An hour later she and Jakob were lying on the sofa. He propped himself up on his elbow and studied her face.
‘We should go out on a date.’
‘A date?’ Elma giggled. ‘You make it sound so formal.’
Jakob’s mouth twitched into a smile, but Elma could tell that he was embarrassed. ‘I mean it. What do you say we drive into Reykjavík at the weekend? Go for a meal somewhere classy, then to a gig? There’s a brilliant stand-up at the Old Cinema on Saturday. My mate went and laughed so much it hurt.’
He made it sound as if he’d just thought of it, but Elma didn’t believe it for a minute. She was still in her pyjama bottoms, but was now wearing a baggy T-shirt that Jakob had left at her place and she had appropriated for herself. He was lying behind her, with one arm around her, and she could feel his warm breath on the back of her neck.
Biting her lower lip, she turned to him. ‘I’ll have to see if I can get the time off work,’ she said. ‘There’s quite a lot on at the moment.’
This sounded like an excuse but it was true: they had worked late every day that week, and she was envisaging having to tell Dagný that she wouldn’t be able to accompany her to Reykjavík at the weekend. But maybe it was an excuse too. Elma still wasn’t sure what kind of relationship she and Jakob had. Up to now, it had been limited to their flats, to the sofa and bed, and when it started that had been the only kind of relationship she wanted. But now something had changed.
Jakob answered by kissing the top of her head. Elma turned away and tried to concentrate on the film again, but the atmosphere had changed. Something unsaid hung in the air between them, and she realised that she would have to come to a decision soon. The only problem was that she had no idea what her decision would be.
Nine Years Old
I watch him from my window on the seventh floor. He’s wearing a black denim military jacket with shoulder straps. He doesn’t appear to use anything to style his light-brown hair and when he walks it bounces in time to his strides. Although it’s not far to the school and the weather isn’t that bad – there’s no wind, but heavy grey clouds threaten a downpour any minute – Hafliði and his son both get into the car. What was the son’s name again? Stefán, that’s it. Stefán’s like his father: unusually tall for his age, with an innate self-confidence that’s visible a mile off. Hafliði suggested at the class social that we should get our kids together for a play date – Stefán and my daughter. Hah! The idea is almost laughable.
I’ve been sitting at my post by the window on and off all weekend, and every time I notice a movement I lean towards the glass, hoping it’s him. I’ve lingered longer than necessary in the entrance hall too, taking my time about opening my post box and collecting the junk mail and advertisements that I usually allow to pile up, but it hasn’t led to anything. I haven’t run into him or caught sight of him all weekend until now.
They drive away just as my daughter walks out of our building with both hands on the straps of her school bag and her eyes on the pavement. She’s like an animal, curling up its body in self-defence. Really, it’s extraordinary she doesn’t bump into people or end up under a car. Her eyes never seem to leave the grey concrete pavement, and she moves fast, overtaking the other kids.
It works. Up to now she has done a good job of making herself invisible. She has no friends. One of the girls in her class lives on the next-door staircase, and I often see a group of kids outside her place. Every day the doorbell rings for this girl and children troop past our staircase without giving it so much as a glance. Are they even aware that she lives here? Do they even know she exists?
Still, I’m not too concerned, because it’s not as if people really need friends. I’ve managed fine without them for years. All friends do is remind you of what you’re not. I know – I used to have loads of them. They were nothing but hard work. Commitment. People who made demands on me, who needed to be taken into consideration. It drove me mad the way they would get offended by one harmless little comment, or make me feel like I had to go to places I had no interest in, just to be a good friend. Because friends do things for each other. God, I don’t miss them one bit.
After work I stop off at the supermarket. Then I linger in the foyer of our building, checking the post box, but it’s empty. Hafliði’s car’s not outside, and I’m hoping he might pull into the drive any minute. But nothing happens and in the end I take the lift upstairs.
‘Hi, hun,’ I say to my daughter, who is sitting on the sofa, watching TV. She has no interest in brainless cartoons. No, she watches documentaries about everything under the sun, then comes out with all kinds of bizarre remarks and references to them, like: ‘Mum, did you know that prawns have hearts in their heads?’ I just hope she doesn’t talk like that at school, since the other kids must find her weird enough already. The programme she’s watching now with such awestruck fascination is yet another of those natural-history documentaries. I start putting the shopping away in the fridge, then switch on the oven and stick in a readymade lasagne. It’s then that there’s a knock at the door. Knock, knock. Two polite raps, and I know at once that it’s him.
‘Have you got any eggs?’ He’s wearing an ugly, thin T-shirt that can’t disguise his little pot belly. There’s a picture of some band on the front that he probably doesn’t listen to, but which looks good on a T-shirt. An all-male band from the seventies, with long hair and cigarettes hanging from their lips.
‘As it happens I’ve just bought some.’ I gesture to him to come in, open the fridge and ask how many he needs. Then I take out two and hand them to him. ‘Careful not to break them.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ He smiles and is about to leave when my daughter suddenly blocks his way. ‘Oh, hi. Nice to see you again.’
‘Thanks,’ she says, smiling that practised, newsreader smile. The one that lights up her face for a split second, then is gone again. ‘Hey, that’s my initial.’ She stares at Hafliði, who wrinkles his brow for a moment before he grasps what she’s talking about.
‘Oh, you mean the necklace,’ he says. ‘Yes, it seems we share an initial. My mother gave me this when I was thirty, and I haven’t taken it off since. I’d show it to you but my hands are full.’ He holds up the eggs and laughs.
Only now do I notice that he’s wearing a gold chain around his neck with the letter H on a round pendant. The chain must have been hidden under his shirt collar the last time we met, but now it’s revealed by the neck of his ugly T-shirt, which gapes as if it’s been stretched.
She doesn’t laugh, just regards him thoughtfully, then puts a hand up to her own necklace which has the same letter on it.
‘You’ve got one too,’ Hafliði says. ‘We match.’
She’s still staring at him, and I can see that Hafliði is growing uncomfortable. He stands in the hall, shifting his feet as if he doesn’t know if he’s coming or going.
‘Why don’t you go back in and watch TV, darling?’ I say, putting a hand on her shoulder. At that she turns away and settles down on the sofa again. I smile at him apologetically. ‘She’s a bit—’ I begin, but he interrupts.
‘Listen,’ he says, suddenly appearing a little uncertain, as if he doesn’t know quite what he’s going to say. Yet he does know, precisely. It’s a game, the embarrassed smile and the way he lowers his eyes to the carpeted floor of the hall before raising them to mine. ‘Sorry to ask, but I’ve been trying to get the washing machine in the basement to work ever since we moved in, with no luck. You don’t know the trick of starting it, do you? Stefán’s running out of clothes for school. He’ll be fed up if he has to resort to his stripy jumper, but there’ll be no alternative if I don’t manage to do a wash soon – there’s nothing else left.’
I smile. ‘Of course. I’ll come down as soon as we’ve had supper. Shall we say at eight?’
The washing machine in the basement is enormous and available to everyone in the building but in practice few people use it. Like me, most of the residents have installed t
heir own machines in the bathroom or kitchen. After all, it’s such a bore having to lug your laundry downstairs, and the machine is pretty battered and leaves a bad smell in your clothes. I don’t tell Hafliði this, though. Instead, I go and wait for him in the basement, which has one tiny window high in the wall.
The clock strikes eight. No one comes, and I can’t hear a sound, apart from the constant humming from the heating pipes that run along the walls, as if someone’s in the shower or running a bath. I don’t often come down here, and there’s a reason for that. The room’s old and dirty, with peeling pale-green paint on the walls. You can store bikes and children’s buggies down here, but I’d never be seen dead on a bicycle. Or with a buggy, for that matter. Please God, don’t let me have another child.
I was forced to use the washing machine down here when we first moved in but only for a few weeks. It’s simple to use, so I can’t think why he needs help. Perhaps it’s just a pretext to meet me. The thought sends a current of electricity zinging into the pit of my stomach. I listen for footsteps, but the minutes crawl by, and I begin to feel stupid standing there. Five minutes pass, then ten, and I’m just about to leave when I hear a sound: footsteps approaching along the corridor, and then he’s there.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he says, running a hand through his hair. ‘I got a call from work, something about unrecorded measurements and … Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m just glad you’re still here.’ He’s carrying a washing basket full of dirty laundry and smiles in a way that makes it hard not to smile back.
‘No problem, I’ve only just got here myself,’ I lie.
‘Oh, right, I’m glad I didn’t keep you waiting.’
‘I was afraid I was keeping you waiting.’
‘No harm done, then.’
‘No harm done,’ I repeat.
‘Right. This washing machine. How on earth do I get it to work?’
He puts down the laundry basket and stuffs the clothes into the machine. I choose a setting and shortly afterwards the drum starts turning and the machine fills with water. I show him the best program and how to adjust the temperature and spin speed. As he leans closer, I can smell him; feel the warmth radiating from him.
‘So, it was as simple as that.’ He laughs, shamefaced, and straightens up again. ‘Now I look like a complete idiot.’
‘Not at all. The machine’s so ancient, it’s no wonder you didn’t know how to use it,’ I say, while underneath I’m thinking that if he really couldn’t get it to work, he must be stupider than I thought.
‘I suppose I wasn’t good enough about taking care of this kind of thing before.’ He scratches his head.
‘Before?’
‘Before it was just the two of us. Dagbjört used to do all the washing. I know, a terribly old-fashioned arrangement. But I’m learning. I’ve even started ironing my own shirts.’ He grins triumphantly.
‘That’s a step in the right direction.’
‘What about you?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, I mean, is it just the two of you? You and your daughter?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s always been just us two.’
‘I see.’ There’s a brief silence during which his gaze locks with mine. I don’t look away. I can feel my heart beating in my throat, the heat in my body.
Then, without warning, he leans towards me. It’s a pretty bold move, but typical of a man like him. I bet he’s never been rejected. Never been pushed away or asked to stop. And I’m not going to be the first woman to do it. He places a hand behind my head and his lips touch mine. The room starts to dance around me, and the sound of the washing machine fades to a pleasant hum. The heat has become a raging inferno by now, and suddenly I feel ten years younger.
It’s a long time since I’ve been with a man. So long that I thought when the time came I wouldn’t know how to behave or what to do. But now that it’s finally happening, it’s easy, and all my movements are instinctive. I haven’t forgotten a thing.
There’s nothing embarrassing about his touch, and I don’t even stop to think that someone could walk in any minute. Or that my little girl is sitting upstairs in her pyjamas, waiting for me. The only thing occupying my thoughts is the weight on top of me, the frantic breathing and the rhythmic sloshing of the washing machine.
Friday
Elma began the morning by ringing the owner of the restaurant where Agnar used to work. He reacted gruffly, telling her to talk to the woman who took care of the shift rota, and leaving her in no doubt that she had woken him up. The woman, on the other hand, was much more civil and willing to help, although she was obviously very busy, as Elma could hear from the children’s voices in the background.
‘I’m just dropping my son off at nursery and I’ll need to look at a computer to check the shift rota.’ She sounded out of breath. ‘Can I call you back shortly?’
‘Of course.’ Elma hung up and reached down to scratch Birta behind the ears. ‘Why aren’t you with your dad?’ she whispered.
Birta shook herself, then lay down again with her head between her paws.
Elma leant so far back in her chair, it creaked. The morning meeting was due to start in half an hour. She wandered out into the kitchen, filled her mug with coffee, then sat back down at her computer.
It was Friday, and while many of her colleagues looked forward to the weekend, Elma was glad that she would be on duty. She’d sent Dagný a message that morning to ask if they could postpone their Reykjavík trip. She was expecting to have to work both days, and even if she had a little free time, she was too preoccupied with the case to be able to switch off enough to enjoy a massage. Dagný had agreed, but asked if she could pop round after work so they could order some stuff, as it was only a week until their father’s birthday. Now all that remained was for Elma to decide what to do about Jakob and his suggestion of a date. She sighed and was grateful when her thoughts were interrupted by the phone.
‘Right, I’ve got the file in front of me.’ It was the woman from the pizza restaurant. ‘You were asking about Friday, 4 May. I see that Agnar worked the shift from four until ten that evening.’
‘Do they always go home on the dot of ten?’
‘Usually,’ the woman said. ‘It can sometimes take a bit longer to clear up if the place is busy, but Agnar doesn’t work in the kitchen; he’s on deliveries.’
‘Deliveries?’
‘Yes, you know. He delivers the takeaway pizzas.’
‘Oh, of course. Do the delivery guys help to clean up the kitchen after their shifts?’
‘Sometimes. When there’s a lot on, everyone helps out.’
Elma thanked her and ended the call. She knew perfectly well what pizza delivery people did, but she was wondering how sure they could be that Agnar had come straight back after every job. Could he conceivably have slipped off between deliveries? Though even if he had, she reflected, he was unlikely to have had enough time to drive to Grábrók and back; a round-trip of nearly 140 kilometres from Akranes. Then again, he could have gone there after work, under cover of night; although in May it didn’t get dark until late. What about before work, then? Maríanna had probably died sometime after 3.00 p.m., if the time her phone had been turned off was anything to go by. And, Elma reflected, Agnar’s alibi for that time was far from satisfactory.
The meeting room was empty when she went in and took a seat. A few minutes later Sævar entered, looking unusually smart. Instead of his habitual T-shirt, he was wearing a white shirt, his hair was combed to one side and he reeked of aftershave.
‘What’s all this in aid of?’
‘What?’ He sat down.
‘The outfit. Have you got a date after work?’ she teased, and was surprised when Sævar looked shifty. He avoided her eye and gave a rueful half-smile, muttering something about these being his only clean clothes.
Elma refrained from interrogating him further but gave him a speculative look. Were her eyes deceiving her or was that a faint blush? Perhaps he
really did have a date after work. But who with? Perhaps the new female officer who had joined them in the spring. Her name was Birna; she was in her mid-twenties and had just graduated from police training college. Elma sometimes heard them chatting together in the coffee room. Birna was as open and unaffected as Sævar. She turned up to work bright-eyed and bushy tailed every day, and was always smiling.
Elma’s thoughts flew to Jakob. He and Sævar could hardly be more different: Sævar with his dark hair and craggy face; Jakob blond and boyish. He had such fine, delicate features that he would probably never stop looking boyish. They were polar opposites when it came to their personalities too. Elma could never be sure when Sævar was being serious, and his teasing drove her up the wall at times. Jakob, in contrast, was so sincere that it would never occur to him to take the mickey out of her. That wasn’t to imply that he was totally humourless, though. He was a big South Park fan and sometimes showed her cartoons in the paper that made him laugh.
Elma couldn’t envisage him and Sævar getting on. In her mind they belonged to two different worlds, but she had to face it: if she went on a date with Jakob and their relationship developed into something more serious, the two worlds would have to collide sooner or later. For some reason, the thought made her uncomfortable.
She snapped back to the present when Hörður came in and sat down. ‘OK, what’s the latest?’ he asked, stirring his tea.
Elma gave him a summary of the previous day’s interviews. ‘In other words, we’re focusing our attention on Hekla. I spoke to Agnar’s employer, who confirmed that he was at work. But it turns out Agnar’s a pizza delivery boy, which means he could potentially slip off for a while without anyone noticing; between four and six, for example, before things got busy.’
‘Really?’ Hörður asked, his eyebrows raised sceptically. ‘For long enough to murder someone?’
‘It needn’t have taken long – the time-consuming part would have been hiding the body. Agnar and Hekla could have taken care of that later in the evening. We don’t know what he was up to between three and four p.m. either.’
Girls Who Lie Page 18
