Girls Who Lie

by Eva Bjorg AEgisdóttir

  ‘Great,’ Tinna said. She leant towards them, lowering her voice. ‘Then we can really have a good time tomorrow. No hassle. Just the three of us. Or, you know, us and all the other girls in the class.’

  ‘We’ll ditch them later,’ Dísa said. Tinna hushed her, glancing around, but there was no need, as none of the others were paying them any attention.

  ‘Why?’ Hekla asked.

  Dísa and Tinna exchanged secretive glances. ‘You’ll see.’

  Tinna nudged Hekla before she could ask any more questions. Looking up, she saw Alfreð come in and take a seat. He noticed her and smiled. At that moment the teacher entered the room, and Hekla turned her chair round to face the front. She got butterflies in her stomach when she thought about what the next day would bring. The three of them were going to the birthday party of one of the girls in their class. Hekla tried not to dwell on the fact she hadn’t been invited: Dísa and Tinna had insisted on taking her along. She didn’t know the girl whose birthday it was, but the three friends weren’t planning to stay at the party long anyway. Dísa and Tinna obviously had something else up their sleeve, which they were keeping back from Hekla. She was so excited that she found it hard to concentrate on anything in the Icelandic lesson apart from the strawberry fragrance of Tinna’s lip salve and the prospect of Saturday night.

  If Agnar was to be believed, Hekla had been lying. She had gone to Akranes after all, and it was possible that Maríanna had followed her there. Yet Elma found it hard to believe that Hekla could have played any role in her mother’s disappearance. Of course, there were numerous examples of teenagers murdering their parents; not in Iceland, admittedly, but it happened from time to time in other parts of the world. Teenagers pissed off because their parents wouldn’t let them do something, or wouldn’t accept their boyfriend, or had committed some other crime that seemed of paramount importance to the teenage mind. In places like America, where guns were more accessible, it was easier for kids to get hold of them and fire them in a fit of rage. In Iceland, on the other hand, although gun ownership was relatively common, few people carried firearms as a matter of course, and they were much less accessible, since they were required by law to be kept in locked cabinets. Besides, Maríanna hadn’t been shot with a gun; she’d been beaten to death, which would have required strength. Hekla wasn’t that big, and Elma doubted she would have been capable of overpowering her mother without help. She didn’t have a driving licence either. All this made it doubtful she could have murdered Maríanna on her own, driven to Grábrók and disposed of her body in the lava field. Someone would have had to help her, and there weren’t many candidates. Perhaps only Agnar. Another possibility, though Elma found the idea far-fetched, was that Bergrún could have been involved as well.

  Elma sighed and thought how preposterous the whole scenario seemed. However bad Hekla’s upbringing had been, Elma couldn’t believe the girl would be capable of such a crime.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Sævar, who put his head round the door of her office and nodded towards the window. ‘Guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The wind’s dropping. It’s Borgarnes time.’

  The social worker from the local branch of the Child Protection Agency was a woman in her forties with short hair and a broad bosom encased in a red blouse. She introduced herself as Hildur, with a firm handshake and a friendly expression.

  ‘You’re here to ask about Maríanna Þórsdóttir, aren’t you?’ she said once they had taken a seat in her office. ‘I’m so sorry to hear what happened to her. The poor girl.’

  She leant forwards, clasping her fingers on the desk. Elma couldn’t help noticing how tidy it was. No papers, pens or collection of dirty coffee mugs. Perhaps this was because, unlike Elma, she had to receive visitors in her office. Or, at least, so Elma tried to convince herself.

  ‘I know we were in touch with children’s services in the spring,’ Sævar said, ‘but now we’ve reopened the case, it would be good if you could, well … fill us in a bit more on Maríanna’s history.’

  ‘Yes.’ Hildur straightened up and turned to her computer screen, clicking on something with the mouse. ‘I see you got a court order at the time, so it shouldn’t be a problem.’ She looked back at them and smiled. ‘Maríanna and Hekla moved to Borgarnes five years ago. Before that they’d lived in Reykjavík, so obviously I wasn’t in charge of her case then. The agency just sent over her files, so all I can tell you is what it says in them. Apparently, there were a number of reasons for keeping a close eye on mother and daughter. Maríanna suffered from serious post-natal depression after giving birth to Hekla. She was very young when she had her – only sixteen – and had problems bonding with her. Of course, it was a shock when her brother killed himself during her pregnancy, but her problems went beyond normal grief.

  ‘After that a close eye was kept on Maríanna and Hekla, as I said. Both nursery-school staff and nurses expressed concern over the fact that Hekla was very late in learning to talk. At the time, they thought there might be a developmental issue, but it became clear later that this wasn’t the case. The staff at Hekla’s nursery school contacted children’s services on several occasions, mostly because Maríanna didn’t seem to be changing her often enough. She had nappy rash, still wasn’t toilet trained by the time she was four, and her clothes were too small for her. Maríanna also failed to let the school know when Hekla wasn’t coming in. In other words, it was clear from early on that she needed extra support, so ever since Hekla was small, they had been receiving regular visits from social workers, who provided Maríanna with all possible assistance.’

  ‘She went AWOL for several days when Hekla was three, didn’t she?’ Elma asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. That was when Hekla was placed with a foster family for six months – Bergrún and Fannar.’ Hildur added, smiling: ‘A lovely couple.’

  ‘What exactly happened?’

  ‘Well … I suspect Maríanna had started taking drugs and just shut herself off somewhere. She probably lost track of time and didn’t realise how long she’d been away.’

  ‘Was it really safe to send Hekla back to her?’ Elma found it hard not to sound scandalised. In many ways she agreed with Bergrún: children’s interests should be placed before those of their parents. Judging by what she’d heard, Maríanna hadn’t been fit to take care of a three-year-old child, particularly one who wasn’t able to communicate properly.

  Hildur drew a deep breath. ‘Our aim is always to keep children with their parents,’ she said. ‘It’s the most desirable arrangement and by far the best for all involved. Well, in most cases. And, as I said, we kept a close eye on the situation. We paid surprise visits and so on.’

  ‘So we’re talking about neglect rather than something more serious?’

  Hildur frowned. ‘More serious? If you mean do we think Maríanna was violent towards Hekla, then no, we don’t believe that was the case. Maríanna was … well, in a difficult situation. Her brother died while she was pregnant and her parents weren’t able to give her the help she desperately needed at her age. Then Maríanna’s mother died when Hekla was only ten. On balance, given the lack of support from her family, I think she coped pretty well.’

  ‘Didn’t she do another disappearing act when Hekla was ten?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Hildur said. ‘That was around the time her mother died and she got in a very bad state. She was doing a lot of drugs and used to vanish for days at a time.’

  ‘Have I understood correctly that Hekla repeatedly asked to be allowed to live with her support family?’ Sævar asked.

  ‘She did, yes,’ Hildur said. ‘Which is understandable, considering all the things she got from them that she didn’t get from her mother. Material wealth often assumes an exaggerated importance for children. Bergrún and Fannar are well off and were able to give Hekla all sorts of things that Maríanna couldn’t afford.’

  ‘Are you sure that was the only reason?’

&n
bsp; ‘As far as I know, it was,’ Hildur said. ‘But our aim is always to keep children with their parents if we possibly can. It’s the preferred option.’

  ‘Were Bergrún and Fannar unhappy with that arrangement?’

  ‘I’m not sure. You’d have to talk to the Reykjavík branch of the Child Protection Agency. But I do know that Bergrún and Fannar had requested a child to foster permanently, and for a while there was a good chance that they would be able to keep Hekla because we didn’t know if Maríanna would manage to turn her life around. But she did get back on her feet eventually, so I imagine they may well have been unhappy – disappointed, anyway. But in the end they agreed to become Hekla’s support family and several years later they fostered a little boy who they went on to adopt, so I presume they’re happy now.’

  ‘Had things been going well for Hekla and Maríanna in the last few years?’ Elma asked.

  ‘Er, so-so,’ Hildur said. ‘Hekla had been a bit difficult in the last year. She kept trying to sneak out at night, and went over to Akranes without permission, that sort of thing.’

  ‘When did you last speak to Maríanna?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it was shortly before she went missing,’ Hildur said. ‘Hekla had been discovered out on the Ring Road, trying to hitch a lift to Akranes. The police picked her up and notified us, so we paid them a visit.’

  ‘Why was she going to Akranes? To visit her support family?’

  ‘Er, no,’ Hildur said. ‘I think she wanted to go to a party or had a boyfriend there, or something like that. It’s typical behaviour for that age group; they’re always looking for trouble. Maríanna seemed at a loss, unsure how to handle Hekla.’

  ‘I see,’ Elma said. ‘Did Maríanna seem her usual self the last time you met her?’

  ‘She…’ Hildur hesitated. ‘Actually, she seemed unusually down, now that you mention it. Naturally, I assumed it was because of Hekla, as it can be a strain coping with a teenager. But perhaps there was more to it – given what happened.’

  Elma wasn’t sure how she felt after their conversation with the social worker. As she walked away from the grey building that housed the Borgarfjörður branch of the Child Protection Agency, the sick feeling in her stomach wasn’t solely due to hunger. In the line of duty she had often seen broken homes, in which parents with addiction or mental problems were given endless chances that they rarely put to good use, while their children stood helplessly by, in situations that no child should have to endure. Often they couldn’t express themselves or communicate their own wishes, and even when they did, the authorities turned a deaf ear. In Elma’s opinion, the system was fundamentally flawed, designed to serve, not the best interests of the children, but some other purpose altogether.

  She got into the car and stared silently out of the window.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Sævar asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Elma replied, without looking at him. She was picturing Hekla, three years old, alone in the flat, waiting for a mother who never came home. What impact might a traumatic experience like that have on a child?

  ‘The system stinks,’ Sævar said after a moment. Elma turned to him in surprise. ‘I’ve seen it over and over again,’ he went on, ‘and I know you have too.’

  Elma nodded. ‘I just feel like … like it should be possible to do more. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sævar said, and started the car. ‘Still, at least we’re trying.’ He gave her an encouraging smile, then changed the subject. ‘Hungry?’

  It was well past midday and the energy provided by that morning’s pastry had long been exhausted. They parked in front of Hyrnan. The service station had changed a bit since Elma was a little girl. Like many people, her family used to stop here on car journeys. In summer, the shop and café were generally busy with locals and foreign tourists, but at this time of year the place looked a bit empty, with only a few souls sitting in the café section, which resembled a school canteen. They chose a small, round table in a kind of conservatory attached to the shop. Sævar ordered two hot dogs and a Coke; Elma, a roast-beef sandwich and a carton of chocolate milk.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ she asked, after taking two bites of her sandwich and swallowing them so fast that she needed a large swig of chocolate milk to stop them getting stuck in her throat. ‘Would Hekla have been capable of murdering her mother?’

  Sævar shrugged, his mouth full. He swallowed his hot dog and drank some Coke before answering. ‘Maybe if she had help. She had a pretty strong motive. Well, not that there’s ever a good reason for murdering someone, but you know what I mean. Sometimes people do actually have a pretty understandable motive.’

  ‘What about Agnar – could he have helped her?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Sævar said. ‘We’d better check his alibi.’

  ‘But if Hekla wasn’t home that day, we have no way of knowing what time Maríanna vanished.’

  ‘What about her phone? Weren’t we also going by the time her phone was switched off?’

  ‘Yes, but there may have been a natural explanation for that. Maríanna could just as well have come back home later that day and gone missing after that, which would put Sölvi back in the frame. Supposing he got drunk, paid Maríanna a visit and wanted to punish her for standing him up? For rejecting him?’

  Sævar nodded. ‘It’s possible. We need to find out when Hekla really got home. It’s time that girl was straight with us.’

  ‘Do you think there’s any point visiting her old school?’

  ‘No idea.’ Sævar ate the last bite of his hot dog.

  Elma scrunched up the plastic wrapper from her sandwich and sucked up the dregs of her chocolate milk. ‘Well, we’ll soon find out.’

  Nine Years Old

  The voices in her room sound as if they’re coming from a crowd of people, but she’s alone in there. She’s still playing with the toy soldiers, those little green figures, but now the game has changed and instead of lining them up, she makes them talk to each other. She has invented voices for every single one, and they quarrel and make up and have long conversations. She closes her door, which means I can’t make out what they’re saying unless they raise their voices and shout things like ‘you idiot’ or ‘go away’. Otherwise the voices are usually so quiet that even if I press my ear to her door I can’t make out a word, just incomprehensible mutterings. The doll I bought when she was a baby is still sitting on the chest of drawers, her dress as smooth and pristine as when she came out of the box.

  I knock on her door at half past five. There’s a class event at her school, which means I’m going to have to stand there for two hours, watching forty nine-year-old kids running around the hall. The parents are supposed to provide refreshments. Some make scones and prawn salad, others bake sugar-free cinnamon buns or chop up carrots. I didn’t have time to make anything myself, so I bought some outrageously expensive iced buns from the bakery on the way home from work. If I put them in a basket, maybe I can pretend they’re homemade.

  She opens the door and smiles at me. It’s new, this smile. She puts it on when you least expect it, like a veteran TV newsreader. Her dark hair is pulled back in a pony-tail with an orange scrunchy that she must have picked up somewhere, perhaps at school, and she’s wearing a short-sleeved red dress. They’re not the clothes she was wearing earlier, so clearly she’s made the effort to get changed and do her hair. A few weeks ago she asked for a mirror in her room, and I gave her a full-length one to prop up by her chest of drawers. I sometimes catch her out of the corner of my eye, posing in front of it and admiring her reflection, smiling or turning to contemplate her side view.

  ‘I see you’re ready.’ The dress is old and too small. I haven’t bought many clothes for her recently, but when I do, she grows out of them with record speed. I open her wardrobe and run my eyes over the contents, before finally taking out a loose-fitting, dark-blue dress with long sleeves.

  ‘Try this one instead,’ I say, taking the orange scrunchy out of her hair. Her
dark mane is so thick and coarse that it’s hopeless trying to tie it back in a pony-tail. The small hairs on her scalp stubbornly stick up in the air, however firmly I brush them flat. Once she’s put on the dress, I braid her hair into a single thick, tight plait like the one I used to have in old photos at home. Always smiling and sweet, like a little princess. That’s what Mum and Dad wanted me to be. As a child, I never wore the type of clothes you could get from discount stores. Instead, every time Dad travelled abroad for work, he would buy me tons of stuff from expensive shops, of the kind that none of the other kids wore. ‘It’s where the royal family shops,’ he told us proudly. When I got older, I refused to wear these clothes, but for years I was just as they wanted me, like a little member of the British royal family.

  Once the plait is finished, I inspect her in the mirror. ‘There, much better,’ I say, smiling at her.

  When we arrive at the school, there’s already a crowd of people there, and the fun and games have started. I put the iced buns on the table, smiling at the group of mothers who are standing off to one side. They are all older than me, with short hair and sticks up their arses, but I’ve made an effort to get to know them. I chat to them during school events and volunteer for all kinds of committees and associations. But just like with the kids, there’s a certain pecking order among the parents. The mothers of the popular children stick together and organise the class socials. Their kids do sports together and meet up every day, but as my daughter still hasn’t got to know anyone, I find myself dropping further and further in their estimation. Now they greet me with perfunctory nods and smiles, before carrying on talking among themselves, paying me no further attention.

  ‘Shall we go into the hall?’ I ask, trying to push my daughter away from my thigh. She nods. The movement is so slight that only I can see it. Really it’s extraordinary how little she talks in company, given the torrent of words I hear coming from her bedroom every day. With me, she usually makes do with monosyllables. But she’s obedient, and I can see that she’s making more of an effort to please me these days.