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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: An Áróra Investigation
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Icelandic investigator Áróra receives strange and devastating news about her missing sister, while her detective friend Daníel looks into the disappearance of a family friend. The twisty, addictive, award-winning series continues… `Twisty´ Heat magazine `A dark, twisty and pitch-perfect thriller. I will read anything Lilja writes … I loved it´ Michael Wood `[A] lively left-field mystery … There is no one quite like Lilja Sigurdardottir: each of her seven novels is a blast of Icelandic air´ The Times Book of the Month _____________ When Áróra receives a call telling her that a child she's never met is claiming to be her missing sister reincarnated, she is devastated … as ridiculous as the allegations might seem. For three years she has been searching for her sister without finding a single clue, and now this strange child seems to have new information. On the same day, Icelandic detective Daníel returns home to find a note from his tenant, drag queen Lady Gúgúlú, giving notice on her flat and explaining that she has had to leave the country. Daníel is immediately suspicious, and when three threatening men appear, looking for Lady, it's clear to him that something is very wrong… And as Iceland's long dark nights continue into springtime, that is just the very beginning… Twisty, intricately plotted and atmospheric, Dark as Night is the highly anticipated fourth book in the addictive An Áróra Investigation series, as Áróra and her friends face unimaginable danger and extraordinary experiences that may change everything, forever… ______ Praise for the An Áróra Investigation series `Another action-packed and pacy thriller … I would like to be Arora's best friend´ Liz Nugent `Icelandic crime-writing at its finest´ Shari Lapena `Chilly and chilling … another tense and thrilling read!´ Tariq Ashkanani `The Icelandic scenery and weather are beautifully evoked…´ Daily Mail `A stand-out voice in Iceland Noir´ James Oswald `Sure to please Scandi-noir fans´ Publishers Weekly `Another bleak, unpredictable classic´ Metro `Tough, uncompromising and unsettling´ Val McDermid `Tense and pacey´ Guardian `Deftly plotted´ Financial Times `Breathtakingly original´ New York Journal of Books `Taut, gritty and thoroughly absorbing´ Booklist `A stunning addition to the icy-cold crime genre´ Foreword Reviews
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i
When Áróra receives a call telling her that a child she’s never met is claiming to be her missing sister reincarnated, she is devastated … as ridiculous as the allegations might seem. For three years she has been searching for her sister without finding a single clue, and now this strange child seems to have new information.
On the same day, Icelandic detective Daníel returns home to find a note from his tenant, drag queen Lady Gúgúlú, giving notice on her flat and explaining that she has to leave the country. Daníel is immediately suspicious, and when three threatening men appear, looking for Lady, it’s clear to him that something is very wrong…
Twisty, intricately plotted and atmospheric, Dark as Night is the highly anticipated fourth book in the addictive An Áróra Investigation series, as Áróra and her friends face unimaginable danger and extraordinary experiences that may change everything, forever…ii
iii
DARK AS NIGHT
Lilja Sigurðardóttir
Translated by Lorenza Garcia
CONTENTS
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
Icelandic has a couple of letters that don’t exist in other European languages and which are not always easy to replicate. The letter ð is generally replaced with a d in English, but we have decided to use the Icelandic letter to remain closer to the original names. Its sound is closest to the hard th in English, as found in thus and bathe.
The letter r is generally rolled hard with the tongue against the roof of the mouth. In pronouncing Icelandic personal and place names, the emphasis is placed on the first syllable.
Aktu-Taktu – Aktou-Taktou
Áróra – Ow-row-ra
Auðbrekka – Oyth-brekka
Baldvin – Bal-dvin
Björn – Bjoern
Elín – El-yn
Elliðavatn – Etli-tha-vatn
Garðabær – Gar-that-byre
Gylfi – Gil-fee
Gufunes – Gou-fou-ness
Gúgúlú – Gue-gue-lue
Gurrí – Gou-ree
Hafnarfjörður – Hap-nar-fjeor-thur
Hellisheiði – Hedlis-haythee
Hringbraut – Hring-broyt
Hólmsheiði – Holms-haythi
Ísafold – Eesa-fold
Jahérnahér – Ya-her-tna-hyer
Jóna – Yoe-wna
Keflavík – Kep-la-viek
Kópavogur – Koe-pa-voe-goor
Kristján – Krist-tyown
Lárentínus – Low-ren-tien-us
Lárus – Low-rus
Lækjargata – Like-ya-gata
Leirvogstunga – Leyr-vogs-tou-nga
Litla-Hraun – Litla-hroyn
Miklabraut – Mikla-broyt
Mosfellsbær – Mos-fels-byre
Oddsteinn – Odd-stay-tn
Rauðhólar – Royth-hoe-lar
Sæbraut –Sey-broyt
Skeifan – Skay-fan
Smiðja – Smith-ya
Tjarnar-byggð – Tjarnar-bygth
Valur – Va-lour
SUNDAY
1
Everything went black for a moment as Áróra performed her last squat. The seventy kilos were killing her. Her back couldn’t take any more and she felt as if her arms were going to drop off. This was her third rep and she only just cleared it. Not bad, though. For a woman her height to lift this weight three times in a row was not bad at all. But she seemed trapped in some kind of negative image of herself. She felt she never did well enough. She constantly missed her dad, the only trainer she’d ever had and her staunchest supporter at her weight-lifting contests – as he had been in life too. He’d always been there to cheer her on and never referred to her being too tall to do well in competition. On the contrary, he always seemed overjoyed when she came third or fourth in a tournament. And he was always so proud of her. Long after he died she felt he was there with her when she trained. It was one of the reasons why she pushed herself so hard.
‘Have something to eat, girl,’ Stulli said, nudging the box on the table in front of him that contained two leftover slices of greasy pepperoni pizza. Somehow Stulli had snuck into The Gym, installed himself in his favourite corner and guzzled almost an entire pizza without her even noticing.
‘Good, nourishing food,’ remarked Áróra, grabbing a slice with one hand and pulling down her training pants with the other. She turned her backside towards Stulli, who gave her buttock a sharp slap to numb it before he stuck in the needle and injected the steroid.
She was fully aware she shouldn’t be doing this. Eating pizza and 2taking anabolic steroids. Her dad would have turned in his grave if he could see her now. Although lately his presence had become more remote, his influence replaced by a nagging sense of guilt over the death of her sister, Ísafold. Not that Áróra was to blame for her disappearance, but even so she couldn’t help endlessly asking herself how things might have gone if she’d responded, if she’d rushed to her sister’s aid the last time she cried for help.
No one knew for sure that Ísafold was dead, as her body had never been found; although the police had said there was ‘compelling evidence’ that she died in the apartment she shared with her boyfriend, Björn. Their theory was that Björn had murdered Ísafold in the apartment, dumped her body somewhere and then fled. He was last sighted leaving the main airport in Toronto, Canada.
Áróra clapped Stulli on the shoulder and walked out through the open garage doors. The Gym, as it was known, was situated in a large double garage that a strongman had converted into a training club for a select group of friends. Her father’s reputation had earned Áróra her membership, and she was the only woman who trained there. The yard outside was secluded, shared only with the car mechanic next door and overlooked by the backs of some surrounding houses. On sunny days the previous summer they’d carried the benches into the yard to exercise outside. It felt safer during Covid to train in the fresh air with plenty of space between them, and besides, physical exertion in the open air was invigorating. Weightlifting clubs could be very sweaty places, and The Gym was no exception. Hopefully the weather would be as good this summer.
Áróra heard her phone ring inside her car and sprinted the last stretch, but the ringing had stopped by the time she got there. She didn’t recognise the number and was in two minds about whether to call back. She decided to wait, at least until she was home and showered. She waved to Stulli and drove out 3of the courtyard, but before she’d turned onto Miklabraut the phone rang again.
‘Hello?’ she said, once the Tesla had paired her device with its audio system.
‘Áróra Jónsdóttir?’ a young woman’s voice said tentatively.
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘My name is … Elísabet. I’m calling about … Well, it’s all rather strange, you see…’
‘Fire away,’ said Áróra amicably, but the woman became still more hesitant.
‘I’ve tried so hard to find a way of saying this that doesn’t sound half crazy, but there really isn’t one.’ The woman gave an apologetic giggle.
‘Does this have to do with the Directorate of Tax Investigations?’ asked Áróra. If this was work-related she would ask the woman to call back later. When she wasn’t bathed in sweat, her pulse racing from the steroids.
‘Huh?’ Apparently not, as the woman paused briefly before giggling apologetically once more. ‘Yes, I mean no. No. This is unrelated to your work.’ Áróra was surprised that this stranger should know she worked for the DTI.
‘Who did you say you were?’ she asked, maybe a little too sharply.
‘My name is Elísabet. I’m calling because … Well, I’m the mother of a three-year-old girl. She’s called Ester Lóa, but – and this is the strange thing – she simply refuses to let us call her by her real name.’ The woman gave another giggle, only this time her voice hit a shrill note as if she were over-excited. No doubt she was nervous. ‘You see, our little girl insists her name is Ísafold. And that she’s your sister.’
Áróra drove the Tesla up onto the pavement and slammed on the brakes. Her heart had skipped a beat when the woman pronounced her sister’s name. 4
‘Yes, my sister’s name is Ísafold … or was,’ replied Áróra. Maybe this was a new witness. Someone who knew something. ‘Do you have any information about my sister?’ she asked.
‘No, not exactly,’ said Elísabet. ‘But then again, yes. You see my little three-year-old daughter claims she’s your sister … I’m not sure how to put this … reincarnated.’
2
‘I realise this sounds crazy,’ the woman calling herself Elísabet said for what was probably the tenth time. ‘And to be honest I – or rather my husband and I – don’t know what to think. We’ve taken her to a paediatrician and a child psychologist, but the only explanation they can offer is that it’s most likely a phase. Some kind of role play. But then you’d think she’d choose a Disney princess not a dead woman.’
‘We don’t know for sure my sister’s dead,’ said Áróra, the sharpness in her voice real enough now. She didn’t necessarily believe Ísafold was alive, but she still found it uncomfortable when other people spoke about her as if she were dead.
‘Yes, no. Of course not … I’m sorry,’ said Elísabet. ‘I’ve only thought of her that way since Ester Lóa started saying that in a past life she was Ísafold.’
‘Hardly the language of a three-year-old is it, to talk about past lives?’
‘No, not really.’ Once again the apologetic giggle.
‘And why do you assume your daughter is talking about my sister and not somebody else?’
‘We put two and two together. Everyone knew about your sister’s disappearance, and the name Ísafold is unusual so … yes. She is only three, but she’s very talkative and articulate for her age. She says to me: “I’m not a little girl, Mummy. I’m a woman,”and that shewants to meet you. Her sister, Áróra. She says you always help her.’
This was the last straw. Áróra took a deep breath.
‘Thank you for your call,’ she said, and went to hang up, but there was a slight delay as she fumbled with the touch screen in the Tesla, and Elísabet was able to reply. 6
‘Shouldn’t we maybe meet for coffee and talk about this?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Áróra.
Her head was in a spin, but she had no intention of meeting up with some woman who was no doubt after money; either that or some intimate details so she could boast to her colleagues at work that she knew something about the case. There were so many crazy people around. Áróra had already encountered two – one claiming to be a medium, who said Ísafold had sent a message from beyond the grave telling Áróra to put up a photograph of her and her sister in her living room. The other a self-styled sleuth who said he’d traced Ísafold to South Africa. Daníel had investigated the South Africa claim with the police over there and concluded it was a hoax, while Áróra had dealt with the medium herself. If Ísafold was dead and sending messages from beyond the grave, no way would Áróra’s interior decor be uppermost in her mind.
‘But don’t you want to meet Ester Lóa, er … Ísafold?’ asked Elísabet.
‘Since your daughter definitely isn’t my sister reincarnated, I don’t see what I can do for you. But by all means let me have your email and home addresses so I can contact you if I change my mind.’
The woman duly relayed her details, and Áróra jotted them down on an old shopping list she pulled from the glove compartment, her pen hand quivering with rage. Now she had the woman’s address, she could send Daníel over there, in his role as a cop, to lecture her about not harassing grieving relatives.
‘I understand how crazy this must sound to you,’ said Elísabet. ‘We felt the same, but it’s so strange the child should fixate on something like this, something that corresponds so closely to a real-life case.’
‘What exactly is it that corresponds?’ said Áróra, barely concealing her irritation. ‘Forgive me for saying so, but you haven’t 7told me a single thing about the case that hasn’t appeared in the newspapers or the media. Nothing that makes me think your daughter knows something she couldn’t have heard somewhere or that somebody told her.’
‘No, you’re probably right,’ said Elísabet. ‘And of course she has said all sorts of things that are clearly nonsense. She once said that an ice-bear killed her!’
Áróra felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. ‘What did you say?’
‘She has said all kinds of things that are clearly the product of her vivid imagination.’
‘No, I mean what you said last. Could you repeat it?’
‘She said an ice-bear killed her.’
The woman now gave a genuine laugh. Áróra said, falteringly, that she’d call her later and hung up. The traffic whizzing past on Miklabraut suddenly became enveloped in mist and the noise of the cars grew muffled and distant. She had trouble drawing in her breath – as if a huge paw had clasped her body and was squeezing it tight.
3
Daníel had difficulty understanding what had happened. After an uneventful weekend shift at the police station, his brain felt numb, but he could tell Áróra was in a spin. He’d managed to coax out of her that she was in her car on Miklabraut and didn’t feel capable of driving home. He grabbed his jacket and ran downstairs to the traffic department to cadge a lift. The guys asked where he was going, and he told them he had to help out his girlfriend. Girlfriend. He still pronounced the word timidly, as if the reality it represented might somehow evaporate if he said it too loudly or too boldly.
He thanked the guys and leapt out when he caught sight of the Tesla where Áróra had parked it clumsily on the grass verge, and once again he was amazed at how badly she treated her expensive, beautiful possessions. He would never have driven the Tesla up onto the kerb like that. He’d be too terrified to scratch or dent the wing. Yet somehow Áróra seemed to use everything she owned with too much power, as if she felt anything that couldn’t withstand the force of her existence would simply have to break. That was how he felt, too, sometimes. It had been his dream to have a relationship with her. To be able to call himself her boyfriend. But the role wasn’t an easy one, although he wouldn’t have traded it for anything in the world. His attitude was that everything worthwhile in life required a certain amount of effort, and Áróra was a perfect example of this.
He got into the car, put his arm over Áróra’s shoulder and drew her to him. Often when she felt bad, she would push him away, harden herself, give a little growl and shake herself the way a dog would, but this time she leaned into his embrace, limp and exhausted. He stroked her hair and held her for a while before asking what the matter was. 9
‘This is what’s the matter,’ she said, handing him the crumpled piece of paper bearing her illegible scrawl.
‘Is this the woman who you said called you?’ asked Daníel.
Áróra nodded, drying her face with her T-shirt. She was still wearing her sports gear so she must have come straight from the gym. She was often a bit on edge after training because she pushed herself hard and seemed not to eat enough afterwards.
‘What did she want?’
‘She says her three-year-old girl is Ísafold reincarnated.’
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.’ 11
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 13any 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. 14It 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 16into 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, 18but 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 20serious, 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:
Darling. Just to let you know I’ve moved out. I’ve had to go abroad unexpectedly, a family matter, and I won’t be back anytime soon. Forgive the short notice. I’ve paid three months’ rent into your account. Love u. Miss u. Bye.
P.S. You can throw out all the junk in the garage, I’ve taken everything I want to keep.
Daníel was more or less accustomed to being gobsmacked at his eccentric neighbour and tenant, but this took the biscuit. He reread the message several times but could make neither head nor tail of it. It was stranger than any physics equation. He went into the living room and opened the French windows. The garage lights were out, but Daníel crossed the lawn anyway, and as he approached he glimpsed the key in the latch. Opening the door, he fumbled for the switch and was even more astonished when the light came on. Nothing in Lady Gúgúlú’s converted garage apartment had changed. Everything was as usual – messy and complicated. The bed at the far end was unmade, two crumpled beer cans stood on the bedside table, and there was an iPad on top of the duvet. Draped next to the sewing machine was what looked like a finished costume adorned with brightly 22coloured butterflies, each of them hand-stitched. The hours of work that must have gone into making that dress. Daníel vaguely recalled something about a magnificent butterfly drag show, but truth be told he didn’t always pay full attention to Lady’s detailed descriptions of her performances and outfits. Opening the fridge he discovered food and an unopened six pack; there was rubbish in the rubbish bin and in the tiny bathroom a mug containing Lady’s toothbrush and toothpaste, as well as what appeared to be most of her toiletries on the shelf. Wasn’t it strange to travel abroad without at least taking your toothbrush and razor?
He went back into the main room and glanced about. This was altogether more than a little strange. And strangest of all was that her mobile phone in its pink glitter case lay on the table. Who went abroad without taking their phone? Daníel felt a wave of unease go through him. It wasn’t the dread of death he often experienced when he entered a space where someone had passed. Not exactly. This was more like a mixture of shock and sadness. Lady Gúgúlú, or Haraldur, as she was officially named, was the closest thing Daníel had to a friend outside work. As unalike as they were, somehow, by accident, they had become each other’s support network. Daníel had resolved various issues for Haraldur, and Haraldur, it turned out, was brilliant with Daníel’s kids, who regarded him as their weird and wonderful auntie who lived in the garage.
Daníel locked the door behind him and started back across the lawn, but then came to an abrupt halt and stood open-mouthed in the middle of the garden. At the centre of the wild patch next to the rocks stood a tree. Roughly as tall as a man, still without leaves in the early spring and, judging from the mounds of soil around it, recently planted. Evidently the lady in the garage had received some kind of dispensation from the elves to mess with their enchanted patch. Daníel himself had never 23managed to cut the grass there, because, curiously enough, the lawnmower always broke down or the shears fell apart. Clearly Lady had taken the trouble to do a spot of gardening before she left, but not to say goodbye to him.
