The Creak on the Stairs Read online

  ‘Right, well, that’s pretty much everything,’ Hörður said, rubbing his hands. ‘Shall we check if the coffee’s ready? You must have a cup with us before you go.’

  They went into the kitchen, where a man, who introduced himself as Kári, one of the regular uniformed officers, was sitting at a small table. He explained that the other members of his shift were on a callout – a party at one of the residential blocks had gone on until morning, to the dismay of the neighbours.

  ‘Welcome to the peace and quiet of the countryside,’ Kári said. When he grinned, his dark eyes creased up until all that could be glimpsed of them were his glittering black pupils. ‘Not that you can really call it the countryside anymore, after all the development we’ve seen around here. Houses are flying off the market. Apparently everyone wants to live in Akranes these days.’ He gave a loud bark of laughter.

  ‘It’ll make a change, anyway,’ Elma replied, and couldn’t help grinning back. The man looked like a cartoon character when he laughed.

  ‘It’ll be good to have you on the team,’ Hörður said. ‘To be honest, we were a bit worried about losing Pétur, as he was one of the old hands. But he wanted a change of scene after more than twenty years here. He’s got a wife in Reykjavík now, and both his children have flown the nest.’ Hörður filled two cups with coffee and handed one to her. ‘Do you take milk or sugar?’ he asked, holding out a purple carton.

  Akranes 1989

  Her daddy hadn’t come home for days and days. She had given up asking where he was. Her mummy got so sad when she did. Anyway, she knew he wasn’t coming back. For days she had watched people coming and going, heard them talking to each other, but no one told her anything. They looked at her and patted her on the head, but avoided meeting her eye. She could guess what had happened, though, from the little she had overheard. She knew her daddy had gone out on the boat the day he left. She had heard people talking about the shipwreck and the storm; the storm that had taken her daddy away.

  The night he vanished she had been woken by the wind tearing at the corrugated-iron sheets on the roof as if it wanted to rip them off. Her daddy had been in her dream, as large as life, with a big smile on his face and beads of sweat on his forehead. Just like in the summer, when he’d invited her to come out on the boat with him. She had been thinking about him before she went to sleep. Once, her daddy had told her that if you think nice thoughts before you go to bed, you’ll have nice dreams. That’s why she’d been thinking about him: he was the nicest thing she could imagine.

  Days passed and people stopped coming round. In the end it was just the two of them, just her and her mummy. Her mummy still wouldn’t tell her anything, no matter how often she asked. She would answer at random, waving her away and telling her to go out and play. Sometimes her mummy sat for a long time, just staring out of the window at the sea, while she smoked an awful lot of cigarettes. Lots more than she used to. She wanted to say something nice to her mummy, say that perhaps Daddy was only lost and would find his way home. But she didn’t dare. She was afraid her mummy would get cross. So she stayed quiet and did as she was told, like a good little girl. Went out to play, spoke as little as possible and tried to be invisible at home so her mummy wouldn’t be annoyed.

  And all the while her mummy’s tummy kept growing bigger and bigger.

  The sky was growing perceptibly paler by the time Elma re-emerged from the police station, though the streetlights were still on. There were more cars on the roads now and the wind had dropped. Since returning to her old hometown on the Skagi Peninsula, she had been struck by how flat and exposed it seemed in comparison to Reykjavík. Walking through its quiet streets, she felt as if there was nowhere to hide from prying eyes. Unlike the capital, where trees and gardens had grown up over the years to soften the urban landscape and shelter the inhabitants from Iceland’s fierce winds, Akranes had little in the way of vegetation, and the impression of bleakness was made worse by the fact that many of the houses and streets were in poor repair. No doubt the recent closure of one of the local fish factories had contributed to the air of decline. But the surrounding scenery still took Elma’s breath away: the sea on three sides; Mount Akranes, with its distinctive dip in the middle, dominating the fourth. Ranks of mountains marching away up the coast to the north; the glow of Reykjavík’s lights visible across Faxaflói Bay to the south.

  Akranes had changed since she was a little girl. It had spread and its population had grown, yet in spite of that she felt it was fundamentally the same. It was still a small town of only seven thousand or so inhabitants, and you encountered the same faces day in, day out. Once she had found the idea stifling, like being trapped in a tiny bubble when there was so much more out there to discover. But now the prospect had the opposite effect: she had nothing against the idea of retreating into a bubble and forgetting the outside world.

  She walked slowly, thinking of all the jobs that awaited her at home. She was still getting settled in, having only picked up the keys to her flat the previous weekend. It was in a small block with seven other apartments on two floors. When Elma was a girl, there hadn’t been any buildings there, just a large field that sometimes contained horses, which she used to feed with stale bread. But since then a whole new neighbourhood had sprung up, consisting of houses and apartment blocks and even a nursery school. Her flat was on the ground floor and had a large deck out front. There were two staircases in the building, with four flats sharing the small communal area on each. Elma hadn’t met her neighbours properly, though she did know that there was a young man living opposite her, who she hadn’t yet seen. Upstairs was an older man called Bárður, chairman of the residents’ association, and a childless, middle-aged couple who gave her friendly nods whenever they met.

  She had spent the week decorating the flat, and now most of the furniture was in place. The contents were a bit of a mixed bag. She’d picked up all kinds of stuff from a charity shop, including an old chest with a carved floral pattern, a gold-plated floor lamp, and four kitchen chairs that she had arranged around her parents’ old dining table. She’d thought the flat was looking quite cosy, but when her mother came round, her expression had indicated that she didn’t agree. ‘Oh, Elma, it’s a bit … colourful,’ she had said in an accusatory tone. ‘What happened to all the furniture from your old flat? It was so lovely and tasteful.’

  Elma had shrugged and pretended not to see her mother’s face when she announced casually that she’d sold it when she moved. ‘Well, I hope you at least got a decent price for it,’ her mother had said. Elma had merely smiled, as this couldn’t have been further from the truth. Besides, she liked being surrounded by these old, mismatched pieces; some were familiar from her childhood, others felt as if they probably came with a story attached.

  Before moving here, she had lived with Davíð, her boyfriend of many years, in the desirable west end of Reykjavík. Their flat, which was small but cosy, had been in the Melar area, on the middle floor of a three-storey building. She missed the tall rowan tree outside the window. It had been like a painting that changed colour with the seasons, bright green in summer, reddish-orange in autumn and either brown or white in winter. She missed the flat too, but most of all she missed Davíð.

  She stopped outside the door of her flat, took out her phone and wrote a text message. Deleted it, then wrote the same message again. Stood there without moving for a moment, then selected Davíð’s number. She knew it wouldn’t do any good but she sent the message anyway, then went inside.

  It was Saturday evening and Akranes’s most popular restaurant was packed out, but then there wasn’t much competition. Despite the unpromising exterior, it was contemporary and chic inside, with black furniture, grey walls and flattering lighting. Magnea sat up a little straighter as she surveyed the other diners. She knew she was looking her best this evening in a figure-hugging black jumpsuit and was conscious of all the eyes straying inadvertently to her cleavage. Bjarni was sitting opposite her, and whenever
their gazes met she read the promise in his eyes about what would happen once they got home. She would have given anything to be dining alone with him instead of having his parents seated either side of her.

  They were celebrating the fact that Bjarni was finally taking over the family firm. He had been employed there ever since he finished school, but despite being the boss’s son, he had been forced to work hard for the title of managing director. He’d put in a huge number of hours, often working evenings and weekends, and had, in practice, been running the firm alongside his father for several years. But now, at last, it was official: he was formally taking over as managing director. This meant double the salary and double the responsibility, but this evening, at least, he was determined to relax.

  The waiter brought a bottle of red wine and poured a splash into Bjarni’s glass. After he had tasted it and signalled his approval, the waiter filled their glasses, then retreated, leaving the bottle behind on the table.

  ‘Skál!’ Bjarni’s father, Hendrik, raised his glass. ‘To Bjarni and his unstoppable energy. Now he can add the title of managing director to his list of achievements. As his parents, we’re hugely proud of him, as we always have been.’

  They clinked glasses and tasted the expensive wine. Magnea was careful to take only a tiny sip, allowing no more than a few drops to pass between her red-painted lips.

  ‘I wouldn’t have got where I am today without this gorgeous girl beside me,’ Bjarni said, his voice slurring a little. He’d had a whisky while they were waiting for his parents and, as always when he drank spirits, the alcohol had gone straight to his head. ‘I’ve lost count of the times I’ve come home late from the office and never, not once, has my darling wife complained, although she has more than enough to do at work herself.’ He gazed adoringly at Magnea and she blew him a kiss over the table.

  Hendrik turned an indulgent look on Ása but, instead of returning his smile, she averted her eyes, her mouth tight with disapproval. Magnea sighed under her breath. She had given up trying to win her mother-in-law round. These days she didn’t really care anymore. When she and Bjarni had first moved in together she had made a real effort to impress Ása, making sure the house was immaculate whenever his parents were coming over, baking specially for them and generally bending over backwards to earn her mother-in-law’s approval. But it had been a lost cause. Her efforts were invariably rewarded with the same critical look; the look that said the cake was too dry, the bathroom wasn’t sufficiently sparkling clean and the floors could have done with another going over. The message was clear: however hard she tried, Magnea would never be good enough for Bjarni.

  ‘How’s the teaching going, Magnea?’ Hendrik asked. ‘Are those brats behaving themselves?’ Unlike his wife he had always had a soft spot for his daughter-in-law. Perhaps that was one reason for Ása’s hostility. Hendrik never missed a chance to touch Magnea, put an arm round her shoulders or waist, or kiss her on the cheek. He was a big man, in contrast to his dainty wife, and had a reputation in Akranes as a bit of a shark when it came to business. He had a charming smile that Bjarni had inherited, and a powerful, slightly husky, voice. Regular drinking had turned his features coarse and red, yet Magnea liked him better than Ása, so she put up with the wandering hands and the flirtation, which all seemed harmless enough to her.

  ‘They usually behave themselves for me,’ Magnea replied, smiling at him. At that moment the waiter came back to take their order.

  The evening went pretty smoothly: Bjarni and Hendrik chatted about work and football; Ása sat in silence, apparently sunk in her own thoughts, and Magnea smiled at the two men from time to time, contributing the odd word, but otherwise sat quietly like Ása. It was a relief when the meal was over and they could leave. The cold night air sneaked inside her thin coat once they were outside and she took Bjarni’s arm, pressing close to him.

  They had the rest of the evening to themselves.

  It wasn’t until Bjarni had fallen asleep beside her in bed that she remembered the face. She saw again the pair of dark eyes that had met hers when she glanced across the restaurant. For much of the night she lay wide awake, trying to ward off the memories that flashed into her mind with a stark clarity every time she closed her eyes.

  Monday, 20 November 2017

  Elma sat at her new desk in her new office, on her first day, trying to keep her eyes open. Conscious that she was slouching, she straightened up and forced herself to focus on the computer screen. She had spent the previous evening wandering restlessly around her flat before deciding on an impulse to paint the sitting room. The tins of emulsion had been sitting there untouched ever since she moved in. As a result, she hadn’t crashed out until the early hours, too exhausted to scrub the paint spots off her arms.

  Remembering the text message she had sent Davíð, she pictured him opening it and the faintest smile touching his lips before he sent a reply. But that was wishful thinking; she knew he wouldn’t answer. She briefly closed her eyes, feeling her breath coming fast and shallow, and experiencing again that suffocating sensation as if the walls were closing in on her. She concentrated on taking deep, slow breaths.

  ‘Ahem.’

  She opened her eyes. A man was standing in front of her, holding out his hand. ‘Sævar,’ he said.

  Elma hastily pulled herself together and shook his large, hairy hand, which turned out to be unexpectedly soft.

  ‘I see they’ve found a home for you.’ Sævar smiled at her. He was wearing dark-blue jeans and a short-sleeved shirt that revealed the thick fur on his arms. The overall impression – dark hair, dense stubble, heavy eyebrows and coarse features – was that of a caveman, but this was belied by a pleasant hint of aftershave.

  ‘Yes, it’s not bad. Pretty good, actually,’ Elma said, brushing her hair back from her face.

  ‘How are you enjoying life out here in the sticks?’ Sævar asked, still smiling. He must be the other detective Hörður had mentioned. Elma knew he’d been working for the Akranes force since he was twenty but didn’t recall seeing his face before, though he couldn’t have been more than a few years older than her. The town only had two schools and one community college, and the smallness of the place meant that you generally encountered all your contemporaries sooner or later – or so Elma had thought.

  ‘Very much,’ she replied, trying to sound upbeat but afraid she was coming across as a bit of an idiot. She hoped the black circles under her eyes weren’t too obvious but knew the unforgiving fluorescent lights would only exaggerate any signs of weariness.

  ‘I hear you were in Reykjavík CID,’ Sævar continued. ‘What made you decide to have a change of scene and come here?’

  ‘Well, I grew up here,’ Elma said, ‘so … I suppose I was missing my family.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the most important thing in life,’ Sævar said. ‘You realise when you start to get old that family’s what it’s all about.’

  ‘Old?’ Elma looked at him in surprise. ‘You can’t be that old.’

  ‘No, maybe not.’ Sævar grinned. ‘Thirty-five. Best years still to come.’

  ‘I certainly hope so,’ Elma said. As a rule, she tried not to dwell on her age. She knew she was still young, and yet she was uncomfortably aware of how fast the years were winging by. If anyone asked how old she was, she almost always had to stop and think, so she tended just to give the year of her birth – her vintage. As if she were a car or a wine.

  ‘That makes two of us,’ Sævar said. ‘Anyway, the reason I’m here is that we got a callout at the weekend after some people heard a woman screaming in the flat upstairs, and a lot of shouting and banging. When we got there, it was a mess. The man had beaten his girlfriend so badly his knuckles were bleeding. The woman insisted she didn’t want to take it any further, but I expect charges will be brought anyway. Still, it helps if the victim’s prepared to testify, even when we have a medical report and other evidence to back up our case. She’s home from hospital now, and I was thinking of having a chat w
ith her, but I reckon it would be better to have a female officer present. And it wouldn’t hurt if she’d studied psychology as well,’ he added, with a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘It was only for two years,’ Elma muttered, wondering how he knew about the psychology degree she had been taking before she dropped out of university and enrolled at the Police College instead. She didn’t remember the subject coming up in conversation, so presumably he must have read her CV. ‘Sure, I’ll go with you but I can’t promise my knowledge of psychology will be any use.’

  ‘Oh, come on – I have complete faith in you.’

  They were met by a strong smell of cooking when they knocked on the door of the house. After a bit of a wait they heard signs of life inside. Sævar had told Elma on the way there that the woman they wanted to see was currently staying with her elderly grandmother.

  A few moments later the door opened with a feeble creak, and a small, wizened woman with a deeply lined face appeared in the gap. Her skin was covered in brown liver spots but the pale-grey, shoulder-length hair, drawn back in a clip, was unusually thick and handsome for her age. She raised her eyebrows inquiringly.

  ‘We’re looking for Ásdís Sigurðardóttir. Is she in?’ Sævar asked. The old woman turned round without a word, beckoning them to follow her.

  Elma guessed the house hadn’t changed much since it was built, probably in the seventies. There was a carpet on the floor – a rare sight in Iceland where they were considered old-fashioned and unhygienic – and the walls were clad in dark wood panelling. The smell of meat stew was even more overpowering inside.