‘No, it’s OK. I mean, I have no idea how long my visit to Davíð’s parents will last and you wouldn’t want to hang around in town all that time.’
Sævar sighed. ‘Elma … I’m thirty-six years old. The only family I have is my brother, and all my friends spend their Saturday evenings with their wives and children. Believe me, I have nothing better to do.’
Elma laughed. ‘You make it sound so tragic.’
‘I’ll do some Christmas shopping while you’re having dinner. You can let me out at Kringlan, and I’ll finish buying my presents and maybe go to a film. It actually sounds better than the Saturday night I had planned.’
‘What about Birta? Will she be OK by herself?’ Elma asked.
‘Actually, my neighbour’s offered to look after her on the days when I can’t bring her into work,’ Sævar said. ‘He’s recently retired, and I think he sees dog-sitting as a good way of getting himself out of the house every day to take some exercise.’
‘OK, if you’re sure.’ Elma stood up.
‘I’m sure.’
Ten Years Old
A week later Hafliði comes round to supper. It’s a Friday evening, and Stefán’s at his mother’s, so it’s just the three of us. The atmosphere at the table feels different. Hafliði is distracted, and I can’t stop talking. In the end, my attempts to make conversation falter, and we eat our spaghetti, silently staring at the TV. We didn’t meet yesterday evening because he had to work. He often works late when Stefán’s with his mother, but up to now he’s always slept with me, however late he’s got back. I lay there for a long time, waiting for his knock on the door. It didn’t come but the phone rang at three in the morning and instead of hearing Hafliði’s voice I was met by silence. I switched off the phone but found it impossible to get back to sleep.
Later in the evening we’re halfway down a bottle of red when I turn to him and ask what’s wrong. He scratches his head and opens and shuts his mouth before saying: ‘Nothing. Nothing in particular.’
‘Tell me,’ I insist. ‘Something’s up.’
‘It’s just … I spoke to my brother yesterday. That guy, Ívar, he remembered you all right and he…’ His voice trails off but then he doesn’t need to say any more.
I put down my wineglass. ‘And he didn’t have anything good to say about me, I suppose?’
We end up having a row. I must have had a bit too much to drink because I bring up the subject of his family. Since we left I’ve kept replaying the scene; seeing their faces, the disdainful way they looked at my daughter and wrinkled their noses when she was sick. Instead of helping or asking if she was OK, they just retreated out of range and stood there, exchanging contemptuous glances. Clearly, my daughter and I weren’t good enough for them. Which was pretty ironic considering that the party was taking place in a block of flats in Hafnarfjörður, of all places. I say all this and more, and the row ends with Hafliði storming out.
Two days later we make up again, but in spite of that it feels as if something indefinable has changed between us. I can’t put my finger on it. All I know is that I’d give anything to be able to rewind. I want us to go back to being the same happy family that we’ve been for the last few months. But Hafliði has become distant. Distracted. He no longer comes round every evening, but works late and invents excuses that didn’t exist before. I behave as if it doesn’t matter but inside I’m terrified.
Then one Saturday he doesn’t answer the phone. I wait all day for him to return my call, but when suppertime has come and gone without any message from him, I grow worried. A feeling of misgiving creeps over me that I can’t shake off. I try calling him again. And again. And a third time. I pace around the flat, unable to sit still, feeling as if I’m going crazier by the minute. He had some work event this evening; important clients to take out to dinner. So perhaps his day’s been taken up with preparations and there’s a perfectly natural explanation for his silence. I fall asleep in front of the TV, an empty wine bottle on the table and my phone in my hand.
I wake up early next morning with a headache and a bad taste in my mouth to find her sitting beside me. She’s turned on the TV with the volume so low it’s barely audible. All week she’s been asking where Hafliði is. If he’s gone. She’s wandered restlessly around the flat, unable to concentrate on anything. It’s the same now: the TV is babbling away, but her eyes keep flickering to me. I wonder what’s going on in that little head of hers. What’s she thinking? What does she want from me?
Leaving her sitting there, I go into the kitchen. I make coffee, then sit at my post by the window, from which I gaze down on a limited segment of the world outside. This window has framed my view of the world in recent years. From here I watch all the people who live around me but don’t know I exist. I watch my neighbours, know when they wake up and when they get home. I see the lights going on in their windows in the mornings, what they watch on TV and when they go to bed. They’re like little ants that go through life never varying their routine. I imagine squashing them with a finger. What would that change? Would anyone care? Maybe a few friends and relatives. Maybe some stranger would cry for a few minutes, only to have forgotten them by the next day. People always think they’re so important when really they don’t matter. Nothing matters.
She comes into the kitchen and smiles at me. Her smile is hesitant. Wary. When I smile back, she comes over to join me. She doesn’t say anything, just lays a hand on mine. She stands beside me for a while, then goes away again. It’s not much, but I get a lump in my throat because I know that this is her way of showing affection. She’s not big on hugs or physical contact. Even the hand that always used to slip into mine when she was younger is a stranger to me now.
After thinking about it for a while, I decide to go downstairs to Hafliði’s flat. I take the stairs instead of the lift because I don’t know exactly what I’m going to say, and I need time to think. My hands are cold and clammy with sweat when I knock on the door. After a moment or two I hear voices inside. Footsteps. Someone fiddles with the lock, then the door opens.
The person standing in front of me isn’t Hafliði or Stefán. It’s a dark-haired woman, wearing nothing but one of Hafliði’s T-shirts. Actually, she’s not even a woman, just a girl. Years younger than me. Her legs are thin and white with prominent blue veins. Her hair is tied back in a pony-tail that is leaking down, just like the mascara under her eyes.
‘Hi,’ she says and there’s something malicious about her smile. I have a feeling I’ve seen her somewhere before. My heart’s beating so fast I think I’m going to faint. There’s a humming in my ears and the floor is moving in waves.
I take a step backwards. ‘Who are you? Where’s Hafliði?’
‘I’m Maríanna,’ she says and closes the door.
Elma’s clothes only filled half the wardrobe these days. She had gone through them pretty ruthlessly when she moved and now regretted having given away various garments. Presumably they were kicking around at the Red Cross or wherever they had ended up. Hopefully they would come in more useful there than in her cupboard.
Elma looked in the mirror and tried in vain to untangle her hair, which was far too long. She rarely took the time to go to the hairdresser’s, and it now reached down below her shoulder blades. With the onset of the winter darkness following a dreary summer, her complexion was pale with hardly a freckle to be seen. When she was younger, she used to break out in freckles at the first hint of sun and she had hated it. She sucked in her cheeks as her sister had once taught her and dabbed on some bronzing powder to try and add a bit of healthy colour.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket and Sævar’s name flashed up on screen. Looking out of the sitting-room window, she saw his car and waved instead of answering. She grabbed her bag and was just locking her door when the one opposite hers opened.
‘Feeling better?’ Jakob asked. He was carrying a large backpack and wearing a woolly hat with a big red pom-pom.
Elma smiled in embarrassment.
She was in her smart coat, wearing lipstick and didn’t look ill at all. ‘Yes, I am. I expect I managed to sleep it off.’
Jakob returned her smile. Although only a few seconds passed before he replied, Elma could almost hear them ticking by. ‘That’s good.’
‘Where are you going?’ she asked. ‘Surely not outside in this cold?’
‘Yes, actually. I’m going snowboarding with a mate. Now that we’ve finally had a decent snowfall.’
‘Yes, finally,’ Elma said, her expression apparently so unconvincing that Jakob started to laugh. He knew she didn’t like snow. The tension between them dissipated a little. ‘I’m going on a work trip to Reykjavík. I might try and buy some Christmas presents while I’m there.’
‘For me?’
‘Maybe.’
Jakob was joking, but in truth it hadn’t occurred to Elma to buy him a present. Was he expecting one? She didn’t even have to think that through to the end – of course Jakob would give her a present. That’s exactly the kind of guy he was; the kind who never forgot birthdays and would turn up bearing gifts even when there was no special occasion.
Jakob slung the backpack over his shoulder. ‘Anyway, best get a move on.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Her phone started ringing again. Sævar must be wondering what was keeping her. ‘Me too, clearly.’
‘Right.’ Jakob paused. ‘Maybe I’ll see you later.’
‘Yes,’ said Elma. ‘I’m bound to be late but … yes. Maybe.’
She watched him go, not quite sure why she was standing there like an idiot instead of walking out of the building with him.
It was past midday, but there was still no sign of Hekla. Bergrún had decided to let her sleep in after her party, but this was overdoing it a bit. The general rule was that everyone in the family had to be up by ten at the latest. Not that this had often been put to the test, because Bergur usually woke them before eight and Hekla wasn’t one of those teenagers who overslept in the mornings. But the girl had had a difficult week, and as she’d been home by the agreed time last night, Bergrún had decided not to disturb her.
‘It’s great weather,’ Fannar said, stamping his feet in the hall. His cheeks were red from the effort of shovelling snow off the drive, and strands of hair were sticking to his sweaty forehead. ‘We should get out our skis.’
During their years studying in Norway they had learnt to cross-country ski, but sadly conditions in Iceland were rarely suitable. They sometimes dreamt of moving back to Norway. Had visions of the forests and high mountains, the superior climate and more laid-back lifestyle. If it weren’t for Hekla, they might have gone through with it.
‘Good idea.’ Bergrún leant against the door frame, cradling a mug of coffee in her hands. The snow from Fannar’s boots quickly melted, forming a puddle on the floor tiles.
‘Maybe Hekla would like a go,’ Fannar said. ‘It’s ages since she last got a chance to go skiing.’
Bergrún smiled reminiscently at the thought of Hekla’s first time on skis at five years old. The little girl had clung to Bergrún’s hand for dear life, shrieking with pleasure as they glided forwards at a snail’s pace.
‘Yes, we should ask her.’ Bergrún glanced towards Hekla’s room again.
‘Is she awake?’
‘No, she’s sound asleep. It must have been a heck of a party.’
Fannar wrinkled his brow. ‘I saw footprints in the snow outside,’ he said. ‘Are you sure she’s in there?’
‘I … yes. She came home last night. I heard her. Spoke to her.’ Suddenly Bergrún was assailed by doubts. The last few days had taught her that Hekla didn’t always tell the truth, not even to the police. She had lied about her boyfriend and the trip to Akranes. Bergrún was hurt that Hekla hadn’t trusted her with the truth. She’d thought their relationship was strong enough that Hekla wouldn’t feel the need to keep any secrets from her.
Perhaps Hekla had just fallen in with a bad crowd. Bergrún liked Dísa and Tinna, but they were showing signs of becoming problem teenagers. The rebellious type. She felt so sorry for Margrét, who had rung that morning in search of Tinna. Bergrún hoped she’d never find herself in that situation.
‘Have you checked on her?’ Fannar looked at her enquiringly.
Instead of answering, Bergrún put her coffee cup down on the kitchen island and went over to the door of Hekla’s room.
‘Hekla,’ she said quite loudly and knocked. No reply. She knocked harder. ‘Hekla.’
When it became apparent that no one was going to open the door, she tried the handle. It was unlocked. Bergrún threw an uncertain glance at Fannar. When he nodded, she opened the door.
The first thing Bergrún noticed was the stench of alcohol. The room was dark, the curtains drawn and the floor covered in clothes. A pair of ankle boots lay on the parquet in a large pool of water.
‘Who … what?’ Bergrún stammered, but before she could say another word, she realised that Hekla wasn’t alone in bed.
Returning to Reykjavík was a slightly disorientating experience for Elma these days. Familiar though the city was, with its heavy traffic, endless suburbs and high-rise buildings, she noticed that she no longer felt the same fondness for it she once had. The tables had been turned and nowadays it was always a relief to get back to Akranes and feel her tension easing as life reverted to a slower, more natural pace.
This afternoon, though, she was too distracted by arguing with Sævar to register the fact that they had entered the city. It hardly mattered what Elma said, Sævar could never agree with her. She suspected him of deliberately playing devil’s advocate just to get on her nerves. By the time they parked outside the block of flats in the suburb of Árbær, Elma was red in the face with irritation. Sævar, meanwhile, sat in the passenger seat with a suspicion of a smile on his lips that Elma would have gladly wiped off with a wet cloth. She was so preoccupied that it took her a moment to remember why they were there.
They were hoping that Maríanna’s father would be able to fill in some of the blanks about her past. Elma was especially keen to ask about Maríanna’s brother, Anton, and the accusations that had supposedly led to his suicide. She was also curious to find out if anything more was known about Hekla’s father.
On the way, they had received the news that Tinna had turned up safe and sound at Hekla’s house. So tomorrow they would hopefully be able to get confirmation from her of Hekla’s movements on Friday, 4 May.
‘Bell number 502,’ Sævar said, after peering at the panel on the wall.
Þór was a big man, tall, with broad shoulders. Maríanna must have inherited her tiny build from her mother, while their son had clearly taken after his father. Elma had seen a photo of Anton when she read his obituary online, and the likeness was striking. Both father and son had broad faces, big noses and a habit of screwing up their eyes as if shielding them from the sun. The only difference was that where Anton had been dark, Þór’s beard was silver-grey and so were the few remaining hairs on his head.
Þór showed them into the kitchen and gestured to them to take a seat in the cramped corner. Then he reached up into a cupboard for two cups, one of which fell over with a crash.
‘My eyesight’s almost gone,’ he explained, putting the cups on the table along with a light-brown thermos. He didn’t offer them any milk. ‘Age-related macular degeneration, according to the medics. Dad had it too; he was totally blind by the time he was sixty. I’ll be seventy in three years, so I suppose I should count myself lucky. I’ve still got some peripheral vision and can see outlines, and distinguish light from dark.’
Elma wondered if that was why the flat was so brightly illuminated. Every single ceiling light was on and there were lamps in every corner. There was even one on the kitchen table, shining in their faces.
‘From what I remember, there’s a good view from the windows here.’
Elma looked out. There was Reykjavík, lit up in the darkness that had already begun to fall over the city. ‘It’s a b
eautiful view,’ she agreed.
‘I still feel like a visitor here,’ Þór continued. ‘I never intended to end up living in Reykjavík,’ He sipped his coffee, then added: ‘Mind you, by the time I left, Sandgerði had stopped feeling like home.’
‘Um, that’s actually one of the things we wanted to talk to you about,’ Elma said.
Þór grunted, then extended an arm and opened the window. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
Elma nodded, since she had no choice. It was his home and she couldn’t say anything, though it would mean having to turn up to Davíð’s parents’ house reeking like a chimney.
‘Aren’t you having any luck in finding the person who did this to her?’ Þór asked, blowing out smoke.
‘Hopefully, we’re beginning to get a clearer picture,’ Sævar said.
Þór emitted a low rumbling laugh that quickly turned into a cough.
‘You didn’t see much of each other, did you?’ Elma asked.
‘No. That was Maríanna’s choice. She was so angry. I could never understand how so much rage could fit inside such a small girl.’ His mouth twitched down at the corner.
‘Why was she so angry?’
‘Yes, why?’ Þór sighed and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I expect she was angry with me because she felt I didn’t do enough. Angry with life for taking so much away from her. I suppose it all began when she was fifteen and only got worse over the years.’
They waited in silence for him to carry on. Elma tried the coffee. It was good.
‘She got pregnant with Hekla at fifteen,’ Sævar prompted, when Þór showed no sign of continuing.
Þór made a face. ‘I haven’t thought about that period of our lives for years. I try to avoid dwelling on it.’
He swung his head from one of them to the other, then sighed and carried on. ‘We’re from a small town. You’ll know what that’s like, being from Akranes yourselves. It has its pros and cons. We were very happy there for a long time. It was a good place to bring up the children; not too far from the city if we needed anything. We had our two kids, our jobs and so on. Things were going well for us.’
Girls Who Lie Page 22
