Dark as Night, page 2
Daníel was dumbstruck.
‘Well, well,’ he breathed. ‘It seems there’s no end to the number of crazy people out there.’
‘Indeed.’ Áróra gave a faint smile then grew serious again. ‘And yet something the woman said struck me. She told me her daughter said … or rather her daughter as Ísafold said…’ She paused for a second. ‘She said an ice-bear killed her.’
‘Huh?’
‘Yes. And what struck me about it is that Ísafold always used to call Björn her ísbjörn – “my Ice-Bear”.’
4
Lady Gúgúlú, real name Róbert, was pretty sure the time had come the instant his phone rang. Something about the ringtone was different from usual, as if it contained a premonition that his life, as he’d been living it for the last four years, was over.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, darling.’ It was Stebbi, the bartender and manager at the nightclub. ‘A man came here asking about you.’
Fuck. Róbert felt his blood run cold. Even so he managed to hold his nerve and control his voice.
‘Was he cute?’ he asked, and the question made Stebbi laugh.
‘Not exactly your type,’ he replied. ‘A bit rough around the edges, to be honest. And he was wearing a polo shirt. I can’t see you dating a man who wears a polo shirt.’
‘Absolutely not!’ declared Róbert theatrically. ‘What did he want, anyway?’
‘He showed me a video of you doing your Gúgúlú and the Great Escape show. And I told him what you asked me to say: that your name is Haraldur, Harry for short, and I have no idea where you live.’
‘Good,’ said Róbert. ‘Thank you for that.’
‘But there was something weird about him, so when he left I took a peek outside and saw him get in a car with two other people in it. I didn’t catch a good glimpse of them but they looked like men in suits to me. Then it occurred to me this could be the stalker you told me about, so I thought I should warn you.’
Róbert was inwardly relieved that he’d prepared for this moment. Stebbi had done exactly the right thing.
‘Thanks. I owe you,’ said Róbert. ‘Take me off the programme will you, darling, I need to keep a low profile for a while.’
He said goodbye to Stebbi then heaved a sigh. His good friend deserved a proper farewell, but Róbert was better off playing this down. Making out he was taking a temporary break, to escape his stalker. It would create unnecessary drama if he announced that he was leaving for good. He glanced about and felt a pang of regret when his eyes alighted on the costume that lay almost finished next to the sewing machine. The butterfly gown he’d planned to wear that weekend. In a spectacular drag show to be called Gúgúlú Crawls out of the Chrysalis. But it was no use having regrets. This was a question of do or die. He clambered onto a chair and reached on top of the wardrobe for the rucksack he had packed and ready, with everything in it except the box.
He pulled on a pair of hiking pants, a thin wool jumper and then his parka, put on his hiking boots and laced them tight. Afterwards he turned out the lights and stepped outside. Pausing an instant, he glanced across the lawn at Daníel’s apartment and felt another pang of regret. Damn. These had been fun times. He sniffed hard, picked up the rucksack and closed the door behind him.
Inside the shed he grabbed the little fence post he’d whittled flat at one end so he could use it as a shovel, and took it with him into garden. Kneeling down next to the rocks at the far end, he pushed the post into the ground. He had to dig through the top layer of soil then he could scoop out the sand around the box with his hands. The excavated earth formed a mound on the grass; he wished he’d put a plastic bag next to the hole – the signs of his digging would be visible. And there was no way he could do this neatly with this crude, improvised tool. Glancing about, his eye alighted on the large pot containing the cherry tree he’d bought the year before. Its grey, leafless branches were probably dead. But it would have to do.
5
Áróra could smell her own sweat as they walked into the café in Borgartún, and regretted not having gone home first to change. But she felt they needed to meet this woman Elísabet straightaway. They’d called her back and she had agreed. In fact she seemed happy to leave the house at a moment’s notice; perhaps she feared Áróra might change her mind. For her part, Áróra wanted this strange affair to be over and done with.
They glanced about the café, unsure who they were looking for, but a woman seemed to recognise Áróra and stood up and waved to them, smiling amicably. She seemed over-excited, like a child at Christmas. It was as if she were struggling to suppress a wave of joy that might burst forth at any moment from her big, childlike face. Áróra thought she saw her hop up and down as she stood next to the table and waved.
‘I’ll get us some coffees,’ Daníel said, heading straight for the counter while Áróra walked up to the woman and greeted her.
‘Sorry about the get-up,’ she said. ‘I’ve just come from the gym.’
‘Oh yes, of course, you do weightlifting,’ said Elísabet, and again Áróra experienced a feeling of unease. It wasn’t enough that this woman knew where she worked; she knew she lifted weights as well.
‘That’s right.’ Áróra sat down, and suddenly all the questions she’d lined up to ask the woman seemed to evaporate. Her pulse was racing and she found she couldn’t speak. Not that this mattered, because Elísabet was evidently the talkative type. She launched into an apology, as she had on the phone, her words punctuated by artificial laughter. Only, behind the artificial laughs Áróra now detected a bell-like tinkle that threatened at any moment to erupt into a genuine belly laugh. It was as if by letting out the occasional stilted ha ha ha, the woman was holding back a fit of the giggles.
‘Of course this is terribly strange, and I know better than anyone how it sounds. As I told you on the phone, we, that’s to say my husband and I, are at our wits’ end. We’ve taken the child to every kind of specialist, ha ha ha.’
Daníel approached the table with their coffees and before he had a chance to introduce himself Áróra cut in ahead of him.
‘This is my boyfriend, Daníel,’ she said.
Daníel shot her a glance then smiled at Elísabet. Áróra could tell he understood her thinking. It was better Elísabet didn’t learn straight off that Daníel was a cop. That way she’d be more likely to lower her guard. Be more open about what she wanted from Áróra.
‘Have you believed in reincarnation long?’ said Daníel, removing his jacket and draping it over the back of his chair. He spoke in a friendly manner, smiling mildly.
‘Ha ha ha, no. Actually, I haven’t. Which is why I’m finding it very difficult to believe my own daughter,’ replied Elísabet, no hint of a defensive tone.
Daníel broadened his smile and sat down. ‘So you and your husband don’t belong to a sect that believes in reincarnation, or anything like that?’
‘Huh? No, no. Only the Church of Iceland. So to speak. We had our daughter baptised the day we married, but we don’t attend mass or anything. We’re no different from most other Icelanders.’
Daníel nodded, continued to smile amicably and took his time sipping his coffee. This had the effect of keeping Elísabet talking.
‘We’re very ordinary people, you know, like all our friends. We’re not yoga or reincarnation fanatics, or anything like that. It came as a complete shock to us when Ester Lóa began insisting she wasn’t a child, but a woman called Ísafold.’
‘When did it start?’ asked Daníel.
Áróra’s pulse was still racing. It was a relief that Daníel was taking it upon himself to ask the questions she felt too upset to articulate. She wouldn’t have had the presence of mind to put them in the correct order. And she wanted to know everything about this child, everything she’d said. Right now.
‘Six months ago,’ replied Elísabet. ‘She’d already started to talk a lot from the age of around two, and then about six or seven months ago she started to tell people who asked her name that she was called Ísafold. I thought this was just some nonsense. Something she’d got from a cartoon. That there was a character somewhere called Ísafold. But when we asked her why she kept saying her name was Ísafold, she said: “Because I’m not a child, Mummy. I’m not Ester Lóa. I’m a woman. And I’m dead.”’
6
Outside the café Áróra stood watching the woman as she’d climbed into her car and waved goodbye to them. Daníel studied Áróra’s face, trying to read her expression: it betrayed some sort of longing or regret. As if Áróra wished with all her heart that she could follow the woman home and meet the mysterious child who spoke about a past life. Daníel didn’t believe this rubbish for a moment, and hoped Áróra would view it all with a big dose of scepticism. But he wasn’t just suspicious of the woman. He was anxious as well. He had to be careful now not to fuel Áróra’s anxiety; instead he had to coax information out of her in a calm way.
‘What do you make of all this?’ he asked tentatively. Áróra turned to him and he saw tears glisten on her eyelashes. ‘Hey, hey,’ he said softly and pulled her to him. ‘Shall we go to my place. I’ll make us something nice for dinner?’
She nodded, cleared her throat huskily, wriggled free and strode purposefully towards the Tesla. She installed herself in the passenger seat, indicating that she wanted him to drive. He did so with pleasure. The Tesla was out of this world. It drove like no other car, and he never missed the opportunity to sit behind the wheel. He would even sometimes refrain from having a glass of wine or beer with a meal when they went out so he could be their self-designated driver.
He turned on the Tesla’s engine, and the central display screen lit up, casting a harsh blue light on Áróra’s face. Even though she’d shaken him off just now and retreated into her shell, he could see clearly she was in a bad way. Her face was puffy, the rims of her eyes red.
‘Áróra, do you remember, at the height of the investigation into your sister’s disappearance, when the forensic team was combing her and Björn’s apartment?’ he ventured. ‘I told you and your mother where most of the bloodstains were found. Do you remember that?’
‘Of course I remember,’ Áróra said, a hint of irritation in her voice as she looked at him quizzically.
‘Did you tell anyone else about those findings?’
‘No.’ Her response was short and to the point.
‘Think carefully,’ he insisted. ‘Go over in your head who you’ve spoken to about this in the last three years.’
Áróra hummed, stared straight ahead for a moment then shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I haven’t told anyone about what was found in the apartment.’
‘Do you think your mother might have?’
‘There’s a chance she may have said something about the case to her sister and to a friend of hers in Newcastle. They go round to her house every day for tea. But I doubt it. Firstly because Mum refuses to believe Ísafold is dead. She clings to the hope that she’s in Canada with Björn. And secondly because she’s English. She avoids discussing awkward subjects. It’s her way of protecting herself from too much suffering.’
‘So it’s unlikely she mentioned it to anyone here in Iceland?’
‘Very unlikely,’ said Áróra. ‘Now stop playing the cop with me, Daníel. Why are you asking me about this?’
He shifted in his seat and turned towards her. ‘Because this young woman, Elísabet, said something I’m almost certain was never made public. Namely where the majority of bloodstains were found in the apartment. As far as I know that information never got out. Apart from the police, I think you and your mother are the only two people who know that most of the bloodstains were found in the kitchen and on the inside of the bathroom door.’
7
Róbert set his rucksack down on the scrubby patch of land between the bridleway and the stables, then scrambled up to the end stable. He was grateful for the network of bridleways that ran around the city’s periphery. Generally speaking there was no street lighting, signposts or CCTV on bridleways. Even so he’d played safe, keeping the hood of his parka up at all times as he used them as a detour to get here.
He was out of breath after the hike yet didn’t exactly relish the thought of mounting the horse. He was no horseman, although he’d more or less mastered the art of staying on the animal’s back and getting it to move forward. And they had a long journey ahead of them. Longer than he cared to inflict on himself or the horse, but he had no choice in the matter. He had initiated plan B. Now everything had to go smoothly.
The horse seemed surprised to see him and became skittish when it saw Róbert gather up the tack. He’d done a few practice runs to accustom both himself and the horse to the alternative bit he’d made from bone and woven leather strips, but that was a while ago and the horse was bound to find it uncomfortable. The bone that went into the animal’s mouth was a good deal wider than a normal bit and Róbert prayed the horse wouldn’t chew straight through it because he only had one replacement. He slipped the saddle blanket over the horse’s back and placed the saddle on top of it. He had a cobbler adapt the girth so that instead of a buckle it had a clasp made of wood and leather. With any luck it would hold out until he reached Suðurland, on the far side of Hellisheiði.
He led the horse outside and gave it a clap on its hindquarters. It was a ten-year-old bay with a darker tail, mane and fetlocks, but what most appealed to Róbert about the horse, and indeed what had made him choose it, was that it changed colour with the seasons. A bit like Róbert himself. When its winter coat came through, white hairs would mingle with dark ones, turning the horse gradually grey, as if it wanted to camouflage itself, blend in with the snow. In spring, however, the horse’s coat grew darker and it became a splendid bay again. Right now it was in that awkward in-between stage, shedding its winter coat even as the dark hairs came through, making it look rather scruffy.
‘Both of us are transitioning now, darling,’ he said to the horse as he led it away. He came to a halt where he’d deposited his rucksack, lifted it onto his shoulders and found a hummock to stand on to enable him to mount. One of the stirrups he’d made from a large animal bone threaded with leather gave a snap or crack as he placed his foot in it, and he prayed it hadn’t broken. With any luck they would hold out until they reached their destination.
He also prayed that the foreign-made plastic horse shoes with which he’d fitted the animal would survive the rough Icelandic terrain on their way across Hellisheiði.
8
It was calming to feel the hot water from the shower pummel the nape of her neck. Áróra closed her eyes and tried to make sense of the thoughts swirling in her head. Daníel had told her to jump straight in the shower and relax while he started cooking. She had stripped off her training gear on the way to the bathroom, kicking off her knickers just before she stepped into the shower. Water always had a soothing effect on her, and after three years living in Iceland she now allowed herself to enjoy hot water Icelandic style. She would soak in the tub for hours, topping up the hot water as and when needed, or stand under the shower for a good twenty minutes with the jets on full, breathing in the steam and feeling her muscles go soft.
Her pulse was still racing, which was normal after a steroid injection, but now it was keeping pace with the thoughts that whirled around and around in her head: the words Elísabet claimed her daughter had spoken. She told them her daughter had said the ice-bear struck her in the kitchen. Then he stabbed her with a knife so she bled and bled. Afterwards she ran to the bathroom and tried to shut the ice-bear out, but he pushed against the door while she pushed on the other side. She’d pressed against the door with her back and hands, her feet braced against the floor, but the ice-bear was too strong and he burst in and grabbed her round the throat so she couldn’t breathe.
Images of the child’s description flashed through Áróra’s mind like a film reel, and she only had to replace ‘ice-bear’ with ‘Björn’ for it to seem plausible. Björn had regularly been violent towards Ísafold, and his abuse got worse each time she went back to him, after Áróra had found her safe places to stay at the Women’s Refuge, or at a hotel. Her injuries became more and more serious, Ísafold in worse and worse shape, and Áróra evermore exasperated each time her sister went back home to Björn.
This description of the events that took place in the apartment tallied with the forensic department’s findings, namely that most of the blood was found on the kitchen furniture, the kitchen floor and the inside of the bathroom door. Áróra had seen that Daníel was dubious about Elísabet’s story and suspicious of how she knew where the blood was found. No doubt he suspected Áróra or her mother had blabbed, and the story had reached Elísabet’s ears. Or else he suspected a leak at the station. The one thing he didn’t suspect was that the story might be true. That Ester Lóa really was Ísafold reincarnated and could remember the moment of her death.
Áróra gave a few gasps and felt herself burst into tears. She tilted her face towards the shower head and let her grief flow forth. Was the child really describing Ísafold’s last moments? Was her end so tragic? Full of pain and fear of the man she loved. And loneliness, as she fought for her life, only months after she – Áróra, her sister, who should have protected her – had given up and turned her back on her.
9
Daníel heard Áróra turn on the shower as he switched the light on in the kitchen and caught sight of the piece of paper lying on the table. A note from Lady Gúgúlú.
But instead of the usual elaborate diagram telling him she’d borrowed his toaster, or some physics equation that Daníel was supposed to understand but never did, it contained a brief, hand-written message:
