2012
This damned rain.
He couldn’t concentrate. It was still pouring outside, the rhythmic pattering of the raindrops distracting him from Brat Farrar , the novel he was trying to read.
The author, Josephine Tey, hadn’t published many books, but, in his opinion, each novel had been better than its predecessor, and Brat Farrar was one of the only two books by her that he hadn’t yet read.
Tey’s twists almost always took him by surprise and he was looking forward to seeing how she would pull the rug out from under his feet this time.
Yet he wasn’t making any headway.
There was an appetizing smell spreading through the flat from the kitchen, where supper was waiting in the oven. Helgi had decided a special effort was called for to celebrate the occasion and had made a casserole, which was one of his signature dishes.
But it wasn’t only the rain that distracted him now. He was preoccupied with the fallout from the day’s revelations.
Lovísa would spend the night in a prison cell; the first of many, the way things were going.
And as soon as it got light tomorrow, they would be able to launch the search to retrieve Elín’s body.
He had worries closer to home as well. His thoughts kept returning to his mother, who had rung him that morning to say she was feeling unusually poorly and was going to see the doctor that afternoon.
Filled with guilt at having cut short his visit to Akureyri, he had offered to fly north straight away, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Anyway, he reminded himself, it would have been difficult for him to keep his promise, and his mother was an independent woman. She knew her own mind.
She had promised to ring him after her appointment with the doctor, but he still hadn’t heard from her. Surely she must be out by now? It was nearly 6 p.m. and he was beginning to fret, but he held back from calling her as he wanted to give her a chance to let him know in her own time.
Aníta had gone out for a run. Far from being put off by the rain, she’d said she liked it. She hadn’t brought up the subject of Bergthóra yet.
He sat there on the sofa with his book. He was in his favourite spot, embarking on a promising novel, savouring the peace and quiet in the knowledge that the mystery of the missing author had been solved – more or less – and he could look forward to the prospect of a relaxing evening with Aníta.
Everything he could have wished for, yet here he was, stuck on the same page.
His thoughts dwelled on Aníta. She always went out for a run at the same time, whatever the weather.
She would be away for nearly half an hour, sometimes longer, and would return invigorated.
They were out of sync in that respect. Where he himself often began the day by going for a run, she preferred to brave the elements, the cold, blustery Icelandic weather, after finishing work.
How he loved welcoming her back from those runs.
Thinking about Aníta and how much she meant to him brought it home to Helgi that he still hadn’t got over the way Bergthóra had barged in on her at work.
What an appalling lack of judgement. What embarrassing, disturbing behaviour.
Was it possible that she had genuinely been stalking Aníta since then? The idea sent a shudder through him.
Unwilling to pursue this train of thought, he focused on his mother instead.
Her illness, from which he hoped she’d recovered, despite today’s slight setback, had made him more nostalgic than usual for his childhood.
Scenes rose to his mind: the old, blue sofa in the sitting room at home in Akureyri and himself as a little boy, squeezed into the narrow space behind it that had been his lair.
His childhood had continued to exert a pull on him long after he had grown up, perhaps because it had taken him ages to work out exactly what he wanted to do as an adult. It was only now, with Aníta, that he felt as though he had come home.
With a little effort he could recall the smell of the sofa mingled with the aroma of the freshly made coffee that his mother habitually served to guests.
His parents had never been that big on entertaining, but they’d had a few good friends who used to drop by regularly.
And when they did, the conversation was often of books.
His father may have gone, but at least Helgi had recovered the bookshop. He wasn’t remotely ready to lose his mother. Not for a long time yet.
Getting up from the sofa, he went through to the kitchen and put on some coffee.
He couldn’t conjure up quite the same coffee aroma as he remembered from his youth; presumably his mother must have used a special brand, roasted and ground in Akureyri in those days. But the memory had given him a sudden longing for a cup, even though it was a bit late in the day for caffeine.
God, he hoped he would hear from his mother soon. He’d give her another hour, then he’d call her.
The coffee may not have been like his mother’s, but it was good, strong and flavourful. And there was enough for a second cup. Aníta would appreciate that when she came in soaking wet from her run.
As if the coffee had released more positive feelings, Helgi became aware of a sense of pride in himself.
The investigation had exceeded his expectations and he guessed that from now on he would be entrusted with bigger cases.
Get the chance to grow and prosper in this job.
Now that Elín’s disappearance had been solved there were only a few minor cases on his desk, which he should be able to deal with during normal working hours in the coming weeks.
He hadn’t forgotten about Hulda either. Although he had never met her, the ghost of her presence still seemed to hang over the office.
Meeting Pétur had had a profound effect on him; seeing the grief reflected in his eyes, hearing the way he talked about Hulda.
Clearly, she had been something of a pioneer among the women in CID, although she wasn’t given any credit for the fact.
There was one thing in particular that had continued to niggle at Helgi since his chat with Pétur, and that was the man’s assertion that Hulda would never have deliberately disappeared.
In other words, she wouldn’t have killed herself.
In spite of the age difference, it occurred to Helgi that she had been at the same stage in her life as him, taking her first steps in a promising new relationship.
As he stood there in the kitchen with a cup of steaming coffee in his hand, waiting for his girlfriend, he was aware of feeling happy. Hulda must have been feeling something like this. So why had she vanished? There were three possibilities: suicide, an accident or murder.
Suicide or an accident: neither seemed that likely.
Hulda had been in the middle of an investigation, the last of her career.
Judging by the notes in the case file, she had been busy with her inquiries and nowhere near ready to give up.
What’s more, she’d arranged to go on a date with Pétur.
Why on earth would she have gone into the mountains alone, or indeed anywhere else where there was a risk of getting lost? It simply didn’t make sense.
There was something more to this than met the eye. Helgi was sure of that. Perhaps he would allow himself a few days in between bigger assignments to make some inquiries of his own into Hulda’s fate.
He glanced at the clock.
Aníta was due back any minute, after which the evening could properly begin. She always did the same circuit and usually kept up the same sort of pace.
He would drink a coffee with Aníta, then ring his mother for his peace of mind.
Now that he was feeling calmer, perhaps he would manage to read a few pages before Aníta got back.
He would make a decent stab at getting into Brat Farrar .
He was perfectly aware that his beloved books were yet another link to his childhood, another expression of nostalgia.
The roots ran deep and he might as well face up to the fact.
These thoughts were dispelled by a knock at the door.
Aníta usually left it on the latch, saying she found it too annoying to run with a bunch of jingling house keys. She must have forgotten this time. But then no one’s infallible.
He was crossing the flat to the door when he paused halfway, then turned back to pour a cup of coffee for his girlfriend.
Aníta would be pleased by this thoughtful touch.
A proper welcome. How different his life was now from the days when he was struggling to make it work with Bergthóra.
There was such a lightness over everything.
Helgi hurried eagerly into the hall.
It wasn’t Aníta.