‘Oh, yeah? From this number? Could’ve been Dóra, but then it could have been anyone, really. Wasn’t me, though,’ he said, running his words together in a barely audible mumble.
‘What do you mean by “anyone”?’ asked Hulda.
‘Well, you know, all the residents have access to this phone.’ He qualified this: ‘Only for domestic calls, though. International numbers are blocked, or you can bet the phone bill would be sky high.’ He laughed.
Hulda was in no laughing mood. ‘Is there any way of finding out who called me? Or could you just put me through to Dóra?’
‘Dóra? Sorry, no can do.’
‘Why not?’ Hulda asked, her patience wearing thin. Clearly, half a cup of coffee wasn’t enough.
‘She was on night shift so she’s asleep now. And there’s no point bothering her, as she’ll have her phone turned off.’
‘But this is urgent,’ Hulda protested, though for all she knew it might not be. ‘Just give me her landline, would you?’
The young man laughed again. ‘Landline? No one uses a landline any more.’
‘Well, then, can you just ask her to ring me?’
‘OK, I’ll try and remember. On the number you’re calling from now?’
‘Yes,’ said Hulda, then belatedly remembered something. ‘You’ve got a girl from Syria staying and I need to talk to her. Is she there?’
‘Syria? I wouldn’t know. I’m new, you see, don’t know anyone yet. Dóra would have a better idea.’
Hulda abandoned the struggle. ‘Never mind,’ she said curtly. ‘I’ll ring back later.’
‘OK. Should I not bother to pass on the message then – about giving you a call?’
‘For God’s sake, yes, please ask her to ring me. Thank you.’
Hulda hung up with an exasperated sigh and poured herself more coffee.
II
The first day in their new home: a tiny basement flat so small that the word ‘flat’ was pushing it a bit, but it was a big day, nonetheless.
She had finally, belatedly, moved out of her parents’ place, bidding them a fond farewell while silently promising herself never to go back. Next, she had gone to collect her daughter, a little uncertain of her reception or indeed of whether she would be allowed to take her away.
Her worries had proved groundless. The matron in charge had remarked that two years was an unusually long time for the girl to have been living with them: normally, children spent only a few months there. She’d also warned that the change would take her daughter a while to adjust to, but wished them both all the best. She’s a good girl, she said.
And, God, it had been tough. The child had howled and howled, refusing to let her mother pick her up, refusing to go with her. This wasn’t the reunion the mother had been dreaming of for so long.
When they were finally ready to leave, the matron had added: ‘She sometimes has a bit of trouble getting to sleep.’
‘Trouble getting to sleep?’ the mother had queried. ‘Do you have any idea why?’
The matron looked doubtful, apparently wondering how much it would be wise to reveal about the girl’s time in their care, but in the end she had reluctantly admitted: ‘We had a child staying with us earlier this year who used to’ – She hesitated – ‘apparently used to amuse himself by poking the other children in the eye while they were sleeping.’
A shiver had run down the mother’s spine on hearing this.
‘At first, we thought it was a one-off,’ the matron had continued, ‘but in the end we were forced to intervene. Your daughter’s a sensitive child, so it affected her more than most. She’s had trouble sleeping ever since; too afraid of the dark to close her eyes. Frankly, it’s been a real nuisance.’
That first day, the girl did not take kindly to her new home or to the presence of her mother. She refused to talk and avoided her mother’s eye. To begin with, she wouldn’t even eat, though she relented in the end. And, inevitably, when evening came, she refused to go to sleep. Lullabies didn’t work for long and, in her desperation, the young woman began to wonder if she’d made a terrible mistake. Perhaps she should have given her baby up for adoption straight away instead of settling for this compromise, which had left her a mother in name only. Now, she was just the woman who had regularly appeared on the other side of a glass screen, trying to think of things to say, mouthing platitudes that could never be a substitute for real love and security.
The little girl couldn’t fight off her tiredness for ever, though she did her best. At long last, the mother succeeded in getting her to sleep by leaving a light on in the bedroom. Exhausted, she fell asleep herself immediately afterwards, lying beside her daughter in bed. She had never felt happier than in that moment.
III
Hulda was a little surprised not to have heard from Magnús. After the earful Alexander had given her yesterday evening, she had been expecting a similar call from her boss. There were only two possible explanations for why this hadn’t happened: the first was that Magnús had decided to ignore Alexander’s complaints and let Hulda get on with investigating the case in peace. Which was highly unlikely, since those two were as thick as thieves and, if Alexander had complained, you could be sure that Magnús would have backed him up. The second, more likely, explanation was that Alexander hadn’t run telling tales to Magnús after all, perhaps because he knew deep down that he had screwed up the inquiry. He must be praying that Hulda would fail to dig up any new information so the whole affair could quietly sink without trace. She did wonder how Alexander had known she was looking into Elena’s death, but the most likely explanation was that Albert had told him, since they knew each other from Albert’s time in the police.
Convenient as Magnús’s non-intervention was, Hulda knew she couldn’t rely on it for long. She had been given two weeks’ grace to work on the case, but there was a real risk she would be ordered to wrap up her inquiry before that, perhaps with only a day’s notice to clear her desk, so it was vital to use her remaining time well. The first task on the agenda was to follow up the lead she’d got from the interpreter, Bjartur. And when it came to the sex industry or human trafficking, the fount of all wisdom in the police was an officer known as Thrándur. He’d actually been christened Tróndur, since he was half Faroese, but as he’d lived in Iceland all his life he usually went by the local version of the name. Hulda had never particularly warmed to the man, though he’d always been perfectly polite to her. His manner struck her as too smarmy, but she had to admit that her opinion of Thrándur and various other male colleagues was bound to be coloured by the fact that she wasn’t part of their clique. To give him credit, though, at least Thrándur was a competent detective: he was cautious, intelligent and generally got good results, unlike Alexander.
Thrándur didn’t answer his desk phone, so she tried his mobile. It rang for ages until, finally, he picked up.
‘Thrándur speaking,’ he said formally. To her chagrin, she realized this meant he hadn’t bothered to add her number to his contacts list, in spite of all the years they’d worked together.
‘Thrándur, it’s Hulda here. Could I see you for a quick chat?’
‘Why, Hulda! It’s been ages,’ he said, with a politeness she felt was put on. ‘I’ve got the day off, actually – had to use up a bit of leave left over from last summer. Can it wait until tomorrow?’
She thought for a moment. Time was of the essence: she had to make some sort of progress today and this was the most promising lead she had.
‘I’m sorry, it’s urgent.’
‘OK, fire away.’
‘Could I come and see you?’ She knew this would be more likely to produce a result: if he lied to her, she’d have a better chance of spotting it from his body language.
‘Well, I’m on the golf course.’ This didn’t surprise her: Thrándur was the police team’s star player. ‘And I’m about to tee off. Can you be quick?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Urridavellir.’
This didn’t mean anything to her.