Hekla had burst into tears and said that she was always alone at school. That being alone among a group of people was so much worse than being alone when no one else was around. ‘Please, please, don’t make me go back,’ Hekla had implored her, and of course Bergrún had phoned Maríanna and explained the situation. Couldn’t she let Hekla stay a little longer in Akranes until she was feeling less miserable? But, no, of course it wasn’t possible: Hekla had to go to school. Always the same indifference from the woman who called herself a mother. Not that this was a problem anymore, Bergrún thought to herself, as she selected the number for Tinna’s house.
Gígja was sitting at the kitchen table when Hörður got home. In the high chair beside her was the latest addition to their horde of grandchildren; number five, a dear little thing with a fine head of hair who had just celebrated her first birthday.
‘Should you be babysitting?’ Hörður asked as he opened the fridge. He knew Gígja was often tired after her radiotherapy, and his attention had been caught by all the shopping bags in the hall when he came in. His wife and daughter clearly hadn’t been idle while they were in town, and now here Gígja was, looking after her granddaughter instead of resting. He didn’t mention the shopping, though, as he didn’t want to sound critical.
‘Oof, don’t be like that,’ Gígja said without taking her eyes off the grandchild she was feeding. ‘I find this far more relaxing than lying on the sofa with my feet up.’
‘Yes, but don’t the doctors recommend—?’
Gígja interrupted: ‘If I die tomorrow, I’d rather spend my last day with my family than alone in bed.’
Hörður grunted, unable to understand how she could refer so casually to her own death. It made him uneasy. Gígja smiled at him, the wrinkles deepening around her eyes. She complained about them, but Hörður found them beautiful. They gave her a warm, merry look, reminding him of what a good life they’d had together and how much laughter they had shared, and when she smiled like that of course he couldn’t help smiling back. Laying his hands on her shoulders, he kissed the top of her head.
Gígja had cut down her hours at work while the treatment lasted – officially, at least. She thought Hörður didn’t know that she sneaked in every day and brought work home with her, as well as babysitting her five grandchildren, completely ignoring the doctor’s orders to take it easy. Of course he should talk to their kids and ask them to spare their mother during the weeks that she was undergoing treatment. He would have to take care that Gígja didn’t find out, though, or he’d never hear the end of it.
Hörður sat down opposite her and made a face at the little girl. She put her head on one side and stared back at him with her big eyes. He had never been particularly good with small children. He never knew what to say to them or how to behave, and felt stupid if he put on a baby voice, like so many people did.
‘Shall we just order a takeaway this evening?’ Gígja suggested. ‘I didn’t have time to go to the supermarket and there’s hardly anything in the fridge.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Hörður said, getting up and going into the sitting room.
Gígja popped a piece of bread and pâté into the little girl’s mouth, only for her to spit it straight out again, the saliva dribbling down her chin.
‘Are you full, sweetheart?’ Gígja said, wiping her mouth with the bib. ‘Shall we see if Sibbi and the others want to stay to supper?’ she called to Hörður. ‘They’re meant to be coming round in a few minutes.’
‘Yes, we could do that,’ he replied. He rang his son’s number, resisting the urge to flop on the sofa and close his eyes. He loved Gígja and often reflected that he couldn’t have chosen a better companion in life, but he couldn’t help wishing they were a little more alike. Gígja was never happier than when she had a house full of people and children, and all the accompanying commotion. Of course, he wanted that too, but it was possible to overdo it. Sometimes he would have given anything just to enjoy a quiet evening alone with her.
The floor of the showers in the Jaðarsbakki pool was awash with soap suds. A group of girls who had just finished a swimming lesson had been vying with each other to pump soap out of the dispenser on the wall in order to blow bubbles. Elma picked her way carefully over the slippery floor to the only free shower for the obligatory pre-swim wash. Then she hurriedly pulled on her costume and went outside, relieved to leave behind the deafening shrieks of laughter in the changing rooms.
The darkness and the underwater lights that billowed when Elma lowered herself into the pool combined to give the scene a slightly eerie atmosphere. The chilly air made the water seem pleasantly hot, and she immediately launched herself into swimming lengths. It was good to feel the water caressing her body. She always felt as if she were entering another world the moment her head went under, blocking out almost all sound. She had quickly given up on the gym, which was heaving as usual at this time of day. People were queuing for the few machines on the terrace above the sports hall.
Swimming allowed her to mull over the case in a relaxed way. She, Hörður and Sævar had met that afternoon to go over the details again, but had drawn no new conclusions. Maríanna had left her job on reception at an earth-moving contractor’s at twelve on the day she vanished. A signal from her phone had been picked up in Akranes at 15.07. Had she been alone or had she had company? And what had brought her to Akranes? According to the data from her computer and phone, no one called or messaged her. Could she have thought Hekla was here?
And what about Sölvi? His alibi was slim. He lived alone, and when Maríanna didn’t show up for their date and didn’t answer his calls, he had just hung around at home then gone out for a drink somewhere. Then there was the question of Hekla’s father. There was no record of his identity. Elma had tried without success to discover who he was back in the spring. No one had known anything about him, least of all Hekla herself, who took her second name, Maríönnudóttir, from her mother. Elma would have to dig deeper to find out more.
So was there any chance it could have been a stranger – someone with no link to Maríanna? These were the toughest cases to crack. When there was no overt motive, just a random killing. The wrong person in the wrong place. But in Iceland, murders were hardly ever random. There was generally a motive, however trivial it might appear. A quarrel in a bar or friction between neighbours. Hörður’s hunch was that the killer was someone Maríanna knew well.
In the end, Hörður had told them to start the next day in Borgarnes, with the police officers who originally handled the case, then to talk to Maríanna’s colleagues and friends, and Sölvi, of course.
After forty lengths, Elma heaved herself out of the pool and got into the hot tub. She was out of breath from powering up and down, but the tiredness soon melted away in the delicious heat. It was peaceful outside and there were only a few other people in the hot tub. Small droplets glittered in the glow of the outdoor lighting and she closed her eyes, letting them land on her face.
Suddenly two hands grabbed her shoulders from behind, making her gasp.
She whirled round. ‘Sævar! Are you trying to kill me?’
Sævar laughed and lowered himself into the hot water beside her. ‘I knew you’d be here.’
‘So you decided to scare the living daylights out of me?’ Elma was suddenly aware that her face must be all red and blotchy from her swim. After a physical effort, her complexion sometimes looked like a map, with its irregular patches of red and white.
‘Guilty.’ Sævar grinned.
‘You should have come for a swim with me. The exercise would do you good.’
‘Are you saying I’m fat?’
‘No, that’s not what I meant.’
‘I feel as if you’re saying I’m fat.’ Sævar glowered at her.
Elma rolled her eyes. It didn’t pay to take Sævar seriously. He enjoyed winding her up and was always catching her out. She fell for it every time, only cottoning on when she spotted that teasing glint in his eye.
‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘I went over the times of the phone calls again. There were very short intervals between Maríanna’s calls to her daughter. It looks as if something must have come up. She kept ringing Hekla every few minutes, so it must have been urgent, whatever it was.’
‘Mmm,’ Sævar said, tipping his head back to wet his hair. ‘Like what?’
‘Search me. Then there are all those calls Bergrún made to Maríanna in the days before her disappearance.’ The water was getting too hot: Elma raised herself up a little, letting the chilly air play over her shoulders. ‘They must have been about Hekla. Perhaps Maríanna went to Akranes because she thought Hekla was there.’
‘It’s possible,’ Sævar said. ‘But that doesn’t explain why she was found dead in the lava field by Grábrók. Unless you’re implying that Bergrún killed her.’
A man in his sixties got into the hot tub with them and reached out to switch on the massage system, then reclined in the spot with the strongest jets, closing his eyes.
Elma had to raise her voice a little so Sævar could hear her over the noise of the water. ‘No, I’m not implying that at all, just wondering what happened on the way there. And also whether Hekla could have something to hide; whether she could have gone over to Akranes. Then again, of course, it could have had something to do with Maríanna’s family. Or with the man she was going to meet. Sölvi could have come round early, and Maríanna could have been in some sort of trouble or even danger. But why ring Hekla in that case? Why not ring the emergency number or—?’
‘Elma, I only caught about half of that,’ Sævar interrupted, his eyes still closed.
Elma gave him a nudge, then shook her head, resigned. Even to her, it sounded as if she was blurting out a stream of incoherent thoughts, so perhaps it was just as well Sævar couldn’t hear her. She had a tendency to become so obsessed with work that she couldn’t focus on anything else. Sævar obviously didn’t suffer from the same problem. He looked perfectly relaxed at her side. Perhaps she should follow his example and turn her thoughts to something other than work. But that was hard with cases of this magnitude. She leant back and closed her eyes too. Shortly afterwards the massage jets stopped and the hot tub grew quiet again.
‘Anyway, what were you saying?’ Sævar sat up.
Elma shot a glance at the man who was sitting nearby, then murmured: ‘I just said we ought to interview Hekla more thoroughly. She’s the main person who might know something.’
‘I agree. Let’s do it tomorrow,’ Sævar replied.
‘Though we’d also need to check…’ Elma began but her words were drowned out by gurgling sounds as the old man switched on the jets again. Sævar leant forwards to hear but Elma shook her head. She lay back with her head on the side of the tub and watched the billows of steam dancing in the air above them.
Eighteen Months
The midwives said it would get easier with time, and I suppose they were right. Some things are easier now that I’ve started work. We wake up, I get her dressed and drive her to the childminder’s. Then, for a whole eight hours, I don’t have to think about anything except myself and my job, and I love my job.
I work on reception at a legal practice in the centre of town. I get to dress smartly, answer the phone and greet people who come to the office. I make a note of meetings, send letters and finally feel like myself again. Most of the lawyers are men, but there’s one woman working there. She’s tall and dignified, always wears a trouser suit; her hair is immaculate and so are her long, beautifully manicured nails. She’s a few years older than me and we sometimes chat in the coffee room. I want to be her friend but most of all I want to be her. When no one’s looking, I check out the information about law degrees on the university website and daydream that one day that could be me. I immerse myself in this world that seems so remote from the life I’ve been living for the last couple of years, but, after work, reality takes over. I’m a single mother again, living in an ugly high-rise flat, with neither the time nor the money to do a degree.
The traffic is heavy, but I’m in no hurry, though I’m already late. When I finally arrive, it’s obvious from a mile off that the childminder isn’t happy. The door opens the instant I knock, and she’s standing in the hall with the girl in her arms.
‘You’re late,’ she says tersely, pushing the untidy, mousy hair back from her face. She’s got a large, purple birthmark covering half her right cheek that I can never stop myself staring at. It looks like a map.
‘Sorry, I got held up. It won’t happen again.’ I smile and try not to think about the fact that my daughter is only a few centimetres away from that revolting blemish.
‘You’d better pull your socks up,’ the childminder says. ‘There are plenty of other kids waiting for a place, and I can’t be doing with people who make me overrun. I finish at five.’
‘I understand. Of course I understand,’ I say, taking my daughter from her. I refrain from pointing out that it’s only ten past five. What could she possibly have been intending to do in those ten minutes that was so important?
‘Next time I’ll have to charge you.’
‘It won’t happen again.’ I keep smiling, though I have a strong desire to punch her in her unmade-up face. The childminder literally pushes me out of the door before I can dress my daughter in her outdoor clothes. Of course she starts screaming the moment I take her in my arms, and I hurry to the car, child perched on one hip, her things clutched in my other hand.
‘Damn,’ I mutter as I drop a mitten in the freshly fallen snow. With difficulty I manage to open the car door and manoeuvre the little girl into the child seat. She screams, and snot leaks out of her nose, smearing across her cheek. Why do children have to be so dirty? She hits me in the face and pulls my hair while I’m strapping her in. I want to scream back at her but bite my lip and count to ten. When I turn to retrieve the mitten, I get a shock.
‘Did you drop this?’ A man is standing behind me, holding out the brown glove.
‘Yes, thanks,’ I say, taking in his straight nose and dark eyebrows.
‘Tough day?’ he asks with a grin.
‘Er, yes, actually.’ I laugh. I brush my hair back from my face and hope I still look OK. I always make an effort for work: straighten my hair or put it up, wear black eyeliner and regularly touch up my lip gloss during the day.
‘She got you there,’ he says.
‘Sorry?’
‘Your cheek’s bleeding.’
‘Oh,’ I say, wiping my face and feeling it sting. ‘Poor thing, she’s tired and … I suppose we’ve both had a bit of a rough day.’ I try to laugh again but am suddenly conscious of how ridiculous I must look. The bun that was so smart a few minutes ago is now leaking strands of hair, and I’m probably scarlet in the face from the struggle. I’m wearing nylon tights and high heels too, despite the wind and snow. I don’t exactly look like the mother of the year, but then I already knew that.
‘Don’t apologise, I can imagine what it’s like.’
I doubt it but I don’t say so. Just nod and give an embarrassed smile, then get ready to go, suddenly eager to escape the situation.
‘Going to pick up her daddy now?’ he asks before I can get in the car.
I stop, smiling inside. That question can only mean one thing.
‘There is no daddy, just us two.’
‘Oh, right,’ the man says, and now it’s his turn to look embarrassed.
I decide to make life easy for him. Before he can utter another word, I say: ‘I’ll give you my number.’
He rings the following day and we arrange to meet up. As I’m pretty much alone in the world and don’t exactly have babysitters coming out of my ears, the only option is to invite him round to my place. I can hear him hesitating. He’d probably rather have met me at a restaurant or bar, well away from the baby and the flat, which just shouts out that a single mother lives there. Then he says yes. Yes, he’s prepared to come round. Why not this evening? That sounds good. Bette
r than good, I want to say. I don’t want to think about how long it is since I last spent an evening with someone other than her.
That evening she seems to sense that something’s up. She cries while I’m bathing her. Cries while I’m putting on her night things and refuses to eat. As usual when she’s in this mood, it’s not enough for her simply to cry. No, she attacks me as well. Tries to scratch and bite, then flings herself on the floor, at the risk of doing herself a serious injury. I grab her head to protect it, but then she gets hold of my cheek. She squeezes and I scream, and before I know it my hand has swung at her face. An involuntary reaction. I hear the slap echoing around the flat and for a few split seconds there is complete silence. But only for a few seconds, because then the screams begin, more ear-splitting than ever before.
Looking at the clock, I see that it’s far too late, and before I know it I’m crying too. The tears stream down my cheeks, stinging as they enter the grazes left there by my little girl. I happen to glance in the mirror and flinch at the sight of myself with swollen eyes and scarlet cheeks, scored with scratches. How am I supposed to meet the guy now? How am I supposed to meet any man? The girl is still lying on the floor, and I straighten up and look at her, feeling a twitching in my fingers. I’m so angry. It’s all her fault. I want to pick her up and hurl her into her bedroom. The longer I stare at her, the more violently angry I feel until in the end I can’t bear it anymore.
‘Shut up, you little brat!’ I scream, and, grabbing hold of one of her arms, I drag her into the bedroom.
The moment I’ve shut her in, there’s a knock on the front door. I freeze and stand there, paralysed. There’s another knock. I lean back against the wall, then slide down it, hiding my face in my hands.
Girls Who Lie Page 7
