Cold As Hell, page 10
Daníel had the feeling that the large woman in the office of the sheltered-housing centre was the type you’d prefer to have on your side in a tight spot. He saw how she stiffened when he mentioned Ísafold’s name, but her face relaxed when he showed her his identification and explained that he was a police officer. He was careful not to mention that he was looking into Ísafold’s disappearance, as he had no formal warrant to be doing so now that he was on holiday, although it was certainly true that he was a detective and was helping the family track her down.
His search through Facebook the day before had yielded little information, other than the fact that Ísafold’s posts had recently become more infrequent, with noticeably fewer pictures of her with Björn. He wasn’t able to see Björn’s profile using Violet’s access, so he had clearly blocked her. Now his intention was to get to grips with Ísafold’s situation, gather the basic information and then take Áróra with him to the station to make a formal statement concerning her sister’s disappearance.
‘Ísafold Jónsdóttir was given notice in April and left immediately. Notice was legal and all the requisite written warnings had been given first,’ the woman said, lifting her chin high so that her head of curls shook.
‘Ísafold Jónsdóttir has now vanished without trace,’ Daníel said in a low voice, and leaned forward on the woman’s desk to look her in the eye, a tactic that always made it harder for people to turn away. When they couldn’t look elsewhere, it was harder for them to avoid the truth. The woman sighed and leaned forward herself, towards him.
‘We should have gone to the police with this,’ she said, ‘but we have a duty of care to the people here. My opinion was that it was a bad idea to make the matter public because that would give others like her ideas about how they could operate.’
‘People like her? Why was Ísafold sacked?’
‘Stealing drugs,’ the woman said. ‘There are vulnerable individuals living here, and we have to be sure that those who have keys to the apartments are worthy of our trust.’
‘So Ísafold was caught stealing drugs from elderly people here?’
‘That’s right. She worked here as a cleaner, and to tell the truth, she was well liked. She did her job well, was always cheerful and pleasant company for the residents. Then there were complaints that medicines were disappearing. Painkillers. And that rang a few alarm bells.’
Daníel nodded and smiled encouragingly.
‘You said she was cheerful and pleasant,’ he said. ‘Did she come across as likely to be a drug user? Was she punctual?’
‘Regular as clockwork,’ the woman said. ‘So it took me by surprise. Huge surprise. But when we worked out the amounts of painkillers that had disappeared from the apartments she cleaned, it was much more than could have been for personal use. What she stole in a month would have been enough to kill an elephant. Lots of elephants. Most of the elderly people are prescribed pain-killers, and many of them also take OxyContin or Contalgin as well, to help them cope with any additional pain, from worn-out joints or serious arthritis.’
‘And you’re certain that she was the one who was responsible for these thefts?’
‘No doubt about it. Absolutely none. She was the only member of staff who went into the apartments where the residents were missing drugs, and CCTV picked her up entering apartments she shouldn’t have been cleaning on those days. She did it at lunchtimes, when residents are downstairs in the canteen.’
Daníel stood up and extended a hand in gratitude for the information she had given him.
‘We decided to handle the matter as we would any instance of theft,’ she said. ‘We wanted to avoid it getting out and turning into a media frenzy.’
47
It was past midday when Björn’s new girlfriend shut the door behind her and walked across the parking lot to a little grey car. Grímur had watched them come home the previous evening, giggling and happy, Björn with his arm wrapped around her waist, and then he had seen Björn again this morning. Ever since then he had been sitting in the kitchen chair he had placed by the bedroom window, overlooking the outside door and the car park, so that he would see her leave. A couple of times he had quickly gone to the kitchen to make himself some coffee, and then hurried back. He hadn’t even given in to the temptation to shave himself, even though the urge to do so had twice been almost overwhelming. He read the news on his phone while he waited, but it turned out to be such a long wait that he had got as far as the gossip columns about people he completely failed to recognise by the time the woman finally appeared. He watched as she got into the car. She fastened her seat belt before starting the engine, and then leaned forward to look in the rear-view mirror and put on lip salve or lipstick, he couldn’t tell which. Then she drove out of the parking lot, and he saw her disappear into the swirl of traffic on the roundabout by the DIY place.
He immediately got to his feet, fetched washing up gloves from the kitchen and pulled them on, then put on a hoodie, and put the hood up so that it hung over his forehead. There was no need for this, as there were no CCTV cameras in the building, but somehow he felt it afforded him a little protection and made him slightly less vulnerable. Out in the stairwell he looked around and listened. He heard no movement, so he hurried up the stairs, remarkably nimbly, as if the tension inside gave him an extra dose of energy.
He slipped the key into the lock, and for a moment it refused to turn. It occurred to him that Björn had changed the locks, but with a little massage and rocking it to and fro, the lock clicked open and he was inside.
Ísafold had given him the key. ‘Just in case,’ she had said. ‘In case you hear he’s about to finish me off.’
But since then there had been no reason to use it. After that it had been quiet up there – remarkably quiet. But now it was as well that he had a key.
He peered into the hall cupboard, which stood open, and saw only coats that belonged to Björn. He clearly liked to look good, as there were at least three leather jackets hung on the rail, a couple of blazers, a wool coat and one of those silver down anoraks that were advertised on the sides of bus shelters and cost a month’s wages. There were no women’s coats, and the new girlfriend had come wearing the same coat she had left in.
There was nothing to be seen in the kitchen, so he went to the bathroom. He was surprised to see that everything was new. He hadn’t been aware of any builders at work, and the last time he had been upstairs for a coffee with Ísafold, the bathroom had been shabby and old – the linoleum on the floor had come adrift in places and the damp had caused the paint to peel from the walls. Now there were grey tiles on the floor and the walls, and the bathtub had been built into the end of the room, with a rim broad enough to sit on to chat with whoever was in the tub. He sat on the edge and imagined himself looking down at Ísafold in a bubble bath, each of them holding a glass of white wine, the hot steam fragrant, and a breast showing through the foam. Her legs were in his lap and he soaped them with care, applying soft gel and lifting a brand new razor. He quickly got to his feet. He wasn’t here to lose himself in daydreams.
In the bathroom cupboards every shelf but one was full of men’s cosmetics. That one other was half bare, just a pink toothbrush, a couple of hair bands, a small make-up compact and a perfume spray. He sniffed the perfume cautiously. His thoughts instantly flew southward, as the scent reminded him of tree bark, dry sand, fruits he didn’t know the names of and colourful flowers.
In the bedroom the bed was unmade, a stack of Elena Ferrante novels filled one of the two bedside tables, and the hooks on the back of the door were hung with clothes. One held female clothing. He buried his face in the folds and breathed deeply, getting a lungful of the same southern aromas, plus smells of her body and washing powder. The chest of drawers at the end of the bed was empty, apart from a couple of pairs of skimpy lace knickers and a bra in the top drawer. The cups were a B, and as Ísafold was a D-cup, they had to belong to the new woman. He slid open the door of the big wardrobe and saw Björn’s clothes on both sides. There was plenty of space around them, as if he had spread them out to make full use of the wardrobe, expanding to fill the gap left where Ísafold’s things had been.
Grímur had seen all he needed to. Björn had obviously removed any trace of Ísafold, and the cosmetic stuff in the bathroom, and the books and clothes in the bedroom, showed that the new woman had started to leave things here. She would be moving in before long. He would have to work even faster than he had thought.
48
‘I’m meeting an old uncle for dinner,’ Áróra said to Hákon, phone to her ear as she waited outside the hotel for Daníel. She had used part of the day to go through background information about Hákon and his companies, and how he had ended up in prison. She hadn’t got as far as looking through the contents of his computer via her spyware, simply because she was too nervous about the evening ahead. Hákon wanted to see her again. He’d asked if she wanted to meet for a drink, hesitated and then asked if she thought he was being too pushy.
She laughed. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you later if I feel like a drink.’
She didn’t hear his reply, as at that moment a motorbike pulled up on the hotel’s forecourt. She’d switched off her phone and dropped it in her pocket before she realised that Daníel was the bike’s rider. He dismounted, and handed her a helmet.
‘Hang on. Weren’t we going out to dinner?’ she asked in surprise. She had expected a restaurant somewhere close by.
‘A mystery tour,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry. We’re not going far.’
Áróra held back for a moment. She was wearing open sandals and a thin jacket, but fortunately she had put on jeans instead of a skirt or a dress. Reluctantly, she took the helmet.
‘I’m not sure if I’m brave enough for this,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘I drive carefully,’ he said, getting back on the bike, closed his visor and patted the seat behind him.
Áróra stood still for a moment, wondering whether to decline, hand back the helmet and walk away. But she knew she would be furious with herself, and, anyway, there was a flutter of excitement in her stomach. She hadn’t sat on a motorcycle since she was a child.
A few moments later they were hurtling along Sæbraut as she tightly held on to him, feeling dizzy at seeing the tourists walking along by the sea, the cars they overtook and Mount Esja in the distance. She closed her eyes, and as she could hear little through the helmet’s thick padding, her senses of sight and hearing took a back seat and others became more sensitive. Her skin sensed the closeness of Daníel’s strong, leather-clad body pressed against hers, so close that there was a stream of heat between them that she felt took on colours of its own, a glowing, deep pink-red … and it was as if her sense of time had been paused, because she was startled when the bike came to a standstill.
She was unsteady on her feet as she dismounted and pulled off the helmet.
Daníel laughed. ‘Were you frightened?’
She shook her head as she looked around, trying to work out where they were. They seemed to be out of the city now, in a small valley surrounded by steep hills with a lake at the bottom. Some distance away she could see the red roofs of the old Vífilsstaðir TB hospital, so this had to be Vífilsstaðir lake.
‘No,’ she said. ‘That was fun.’
It wasn’t what she had wanted to say, the words not strong enough, but she couldn’t explain to him just how fantastic this short bike ride had been, how thrilling and how indecently exciting.
‘Be my guest,’ he said, pointing to a thicket above the road. ‘Dinner is served.’
He strode through the undergrowth, and she followed him into a small clearing surrounded by birches, where he spread out a blanket and placed a bag on it.
‘Aha,’ she said. ‘A picnic?’
He sat on the blanket, opened the bag, and she sat beside him. He plucked out cans of mixed malt and orange, and smoked lamb sandwiches wrapped in foil.
‘You’re going the full traditional?’
‘Sure,’ he laughed and handed her a sandwich.
They sat and ate in silence. The trees provided shelter, and the sun was still high in the sky. Below them the lake shone like a mirror, the landscape reflected in its surface, and Áróra felt her heart swell inside her, as if it was demanding more space to grow, to hold on to this evening, the sun’s brightness and the land around them.
‘Another two or three weeks and the slopes here will be completely blue with lupins,’ Daníel said.
49
Ísafold agrees with everything that her brother-in-law Ebbi and I tell her, the three of us sitting around Ebbi’s kitchen table, with candlelight and a bag of doughnuts.
She’s finally ready to leave Björn. She can see for herself that it’s not working out. She knows there’s a danger that he’s going to do her permanent harm. She knows there’s a vicious circle that she needs to break out of.
I book flights to Edinburgh for both of us the next day, and a train ticket for her home to our mother in Newcastle. Ebbi goes to Björn’s place to fetch her passport and some clothes.
Later that evening her mother-in-law arrives and makes a plea on Björn’s behalf. She talks about how distraught he is. She tells her how much he regrets being heavy-handed with her, how much he craves her forgiveness. She finishes by telling Ísafold that she’ll have to take care not to provoke him like that.
In the morning when I wake up, Ebbi’s sitting at the kitchen table, shaking his head in despair. Ísafold has gone back home to Björn.
WEDNESDAY
50
Daníel pulled up the weeds along the wall of the house by hand, even though a trowel or a scraper would have been useful. But he didn’t want to risk the sound of metal against stone waking the neighbours, so he made do with putting on a pair of gardening gloves and relying on his strength to yank out the dandelions and the blades of grass that had taken root where the tarmac of the drive met the building. It was a job that needed to be done, however ridiculous it might seem to be out here weeding in the middle of the bright night. But he couldn’t sleep.
He was too annoyed with himself for having kissed her. What the hell had he been thinking? The poor girl was in a state of confusion, they hardly knew each other, and he was much, much too old for her.
All the same, something strange had happened between them. He had told her about his work and his children, and she had told the story of her father and described how she felt like a pendulum, swinging between well-ordered Britain and the wild west, out here in Iceland. Those had been her words, and he had laughed, found her clever, but then she turned serious and said that she often felt that she was somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic, in limbo between two nationalities. That was when he had felt an overwhelming need to pull her close, and as they kissed, the sparks flew between them. He could have told her there and then that he loved her, but the moment was over almost immediately, because she backed away, saying she wasn’t looking for love.
Now he was furious with himself, but with no way to let off steam, he felt he might burst with rage. He was unsure how to make good what he had done. Call her and apologise? Or would that be inappropriate? To begin with, she had returned his kiss, placed a hand on his cheek, pressed those delightful lips to his. So was this as much up to her as to him, making no apology necessary?
He reached the corner of the building and the weeds were now gone. His fingers were sore, and he could feel the sweat on his torso, even though his ears had gone numb with cold. He stood up and stretched his back. He took off the gloves and went around the house to the garden. The shed was open, so he dropped the gloves on a shelf, shut the door and slid the bolt into place. As he turned around, he noticed a large dandelion growing from a crevice in the rock. It was in his line of sight, so he wondered how he had missed it. He reached out a hand to pull it up when he heard Lady Gúgúlú’s voice behind him.
‘You don’t really need to pull up every single flower, do you?’
Lady stood in the garage doorway, wearing just a pair of nylon tights. They reached up to her middle, where a pack of cigarettes and a lighter were tucked into the waistband.
‘It’s a dandelion,’ Daníel said. ‘I don’t want it spreading seeds over the lawn.’
‘Imagine how beautiful the lawn would be – green with yellow spots.’
‘Weeds aren’t pretty,’ Daníel said, and Lady shook her head in disgust.
‘That’s the trouble with you straight types,’ she said. ‘With your rigid definitions of beauty.’
Daníel shrugged. He would rather avoid a long conversation about a single dandelion right now, and didn’t want to allow himself to be accused of destroying nature’s beauty. It was too late at night for that. He would try again later. He could spray it with weedkiller sometime when Lady wasn’t watching, or even just come outside with the vacuum cleaner and hoover up the seeds once the dandelion had become a puffball. Surely Lady wouldn’t object to that.
Now he was going for a shower, then coffee while he waited for the border-control office to open so he could enquire about Ísafold’s possible movements. Once he had an answer, he would have a reason to call Áróra, and that would give him a chance to slip an apology into the conversation – something to casually defuse the drama around his ill-conceived move on her. And it would be an opportunity to act as if nothing was amiss – to act as if it didn’t matter to him that she had turned him down.
