let her down; at her good-for-nothing grandparents, the useless police, uncaring carers, uninspiring teachers and almost everyone who worked in children’s services. None of the adults she’d had dealings with had ever come through for her: they had all failed her in the end. None of them actually loved her either. Most were paid to pretend they cared but they didn’t. Not really. At least not in the way an actual parent would. Not like her mum had. Or her dad. Probably.
It wasn’t hard to tell the difference. The people who pretended to love her touched her differently, looked at her differently, smiled at her differently and spoke to her differently. But worst of all they listened differently. Since she had been orphaned, no one had ever really listened to her. They heard the words she said but they couldn’t be bothered to string them together and think about what they meant. It was less hassle for them to say ‘yes’, ‘uh-huh’ or ‘let’s talk about it later’, but of course ‘later’ never came.
So it was hardly surprising she had so much anger inside.
Anger got her nowhere, though, and in time she had come to realise that brooding incessantly on life’s unfairness did nothing to make it any fairer in practice. She was still angry, but these days she had got better at keeping it under wraps. Most of the time. The sad part was that her change in attitude hadn’t helped much. Although it made her dealings with the adults in her life less stressful, there had been no dramatic shift. Everything continued the same, just with fewer scenes.
Still, it was easier this way. The constant battles had taken their toll and she was tired, so she did her best to control her temper and keep the peace.
There were times, though, when her fury at the injustices she’d had to endure could no longer be kept in check. She knew the warning signs and usually took off for a while before she ended up exploding. She saw this as taking a mini-break from her situation. And it worked. She had borrowed a few self-help books from a library once but not one had suggested that running away from your problems was any sort of solution. On the contrary, every single book had advocated confronting your problems head on. Rósa seriously doubted that the authors had ever faced any real misfortune – not in the same league as hers, anyway.
If she could, she would run away and never look back. Leave her old life behind like a snake shedding its skin. But she couldn’t. Not until she turned eighteen. Until then she was a ward of the state, and the state kept an inventory. It infuriated the minions of the system that they didn’t know where she disappeared to when she ran away. But that was their problem. She thwarted her interrogators every time she returned by copying the adults who had never listened to her, simply repeating ‘let’s talk about it later’ again and again until they gave up. And as her ‘later’ never materialised any more than theirs ever had, no one knew where she holed up. Which was a good thing. She even kept a burner phone to use when in hiding. She wasn’t stupid.
The view of the ceiling overhead was getting boring. Rósa sat up in bed and reached for her phone on the table. She checked for messages but she hadn’t received any since she’d put the phone down and tried to get to sleep. There was nothing strange about that. The only person she was in contact with was almost certainly sound asleep. She wondered whether to check this by sending a brief ‘hi’ but decided against it: she didn’t want to come across as needy.
A shaft of moonlight entered the room through a gap in the curtains. She knew the moon was full tonight, but the sky had been dark when she’d gone to bed. The cloud cover had been so thick that you couldn’t even guess where the moon was in the sky. But this thin beam of light suggested that the clouds were scattering.
Normally, Rósa would get out of bed, go over to the window and look up at the night sky. She loved gazing at the stars, trying to locate the planets and spotting the occasional satellite speeding along its orbit. It made her feel as if nothing here on earth really mattered. It put into perspective her worries about the future and her seemingly hopeless quest for the truth. In the great scheme of things, she and her problems were as insignificant to the universe as a speck of dust was to her. She found the idea soothing and often managed to fall asleep in the wake of it. But this calmer state of mind never lasted long. When she woke up in the morning, her worries and th
e persistent feeling that she had been let down would always be there, waiting to descend on her again like a heavy weight.
Rósa replaced her phone on the bedside table and lay back on the pillow. She tried to banish the thought that had prevented her from looking out of the window. It wasn’t the knowledge that the relief it provided would be only fleeting. No. It was the irrational fear that if she drew the curtains, she would come face to face with the horrible doll, peering in at her. She knew it was stupid, knew it wasn’t going to happen. But knowing this didn’t help. A paralysing sense of dread prevented her from throwing off her duvet, swinging her legs out of bed, getting up and walking over to the window.
Fear was a much more effective barrier than any solid, physical obstacle.
She tried not to think about the doll. About that horrible, single staring eye, the matted hair and the rows of plug holes forming straight lines over half her scalp. Not to mention the barnacles and worms clinging to her naked, plastic body. Her mind could still conjure up a perfect picture of the doll, a picture she believed was exact almost down to each individual barnacle. This was so unfair when you considered that she found it almost impossible to recall what her mother had looked like. She had to rely on a photo now when she wanted to summon up her image in her mind’s eye, while her father’s face had gone for good.
Rósa felt a stinging in the corners of her eyes. If only the doll had been thrown back into the sea. If only.
If only. Dangerous words for anyone trying to heal their wounds; the linguistic equivalent of ripping scabs off cuts before they had healed.
But she couldn’t stop her mind from travelling down this path. What had happened was all her fault. She should never have insisted on taking the doll home. If only she hadn’t done that, she might have been lying in her old room now, with her mum asleep next door. It wouldn’t have saved her dad, but at least she’d still have her mum. She wouldn’t be alone in the world.
The Doll Page 9
