The Reckoning

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

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  Copyright Page

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  This book is dedicated to Mjása and Pilla

  − Yrsa

  Pronunciation guide for character names

  Æsa – EYE-ssa

  Dadi – DAH-thi

  Einar Adalbertsson – AY-nar ATH-albertsson

  Erla – ED-la

  Fanney − FANN-ay

  Freyja − FRAY-a

  Gudlaugur (Gulli) − GVOOTH-lohgur (GOOL-li)

  Gudmundur Lárusson − GVOOTH-moondoor LOWR-usson

  Heida − HAY-tha

  Huldar − HOOL-dar

  Jón Jónsson − YOHN YOHN-sson

  Karlotta − KAHR-lotta

  Kolbeinn Ragnarsson − KOLL-baydn RAG-narsson

  Orri − ORR-ree

  Sigrún − SIK-roon

  Sólveig Gunnarsdóttir − SOHL-vayg GOON-nars-DOHT-tir

  Thorvaldur Svavarsson − THOR-valdoor SVAH-varsson

  Thröstur − THRUST-oor

  Vaka − VAH-ka

  Yngvi Sigurhjartarson − ING-vee SIG-oor-HYART-arson

  September 2004

  Prologue

  The school building cast a chill shadow over the empty playground. Beyond it, the sun was shining. As they entered the shadow the few passers-by clutched their coats around them and quickened their pace until they emerged into the warm sunlight again. Over there the day was still, but here in the school grounds an icy wind was blowing, stirring the swings in the corner into life. They rocked slowly back and forth as if occupied by invisible children. Bored children, like Vaka. Worse than the boredom, though, was the cold. It stung her cheeks, and made her toes ache. Every last bit of her was frozen. Sitting on the stone steps only made matters worse because her new padded jacket wasn’t long enough to cover her bottom. She wished she had listened to her mother and chosen the longer one, but that had only been available in dark blue; the waist-length one came in red.

  Vaka shifted the school bag on her back and wondered if she should move into the sunlight. Then at least she would be warm while she waited – though still lonely, of course, and bored of having nothing to look at. But the shadow cast by the school extended so far that if she moved out of its gloom, she was afraid her dad would fail to see her and drive away again. No, better put up with the cold than risk that.

  A car the same colour as her father’s drove past, but Vaka saw that it was the wrong make, the wrong man, and her spirits fell again. Could he have forgotten her? It was her first day at the new school, so perhaps he would assume she’d be walking home as usual. For the hundredth time she felt a stab of longing for her old home. The only thing that was better about the new place was her room, which was larger and way cooler than the one she’d had in their old flat. Everything else had changed for the worse, including school. The other kids, especially. She didn’t know anyone. In her old class she had known everyone, had even known what the other girls’ pets were called. Now a crowd of new names and faces were jostling in her head and she couldn’t begin to put them together. It was like the memory game that she never won unless her mother deliberately played to lose.

  Vaka sniffed. How long would it take her dad to realise that he should have come to collect her? She looked up at the main building in the hope of spotting someone, but the windows were dark and there was no sign of movement. Another gust of wind stung her cheeks and she shivered. Getting to her feet, she walked up the steps to the entrance. There must be a grown-up inside, someone who would let her use the phone. But the door was locked. Knocking did no good; the thick wood muffled the sound. Lowering her fist, she gazed up at the big door in the faint hope that it would open anyway. Nothing happened. She might as well sit down again. Hopefully the steps wouldn’t feel as icy as before.

  All thoughts of the cold were banished from her mind when she turned. At the bottom of the steps stood a girl Vaka recognised from her new class. She hadn’t heard her approach. Perhaps she had been tiptoeing, though Vaka couldn’t for the life of her imagine why. It wasn’t as though she was likely to bite, or they were enemies. They didn’t know each other at all, though Vaka remembered her clearly. It was impossible not to. She had two fingers missing: the little finger and ring finger of one hand. The girl had sat alone in the front row and seemed very quiet. At first Vaka had thought it must be her first day too, but the teacher hadn’t introduced her like she had Vaka, so that couldn’t be right. When the pupils were allowed to talk to each other in the lessons, the girl hadn’t said a word. During break she had sat on the sidelines, staring into space, like Vaka on the steps just now. Her expression had remained blank even when two boys started chanting a nursery rhyme that Vaka remembered her granny reciting: ‘Little finger, little finger, where are you? Ring finger, ring finger, where are you?’ Vaka thought this was unbelievably mean but none of the other kids turned a hair. In the end she had looked away, not daring to interfere. She was new, after all.

  ‘It’s shut.’ The girl gave a shy smile that vanished as quickly as it had appeared – perhaps it had only been a trick of the light – but Vaka was left with the impression of a pretty face. ‘They always lock up when school’s finished for the day.’

  ‘Oh.’ Vaka shuffled her feet, not knowing what to say. She had never been very good at making friends or talking to strangers, and it was the first time that day that anyone had tried to draw her out of her shell. ‘I wanted to use the phone.’

  ‘Maybe you could use the one at the shop. It’s not far away.’ The girl pointed down the street. She was wearing mittens to hide her maimed hand.

  Vaka swallowed and answered awkwardly: ‘I haven’t got any money.’ Her mother was supposed to give her pocket money on Fridays but she always forgot. Usually it didn’t matter but there were times, like now, when it was a pain. As bad as Dad forgetting to pick her up. Grown-ups were useless at remembering things.

  ‘Oh.’ The girl looked sad. ‘Me neither.’ She opened her mouth, then changed her mind and closed it again. Unlike Vaka’s jacket, which had been bought with room for her to grow into, the girl’s anorak was far too small; the sleeves were too short and she couldn’t even zip it up properly. She wasn’t wearing a hat either and her tangled hair whipped around in the wind. In spite of the dry weather, she was wearing a pair of old, faded wellingtons. In contrast, her brightly coloured mittens looked clean and new.

  ‘It’s all right. I’ll wait.’ Vaka tried but failed to smile. It was hard having to wait in uncertainty like this. She was cold and hungry. If Dad had come at the right time she would have been sitting in their new kitchen by now, enjoying a slice of toast. She could taste the melted butter and jam, and this only made her hungrier.

  The girl shifted from foot to foot. ‘Would you like me to wait with you?’ She didn’t look at Vaka as she asked this but off to one side, at the empty playground. ‘I can if you like.’

  Vaka had no answer ready. Would it make things better or worse? The choice was between sitting alone and getting cold or try
ing to find something to talk about with this girl whose name she didn’t even know. Yet despite being only eight, Vaka knew that there was only one right answer to some questions. ‘Yes, please. If you feel like it.’ When the girl turned towards her with a beaming smile, she added: ‘But I’ll have to go as soon as Dad comes to pick me up.’

  The smile faded and the empty expression returned. ‘Yes, of course.’

  Mindful of how the boys had teased the girl and how lonely she seemed, Vaka tried to make amends. ‘Perhaps he could drive you home too?’ The moment she had blurted this out, she regretted it; she’d often heard her parents moaning about the price of petrol. She didn’t want to ask her father to drive miles out of their way, especially when they had so little money left after buying their new flat. ‘Is your house far away?’

  ‘No. I live just back there.’ The girl pointed at the school, presumably referring to the row of houses that Vaka had noticed when she had wandered around the back of the building during break. They were separated from the school by a high fence, on the other side of which all kinds of rubbish had collected: disintegrating, faded packaging; bits of paper; plastic bags and withered leaves. Vaka didn’t like litter; it was disgusting, but as this was one of the few places in the playground where the boys’ cruel chanting couldn’t be heard, she had gone over to the fence and stared through it, ignoring the mess.

  She had studied the houses, feeling thankful that her parents hadn’t bought one of them. They looked as rundown and shabby as the fence; their paint peeling, their gardens like jungles. She glimpsed a rusty old barbecue standing in a patch of tall weeds; it looked as if plants were growing out of the little grating in the lid. Grubby curtains hung crookedly at the dirty windows. In some places a blanket had been used instead; in others, old newspapers or sheets of cardboard. Unsettled by the sight, Vaka had turned away and gone back to the other children, who behaved as if she didn’t exist.

  The street did have one advantage, though: it was close to the school. Perhaps she could use the girl’s telephone? It would only take a few minutes to walk there and her dad wouldn’t have time to go far if he arrived while she was gone. Plucking up her courage, Vaka asked: ‘Hey, could I maybe use the phone at your house?’

  She was disconcerted by the frightened look that greeted this request. ‘At my house?’ The girl gulped and dropped her eyes. Staring down at her mittens, she fiddled with her maimed hand. ‘Shouldn’t we just wait here? Your dad must be coming soon.’

  ‘Yes, maybe.’ Vaka shifted her school bag again. It seemed to grow heavier and heavier on her shoulders, as if weighed down by all the minutes she had been waiting. ‘If I can use your phone, you can come round and play at my place afterwards.’ Vaka guessed the girl would be grateful for an excuse to go out if she lived in one of those horrible houses. Perhaps that’s why she had reacted so badly to Vaka’s request. Perhaps she didn’t want anyone to see her room.

  The girl seemed to be having trouble deciding how to answer. ‘OK. But you’ll have to be really quick. And only if we can go round and play at yours afterwards. You mustn’t make any noise, though. Dad’s probably asleep.’

  Vaka nodded, highly satisfied with this outcome and also with having made friends with someone from her class. Of course she would rather have got to know one of the other girls, especially the fun, popular ones, but they had cold-shouldered her, obviously having no need of more friends. Perhaps this girl would turn out to be all right, in spite of her missing fingers. At least she wasn’t mean.

  But as they set off, Vaka began to have her doubts. Remembering the shabby houses, she suddenly felt a powerful reluctance to enter any of them. It would have been better to wait on the freezing steps. It was too late, though. They had left the school grounds and were approaching the houses, walking in the sunshine now.

  Yet instead of growing warmer, Vaka felt colder with every step.

  Vainly she sought for an excuse to turn back without hurting the girl’s feelings. Her new friend was also silent, apparently just as conscious that every step brought them closer to their destination. They didn’t exchange a word until they found themselves standing on the cracked pavement outside one of the houses. Vaka ran her eyes over the front, careful not to move her head so the girl wouldn’t notice what she was doing. It looked like the most rundown place in the whole street.

  It had two floors and was clad in rusty corrugated iron that hadn’t seen a lick of paint in years. The front garden was as scruffy as the ones Vaka had seen that morning. A tricycle lay on its side among the dandelions, chickweed and scrubby bushes, as rusty as the house itself. Almost all the windows were cracked and no attempt had been made to hang better curtains on the side facing the road. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the front door was hanging crooked on its hinges. This was a bad place.

  Vaka racked her brain to think of a reason why they should turn back but it was too late. The girl looked at her sadly and said: ‘Come on. This is my house. Don’t make any noise and be quick. Then we can go round to yours and play. Can’t we?’ Anticipation shone from her colourless eyes and Vaka had no choice but to nod.

  She followed the girl, feeling as if her school bag were full of rocks, her heart heavy in her chest. Every step was an ordeal. She felt as she always did when she was doing something she knew would end badly. Like the time her parents had held a party and she had tried to carry too many plates in one go when laying the table. The instant she lifted the pile she had known it was too heavy but she had done it anyway. And every single plate had smashed. That was exactly how she felt now.

  The girl paused with her hand on the doorknob. ‘Come on. Remember, you’ve got to be quick.’ It came out almost in a whisper, as if there were a monster lurking inside who mustn’t know they were there.

  Vaka nodded apprehensively and took the final step to the door. Next moment she was inside. Out of the sunlight into the dark. She was met by a reek of cigarettes and a sour smell that made her wrinkle her nose. The girl closed the door behind them and the darkness became even blacker. Perhaps that was just as well. It would hide the mess inside, and the girl wouldn’t be able to see Vaka’s look of disgust.

  ‘The phone’s upstairs. Come on,’ the girl whispered, almost too quietly to be heard. As Vaka’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, she noticed that the girl kept glancing from side to side. She beckoned impatiently when Vaka didn’t immediately react. She had taken off her coat but only one of her mittens.

  Vaka tore her gaze from the mitten that hid the missing fingers and stepped warily into the hall. As she did so the floorboards creaked overhead. The girl’s head jerked upwards. Her face was twisted with terror.

  Vaka went rigid and felt her eyes growing hot, as if she were about to burst into tears. What was she doing here? She gave a little moan but it hardly made any sound, in spite of the silence in the house. This was a terrible mistake. Worse than the plates. Gripped by panic, she couldn’t think properly. The only thought in her head was that she didn’t even know the girl’s name.

  Hafnarfjördur Police are appealing for help in finding a missing girl. Vaka Orradóttir, 8, was last seen at 3 p.m. this afternoon, leaving her school in Hafnarfjördur to go home. She is described as small and slim, with shoulder-length light brown hair, and wearing a red, waist-length padded jacket, a red woollen hat, jeans and pink trainers. Vaka is believed to be still in the area. Anyone who has information on her whereabouts is asked to contact Hafnarfjördur Police on 525 3300.

  2016

  Chapter 1

  Huldar dropped the bundle of photocopies on his desk. There was hardly anything else on it apart from a small collection of half-empty coffee mugs. These days he mostly got the assignments that no one else in CID wanted, like this business with the school. It would probably end up as a station joke, like him – the departmental manager who fell from grace. Nowadays he sat in exile at the back of the open-plan area, from where he could barely glimpse his old office.

  He took care never to l
ook in that direction. Personally, he couldn’t give a damn about his tumble down the promotional ladder; it was the way his former underlings treated him, as though his fall were infectious, that really got to him. He had assumed his relationship with his colleagues would revert to how it had been before his short-lived promotion, but that was way off the mark. Their silences when he approached and their whisperings as he walked away were so intolerable that there were times when he actually wished he were back in charge.

  But this feeling never lasted long. Almost immediately he would recall how much he had disliked the position. The endless forms, the reports, the meetings and all that pointless red tape; if he’d been warned beforehand what the job entailed he would never have said yes. But, sadly, information had been in short supply at the time. The whole process had been condensed into a single sentence: How’d you like to be promoted? The management had been under pressure to appoint someone to head up a major murder investigation, and since most of the senior detectives had been forced to step aside in the wake of a series of scandals, the choice had fallen on Huldar almost by accident. Instead of university degrees or the kind of credentials used in other sectors, a police officer’s suitability for leadership was generally based on age or length of service. These offered easily comparable figures. After the recent upheaval, Huldar suspected they had opted for the next most convenient marker – height. He was convinced that the powers that be had spotted his head sticking up above the crowd. He would have done better to have ducked or sat down. Then he would still be doing his old job, somewhere in the middle of the pecking order, not stuck on the bottom rung.

  Yet Huldar bore no grudge against those who had offered him the chance. He could easily have turned it down. Nor was he angry with those responsible for his demotion. Having him in a prominent position would never have worked in the long run. He had screwed up the murder investigation in such spectacular style that it would have been hard to repeat. The only comparison he could think of, when trying to explain it to one of his sisters, was if a surgeon were to come running into an operating room with his scalpel raised aloft, ready to perform emergency surgery, only to trip and accidentally cut off the patient’s head.