The Creak on the Stairs Read online

  ‘Strands of wool?’ Sævar asked. ‘You mean, like from a lopapeysa, or a scarf or something?’

  ‘Exactly. But Elísabet owned a lopapeysa herself, like most people, and forensics are currently checking if the fibres in the car could have come from her jumper. Her phone records haven’t turned anything up either. She called in sick herself and there’s nothing to suggest she wasn’t in Akranes of her own free will. We know she was seeking a divorce from Eiríkur but we don’t know why she came here. Perhaps she just wanted some breathing space before having to face the fight with her husband. Perhaps she came back to her childhood home in search of closure. As you’ve discovered, Elma, she had a lot of bad memories associated with this place. We know she went to the lighthouse to meet Magnea, who didn’t turn up – Bjarni and Magnea’s friends have confirmed that she was with them all evening.’ Hörður looked from Elma to Sævar, his face grim. ‘The fact is, we don’t have any other leads to go on and it’s pretty clear that we’re not going to solve this case unless new evidence comes to light. My guess is that someone knocked Elísabet down by accident and tried to dispose of her afterwards. The culprit was probably drink-driving and the whole thing ended in disaster.’

  ‘But they still had the presence of mind to hide Elísabet’s car in the garage belonging to a couple who were abroad?’ Sævar interrupted.

  ‘Sure, why not?’ Hörður retorted. ‘It’s a small town; everyone knows everyone else’s business. I don’t have to tell you that.’

  ‘So? What do we do now?’ Elma asked.

  ‘We carry on with our investigation, of course, and keep searching for a lead,’ Hörður said. ‘But we mustn’t neglect our other business. A number of things have been stuck on the back-burner for the last week. Anyway, I’m going to spend the rest of the day at home, though I’ll keep my phone on. I suggest you two do the same.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Sævar asked as they stood in the corridor outside his office. ‘Have we hit a brick wall?’

  ‘I thought I was getting somewhere, but of course it may be a dead end. Maybe I’m just digging up secrets that have nothing to do with the murder.’ Elma shrugged. Hörður’s speech had taken the wind out of her sails. She heaved a sigh, then hurriedly closed her mouth, afraid Sævar might smell the alcohol on her breath. Her headache had subsided but her empty stomach was crying out for food. ‘We can’t just give up, though. I’m going to see what I can find out about Sólveig, Elísabet’s old neighbour, just as soon as I’ve had some lunch. Do you fancy coming along?’

  ‘No, I’ve got some stuff to do,’ Sævar answered distractedly. Only now did Elma notice how tired, dispirited and unlike himself he seemed. She had been so preoccupied with the case that she hadn’t registered the fact.

  She had woken at the crack of dawn and crept back across the corridor to her own bed. She blushed every time she thought about what had happened, though she remembered only snatches. But she had no reason to be ashamed. She wasn’t tied to anyone. She was a woman in her thirties who was free to sleep with anyone she liked. She didn’t judge other women who chose to live like that, so why should she be so harsh on herself?

  ‘No problem,’ she said lightly, avoiding Sævar’s eye. Was it her imagination or was he avoiding her gaze too? Once she was outside in the fresh air, it occurred to her that it wasn’t exactly that she was ashamed of herself, more that she simply wished she’d slept with someone else.

  In the event, it wasn’t difficult to track down Elísabet’s childhood neighbour. Only one woman fitted the bill: Sólveig Sigurðardóttir had lived in the same house on Krókatún for forty years. She was now eighty-six and a resident at the Höfði Old People’s Home. When Elma arrived to talk to her she was sitting on a bench in the garden with her eyes closed. Her walking stick was propped against the bench beside her and she was wearing a dark-blue headscarf knotted under her chin. One of the staff, a girl with a ring through her nose and thick, black eye make-up, pointed her out to Elma. ‘She’s always out there,’ the girl said in a long-suffering voice.

  Elma walked unhurriedly over to where Sólveig was sitting. The old woman was holding her face up to the cold rays of the wintry sun. She wore a thin, light-brown anorak and plastic covers on her shoes. Elma sat down beside her and coughed without eliciting any response. ‘Sólveig?’

  The old woman opened her eyes and squinted at Elma for a long moment before answering in a high, threadbare voice: ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘My name’s Elma. I’m with the police. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?’

  The old woman laughed quietly. ‘The police want to talk to me? Yes, that shouldn’t be a problem.’

  Elma smiled. ‘Am I right that you used to live on Krókatún?’

  ‘For most of my life, yes. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Do you remember a girl called Elísabet? She would have been a child when she lived there. Her mother’s name was Halla.’

  ‘Of course I remember Beta and Halla. Beta comes to see me sometimes.’ Sólveig smiled at the thought.

  ‘Has she been round recently?’

  A flock of seagulls was swarming not far off, making a harsh cackling. The old woman’s attention was distracted by the noise and Elma had to repeat the question.

  ‘Has who been to see me recently? Oh, Beta? I remember Beta. She lived next door to me for years. I used to look after poor Beta.’

  ‘You looked after her?’

  ‘I fed her. Kept an eye on her and made sure she had clean clothes.’ Sólveig’s hands were covered in liver spots. Her skin hung in loose wrinkles over the fragile bones and Elma felt a momentary impulse to stroke them.

  ‘Why did you take care of her? Where was her mother?’

  ‘Oh, Halla didn’t mean any harm, but life’s unfair, you know. Some people are just born weaker than others.’ Sólveig didn’t explain, but then she didn’t need to. Going by what Elma had heard, Halla must have had a serious drink problem. The screaming of the gulls grew louder. They must have found something edible on the shore.

  ‘Do you remember if Elísabet had any friends?’

  Sólveig took her time about answering this and, when she did, spoke slowly, as if remembering. ‘She used to play with Sara, Ása and Hendrik’s daughter. Sara was the only girl I remember going round to visit her. Then she disappeared. It was terribly sad.’

  ‘So you don’t remember a girl called Magnea going round to see her?’

  Sólveig shook her head. ‘No, I don’t remember any Magnea. Who was she again? Mind you, I can hardly remember what I did yesterday … but I do remember Sara. A sweet little thing. Always a bit shy but very sweet.’

  Neither of them spoke for a while. Sólveig leant back against the bench and closed her eyes, her expression serene. Elma had begun to think she’d fallen asleep, when she continued: ‘She hauled her away, you know. Ása came and hauled her away one morning. I saw from the window. It was early. Sara was on her way round to Beta’s when Ása appeared and dragged her off crying.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘No, but Halla had a bad reputation in town,’ Sólveig said. ‘She used to get a lot of visitors. The town’s undesirables, mostly. Unlucky souls, people with problems. I don’t suppose Ása wanted her daughter spending time in company like that. Sometimes Elísabet would come round and stay with me when things were too chaotic at home, but not always. I’d have liked to go over and fetch her but I never did.’

  ‘Do you think Elísabet was at risk in that house?’

  Sólveig seemed to reflect for a while, then said: ‘I saw her in the garden once. She was holding a stick and there was a bird in front of her. The bird was injured – it was still moving but it was clearly suffering. Elísabet watched it for a while, then started hitting it. Again and again. I remember thinking that she was putting it out of its misery. Some wretched cat had probably been playing with it and she’d found it in that state. But she didn’t show any emotion.’ Sólveig looked pained. ‘I d
on’t know what happened round there when they were all drinking and carrying on. But I noticed the change in the child. Her eyes changed. All the happiness went out of them. But she was still beautiful. I suppose that’s why no one else noticed.’

  ‘Noticed what?’

  Sólveig fiddled with the hem of her anorak, then went on: ‘She had to go through so much: first her father, then her baby brother, and lastly her friend. I suppose it was hardly surprising if she changed and stopped showing any emotion. Something had to give.’

  ‘Did you never suspect that she was being abused at home?’

  ‘Abused?’ Sólveig frowned. ‘What are you saying? Is there anything to suggest that?’

  ‘I was just wondering. There was so much going on: strangers coming in and out, drinking and possibly worse. Could you be sure she was safe?’

  Sólveig seemed to be having trouble breathing. She gave a low moan and the breath whined in her nose. ‘The poor, dear child,’ she said at last. ‘I just don’t know. I remember wondering sometimes, but you don’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to believe it.’

  ‘You couldn’t point me towards any of the crowd who used to visit Halla?’

  ‘The crowd, you say…’ Sólveig sniffed and wiped away a tear. ‘People like that don’t live long, I can tell you. Stjáni used to spend a lot of time round there but he died several years ago. Drank himself to death. Then there was Binna, who killed herself. I can’t remember all of them, but Rúnar may have hung out with them. He’s still alive. You should try talking to him.’

  ‘Do you remember his second name?’

  ‘No. But he works as a bin man; has done for years. He used to come and say hello sometimes when I was still living at home. This…’ She gestured at the white-and-blue building of the old people’s home ‘…this will never be home to me. It’s just a waiting room. I can’t wait to leave.’ Sólveig was smiling but her expression was defiant. Elma decided to call it a day and leave the old woman in peace. But there was one more question she needed an answer to.

  ‘Do you remember how long it is since you last saw Elísabet?’

  ‘I feel like it could have been yesterday, but it could have been months, even years ago. My memory’s going, you know,’ Sólveig said apologetically. ‘It’s much easier to remember the old days. They’re crystal clear. The rest is all a bit hazy.’

  ‘Right, well, I won’t disturb you any longer. Thanks so much for talking to me.’ Elma got to her feet.

  ‘Give Beta my love,’ Sólveig said in parting.

  Elma nodded, deciding there was no call to tell her what had happened to Elísabet. She didn’t want to upset the old woman and doubted she would remember it for more than a few minutes anyway. ‘It’s a beautiful day,’ she said instead, and took her leave.

  ‘Come with me,’ Aðalheiður said, the moment Elma walked through the door. ‘Come and see what I’ve found.’

  Elma obeyed and followed her mother into the garage.

  ‘I went up to the loft to look for the boxes of Christmas decorations. I’ve been trying to get your father to bring them down, but you know what he’s like.’ Aðalheiður snorted, but Elma could hear the affection in her voice. Her parents had met when they were children. They had got together at the Akranes Primary School, which had later become Brekkubær School. Elma often had to listen to them nagging each other, but there was no anger behind it. It sounded more like the good-natured bickering of two people who knew each other too well.

  In the middle of the garage were some open boxes, from which protruded a variety of mostly red-and-green Christmas decorations. Plastic fir branches, plump Father Christmases and homemade angels. Elma was familiar with it all. Not much had been replaced since she was a girl, when she used to wait impatiently for Advent to arrive so she could take the shiny objects out of their boxes and arrange them around the house.

  ‘I was just wondering when you were going to start putting up the decorations,’ she said, picking up a carved angel holding a gilded star.

  ‘Yes, I don’t know what I’ve been thinking,’ Aðalheiður said. ‘Anyway, look what I found – your box.’ She pointed to a small cardboard box. ‘It’s got all your books and paper dolls in it. There are the diaries you kept all those years too – I’ve been very good and haven’t looked at them. And your scrapbooks and drawings.’

  Elma crouched down and peered inside the box. ‘You kept all this, Mum?’ she asked, picking up a yellowing watercolour.

  ‘Of course,’ Aðalheiður replied, as if nothing could be more natural. ‘You sometimes complain that I never throw anything away but there are times when it can be a good thing, you know. Even when the things aren’t valuable in themselves, they have so many memories attached to them.’ Stooping, she began to take out the Christmas decorations.

  Elma pulled over the small box. There should be eight diaries, she thought, sealed with tiny locks and decorated with flowers and teddy bears. Sure enough, there they were.

  ‘No, I can’t read this,’ she said as she leafed through one of them. ‘It’s too embarrassing. I was such an idiot in those days.’

  ‘It’s up to you, of course. I just thought you’d be pleased to have them.’ Aðalheiður lifted one of the boxes to carry it into the house. ‘Come and help me decorate. You were always so good at it.’

  ‘All right, I’m coming,’ Elma said distractedly. A photo fell out of one of the books. It showed the three of them: her, Silja and Kristín sitting together on a bunk bed. Elma remembered that trip. They had gone to a summer house with her parents. They couldn’t have been more than eight years old and all that had mattered to them in those days was what game they were going to play next. Elma smiled reminiscently and put the picture back in the box. She felt a sudden wave of nostalgia. Would life ever be as simple again?

  There were the old school newspapers too, not just from Elma’s alma mater but from Brekkubær School as well, which were published at the end of every year. She picked up one and leafed through it, stopping when she came to a picture of Bjarni. He had been voted the school hunk and most promising sportsman of his year. There was an interview with him, tracing his football career and asking him about his future ambitions. Glancing at the date, Elma saw that it was a year after his sister had died. He had answered that he wanted to be captain of Akranes football team, then work for his father’s company. It seemed Bjarni had realised his dreams.

  Elma went on turning the pages and eventually came to the class photo she had been looking for. There was Magnea aged ten, smiling broadly in the middle of the group. She was so dominant that it looked as if the picture had been arranged around her, though of course it hadn’t.

  Elma went on rooting around in the box but couldn’t find the paper from the previous year. On the other hand, she did find the one from the year before that. It didn’t take her long to find the class photo for 1:IG. There had been two more pupils in that one: Sara and Elísabet were standing next to each other in the front row. They weren’t looking at the camera and neither of them was smiling. Magnea was standing behind them but, unlike them, she was staring straight into the lens with a broad grin, just as she was in all the other photos Elma had seen of her.

  Elma went on looking through the pictures of school life. There was the same photo she had found in the online archives, with Elísabet and Magnea sitting side by side, while Sara lay on the floor behind them, drawing. Elma’s eyes suddenly widened when she saw what the little girl was drawing. She hadn’t paid any attention to the picture before but now she saw what it was. Sara was drawing a man. He had large eyes and was baring his big teeth in a smile. He was holding something black too – a small black box. Was it supposed to be a camera? Elma’s thoughts flew to the photo she had found in Elísabet’s car. Was this the same man? Had he taken pictures of Sara as well? Sara had drawn the man with thick black lines and big, glaring eyes, and behind him stood a figure that looked like a girl. The girl had no arms, but what drew Elma’s attention m
ost was her mouth.

  It was wide open in a big ‘O’.

  Akranes 1991

  Some days he took photos. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said and told her to smile. He ordered her to face this way and sit like that and she did everything he said. Obeyed everything he told her to do. Except that she never smiled and she refused to look at the pictures afterwards.

  He put them in his pocket and took them away with him. She didn’t know where he lived but imagined him alone in a big, black house. Perhaps it wasn’t black, but she felt that would be appropriate. Perhaps he took the photos out and examined them as he sat alone in the evenings, smoking his cigarettes, but she tried not to think about that.

  When he came, she trained her mind not to dwell on what was happening. She thought about the book she was reading. She fantasised that she lived in the countryside or could open a wardrobe and find a door to another world. She thought about dwarfs and elves and trees that could talk and horses that could fly. Anything but her room and the man who wanted to take pictures of her.

  One day she found a photo under her bed. She picked it up and studied it. Was that really her? She hardly recognised the girl who stood there, her eyelids lowered. She seemed so alone. So frightened.

  She felt her eyes growing hot, but before the tears could spill over, she got a grip on herself and slid the picture into a crack in the cupboard, pushing it all the way in until it was completely hidden, then put it out of her mind.

  Monday, 4 December 2017

  The engine coughed into life after several attempts. Elma put the heater on full but immediately turned it down when cold air started blasting out. There wouldn’t be time to warm up the car during the short drive to the police station. She knew it would probably be quicker to walk but it was so bitterly cold that she didn’t want to spend any more time outdoors than was strictly necessary.