Rósa drew a deep breath and held it in her lungs for a while before slowly exhaling. She reminded herself that taking the blame wouldn’t change anything. Even if she blamed herself for insisting on keeping the doll for every minute of every day for the rest of her life, it would have no power to change the outcome. You can’t go back and change the past. Not everything can be fixed. According to her science textbook, if you burn down a tree, there is no process in the world that can restore it from the ashes. She had never burnt down a tree, but she did know that once a person dies, it can’t be undone. There is no undo button for life or death.
The clouds closed ranks and the shaft of moonlight disappeared. The room fell back into darkness and shortly afterwards raindrops began pattering on the window. The sound was comforting and Rósa could feel the pain relaxing its grip on her mind. With an effort, she managed to shift her focus from the negative to the positive.
Positive number one: she had a friend, a good friend. Two good friends, if an adult counted.
Positive number two: she had this room, which was always there waiting for her when she ran away. It was more hers than any of the rooms she had occupied since she’d entered the system. It was bigger than the ones she was usually given and it was a real room. Not a state-owned, state-furnished, pretend-this-is-a-real-room kind of room. And it was hers.
Positive number three: she was getting closer to finding out the truth about her mother. She could feel it. When that happened, she would finally be able to scream at everyone who had ever doubted her: I TOLD YOU SO. She couldn’t wait for that moment, not least because she believed that when she had her answers, she would be able to put the memory of the doll to rest. It wouldn’t haunt her any more.
Positive number four: there was no positive number four. Three was all she had.
But three was good. It was better than one or two or none.
Rósa could feel her mind relaxing and beginning to slip down the slope that led to sleep. Soon everything would be better. Tomorrow she would finally get her answers.
Her mind found the sentiment worth repeating: soon everything would be better.
Chapter 10
Wednesday
Erla sat in the passenger seat of the unmarked police car, staring out of the window at the small, rather dilapidated, wooden house, clad in corrugated iron, which was home to Rósa’s maternal grandparents. Hverfisgata, the street on which it stood, had from time immemorial been overshadowed by its bustling neighbour, Laugavegur, but with the increase in tourism, the area had finally undergone a renaissance, and the shabby house which would once have been perfectly in keeping with its surroundings now stuck out like a sore thumb. The tiny garden, condemned to exist in permanent shadow, looked even more forlorn than the house. A few sad pansies drooped in the flower bed among the weeds. Even the weeds and the ragged yellow grass were obviously struggling to grow in the sunless patch.
Lights were on in all the windows indicating that somebody was home.
‘This is bullshit, Huldar.’ Erla turned away from the house to scowl at him. ‘I don’t know what the hell I was thinking to agree to this visit.’
This was disingenuous. The fact was, her immediate reaction had been the same as Huldar’s when she read the file on Rósa’s mother’s death. Was it a coincidence or, crazy as it seemed, could there be some link to the bones that had turned up in Faxaflói Bay?
According to the witness account, the demonic doll, which no one believed in, had been picked up in a net in the same area. At almost exactly the same coordinates. Of course, this on its own could be dismissed as coincidence, and there had been little else in the original files to arouse suspicion. Nevertheless …
In Huldar’s opinion, the investigation into the woman’s death had been adequate, if a little perfunctory. It was too easy to be critical years after the event, when you’d had no involvement in the original case. Sometimes it was just obvious that a death had been accidental and there was no need to conduct a more thorough inquiry. In this case, the sequence of events had seemed straightforward: Rósa’s mother had gone to the loo in the middle of the night, tripped over her pyjama bottoms as she stood up, and fallen over, cracking her head on the edge of the bath. Knocked unconscious, she had silently bled to death on the tiled floor. There had been no sign of a break-in; no reason to think that anyone else had been present in the flat that night except the eleven-year-old Rósa. The girl had slept through to morning and discovered her mother’s body when she went to brush her teeth.
Naturally, the experience had been traumatic and Rósa had been in shock when she was originally questioned by the police. All she could say was that her mother had been lying on the floor in the bathroom. The girl had been unable to tell them what time she had woken up, whether she had been disturbed in the night, or whether her mother was prone to dizzy spells or fainting. Nor could she explain the empty drinks cans that were scattered all over the floor in the dining area. The investigators hadn’t managed to get any sense out of her.
The police had not been idle, however. They had taken photos of the scene, mostly of the bathroom, and the body had been sent for post-mortem, the results of which had been inconclusive. There was no indication of a stroke or any other medical reason for Rósa’s mother Dísa to have fallen. Her blood had tested negative for alcohol and drugs, proving that she had been sober at the time. Fingerprint analysis of the drinks cans revealed that Dísa had handled all of them. Several other fingerprints had turned up on them as well, including Rósa’s, but Dísa’s prints were the only ones found on every single can. The police never found any satisfactory explanation for why they had been scattered all over the floor but they were not, on their own, thought to constitute evidence of criminal action. No one believed for a moment that the woman could have been murdered by a burglar who was after the cans for the deposits.
The flat was on the ground floor of a three-storey building. None of the neighbours had noticed anything out of the ordinary that night. As far as Dísa’s friends and family were aware, she hadn’t been experiencing difficulties with anyone or been involved with a violent boyfriend. The police had kept hitting a dead end, finding no evidence of a crime, a motive or a witness. All the indications were that her death had been a tragic accident.
Nevertheless, it was extremely rare for a young couple to die well before their time in unrelated accidents. First the husband, then the wife, five years later. A quick online search revealed that Rósa’s father had died in very different circumstances. His obituary mentioned that he had died in the heart of the Icelandic countryside that had meant so much to him. Certainly, the bearded man in the accompanying photo gave the impression of being a lover of the great outdoors. There were no further details about the accident but Huldar had other, more important, things to do than to dig up the cause of death. It seemed out of the question that the couple’s fates could have been linked.
The files became more interesting, the further he read. As time went on, little Rósa had started turning up repeatedly at the police station, demanding to talk to someone. On the first occasion, she had been seen by a friendly officer from the regular police, who took care of minor cases involving children. He had quickly realised that the girl’s problem was very different from the usual round of lost bicycles, fights or snowballs thrown at cars.
After this, Rósa had been passed on to a detective who knew a little about her mother’s case. That was when the business of the doll and the fishing boat had first come up. Rósa claimed not to have remembered this detail when she originally spoke to the police as she had been so upset at the time. Now, however, she wanted to know if there had been a doll in the bath when the police arrived and if the police had taken it away. She herself couldn’t remember whether it had been there. Rósa had given a detailed description of the doll in question, which had obviously had nothing in common with the sort of thing Huldar’s sisters used to play with.
The girl had taken it very badly when she wa
s told that the doll hadn’t been in the flat. She had left, only to show up again the following day, and that was when the fun had really started.
This time she had confided in the detective that her mother had almost certainly been killed by the doll. It was possessed by the devil, or perhaps by the ghost of the girl who had owned it; the girl who must be at the bottom of the sea. Rósa complained that no one would listen to her and that’s why the police had to help. As he read, Huldar pitied the detective who had been forced to write a report of their interview. He felt even sorrier for him when Rósa started coming in regularly to harp on about the doll. To the man’s credit, he had decided to look into the matter. Perhaps he did it to placate the little girl, perhaps because he was bored and had nothing else to do, or because he had been genuinely curious. Or a combination of all three.
The detective had tracked down Fridrik Reynisson, the owner of the fishing boat, who had been a colleague of the mother. Fridrik had confirmed that the doll was no figment of Rósa’s imagination. It had been caught in the net, as the girl had said, and she and her mother had taken it home with them. He didn’t have a picture of it but directed them to Dísa’s Facebook page, although he wasn’t sure if it still existed. He thought he remembered her posting a photo of the doll following the boat trip. It turned out that Dísa’s page did still exist. Presumably it hadn’t occurred to anyone to delete it. But there was no photo of the doll. The last thing Dísa had posted was a picture of Rósa in a grey hat, anorak and boots on her way to go fishing. If she had put up a post about the doll, she must have changed her mind and deleted it. Unless Fridrik had simply been mistaken.
He had been able to provide the exact location where they had caught the doll since it was his favourite fishing spot, which he had navigated to by GPS that day in the vain hope of improving their luck. At the detective’s request, he had provided the coordinates.
The detective’s investigation into the doll story had ended there. Nothing had come to light that couldn’t be explained. Even the doll’s disappearance wasn’t really that mysterious. According to the boat owner, Rósa’s mother had found the doll so gruesome that she had wanted to chuck it straight back in the sea. It seemed reasonable to assume, therefore, that she had thrown the horrible object in the bin when she got home, once her daughter had gone to sleep. By the time the policeman looked into the matter, nearly a year had passed since Dísa’s death, so it was too late to search the dustbins or conduct a further examination of the scene. The flat had been sold and most of the money had gone into paying off debts. Once things had been settled with the official receiver and the loan companies, and the funeral and reception had been paid for, only 318,000 krónur had remained – a measly provision for an orphaned child.
The fact that the detective had included a personal comment like this in his report showed two things: that he’d taken a kindly interest in the poor kid, and that he hadn’t expected anyone else to read the report.
This was all very interesting but there was nothing here to rouse Huldar’s suspicions apart from the coordinates. The spot had turned out to be almost exactly where the bones had been discovered; within fifty metres, which was negligible when you took into account the immensity of the ocean.
‘What the hell are we supposed to say when they want to know why we’re showing up now, five years after their daughter’s death?’ Erla turned back to the house, as if hoping that all the lights would have been switched off, giving them an excuse to head back to the station.
‘We’ll say we’re looking for Rósa – in connection with another case in which she’s a potential witness. Well, it’s true, isn’t it?’
Erla blew out a breath. ‘How did I let you talk me into this?’
‘Oh, come on. I gave you the perfect excuse to start investigating the bones without having to piss off the Identification Commission.’ Huldar opened the door and got out of the car. ‘You can thank me later. Come on.’
She sighed but obeyed. They walked up to the house together and Huldar rang the bell before Erla could get cold feet. He kept his eyes to the front to avoid seeing the faces she was making at him while they were waiting. Even so, the wait had grown uncomfortably protracted before the door finally opened and an older man stuck out his head. He looked irritable and didn’t appear mollified when Huldar introduced them both. That was nothing new, though. People seldom started cheering when the police knocked on their door.
‘Is something wrong?’ The man showed no signs of letting them in.
‘We’re here about your granddaughter, Rósa.’ When the man didn’t respond, Huldar added quickly: ‘We’re trying to find her. She’s a potential witness in a case we’re investigating.’
‘She’s not here.’
‘Is there any chance we could come in and have a quick word with you?’
‘I told you she’s not here. It would be better for everyone if she was, but thanks to you lot she’s not.’
‘Us lot?’ Erla snapped, in a tone unlikely to win the man over. Her recent course on interacting with the public didn’t seem to have made the slightest impression on her usual brusque manner.
‘You lot. The system. You’re all part of the same bloody thing.’
Huldar intervened before Erla could get a word in. He hadn’t dragged her round here to have the door slammed in their faces. ‘I’m afraid we don’t quite follow you, but I can assure you that we’ve had nothing to do with Rósa before. We’re looking for her and were hoping that you or your wife might be able to shed some light on her whereabouts.’ This wasn’t strictly true but they’d agreed their initial questions would be along these lines. Only after that would they bring up the subject of her mother’s death.
‘Neither I nor my wife know anything that could help you. I hope she turns up, sooner rather than later. But she hasn’t been here for two or three months, or been in touch with us at all. You lot made sure our ties with her were broken years ago.’
There was no point repeating that he and Erla could not be held responsible for the state of Rósa’s relationship with her grandparents. ‘We’d like to talk to you, all the same. To your wife as well. It shouldn’t take long. I assure you it’s important.’
From inside the house they heard a woman’s voice rasp: ‘Who is it?’
Rósa’s grandfather called back. ‘No one. Just some people who are leaving.’
The woman, presumably Rósa’s grandmother, retorted: ‘Don’t talk rubbish.’ They heard the sound of footsteps, then the door was wrenched fully open and an older woman appeared beside the man. She studied Huldar’s and Erla’s faces with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. ‘You Bible-bashers?’ The words were accompanied by a sweetish-sour smell of white wine.
‘No. We’re from the police.’ Huldar held out his hand and introduced himself. He was surprised at how firm her grip was.
‘What are you doing here? Has something happened?’ An expression of fear briefly animated the slack facial muscles. Alcohol was never a good look. She swayed and had to lean against the doorpost to stop herself falling. Huldar wondered if her unsteadiness might have some other cause, as she didn’t seem that drunk.
‘They’re searching for Rósa.’ The man didn’t look at his wife as he answered. ‘She’s run off. Again.’
Rósa’s grandmother swallowed, twisting the collar of her jumper with one hand, holding on to the doorpost with the other. ‘She’s not here.’
‘I’ve already told them that. That’s why they’re leaving.’
Huldar and Erla didn’t budge. ‘Could we have a quick word with you? It’s extremely important that we find her.’
While the man was shaking his head, his wife moved aside and waved a hand. ‘Come in.’ Huldar and Erla didn’t wait to be told twice and the husband was forced to give way. He didn’t look pleased.
They followed Rósa’s grandmother past the sitting room where the TV was on and they could see a half-empty wine glass on the coffee table. An open book lay beside it b
ut the reader didn’t seem to have got very far.
They were ushered into a small kitchen that was showing its age, though it was clean and tidy. There were no saucepans on the hob or plates on the table, but then it was still a bit early for supper. A copy of the serenity prayer was stuck to the fridge with a little magnet shaped like a cocktail glass, though whether this was deliberately or unintentionally ironic was anyone’s guess.
They sat down at the kitchen table. It was bare apart from a decorative vase on a small, round doily. There were no flowers in the vase.
‘Where did Rósa run away from this time?’ The grandmother took a seat facing them. Her husband had disappeared.
‘She’d just started a foster placement here in Reykjavík. She hasn’t been in touch with her foster mother and no one else has been able to get hold of her for several days.’ Huldar tried unsuccessfully to fold his legs under the table. ‘Your husband says he hasn’t heard from her but is it possible that she’s been in touch with you?’
Instead of answering, the woman turned the question back on them, making an effort to enunciate clearly: ‘Rósa often takes off. I’ve lost count of the number of times, and when she does, the most they ever do is ring us. Usually it’s some bloke from children’s services. Sometimes no one bothers to get in touch at all and we only hear about it afterwards – when she’s turned up again and tells us about it herself. Either that or we see a picture of her on the internet when they’re appealing for information about her. So I’m asking myself why they’ve sent two cops round this time. Is Rósa in serious trouble?’ The woman may have had a bit to drink but she was nobody’s fool.
‘No. She’s not in any trouble as far as we’re aware. The reason we’re trying to get hold of her is connected to a case we’re investigating. She’s on a list of possible witnesses. She isn’t suspected of any wrongdoing herself.’ Huldar then repeated his original question about whether the woman knew where her grandchild was.
The Doll Page 10
