In the end, she had had enough of waiting. One day, she came home for lunch, knowing that Jón would be there. She deliberately picked a fight with him and kept at it mercilessly, working Jón up into such a state that he suffered a massive cardiac arrest.
He fell to the living-room floor, unable to speak, unable to cry out, but he was still alive. He looked at her, his eyes pleading. He couldn’t know what she’d done, and Hulda felt no urge to explain. She just stood there and watched him die, thinking of Dimma. She felt nothing; no regrets, but no pleasure either. And then, when he was finally gone, there was a feeling of relief, that it was over at last.
Hulda knew she could finally move on. Nothing would ever be normal again, of course, but she had done what she had to do.
She had killed a man who had committed a crime worse than murder.
She left him on the floor and went back to work.
Later, she came home, ‘found’ the body and called an ambulance. And that was that.
A man with a weak heart drops dead before his time. Nothing unusual about that. His daughter had killed herself not long before; it had all proved a great strain. There wasn’t a whisper of suspicion about the real reason for Dimma’s suicide, let alone that there might have been anything unnatural about Jón’s death. Everyone’s sympathies lay with his wife, who was, moreover, a police officer. Of course, there was no inquest. And, of course, she got away with it, but hardly a night had passed since then when Jón hadn’t revisited her in her dreams. She had committed murder and got away with it, but discovered that she couldn’t live with the fact.
So perhaps it was a fitting punishment, she thought, that her life should end in this cruel manner.
Hulda tried not to panic, though the earth was blocking her airways now, making her choke. She waited for the inevitable, thinking of her daughter. Of course, Dimma had never left her thoughts, not really, but now she could see her face clearly and was flooded with boundless love, mingled with terrible guilt.
Dimma …
Bjartur seemed to have paused in his shovelling. To catch his breath, perhaps. Or had she maybe spoken her daughter’s name aloud and momentarily disconcerted him?
Then he began again.
The birds sang.
They didn’t know it was night.
Epilogue
‘It’s gratifying to see so many of you gathered here, on this beautiful day, as we pay our last respects to Hulda Hermannsdóttir,’ the priest said. ‘Of course, this is not a funeral as such, since, as we’re all aware, Hulda has not yet been found. We pray with all our hearts that she’s out there somewhere, still with us, still enjoying life; that she simply left, for reasons of her own. So perhaps we should look on this occasion rather as an opportunity to celebrate Hulda’s life, although it is of course a sad occasion in many respects. No one here knows exactly what happened on Hulda’s last day at work or why she should have vanished without trace, just as she was about to embark on a long and happy retirement, the reward for all her years of dedicated service with the police. It goes without saying that not everyone welcomes that milestone: some dread the day; others can’t wait. We don’t know how Hulda felt about retirement or what was going through her mind on that last day, nor do we know where her body is resting now, but one thing we can be sure of, and that is that she can rest there, reconciled to God and her fellow men.
‘Hulda enjoyed a distinguished career with the police, rising rapidly through the ranks and commanding the respect of junior and senior officers alike. Much of that career was dedicated to investigating serious crimes, to ensure the peace and security of her fellow citizens. In recent years, she was involved in solving many of our most high-profile cases, often at the forefront of the inquiry, at other times working behind the scenes, eschewing the limelight with characteristic modesty.
‘Many of Hulda’s colleagues went beyond the call of duty in their efforts to search for her this spring, despite the almost total lack of indications as to where she had gone missing. I know that Hulda would have been deeply moved by the selfless generosity of their endeavours, which is testimony to the affection in which they held her. Her friends refused to give up their ceaseless hunt until all hope of finding her was lost. Much of their time was spent combing the highlands where, one could say, Hulda had been on home ground. As you are all no doubt aware, Hulda’s greatest passion was for walking in the mountains: in her own words, she was a real mountain goat. I’ve lost count of the peaks she climbed – she’d probably lost count of them herself. Let us picture her, then, on the eve of her retirement, striding up one of her favourite mountains to mark the occasion, a journey that turned out to be her last. And let us take comfort from the thought that she now rests in the heart of the Icelandic wilderness that she so loved.
‘Hulda spent the first two years of her life at a children’s home in Reykjavík, due to difficult family circumstances. Such things were not unusual in those days, but she was well cared for by the dedicated staff. At the age of two, she went to live with her mother and, later, they moved in with her maternal grandparents, to make one big family, and Hulda always maintained a strong, close bond with her mother, grandfather and grandmother. This happy, loving childhood served Hulda well later in life: she had an open, sunny disposition and got on well with everyone. Hulda never met her father, who was an American.
‘But there were two people above all who occupied the most important place in Hulda’s heart. One was her husband, Jón, whom she met young and married after only a short acquaintance; a happy decision; they have been described as true soul-mates. Hulda and Jón stuck together through thick and thin, shared many interests and complemented one another, as good companions should. Friends testify to the fact that they never exchanged a cross word. They made their home by the sea on álftanes, still a rural area in those days, and perhaps it was there that Hulda’s passion for the Icelandic landscape was first kindled.
‘It was also there that the apple of their eye, their daughter, Dimma, was born. Dimma was popular at school and a model pupil, a little girl of great promise, and, unsurprisingly, Hulda and Jón were enormously proud of her. So her tragic death in her early teens came as a devastating blow to her parents. They coped with stoicism and courage, inseparable as ever, no doubt drawing great comfort from one another. They continued to live on álftanes and eventually returned to work: Hulda to the police, Jón to his job in investment. Then, two years later, Hulda also lost Jón, the love of her life. He had been diagnosed with a heart condition several years earlier, but no one had expected him to die so young. Once again, Hulda was called on to cope with a dreadful shock and responded with indomitable courage, getting back on her feet, tackling life and continuing to make her mark in a demanding profession.
‘Hulda never forgot Jón or Dimma. And, as we are aware, she always remained true to her Christian faith, in the conviction that she would be reunited with her loved ones in the next life. For all of us who miss Hulda so keenly, there is comfort in the knowledge that she is resting now in the arms of Jón and Dimma, whom she loved more than life itself.
‘God bless the memory of Hulda Hermannsdóttir.’
Special thanks are due to Haukur Eggertsson for his advice on expeditions to the highlands and interior, and to prosecutor Hulda María Stefánsdóttir for her assistance with police procedure.
Prelude
Kópavogur, 1988