Cold as hell, p.6
Cold As Hell, page 6
There were two aspects of all this that bothered him. To start with, there was Ísafold’s disappearance. The family had good reason for concern. It was perfectly true that people could vanish intentionally, in response to an argument with a spouse, or fleeing abuse, and there were teenagers constantly going missing, as he knew well from his years in uniform. But people like Ísafold, with a place to live and a family around them, didn’t just vanish – not unless something was very wrong.
He had made all of the usual preliminary calls to A&E, the police station, the women’s refuge, the Vogur rehab clinic. Ísafold hadn’t been seen at any of these places, and with each call the feeling grew inside him that there was nothing routine going on here, that this was all something strange. This was a feeling he often experienced as he began digging deeper into a case; there would be that little blink of light in his head, the pebble in his shoe, the irritating buzz in his ears that told him he was right to be suspicious. This was an insight that had more than likely always been there but which he had only begun to trust as he got older, and it always preceded something unpleasant.
He emptied the bag, started the mower again and pushed it once around the garden. It wasn’t a large lawn, but making the effort to mow it regularly and make sure it was nourished had resulted in lush green grass that was free of weeds and moss. The people in the upstairs flat had no time for the garden, so it was left to him and Lady Gúgúlú, who lived in the converted garage, but Daníel was the one who spent time looking after it. Lady Gúgúlú had no interest in gardening.
Daníel had built a deck outside his living room, facing south, while the beds packed with lupins closed off the top end of the garden and filtered out most of the sound of traffic on Reykjanesbraut. The remaining noise didn’t trouble him. On the eastern side was the garage, while the third side, to the south, was blocked off by a sprawling lava outcrop, leaving the garden sheltered and sunny. Daníel was particularly pleased with how flat the lawn was. There was just one corner up by the rocks that bothered him. That was the patch he couldn’t mow. That corner of the garden, with its wispy long grass that waved in the breeze and the expanse of daisies that grinned sarcastically back at him, was a constant irritant.
He couldn’t resist one more try. He always tried, even though he knew it was hopeless. He turned around quickly, as fast as the lawn mower would allow, and drove it with all his strength at the unmown patch. The engine was set to full power and as he got closer, he put even more of an effort into it as he approached the long grass, but it wasn’t enough. The engine spluttered and died before he had cut so much as one blade of the little triangle’s grass.
‘You don’t stop trying,’ said Lady Gúgúlú from where she stood, smoking a cigarette, by the door of the garage conversion. She was halfway through putting on her make-up, her hair held mercilessly back under a headband so that she was ready for her wig. There was a mischievous grin on her face. This was the grin that said she knew better and that Daníel was a fool for even trying. The smirk made Daníel want to run through that lousy patch of weeds even more.
But he knew from bitter experience that it was a waste of time. The petrol mower would always die on him. And the old hand mower would invariably hit a stone that had made an appearance in the grass just at the edge of the patch. The brush cutter would overheat and cut out before its vicious nylon wire had cut so much as one precious blade of grass. Even the kitchen scissors would be as blunt as if they were made of clay. Daníel had tried them all, many times.
‘I’m not going to stop trying, because I know elves don’t exist.’
‘And how can you be sure of that? I don’t even know if I exist. What makes you so certain of your own existence that you can doubt that of others?’
‘You’re quite the philosopher today,’ Daníel said. ‘Let’s just say it’s because today’s Saturday.’
‘You’re doing a show?’ he asked, pulling the mower back towards himself, away from the unmown patch.
‘And how. It’s going to be a hell of a show, I can tell you. You’re always welcome, darling. Your seat awaits you.’
‘Thanks, but I’ve seen you perform,’ Daníel said, and Lady Gúgúlú scowled.
‘Honey, that was a year ago. This is a whole new show. This time it’s drag and magic, all mixed together. I get sawn in two on stage, and then get inside a box and make myself vanish.’
‘Is that so?’
Lady Gúgúlú went back inside, and Daníel thought over her words for a moment. The most likely explanation was that Ísafold had disappeared of her own volition, not least as she had been on the receiving end of the domestic violence her boyfriend handed out. But there was still something about this case that troubled him, the regular flash of light inside his head, the uncomfortable intuition that things weren’t right. There was something suspicious about Ísafold’s disappearance. At the same time, there was a weird jittery feeling in his belly, as if there was a small, happy animal in there that couldn’t contain its excitement.
Then there was the other thing that troubled him: Áróra. Her face was constantly in his mind. His heart beat a little faster every time he thought back to the time she had spent sitting at his kitchen table, and the desperate beast turned somersaults in his belly.
He emptied the contents of the mower’s bag into the black compost bin. Then he put the mower away in the shed and took off his boots and trousers there on the decking. It was just as he stepped under the rush of water in the shower that he decided he’d be investigating this case. It didn’t matter that he was supposed to be on leave; he needed to find out what had happened to Ísafold. What was less easy to figure out was whether this decision was because of his intuition, the knowledge that something bad had happened to Ísafold, or the fact he longed to meet Áróra again.
25
The masseuse pummelled Áróra’s shoulders, releasing the tension that had built up over the last couple of days. She hadn’t noticed that her muscles had become so sore – the massage came as part of the body-scrub package the hotel’s spa offered, which she had originally booked with Hákon in mind, to make her skin soft and sweet. But now she realised that the massage was exactly what she needed. Her face was pressed into the gap in the bench and when she opened her eyes, she had a view of the floor below. There was nothing like having to lie still for an hour with nothing to look at to clear the mental processes.
Now she was able to look into her own thoughts, which had split into two, as if she had kept them in two separate rooms. In one sat her mother and sister: her mother worn down with worry, while Ísafold was in trouble somewhere. To her surprise, Áróra felt a surge of anger well up inside her. She would release this once she had found Ísafold, because, despite the disquiet that had taken root inside her, common sense told her that Ísafold was probably in someone’s spare bedroom, or in a hotel somewhere sunny, licking her wounds after parting from Björn, without having had the sense to let anyone know.
In the other room in her mind was Hákon and the treasure he had buried somewhere. She was always at her best with work ahead of her. She felt a twitch of excitement in her belly at the thought of the chase to come, blended with the dose of chagrin that always came with the start of any job. It came from her need to see that justice was done, ensuring that men like Hákon didn’t get away with their misdeeds. Maybe there was some kind of avenging angel inside her.
The masseuse’s strong hands kneaded her hips, and Áróra sighed at the combination of pain and relief. The aroma of incense and the relaxing music in the room had an uplifting effect on her, as did the skilled hands that manipulated her body with a warmth and care that she often longed for but rarely allowed herself to enjoy.
Just as the masseuse drew a blanket over her and discreetly retired, and just before Áróra fell asleep on the bench, she decided to look on her trip to Iceland in a new light. She had chosen which thought space she was going to be in. As her drowsiness overwhelmed her, she saw herself walk into the room where Hákon sat and reach out a hand to him, as if she were inviting him to dance. Hákon would be her project: tracing his buried treasure and taking a suitable cut for herself while shaking off the guilt that came from sleeping with him – she hadn’t set out to spy on him, after all.
And while she searched for where Hákon had stashed his wealth, she would dig into Ísafold’s whereabouts, keeping their mother happy and easing her own conscience.
Of course, the uncertainty of what had become of Ísafold troubled her. It occurred to her that Björn could have gone too far, but she didn’t dare pursue that train of thought to its conclusion. She had to take care not to frighten herself. If she let the fear take hold, allowed concerns over Ísafold’s safety to pile up and spent too much time searching for her, by the time her sister appeared at their mother’s place, coffee brown and dressed like a señorita, astonished at the trouble she had caused, Áróra’s fury would be overwhelming.
But that would be nothing compared to the fury Áróra would feel when her sister went dutifully back to Björn, as usual.
26
‘Just remember that some men are complete pigs,’ Dad says as he teaches me how to defend myself.
Catch hold of a finger and bend it quickly up against the back of the hand until you hear it crack. Power a heel down onto the instep. Bite an ear until you feel your teeth cut through it. Stick fingers into eyes. A knee to the balls. Use all the power you have. Don’t hesitate. If you hesitate, you’ve lost.
All this came good at the festival in the Westman Islands that Ísafold invited me to when I was sixteen. Her mates from Newcastle were flirting with cool guys and singing along on the slopes of the valley that formed a natural amphitheatre around the stage below. After a while I find Ísafold further up the valley, a little way from the path.
She’s lying between the tussocks like a sheep flat on its back. She’s awake, but so drunk she can’t stand up. There’s a man kneeling next to her, fumbling with her trousers as he tries to pull them off her.
This is one of the pigs that Dad warned me about, and he comes off badly. I look out for my sister.
The bastard runs off howling, with a hand clapped over one eye, a stream of blood dripping from between his fingers onto the green grass of late summer.
SUNDAY
27
When the woman came to ask about Ísafold, Olga was relieved that Omar had already come back inside after vacuuming the stairs. She had found the key with its wooden tag and its your week for communal spaces message hanging on her door handle when she had come back from the bakery. Omar had snatched it from her hands, refusing to even countenance that she might do the vacuuming. She had given in. At least he would burn off some energy vacuuming the stairs and the landings, and she admitted to herself that it was a relief to have someone else do it. Her back was so stiff these days.
The ring on the doorbell had been accompanied by a stab of fear. What if someone had seen him vacuuming the stairs, recognised him from the flyers and online posts the police distributed, showing the faces of illegal immigrants, put two and two together, and called the Directorate of Immigration? What would she do if they had come to fetch him – to take him away from her and send him back to his war-torn homeland of blood and bombs? She practically shoved Omar into his room and shut the door behind him, firmly shushing him a couple of times to make it plain that he should keep quiet, and then she picked up the intercom handset. To her surprise there was a mellow woman’s voice on the other end, asking if she could come in and ask a few questions about her sister, Ísafold.
Olga had met Ísafold’s sister before, when Áróra had come to collect her after a fight with Björn, but Olga still looked at her, almost mesmerised: she was so like her neighbour. There was no mistaking this was Ísafold’s younger sister, but bigger-boned and fairer, and clearly more reserved, shyer than Ísafold. Olga could also make out an accent in her Icelandic.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ she said. ‘I’m asking around about Ísafold, who lives in the next flat. We haven’t heard anything from her for more than two weeks. Have you seen her, or heard where she might be?’
‘Isn’t she on holiday in Britain?’ Olga asked. ‘Björn said she was abroad, visiting relatives.’
This had taken the sister by surprise, and she wanted to know exactly when Björn had said this, and precisely how he had worded it. Olga repeated what she had heard Omar repeat Björn saying, but she wasn’t going to let Omar get mixed up in this, even though he was more familiar with Ísafold than she was. He often drank tea with her, lecturing her that she ought to find herself a man to marry instead of living in sin with Björn.
‘The Middle Ages came calling,’ Ísafold had said, giggling as she told Olga what Omar had said, and Olga sighed. Omar was terribly innocent in these matters, and his views were old-fashioned.
There hadn’t been much more she had been able to tell the woman, and she was surprised at how concerned she seemed to be.
‘Your family hasn’t heard anything from her since she left?’ Olga had asked, and the woman frowned, saying that their mother hadn’t heard from Ísafold since the middle of May.
Olga thought about her Jonni. She knew how children could turn their backs on their mothers, so this didn’t necessarily mean much.
As the sister was leaving and Olga was about to close the door on the newly vacuumed stairwell, the woman had turned and asked one more question.
‘Do you know where she had been working recently?’ she asked. ‘Our mother thought she was working in some clothes shop in the Kringlan shopping centre, but Björn said she left that job ages ago.’
This was a surprise to Olga. The family obviously had little idea about Ísafold’s life in Iceland.
‘She was working as a cleaner at some sheltered housing for elderly people down in the town,’ she replied. ‘At least, she was the last I heard.’
She hadn’t asked the sister how come she knew so little of Ísafold’s circumstances, how come she wasn’t aware that Ísafold had left the clothes shop long ago, how come Ísafold hadn’t told her mother. Of course, other people’s affairs were their business, and it was as well to avoid poking your nose where it wasn’t wanted. Olga was grateful that the people living in the block of flats weren’t inquisitive about who Omar might be, and why he was living with her.
28
Grímur was about to lock the door of his flat when he was startled by a voice behind him.
‘Good morning,’ the voice said, and as he turned to face it, he saw its owner was the woman who had rung the bell a couple of days ago: Ísafold’s sister.
She was almost her twin, just a younger, larger version. She had to be a head taller than Ísafold and with broader shoulders. She had dark-blonde hair, and eyes that were brown and dreamy. There was a serious look to her, while Ísafold always had some neon tint to her hair, as well as a bunch of rings in each ear and one in her nose. The sister seemed to be more down to earth, tastefully dressed and her hair more carefully styled.
Grímur nodded in reply and tugged at the door handle so the key would turn in the lock. Everything in this block of flats had become a little worn, not least his door, so there was a knack to getting it to open and closed.
‘I’m Ísafold’s sister. She lives…’ the woman said, and hesitated for a second before continuing. ‘Or used to live on the second floor, the flat above you.’
‘I remember you,’ he said, sounding more reserved than necessary. ‘That time you came to collect her from my place.’
‘That’s right. I was wondering if you know her at all?’
Grímur felt his heart beat faster in his chest. Did he know Ísafold? He knew her well. Sometimes he was convinced that he knew her considerably better than her husband had. And he definitely knew her better than this sister of hers did.
‘I’ve seen her on the stairs, and once at a residents’ committee meeting. Then there was that time last year, or whenever it was, when you came to collect her. So I know who she is,’ he said. ‘But that’s as far as it goes.’
He wasn’t going to let this woman know that Ísafold had often sat at his kitchen table and poured her heart out about Björn, often weeping. This was normally on the mornings after he’d heard the worst noise coming from upstairs.
‘Have you seen her recently?’ the woman asked.
There was a beseeching tone in her voice, so for a moment Grímur pitied her, and began to understand what Ísafold had meant when she described how infuriatingly meddlesome her sister could be.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s a while since I last saw her.’
‘Do you remember when exactly that was?’ the woman asked, and the hint of pity he had felt vanished. She was unpleasantly pushy.
‘No,’ he said, sounding more abrupt than he intended. He went to the door and opened it, and to make up for his discourteous reply to her question, he held it open for her.
‘Thanks,’ she muttered, and folded her arms, as if she was expecting to be hit by a blast of cold air the moment she stepped outside. Again he felt a surge of sentiment deep inside, a feeble echo of all the emotions he had felt in Ísafold’s presence. And now he wanted to shave, to spend a long time under the hot water to shave off every single hair. Sometimes that was the only thing that would allow him to relax, the feeling of soft skin, free of those narrow threads of disgusting dead protein that sucked all the energy from his body.
