Girls Who Lie Read online

  When single mother Maríanna disappears from her home, leaving an apologetic note on the kitchen table, everyone assumes that she’s taken her own life … until her body is found in the Grábrók lava fields seven months later, clearly the victim of murder. Her neglected fifteen-year-old daughter Hekla has been placed in foster care, but is her perfect new life hiding something sinister?

  Fifteen years earlier, a desperate new mother lies in a maternity ward, unable to look at her own child, the start of an odd and broken relationship that leads to a shocking tragedy.

  Police officer Elma and her colleagues take on the case, which becomes increasingly complex, as the number of suspects grows and new light is shed on Maríanna’s past – and the childhood of a girl who never was like the others…

  Breathtakingly chilling and tantalisingly twisty, Girls Who Lie is at once a startling, tense psychological thriller and a sophisticated police procedural, marking Eva Björg Ægisdóttir as one of the most exciting new names in crime fiction.

  GIRLS WHO LIE

  Eva Björg Ægisdóttir

  Translated by Victoria Cribb

  Contents

  Title Page

  Map

  Pronunciation Guide

  Dedication

  Sunday

  Monday

  Tuesday

  Wednesday

  Thursday

  Friday

  Saturday

  Monday

  Tuesday

  Wednesday

  Monday

  Tuesday

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Translator

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  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 voiced th in English, as found in then and bathe.

  The Icelandic letter þ is reproduced as th, as in Thorgeir, and is equivalent to an unvoiced th in English, as in thing or thump.

  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 always placed on the first syllable.

  Names like Anton, Begga and Elma, which are pronounced more or less as they would be in English, are not included on this list.

  Aðalheiður – AATH-al-HAYTH-oor

  Agnar Freyr Steinarsson – AK-narr FRAYR STAYN-ars-son

  Akranes – AA-kra-ness

  Bergrún – BAIR-kroon

  Bergur – BAIR-koor

  Birna – BIRRD-na

  Borgarnes – BORG-ar-ness

  Bryndís – BRIN-deess

  Dagný – DAAK-nee

  Davíð Sigurðarson – DAA-veeth SIK-oorth-ar-son

  Dísa – DEESS-a

  Elín (Ella) – ELL-een

  Fannar – FANN-arr

  Gígja – GYEE-ya

  Grábrók – GROW-brohk

  Guðlaug (Gulla) – GVOOTH-loig (GOOL-la)

  Guðrún – GVOOTH-roon

  Hafliði Björnsson – HAV-lith-ee BYUHS-son

  Hrafntinna (Tinna) – HRABN-tin-na

  Hvalfjörður – KVAAL-fyurth-oor

  Hörður Höskuldsson – HUR-thoor HUSK-oolds-son

  Jón – YOEN

  Jökull – YUR-kootl

  Kári – COW-rree

  Lára – LOW-rra

  Leifur – LAY-voor

  Lína – LEE-na

  Margrét – MARR-gryet

  Maríanna Þórsdóttir – MAR-ee-ann-a THOHRS-DOHT-teer

  Sigurður – SIK-oorth-oor

  Skagi – SKAA-yee

  Stefán – STEFF-own

  Sævar – SYE-vaar

  Sölvi – SERL-vee

  Unnar – OON-narr

  Viðar – VITH-aar

  Þór – THOHRR

  Þuríður – THOO-ree-thoor

  For Gunni

  GIRLS WHO LIE

  The Birth

  The white sheets remind me of paper. They rustle every time I move, and my whole body itches. I don’t like white sheets and I don’t like paper. There’s something about the texture, about the way the stiff material sticks to my tender skin, that makes me shudder. It’s why I’ve hardly slept since I got here.

  My skin is almost the same colour as the sheets and also, ironically, paper-like. It is thin and white and stretches oddly when I move. I feel as if it might tear at any moment. The blue veins are clearly visible. I keep scratching, even though I know I shouldn’t. My nails leave red tracks and I have to force myself to stop before they start bleeding. If they did, it would only attract more sideways glances from the doctors and midwives, and I get enough of those already.

  They obviously think there’s something wrong with me.

  I wonder if they walk in without warning on the other women in my ward. I doubt it. I feel as if they’re just waiting for me to do something wrong. They ask me intrusive questions and examine my body, inspecting the scars on my wrists and exchanging grave glances. They criticise my weight, and I’m too tired to explain that I’ve always been like this. I’m not starving myself; I’ve just always been thin and had a small appetite. I can forget to eat for days on end and don’t even realise until my body is shaking from hunger. It’s not like I do it deliberately. If there was a pill containing the recommended daily dose of nutrients and calories, I’d take it like a shot.

  But I don’t say anything, and I try to ignore the doctor’s penetrating gaze and dilated nostrils as he looks at me. I don’t think he likes me much. Not after I was caught smoking in my room. Everyone behaved as if I’d gone and set fire to their bloody hospital, when all I did was throw the window open and blow the smoke out into the night. I hadn’t expected anyone to notice but they piled straight in, three or four of them, barking at me to put out the cigarette. Unlike me, they couldn’t see the funny side. They didn’t even smile when I flicked the cigarette out of the window and held up my hands like there was a gun pointing at me. I couldn’t help laughing.

  Since then I haven’t been left alone with the baby. I’m relieved, really, because I wouldn’t trust myself with it. They bring it in and put it on my breast, and when it latches on to my nipple and sucks, the feeling is like being stabbed by a thousand needles. I can’t see anything of myself in the creature lying on my chest. Its nose is too big for its face and there are clumps of dried blood still matting its dark strands of hair. It’s not a pretty sight. I flinch when, without warning, it stops sucking and looks up, straight into my eyes, as if it’s inspecting me. So there she is, my mother, I imagine it thinking.

  We stare at each other. Under the dark lashes, its eyes are a stony grey. The midwives say the colour will change with time, but I hope not. I’ve always found grey beautiful. My tears threaten to spill over and I turn my face away. When I look down again, the baby is still staring at me.

  ‘Sorry,’ I whisper. ‘Sorry you’ve got me for a mother.’

  Sunday

  ‘Not so fast.’ Elma quickened her pace but Alexander, ignoring his aunt, kept on running. His blond, slightly over-long hair gleamed in the December sun.

  ‘Try and catch me, Elma.’ He glanced back at her, his eyes shining, only to trip and fall flat on his face.

  ‘Alexander!’ Elma ran over and saw that he hadn’t injured himself, apart from a few grazes on his palms. ‘There, there, you’re all right. You’re not hurt. Not much, anyway.’ She picked him up, dusted the grit off his hands and dried the tear that had trickled down one red cheek. ‘Shall we see if we can
find some interesting shells on the beach?’

  Alexander sniffed and nodded. ‘And crabs.’

  ‘Yes, maybe we’ll find some crabs too.’

  Alexander soon forgot his accident. Refusing to hold Elma’s hand, he went charging on ahead.

  ‘Be careful,’ she called after him.

  When he reached the black sand, Elma saw him stop and crouch down. Something had caught his eye.

  She followed him unhurriedly, breathing in the salt tang of the seashore. The sun was shining brightly in spite of the cold, and the thin sprinkling of snow that had covered everything when she woke up that morning had vanished. The waves rippled gently in the breeze. The scene was tranquil. Elma loosened her scarf and bent down beside Alexander.

  ‘Can I see what you’ve got there?’

  ‘A crab’s leg.’ He held up a small, red, jointed limb.

  ‘Wow,’ Elma said. ‘Hadn’t we better put it in the box?’

  Alexander nodded and placed it carefully in the Tupperware container Elma held out to him, then raced off again in search of more treasures.

  Alexander had just celebrated his sixth birthday and for him the world was packed with interest. Trips to the beach at Elínarhöfði came high on his list, as there were so many exciting things to find there. Elma had loved going to the seashore too as a child. She used to take along a box for shells and would become utterly absorbed in examining what the beach had to offer. There was something so soothing about the sounds and smells of the shore, as if all the world’s troubles receded into the background.

  She vaguely remembered hearing the legend of how Elínarhöfði had got its name. Something about Elín, whose brother was the medieval priest and sorcerer, Sæmundur the Wise. She had a sister too, named Halla, who lived on the other side of the fjord. When Elín wanted to talk to Halla, she would go to the headland and wave her handkerchief to her sister, who would sit on Höllubjarg, or Halla’s Rock, on the other side. Elma was thinking of sharing this story with Alexander but just as she caught up with him, the phone rang in her pocket.

  ‘Elma…’ It was Aðalheiður, sounding out of breath.

  ‘Is everything all right, Mum?’ Elma perched on a large rock beside her nephew.

  ‘Yes.’ Sounds of rustling and heavy breathing. ‘Yes, I’m just getting out the fairy lights. I’m finally going to put them up. I can’t understand why I didn’t get round to it sooner.’

  Her parents always put up way too many Christmas decorations, usually in November. Or, rather, her mother did. It wasn’t that her father didn’t want to help, but Aðalheiður never gave him the chance. She tended to seize the opportunity while he was at work, which gave her a free hand to decorate every inch of the house.

  ‘Want some help?’

  ‘Oh, no, I can manage. I was just thinking … your father will be seventy in two weeks. Couldn’t you and your sister go into Reykjavík together and find a present for him? I know he’d like some new waders.’

  ‘Just the two of us?’ Elma pulled a face. She and her sister had never been close, though there were only three years between them. ‘I don’t know, Mum…’

  ‘Dagný was really hoping the two of you could go.’

  ‘Why don’t you come as well?’

  ‘I’ve got too much else on,’ Aðalheiður said. ‘I thought you could go next weekend and make a day of it. I’ve got a gift voucher for the spa that your dad and I will never get round to using, but you two could go while you’re in town.’

  ‘The gift voucher I gave you for Christmas?’ Elma didn’t bother to disguise her indignation.

  ‘Yes, oh … Was it from you? Anyway, I’d really like you two to use it. Have a sisters’ outing.’

  ‘But I bought the voucher for you and Dad. You could both do with a bit of pampering. You never go anywhere.’

  ‘What nonsense. We’re going to Prague in the spring. You must be able to go…’

  ‘In other words, it’s already been decided?’

  ‘Don’t be like that, Elma—’

  Elma cut her off: ‘I’m only joking. Of course I’ll go. No problem.’

  She pocketed her phone and set off after Alexander, who was down by the water’s edge now. It was a long time since the sisters had last spent any time alone together. Elma sometimes looked after Alexander, especially as he tended to ring up himself and ask her to come and fetch him. Apart from that, she and Dagný mainly communicated through their parents. Elma sometimes wondered if they’d have a relationship at all if their mum and dad weren’t there.

  ‘Elma, look how many I’ve got.’ Alexander held out a fistful of multicoloured pebbles. He grew more like his father, Viðar, with every year that passed. The same delicate features and blue eyes; same easy temperament and soft heart.

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ she said. ‘I bet they’re wishing stones.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I know so.’

  Alexander put the stones in the box that Elma held out to him.

  ‘I think so too,’ he said, and grinned, revealing the gap where he had lost his first tooth. Then he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Elma’s face.

  She laughed. ‘Oh, thanks, Alexander. Is my hair a mess?’

  Alexander nodded. ‘Yes, actually.’

  ‘So, what are you going to wish for?’ She straightened up, dusting the sand from her trousers.

  ‘I’m giving them to you. So you can make a wish.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Elma took his hand and they set off back towards the car. ‘You could wish for anything you liked. A spaceship, a submarine, Lego…’

  ‘Oh, I’ll get everything I want anyway. I’ll just write a list for Father Christmas. You need the stones much more than me because Father Christmas only listens to children, not to grown-ups.’

  ‘You know, you’re right.’ She unlocked the car and Alexander climbed into the back seat.

  ‘I know what you’re going to wish for.’ He gazed at Elma seriously as she helped him do up his seat belt.

  ‘Do you, now? Are you a mind reader?’

  ‘Yes. Well, no. But I know anyway,’ Alexander said. ‘You want a boy just like me. Mummy says that’s why you’re sad sometimes. Because you haven’t got a boy.’

  ‘But I’ve got you, haven’t I?’ Elma said, dropping a kiss on his head. ‘Why would I want anyone else?’

  The phone vibrated in her pocket before Alexander could answer.

  ‘Are you out and about?’ It was Sævar. Hearing how hoarse he sounded, Elma felt grateful that she hadn’t accepted his invitation to go to the dance last night. Akranes’s nightlife wasn’t exactly buzzing these days, with most people preferring to party in Reykjavík, but the town did host the odd social event, like the one the previous evening. Elma still hadn’t got round to going along. She imagined it would involve meeting loads of people she hadn’t spoken to for years and having to fend off questions that she had no wish to answer.

  ‘I woke up early and came out for a walk with my nephew,’ she said. ‘How are you doing? Was it fun last night?’

  Sævar replied with a groan, and Elma laughed. Despite his big build, Sævar was a complete lightweight when it came to drinking. It usually took him several days to recover from a hangover.

  ‘That’s not why I was calling, though I must tell you about it later…’ He cleared his throat and added in a graver tone: ‘A body’s been found.’

  Elma glanced at Alexander, who was sitting in the car, examining his pebbles. ‘What? Where?’

  ‘Where are you?’ Sævar asked, ignoring her question. There was a hiss of static on the phone.

  ‘Elínarhöfði.’

  ‘Can you come and pick me up? I don’t think I’m fit to drive yet…’

  ‘I’ll be there.’ Elma shoved the phone in her coat pocket and got into the driver’s seat, smiling at Alexander in the mirror. Smiling at the boy who wanted to give her his wishing stones so she wouldn’t be sad anymore.

  After droppi
ng Alexander at home, Elma drove over to the blue block of flats where Sævar lived. There were only three detectives working at West Iceland CID, which was based in Akranes, and Elma counted herself very lucky to have a colleague like him. They had clicked from day one and, although the cases they had to deal with could be grim at times, with him laughter was never far away. Hörður, the head of CID, was a rather more serious type, but Elma wasn’t complaining. As a boss he was scrupulous and fair, and Elma was happy in her job.

  She had moved back to Akranes from Reykjavík more than a year ago now and the smallness of her old hometown no longer got to her. She had grown used to how close everything was, which meant she could walk or cycle everywhere she needed to go. She’d even started to enjoy being greeted by the same faces every day at the shop or swimming pool. The only thing she couldn’t get used to was going for walks in the town’s flat surroundings, where it felt as if all eyes were on her. So instead, she tended to head for the forestry plantation or the beach at Langisandur, where she felt less exposed. She had even caught herself pausing to admire the view of the town, Mount Akrafjall, the beach and the blue expanse of Faxaflói Bay, as if nowhere in the world could equal it for beauty. God, she was turning into her mother.

  Sævar was standing outside his building with his hands buried in his pockets and his shoulders hunched up to his ears against the cold. All he had on were light-grey tracksuit bottoms and a thin, black jacket. His dark hair was tousled and stuck up at the back of his head, and he was squinting as if the daylight was too much of a good thing.

  ‘You look summery,’ Elma commented as he got in the car.

  ‘I’m never cold.’ He put his freezing hands on Elma’s.

  ‘Ouch, Sævar!’ Elma jerked her arm back, shooting him a dirty look. She turned up the heater, shaking her head.

  ‘Thanks,’ Sævar said. ‘You know, it didn’t look that cold when I checked out of the window. All I saw was sun and blue sky.’