The Creak on the Stairs Read online

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t know. People often behave irrationally and Elísabet seems to have had a number of issues.’ Sævar drained his paper cup and put it down on one of the shelves. ‘But it stands to reason she must have had a friend or acquaintance in Akranes, given that she was here. She has to have spent the night somewhere and it’s pretty suspicious that no one’s come forward.’

  Elma nodded. He was right. Someone knew something but was keeping quiet. Over the booming of the rain they heard the slam of a car door: forensics had arrived.

  Hörður was holding up a clear plastic bag between finger and thumb, inspecting its contents. Elma had watched for a while as the forensic technicians got down to work. Her stomach had stopped rumbling and she was fairly sure that she had started digesting her own insides, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Elísabet’s car had turned up and forensics were busy combing through it. With any luck they would soon find out if there had been another person in the car with the victim.

  ‘I’m still thinking,’ Sævar murmured in her ear, ‘that someone must have been aware that the couple who live here were abroad. The person who hid the car in their garage knew they were away and when they’d be back.’

  ‘In other words, it must have been someone who knew them well,’ Elma said, still watching Hörður as he squinted at the small plastic bag. The rain had temporarily eased up and the garage door was open. The street consisted of detached houses, many of them new-builds of grey concrete and dark wood, with double garages and large decks. Now that darkness was falling, the neighbours were clearly visible, silhouetted against the light, as they watched curiously from their windows. A few had come out to speak to Hörður.

  ‘That’s the trouble with Akranes – everybody knows everyone else’s business,’ Sævar said. ‘That’s why it’s no good just checking the neighbours or close family members. Most people in town are acquainted with this couple since so many of them shop at their boutique, so any number of them would have been aware that they spend time abroad every year. On top of that, he plays golf and she teaches spinning, which means an even wider group would have known they were away that weekend.’

  Elma had to admit he was right. On the other hand, there couldn’t be many people in town who had a key to the garage, and there was no evidence of a break-in.

  ‘Anyway, perhaps none of that matters,’ Sævar said. ‘We’re bound to find something in the car.’ But he didn’t seem any more optimistic than Elma was about the chances of that happening.

  ‘Hörður,’ Elma said, going over to her boss.

  ‘Hmm?’ Hörður looked up. He appeared bemused, as if he’d been lost in thought. Elma nodded towards the bag he was holding.

  ‘Did they find anything?’

  ‘Well…’ Hörður hesitated. ‘This note. I don’t really know how I’m to…’ He broke off and they both glanced round at a sudden blast of loud music.

  The music, which was booming from a car that had just drawn up by the pavement, was abruptly cut off. Out stepped a man who Elma immediately recognised as Krummi. He was oddly unchanged, almost as if time had stood still: as boyish as ever, with the same nonchalant walk and piercing stare. All that had changed were his clothes and hair. He no longer wore ripped jeans that hung low on his hips and his hair no longer had blond highlights. Today he was dressed in a black shirt, dark-blue trousers and a black coat. He gave Elma a brief once-over as he walked up to Hörður. Seeing from his expression that he didn’t recognise her, she emitted a silent sigh of relief.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked, slapping Hörður on the shoulder. It was obvious they knew each other. ‘I hear the police have taken over our garage.’

  Hörður smiled, slipping the plastic bag unobtrusively into his pocket. ‘Nothing to worry about. It’s just a precaution as the car may be linked to a case we’re investigating.’

  ‘The murder case?’ Krummi asked, bending to see inside the garage.

  Hörður nodded. ‘Tell me, do you have a key to your parents’ house?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Krummi said. ‘But I didn’t come here while they were away. I’ve had too much on.’

  ‘Yes, right, I’m sure,’ Hörður said. ‘Still coaching the football team? I only ask because it doesn’t look as if anyone has broken in or tampered with the garage door. So maybe it was left unlocked. You haven’t by any chance mislaid the keys or forgotten them somewhere?’

  ‘No, they’re where they should be. The door must have been unlocked,’ Krummi said, frowning. ‘I’d be surprised, though. Mum’s always so anal about locking everything. There’s enough junk in there, after all. Of course, you never used to have to lock your doors but times have changed.’

  ‘Do you know if anyone else had keys to the house?’

  ‘No, you’d have to ask the old folks. As far as I know, it’s only us kids – me and my sister Hanna – who have keys,’ Krummi said. ‘Anyway, mate, I won’t hold you up. I just came round to catch up with my mum and dad.’ He waved and went into the house. As he passed he threw Elma another glance and this time grinned in a way that caused her stomach to lurch. Against her will, she dropped her eyes, feeling the red blood rising to her cheeks.

  Hörður wasn’t himself when they got back to the police station. He seemed distracted and there was an uncharacteristically deep furrow between his brows. Elma had never seen him out of his depth before. He’d always given the appearance of having everything under control. Although at times she felt like an awkward teenager in his presence, she appreciated his positive attitude and imperturbable manner. Her boss in Reykjavík had been a very different type, the kind who believed that a man in his position should maintain a certain distance from his subordinates. She had always been a little scared of him and insecure about how to behave in his presence, and was sure that had been exactly the way he wanted it. Much as she missed her old colleagues, she didn’t miss her boss at all.

  ‘Gulla, would you be a dear and make us some fresh coffee? It would be great to have a thermos in here,’ Hörður said, holding open the door for Sævar and Elma. As soon as forensics had finished going over the car, they had gone straight back to the station, where their colleagues in uniform were eagerly awaiting news. Hörður wouldn’t answer any questions right away, however, merely told them that he’d hold a progress meeting later. He, Sævar and Elma took seats in the small meeting room, placing the box forensics had given them in the middle of the table.

  ‘Right,’ Hörður said, stroking his chin pensively before taking out the small plastic evidence bag that Elma had seen him studying earlier. ‘This was found in Elísabet’s car.’ He put it on the table and Elma and Sævar leant over to examine it.

  The bag contained a small note with only two things written on it: an address and a telephone number.

  ‘This is a lead, isn’t it?’ Sævar asked, looking enquiringly at his boss. ‘Presumably it’s someone Elísabet was intending to meet.’

  Hörður nodded but Elma got the feeling he wasn’t happy about the contents of the note. There was a knock on the door and Gulla came in carrying a large thermos of coffee and a bowl of biscuits. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she said, but none of them uttered another word until she had left the room.

  ‘This is the address of Bjarni Hendriksson and his wife Magnea,’ Hörður said, once the door had closed and they were alone again.

  ‘The number belongs to Bjarni too,’ said Elma, who had quickly looked it up on her phone. ‘What do we know about Bjarni Hendriksson? I mean, obviously I’m aware that he and his father run an estate agent’s here. I remember him from school, of course, but otherwise I don’t know much about him.’

  ‘Yes, the business belongs to the brothers, Hendrik and Tómas, though I understand Bjarni’s about to take over the management,’ Hörður said. ‘Surely you must know who Bjarni Hendriksson is? How long is it since you lived here?’

  ‘Quite a while.’

  ‘Everyone here knows Bjarni,’ Sævar explained. ‘He�
��s a prominent figure in local business and politics, and used to be a promising footballer too.’

  ‘Like Hendrik,’ Hörður chipped in.

  ‘He’s married to Magnea, who teaches the younger classes at Grundi School,’ Sævar added. ‘Happily married, I’d always assumed.’

  ‘Now, now, don’t let’s jump to conclusions,’ Hörður said. ‘There has to be some reasonable explanation – I’m sure of it.’

  ‘But Elísabet didn’t make any calls to Bjarni,’ Elma said. Bjarni’s number hadn’t been listed in Elísabet’s phone records, and Elma doubted she would have called him from any other phone.

  ‘If she wrote down his address and phone number, there’s a chance she went to see him,’ Sævar reasoned. ‘Won’t we have to talk to them?’

  He and Elma both looked at Hörður, who nodded reluctantly.

  ‘Yes. I suppose we have no choice,’ he said heavily, then coughed and rose to his feet without another word. He went out, leaving them alone in the room.

  Hörður sat in his office, his arms folded, staring out at the rain that had started falling again after a brief let-up. Taking a deep breath, he picked up his desk phone, but at that moment his mobile started vibrating in his pocket and he put down the receiver with a sigh of relief.

  ‘I just wanted to check when you’re coming home.’ It was his wife Gígja. There was a lot of noise going on in the background. He glanced at the clock: it was almost six, so she must be at the supermarket.

  ‘I’m not sure. Late, probably.’ But, then again, perhaps the call to Bjarni could wait until tomorrow morning. He longed to go home and take a shower. Relax in front of the news.

  ‘You won’t be back for supper, then,’ Gígja said, without waiting for an answer. ‘You can just eat the leftovers when you get home.’

  He rumbled something that sounded like agreement and said goodbye.

  Hörður picked up his work phone again and tapped in the number he had scribbled down on a piece of paper. He didn’t have to wait long for it to be answered.

  ‘Magnea,’ said a woman’s voice.

  Hörður was a little flustered as he’d been expecting Bjarni. ‘Is Bjarni there?’

  ‘Hang on, he’s around here somewhere,’ Magnea said. He heard rustling and a muffled conversation, then a deep voice at the other end said:

  ‘Bjarni.’

  ‘Hello, Bjarni, it’s Hörður.’ He knew Bjarni would immediately realise who it was.

  ‘Oh, hi, Hörður. How are you doing?’ The deep voice sounded warmer.

  ‘Good. I’m well,’ Hörður said, then hesitated.

  ‘How’s the little girl? It was a girl, wasn’t it? Magnea said she was a bit premature.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Both mother and daughter are doing very well, thank you. She arrived four weeks early but it all went smoothly.’ He coughed. ‘Actually, I’m ringing about another matter. I need you to pop round to the station. You see, your name’s come up in connection with a case we’re investigating.’

  There was silence at the other end.

  ‘If you could make it soon that would be very helpful,’ Hörður added.

  ‘Of course, if there’s something I can help you with. Which case is it regarding, if you don’t mind my asking?’ Bjarni’s tone was still light, but he couldn’t hide his curiosity.

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it when you get here,’ Hörður said. ‘But don’t worry, it’s just an informal chat and I can always come round to yours if that would be more convenient.’

  ‘No need. I’ll come over,’ Bjarni replied quickly.

  ‘Good, then I’ll see you in a minute,’ Hörður said and rang off.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be more usual to go round to his?’ Elma asked, when Hörður rejoined them.

  ‘No, it’s better like this,’ Hörður said firmly. I’d rather not involve his wife in the unlikely event that there was something going on between him and Elísabet. That wouldn’t do anyone any good.’

  Elma refrained from comment. It was better not to ask why Hörður regarded the possibility as so unlikely. Or why he wanted to protect Bjarni. She remembered her mother saying that Hörður was too concerned about being liked by the locals. No doubt it was like that in most small communities, she thought. The intimacy of small-town life made conducting investigations like this fraught with difficulty since the police had to tread carefully to avoid arousing hostility.

  When Bjarni arrived, Elma could immediately see why he was so popular. His charm extended to both his manners and his appearance: he had grown up to be tall and muscular, with fair hair and neatly trimmed stubble on his otherwise clean-shaven face. Under his thick, well-defined eyebrows, his gaze was good-natured but determined. He bestowed a polite smile on Elma and Sævar when he entered the room, then greeted Hörður like an old friend. Elma found herself instinctively returning his smile when he shook her hand and introduced himself.

  ‘Well, what’s it all about?’ Bjarni asked, once they were seated. ‘I’m dying of curiosity.’

  ‘This is your number, isn’t it?’ Hörður asked in a casually friendly voice and read it out.

  ‘No, that’s Magnea’s number,’ Bjarni replied in surprise. ‘She answered when you rang earlier, didn’t she?’

  ‘But … the number’s registered in your name,’ Hörður said.

  ‘Yes, true. But that’s the phone Magnea uses. Is that why you wanted to talk to me? What’s this all about?’

  Hörður cleared his throat and lowered his eyes to the paper he was holding.

  ‘The phone number turned up in the course of an inquiry,’ he said after a moment. ‘And your address too.’

  ‘The murder at the lighthouse?’ Bjarni was quick to make the connection.

  Hörður nodded.

  ‘And you think … what? That my wife had something to do with that?’ Bjarni laughed incredulously.

  Seeing Hörður’s awkwardness, Elma intervened. ‘Naturally, we need to talk to everyone the victim may have been in contact with in the days leading up to her death,’ she said in a reasonable voice. She didn’t like the way the balance of power had shifted in the room: Hörður was tiptoeing around this man as if terrified of offending him. Whereas she couldn’t care less about his status in the town.

  ‘This is a pretty strange way of going about things, Hörður,’ Bjarni said, as if Elma hadn’t spoken. ‘It’s like I’m under suspicion.’ He laughed again. ‘You can hardly think there was anything going on between me and that woman?’

  ‘We’re simply trying to find out what happened,’ Hörður said in a placatory tone.

  Bjarni got to his feet without once taking his eyes off Hörður. His smile had turned distinctly chilly.

  ‘Well, it’s obviously silly season for the police,’ he said. ‘Are you seriously telling me that’s all you’ve got to go on?’

  ‘It’s just one of the leads we’re duty bound to follow up,’ Elma answered coolly, before Hörður could get a word in. ‘I’m afraid we can’t reveal any further information about the case at this stage.’

  Still ignoring her, Bjarni addressed Hörður: ‘Should I send Magnea round to see you, then, or do you want to come home with me now and talk to her there?’

  ‘Sævar and I will come with you,’ Hörður said hastily, dropping his eyes to avoid Bjarni’s stinging look.

  Elma would have given anything to be able to ask Hörður to stay behind while she went with Sævar to interview Magnea. Apparently, Hörður’s son was a close friend of Bjarni’s, and she was afraid that their acquaintance would prevent the necessary questions from being asked. But she was in no position to tell her boss what to do and had to settle instead for going through the rest of the material that forensics had found in Elísabet’s car.

  She pulled on a pair of latex gloves. The box turned out to contain a collection of papers and other stuff that had been recovered from the car. On top was a knitted scarf, a black child’s mitten and a bottle of mascara. Elma leafed thr
ough the papers, skimming the contents: bills and documents relating to the car, including a service report and a log recording when the oil was changed. There were only two things that might potentially be of interest. One was a large envelope addressed to Eiríkur, bearing the logo of Sigurpáll G. Hannesson, Solicitor. The moment she opened the envelope, she realised what it was: divorce papers. So they’d been right: if Elísabet had gone to see a lawyer about getting a divorce, it must be because Eiríkur had refused to grant her one. Normally, when both parties agreed to divorce, it was enough for them to go and see a magistrate. No doubt she had been thinking of the children too. Was it possible that she hadn’t wanted Eiríkur to have joint custody? Or had she been afraid of losing custody rights herself?

  The other envelope was unmarked, small, made of thin white paper, and appeared to be empty. She tore it carefully open.

  Inside was a photograph. A creased, blurred image, taken with one of those old Polaroid cameras that printed the photo instantly. It showed a girl with her head bowed and her face obscured by her long, brown hair. Although the picture was rather dark, Elma recognised the room at once. It was the attic bedroom she had visited earlier that day; there was the parquet flooring and the cupboard under the sloping roof in the background. The girl couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. She was standing with her arms at her sides, in nothing but a pair of white knickers, her eyes lowered to the floor. Her knees turned in a little and her back was slightly hunched, as if to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. What struck Elma immediately was the girl’s vulnerability. Whoever took the picture was someone she was frightened of. There was no doubt in Elma’s mind: the child’s attitude conveyed abject fear and misery.