Cold As Hell, page 13
‘I saw right away from the outlines that there was something odd about the picture, so it was clear it had been lifted and pasted onto this picture. I didn’t have to search all that far through Facebook to find the picture it had been taken from.’
Áróra felt a great weight bear down on her, as if she were sinking into deep water. She only felt able to speak or move painfully slowly, while her mind was working at full speed, digesting what she had seen, trying to work things out and understand them.
‘But that means…’ she began, but wasn’t able to put her thoughts into words. She stared ahead, out of the window, at Daníel’s manicured green garden. ‘Does that mean…?’
Her voice cracked before she could force out a whole sentence, and she took a deep breath.
‘Yes,’ he said quietly. His voice was warm and encouraging, completely at odds with what he had to say. ‘It means that either she faked this picture herself to lay a false trail, away from where she really is, or else someone else has posted the picture to lead people astray. And now we need to go to the police station.’
The weight that bore down on Áróra now seemed so much greater after the cloud of relief she’d floated on as she had arrived at Daníel’s place; it was just a few moments ago, but now seemed an age away. She felt her legs give way and her body dissolved into a howl that swamped everything like an unstoppable wave. He caught her before she fell and held her in his arms, pulling her close to him so that her cheek pressed against his neck, one hand on her head and the other patting her back with a soothing beat. For a moment she felt like a child in his arms – her future and her whole happiness depending on him. As long as he held her tight and patted her back, she felt that the cold reality of what might have happened to Ísafold could not reach her.
Now Ísafold was no longer sour and sharp in her memory, no longer the waspish Ísafold who had called her a lousy kid, blocked her on Facebook and lied that she had fallen against a radiator. She was the fourteen-year-old Ísafold who played with Barbie dolls, smiled at her, taught her to plait her hair and tickled her in bed after dark – her sister Ísafold.
60
Most of the specialist shops Grímur remembered from his childhood had disappeared from the city centre, replaced by tourist shops and restaurants. There had been such a diametric change to the centre during his lifetime that anyone would imagine he was an old man, and not just past forty. He loathed the large shopping malls, but he had no choice but to venture into Kringlan, as it contained the only shop that stocked a range of suitcases wide enough that he might find what he was looking for.
The hiss in his ears began as soon as he stepped inside the mall. There was something about the chatter of the crowds, or the hum of the escalators, or the lights, or maybe a combination of all of these, that magnified his discomfort, and he was always glad when he could step outside again into the fresh air. But now he had a task to undertake, so he would have to grin and bear it. He marched directly to the shop, and was inside, pulling suitcases from the shelves and inspecting them when a shop assistant appeared, asking if she could help. This was a young woman, practically a child, wearing perilously high heels.
‘Could I take a look at the largest suitcase you have?’ he said, looking at the three he had pulled from the shelves, none of which he felt would be large enough. At least, not when he saw the girl standing next to them.
‘Is it the Superlight case you have in mind? A spinner, I suppose?’ the girl asked.
He looked back at her, failing to understand. It was a long time since he had last bought a suitcase.
‘It needs to be strong,’ he said. ‘Very strong.’
The assistant smiled understandingly, as if she realised that he wasn’t up to date with the latest fashions in luggage.
‘The spinners are the ones that have four wheels and they’re easily the most convenient. You just push them along next to you, so there’s no weight on your shoulders.’
He nodded. That sounded good. The case was going to be pretty heavy.
‘If you’re really looking for a case that will take some punishment, then you’ll probably want a box.’
‘Box?’
‘Yes. One of the rigid cases made from plastic or reinforced canvas, but not ordinary fabric.’
She fetched two cases to show him. They seemed to be lovely pieces of luggage, but the plastic didn’t look like it would withstand a great deal of weight.
‘Won’t that just break?’ he asked.
‘That could happen,’ she admitted. ‘If there’s something very heavy in the case, or if someone sits on it.’
Grímur shook his head.
‘That’s no good. Strength is vital.’
‘The largest cases we have are guaranteed up to thirty-five kilos. Of course, they can take more than that, but they aren’t guaranteed for anything more, because airlines don’t accept anything heavier.’
‘It has to take more than that,’ Grímur said, and looked around. He was reluctant to order anything specially, as that would create a trail that could be followed. He knew exactly what the suitcase would need to take, and he reckoned that was around eighty kilos. But he couldn’t say that to this girl.
‘The guarantee doesn’t matter,’ he added. ‘I’m only going to be using it here in Iceland. I need to move equipment and stuff. I’m a roadie.’
The girl looked at him with interest.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘For which band?’
Grímur hadn’t thought out the lie in advance so he turned aside and muttered, ‘Loads of bands.’
He went further into the shop and could hear the click of the girl’s heels as she followed him. He noticed a row of cases right at the back, behind the counter, and pointed.
‘How about those?’ he said. ‘They look huge.’
‘I forgot about those,’ the assistant said. ‘They’re the old US standard type, but they aren’t spinners.’
‘That’ll have to do,’ he said. ‘Could I look at the grey one?’
The girl shifted some boxes out of the way and brought the case over to him.
‘It’s a cloth covering,’ she said. ‘Although it’s a very strong nylon fabric. But the case alone is almost four kilos, so we’re going to return it. Nobody wants a case this big and heavy these days.’
‘I’ll take this one,’ he said, patting it with one hand and extracting his wallet. The girl stared at him in surprise and looked delighted.
‘That’s fantastic,’ she said. ‘That’s one we won’t have to send back. I can give you a thirty percent discount, but without a guarantee.’
‘That’s absolutely fine,’ Grímur told her. ‘And the discount’s even better. Thanks for that.’
The girl tapped keys on the till, and Grímur saw the price appear on the card reader in front of him.
‘I’m paying cash,’ Grímur said, and the girl apologised, starting again and working out the discount, while Grímur sized up both her and the case. As far as he could see, this suitcase was easily large enough for him to fit someone this girl’s size inside it.
61
As she hadn’t brought with her enough underwear for anything more than a long weekend, Áróra knew it was again time to do some washing. She bundled her knickers into the bathroom sink at the hotel, added a generous squeeze of the complimentary shampoo and kneaded thoroughly until there was a healthy amount of foam. Then she rinsed each pair under the tap again and again to wash away what seemed endless froth.
Daníel had gone with her to make a statement concerning Ísafold’s disappearance, and somehow the situation seemed to be more real now that it had become part of an official process, recorded in public documents. The weight had gradually lifted from her shoulders as she had sat in the police station at Daníel’s side, but at the same time she had felt a chill as the female police officer sitting opposite them went through her list of questions, and little by little the possible reasons for Ísafold’s disappearance became plain.
The officer asked about depression, whether Ísafold had mentioned being low or had thoughts of suicide; she asked about her relationship with Björn, whether Ísafold could have begun a relationship with someone else, whether she had worked anywhere else after being sacked from the sheltered accommodation centre, what drugs she had used, whether she had recently been drinking more than usual, whether she had been involved in a dispute with anyone, whether anyone held a grudge against her.
New aspects of Ísafold’s disappearance began to take shape in Áróra’s mind as the officer continued her questioning, and it occurred to her that she was hardly the right person to be doing this, as she was unable to answer the questions properly. In reality she had no idea what Ísafold’s life had been like recently.
It was just as well that Daníel had been able to join in and explain things, telling the officer that the initial investigation, as he put it, had been done already. He also mentioned Björn – the fact his statements didn’t add up, and the domestic violence – and the picture on Facebook; the faked picture. As they left the police station, he offered to call her mother and explain the situation to her. Áróra was so relieved she longed to throw herself into his arms, but withstood the temptation. Then they sat side by side on the steps outside the police station, and she listened to his measured voice as he went through the situation with her mother, urging her to travel to Iceland, describing the situation as ‘serious’.
Áróra filled the basin with cold water for a final rinse and swirled her underwear around in it. There was still some foam, but she had had enough. Her fingers were numb with cold, and she felt so tired, she was about to collapse. She knew very well that this was the come-down after the day’s emotional switchback, but was still taken by surprise by her own reactions.
She retrieved her knickers from the water, squeezing them in a bundle rather than twisting the water out of them and damaging the lace, and lined them up in a row on the heated towel rack. She would have to buy herself some clothes now that her stay here in Iceland had been extended, and she would have to find a place to stay for herself and her mother, whose flight would be arriving that evening.
62
Áróra could see the worry etched into her mother’s face the moment she appeared through the doors at the airport, and immediately her own worries seemed to become lighter. She’d have to be strong and support her mother. The same thing had happened when her father died. Back then she had been the one who provided the strength and support, finding her own solace in the role, as if she had transferred her sorrow to her mother and shouldered the burden of making sure everything was done. As she hugged her, Áróra sensed that her mother would worry enough for both of them about Ísafold. Her body seemed to have shrunk to little more than skin and bone, and Áróra heard a delicate tremor in her voice.
‘I’ll go straight to Daníel’s place,’ she said as Áróra took her suitcase.
‘What?’
‘He offered me his guest room,’ her mother said.
‘You’re staying with him?’
Áróra was astonished. She wasn’t aware of much of a connection between Daníel and her mother.
‘He’s going to support me through all this. He’s a lovely man, your uncle.’
‘He’s not my uncle,’ Áróra said, sounding sharper than she meant to. She put her mother’s case in the boot of the hire car, and they didn’t say a word until they were out of the car park and Keflavík could be seen stretching away down the slope below the road.
‘This is familiar,’ her mother muttered.
Áróra nodded. ‘The airport has really grown since tourism took off. Just wait until you see what Reykjavík looks like.’
‘Reykjavík needed to grow a bit,’ she replied. ‘I never liked the way we always ran into your father’s friends and relatives every time we went downtown.’
Áróra had heard the same observation from her mother before. She had never been comfortable in Iceland. She found it too sparsely populated, too personal, and too small in every possible way. Áróra put her foot down once they were past the last of the roundabouts on the road past Keflavík and the straight line of main road lay ahead of them. Her mother sniffed at the smell of the Blue Lagoon, which carried all the way to them, and then stared out over the moss-covered lava that stretched from the shore to their left, all the way up into the Reykjanes Mountains, in the distance to their right. Hanging in the air were the sentences that her mother always dropped when they drove this way when Áróra was small, either with her father at the wheel or sometimes a relative who had come to fetch them. Every comment had been along the lines that this was a tragic and barren place, a cold desert, like the surface of the moon.
If her mother found Iceland a sad place back then, those emotions must be magnified now that she was here to search for her lost daughter.
63
I’m staring at the picture in Ísafold’s text message, trying to fathom the emotions I feel deep inside. The last picture she sent before this one was of the cut on her forehead, almost in the roots of her hair, where there were eight neat stitches.
Now she’s sending me a picture of her hand, a ring on her finger.
I answer with questions. Are you back at Björn’s place? Is that picture what it looks like? She calls right back.
She’s happy, and it’s all I can do not to snap at her. I don’t have it in me to wreck her moment of joy.
My Ice-Bear Björn is changing his ways, she says.
They’re going to a counsellor, and they’ve even booked an appointment. And he’s so, so sorry. He came to her on his hands and knees to bring her a ring.
An engagement ring.
FRIDAY
64
Somewhere deep in Áróra’s chest a pain burned every time she thought of the tremor in her mother’s voice the evening before, when they had arrived at Daníel’s place. She appeared to allow herself to be overwhelmed only once she was safe in his little apartment, a mug of hot tea in her hands. Daníel obviously had experience of people in an emotional state. Áróra could clearly see his cautious encouragement, steering her mother’s thoughts towards the next stage, towards the details. Maybe it was a particular strategy, preventing the mind taking in the full picture – as the overview of Ísafold’s disappearance didn’t look positive.
It had been a wrench to leave the flat and walk out into the bright summer night. It was a struggle to leave her mother in the state she was in, her voice quavering and weak, her hands fidgeting constantly with the hem of her blouse; and it was also difficult to turn away from Daníel’s comforting voice, his presence that radiated security, like a heater in a cold room. But as soon as Áróra was outside, it was easier to catch her breath, her mother’s wellbeing now in Daníel’s hands, and Ísafold’s wellbeing in her mother’s. All the same, she had had to choke back the sob that rose in her throat. That had to be something to do with the way the mourning process worked – the tension relaxing as it was gradually replaced by a sorrow that took over the senses.
She was drinking her third coffee of the morning in her room when the cleaner knocked. She hadn’t been down to breakfast, unable to face either Hákon or any food, feeling that she was as drained physically as she was mentally. But when the girl called out ‘Room service!’ as she opened the door a couple of inches, and was about to close it again when she saw the room was occupied, Áróra came back to her senses.
‘It’s all right, come in,’ she called out to the girl, who looked at her enquiringly and repeated ‘room service’ in the same ringing tone.
‘Please come in,’ Áróra said, switching to English. ‘I’m going out, so it’s all right to clean now.’
She decided that she’d find a café once she had got herself moving. A brisk walk through the city centre would help her wake up. She picked up a scarf and a sweater, but decided to leave the jacket. It wasn’t raining outside, even though it was a grey day with thick cloud. The cleaner pulled a vacuum cleaner behind her into the room and was plugging it in when Áróra decided to ask her about her work.
‘What’s it like, working here?’ she asked.
The girl paused, and stared enquiringly, twisting the vacuum cleaner cable between her fingers as if she was trying to wring it out.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, her accent from somewhere in Eastern Europe. She appeared frightened now, and Áróra immediately regretted having said anything.
‘Just wondering if this is a good place to work, and if the pay is reasonable.’
The girl’s hands froze and she dropped the cable to the floor, staring open-mouthed.
‘You speak to manager,’ she snapped angrily, then plugged in the vacuum cleaner and got to work, running it back and forth across the floor. It was clear that this wasn’t up for discussion.
Áróra left the room, and all the way along the corridor and in the lift, she wondered whether the girl’s response had been because she was shy, if her poor English had led her to misunderstand, or if her question had hit a sensitive spot.
65
Olga wasn’t sure how many times in her long working life she had called in sick, but the fingers of one hand were probably enough to count them all. She had even turned up for work as usual the day after Jonni died. It had been better to keep herself occupied, rather than sit at home, turning over all the things she should have done that might have made his life turn out better. But that Friday morning she felt that the night’s insomnia, plus the thought of having to tell Omar about his appeal, had drained all the energy from her. All the same, having called in and climbed back into bed, she wasn’t able to get to sleep again. She lay there for an hour, sweating as she thought through all the ways Omar could have obtained this dead man’s papers in Istanbul.
