For too long, Hulda had closed her eyes to the truth. She had lived with the devastating consequences of that fact for quarter of a century now. She wasn’t sure when she had realized what was going on but, by then, it was already too late. This she blamed partly on denial, partly on her blindness to what was going on right under her nose. The hideous irony of it didn’t escape her. After all, she had prided herself on her powers of perception, regarded herself as one of the best detectives on the force, precisely because nothing ever got past her, because she had a knack of seeing through all the lies and deception well ahead of her colleagues.
But when the crime was being committed in her own home, she hadn’t noticed a thing.
Or hadn’t wanted to notice.
Confronting the fact had been almost unthinkable. She had been in love with Jón for most of her adult life; they had married young, and he had always treated her well, been an honest, trustworthy husband. Their love had blossomed, at least for a time, and it had been true love; she remembered the first year of their courtship, she had been swept off her feet by this handsome, suave man, who seemed so urbane and worldly. So it had been all too easy to overlook certain clues, to convince herself that they meant something different.
They had both been so happy when Dimma was born, such proud parents. But when she turned ten, their daughter’s behaviour had undergone a change and she’d become moody and withdrawn, suffering from bouts of depression. Yet still Hulda hadn’t twigged. She had allowed herself the luxury of living in ignorance, persuading herself that the cause couldn’t lie at home.
Naturally, Hulda had tried to talk to her daughter. She’d asked her why she was feeling so bad, what had happened to upset her, but Dimma had proved stubbornly uncommunicative, refusing to provide any answers, determined to suffer in silence. In moments of desperation, Hulda even wondered, ridiculously, if they had somehow brought this on themselves by choosing such an unusual name for their daughter: Dimma, meaning ‘darkness’. It was as if they had condemned her from birth, although they had only chosen the name for its nice, poetic ring. In her saner moments, she dismissed such thoughts as foolish nonsense.
In hindsight, Hulda regretted that she hadn’t put more pressure on Dimma, that she hadn’t demanded an answer. The child had been trapped in a desperate dilemma, sinking further into the abyss with every day that passed.
In those last few weeks before Dimma killed herself at only thirteen years old, Hulda’s sleep had been restless, as though she had a foreboding of disaster. Yet even so, she had failed to intervene with the forcefulness that might have saved Dimma’s life.
The moment Dimma died, the moment she saw Jón’s reaction, the truth had come crashing home to her. She didn’t even need to ask. Her whole world had been transformed overnight. But for some reason, they had continued to put on an act, living in the same house, presenting a united face to the outside world, though their marriage had ended in that moment. Perhaps she had wanted to avoid the fallout from a direct confrontation with Jón, fearing that his terrible crime would somehow taint her by association. That tongues would wag, whispering that she must have known, that she could have done something, could have stopped him and saved her daughter. Saved Dimma’s life. The most unbearable part was that there might have been a grain of truth in those accusations. So she hadn’t said a word to the man she had once cared for. Never asked him what he had done to the daughter she had loved more than life itself. Didn’t want to know how long the abuse had been going on. But one thing she was sure of: Dimma’s suicide had been a direct consequence of that abuse. Dimma may have taken her own life, but Jón bore full responsibility for her death.
Besides, Hulda couldn’t bear to listen to any of the details, to picture any of the sickening acts to which he had subjected her daughter.
When Dimma died, something had died inside Hulda, too. In the depths of her suffering, when the grief felt unendurable, on the days when she felt to blame for what had happened – countless days, countless sleepless nights – the only thing that had kept her going was her violent hatred of Jón.
They never spoke of their daughter again, never mentioned her name to each other. Hulda couldn’t bring herself to speak about her in the presence of this stranger, this … monster. And Jón had had the sense never to refer to Dimma again in Hulda’s hearing.
XXV
It took Hulda a while to come to her senses. At first, she couldn’t remember what had happened, where she was or who was with her. But when the events finally came back to her and she tried to open her eyes, she became aware of a blinding headache.
She was lying somewhere. Overhead was the light night sky, but also … was that earth? Where was she?
She closed her eyes again. Christ, her head was splitting. He had hit her – Bjartur had hit her on the head. Opening her eyes a crack, she discovered, to her disbelieving horror, that she was lying in the foundation trench of the building site in the valley.
And then she caught sight of Bjartur holding a spade.
She tried to scream but, as soon as she opened her mouth, it filled with sand. Spitting it out, she managed to croak through parched lips: ‘What are you doing?’
Bjartur smiled, looking spookily calm.
‘To be honest, I wasn’t expecting you to come round,’ he said slowly. ‘You can scream all you like: we’re alone here. The property belongs to a friend of mine. I’ve been helping him build a holiday cottage here.’
She struggled in vain to sit up.
‘I tied you up, anyway, just to be on the safe side,’ he added, chucking a heaped spadeful of soil on top of her. The earth landed heavily on her face and chest. She had instinctively closed her eyes, and when she opened them again the grit made them sting.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ she swore, her fear momentarily giving way to incredulous anger.
‘Burying you in the foundations, making sure you disappear. Under the cottage.’
Her mind working frantically, Hulda played for time. ‘Can I … can I have a drink of water?’
‘Water?’
He thought about it. ‘No, there’s no point. It’s your own fault, you know. You should never have come nosing around, questioning me about Katja. No one had spotted the connection between Katja and Elena … and me. I can’t take any chances. Surely you must see that?’
‘You mean you’re going to kill me?’
‘I … I’m going to bury you. After that, presumably, you’ll die.’
Her heart crashing against her ribcage, Hulda made a frenzied attempt to break free but found she could only wriggle from side to side. Bjartur rested the tip of the spade on her chest, pressing hard. ‘Lie still!’
‘Is this … Is this how you got rid of Katja?’ Hulda asked. Anything to keep him talking.
‘Sort of. But she’s … lying somewhere else.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t think that’s any of your business. On the other hand, I don’t suppose you’ll be able to tell anyone. She’s in a colder place than you.’ He grinned. ‘She took a trip to the countryside with me as well, though the circumstances were very different. You see, I was in love with her and she knew it. I thought the trip was the beginning of a relationship, but she thought differently, and … well, what’s done is done.’
Hulda fought to steady her breathing, to resist the rising tide of panic so she could use her brain. She must be able to think her way out of this. Talk him round. To do that, she needed to win time, engage him in conversation. Anything to keep her mind off the prospect of being buried alive.