‘The course up at Heidm?rk,’ he clarified, when she didn’t react. He gave her directions.
‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ she lied, well aware that her old Skoda wouldn’t be up to the challenge.
As she drove south-east out of town, she found her thoughts dwelling on Pétur. On what a good evening they’d had and how much she’d missed that kind of companionship. She also reflected on what she’d told him about her past, and even more on what she’d left unsaid. For now. There would be plenty of time for that later.
Just beyond the outskirts of the city, the Heidm?rk Nature Reserve greeted her in all its fresh spring greenery, the conifers, birches and lowlying scrub caught midway between the drabness of winter and their full summer glory. In the ever-expanding concrete jungle of Reykjavík, Heidm?rk offered a calm oasis of trees and hiking trails where people could enjoy days out with their families.
Thrándur’s directions had been clear, and a long career in the police had taught her to pay attention to details, so the way to the golf course wasn’t hard to find. In spite of the tortuous winding of the narrow gravel road that made it impossible to see any oncoming traffic, Hulda and the Skoda made it to their destination in one piece.
Thrándur was standing waiting for her in the car park, dressed up to the nines in a natty golfing costume of diamond-patterned jumper and peaked cap, a trolley and a set of clubs at his side. Hulda had no basis on which to judge his outfit but, given Thrándur’s golfing mania, she assumed he would have no truck with anything but the best.
‘I’m a bit pressed for time,’ he said as she approached, unable to keep a note of impatience out of his voice. As if for emphasis, he glanced over at the large clock on the clubhouse. ‘What was it you wanted to discuss?’
Hulda wasn’t used to being chivvied but, clearly, Thrándur wasn’t prepared to let anything get in the way of his game.
She came straight to the point. ‘It’s about a Russian girl who died a year ago. Her name was Elena.’
‘Doesn’t ring any bells, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Wish I could help you.’ He was politeness personified, in spite of his evident hurry.
‘She came to the country as an asylum-seeker, then turned up dead on a beach on Vatnsleysustr?nd. The original investigation was a bit sketchy, but I’ve just learned that she may have been brought over to work as a prostitute, possibly as part of a trafficking ring.’ She kept a close eye on Thrándur’s reaction, noting that she had piqued his interest. ‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you,’ she finished.
‘I … I don’t know anything about that,’ he said in an altered tone, more hesitant now, and evasive. ‘I’ve never heard of any Elena.’ Then, as an afterthought: ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s not unheard of, though, is it?’ Hulda persisted. ‘For people to come to this country on the pretext of seeking asylum when they’re actually part of some kind of organized prostitution network?’ She had done some quick research online before coming out and had found enough to justify this assertion, at least for the purpose of probing Thrándur for more information.
‘Well, yes, sure, it does happen, I suppose, but it’s not something we’re looking into at present. It sounds as though you’ve been given some misleading information.’
‘If something like that was going on,’ Hulda persevered, ‘are there any names you could give me; anyone who might be involved in that kind of racket? Anyone based here in Iceland?’
‘No one comes to mind,’ he replied, a shade too quickly, she thought; without even pausing to think, as if he’d prefer her to stay well away from investigating anything along those lines. ‘Maybe it was a one-off: someone brought her to the country then made himself scarce. That’s the most likely scenario, don’t you think?’
‘It’s possible,’ she said slowly, ‘I suppose. Who would be the most likely candidates in that case? If anyone ought to know, it’s you.’ She was polite but insistent.
‘I’m sorry, Hulda,’ he said again, ‘but I haven’t the foggiest. It’s not as straightforward as you seem to think. Fortunately, we don’t have much organized crime of that sort in Iceland. Sorry, look, I really do have to go now: if I’m late, I’ll miss my tee time.’
She nodded, though the golfing term meant nothing to her. ‘Thanks, anyway, Thrándur. It was good to be able to pick your brains.’
‘No problem, Hulda. Any time.’ Then he added, and she thought she detected a hint of sarcasm in his voice: ‘Enjoy your retirement.’
She watched him lugging his golf clubs up the path to a small knoll where three other golfers were standing, evidently waiting for him. It was a lovely day for it. The sky was a pure, cloudless blue: a sight for sore eyes after the dreary winter, though there was still a distinct nip in the air.
It looked as though Thrándur was going to be first to tee off, or whatever it was called. He reached into his bag for a club then, noticing that Hulda was still standing in the car park, watching him, he gave her an awkward smile and paused, waiting for her to leave. She waved back, not budging an inch, enjoying his discomfort. He looked away and took up position, his back to Hulda, club raised aloft like a weapon, then, swinging it back, struck the ball a tremendous clout. It flew off the fairway and landed on the other side of a barbed-wire fence. From the reactions of Thrándur and his companions, she gathered that this had not been the intention.
IV
The girl was still locked in her shell, showing little emotion apart from the constant crying, but her mother refused to give up. The gulf between them had to be bridged somehow. It was as if her daughter was punishing her for her absence, which was terribly unfair because the mother had been powerless to act any differently. She’d had no real choice. And now here she was, alone with her child, hardly able to sleep at night for anxiety about the future. How was she to combine work with bringing up a child on her own? Almost all the women she knew were married housewives, with plenty of time for their homes and children. It wasn’t only society that was against her: even these so-called friends didn’t hide their disapproval of her status as a single mother. Meanwhile, her parents, still adamant that the little girl should have been given up for adoption, had reacted badly to her decision to go it alone and were keeping their distance. Most days, she felt she had nowhere to turn for help.
Far from being toughened up by adversity, she felt herself being worn down, a little more every day.
When she was at work, the mother had no choice but to entrust her daughter to a childminder who lived nearby, a cold, strict woman with old-fashioned notions about bringing up children. Every weekday, it was a wrench for the mother to leave her little girl in the childminder’s stuffy basement flat, which reeked of cigarette smoke. But she had to work, or she wouldn’t be able to support herself and her daughter, and this woman offered the only day-care services she could afford in her neighbourhood.
Saying goodbye to her daughter never got any easier. Although she knew she would be collecting her again at the end of the day, each parting seemed a repetition of their original separation. She prayed that the little girl didn’t feel the same way. The child wept every time, but it wasn’t clear that being parted from her mother was the cause of her tears.
She told herself that everything would be all right in the end, that the relationship between mother and daughter would eventually become normal. Normal was all she asked for. But, deep down, she felt – she knew – that this would never be the case. The damage was irreparable.
V