The Creak on the Stairs Read online

  She was terribly late. Usually she turned up to work punctually but she hadn’t gone to sleep until the early hours as she had been too busy obsessing over Sara and Elísabet, and the possible identity of the mysterious man. She knew what that sort of drawing meant. The two years she had spent studying psychology had taught her enough to know that children’s drawings often reflected something they couldn’t express in words, such as fear or dread or their feelings about something that had happened to them. She had sat up late, studying examples of drawings by victims of sex abuse. Sara had shown the man with his teeth bared in a grin. Elma knew that it was common for children to depict their abuser with an oversized mouth and sharp teeth. In these pictures the perpetrator was often drawn smiling, while the children’s own mouths tended to be either turned down or wide open. There was often something missing in the picture too, symbolising the victim’s powerlessness. Like the girl’s missing arms in Sara’s picture. Elma was surprised that no one had noticed what she had drawn. To her, it was glaringly obvious that it had been a cry for help. The girl was trying to say something but no one had understood the message. Then again, recalling that Ingibjörn had been her teacher at the time, Elma wasn’t so surprised. She couldn’t picture him trying to read any particular meaning into his pupils’ drawings. For him, school was nothing more than a seat of learning, where children’s heads were to be crammed full of information.

  She wasn’t yet ready to explain this to Hörður. And she still had no idea how it related to the case, but she was determined to find out. She suspected Elísabet might have come back to Akranes because of the man who had abused her as a child. If so, the man in question would have had good reason to want to silence her.

  Elma switched off the engine and half ran into the building. To her surprise, Sævar wasn’t there.

  ‘Begga, have you seen Sævar?’ she asked in the kitchen.

  Begga shook her head. ‘No, he hasn’t come in yet this morning.’

  ‘Really, he’s not here? … What?’ she added, when she noticed the look Begga was giving her.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Begga. ‘I didn’t say a word.’ She grinned, her dimples becoming even more pronounced. When Elma showed no signs of rising to the bait, Begga added: ‘Did I mention that I’m clairvoyant?’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ Elma said, giving her a puzzled smile as she left the kitchen.

  ‘I know exactly what you’re thinking, Elma,’ Begga called after her, and burst out laughing.

  Elma rolled her eyes. She didn’t have a clue what Begga was insinuating. But she was getting used to her ways and had given up trying to analyse all the nonsense she came out with.

  She debated with herself whether she should go and talk to Hörður. His coat was hanging in the corridor, which meant he was probably in his office with his headphones on. She drank her coffee, warming her hands on the hot mug. There weren’t many witnesses she could talk to. You could count on the fingers of one hand the people who had known Elísabet. She flicked through the little notebook she always carried. After the meeting with Sólveig, she had made a note of Rúnar’s name, as possibly one of Halla’s old drinking pals. Of course she could go and talk to him, but what was she supposed to say? What she really wanted was to talk to Ása but she didn’t like to defy a direct order from Hörður. Besides, she agreed with him. It must be indescribably awful to lose a child, especially like that, and she would rather not compel the old woman to rake up the memory unnecessarily. Though in fact she doubted that Ása would need to think too hard to remember – incidents like that didn’t fade over time. They became part of you. Not simpler, not more bearable; just something you learnt to live with.

  Elma ran through the list of pupils in form 1.IG again, pausing at Magnea’s name. She had never met her and knew little about her apart from what Hörður and Sævar had told her – and, thanks to Dagný’s indiscretion, the fact that she was pregnant. Magnea was probably at work now but it couldn’t hurt to check if she had time for a quick chat. Elma called Magnea’s mobile number on the off-chance. A cheerful voice answered after the first ring. By a stroke of luck, it turned out that Magnea wasn’t at work today as she was feeling unwell. But she was willing to talk, if Elma could give her half an hour to jump in the shower first. Elma thanked her and hung up. She wondered if she ought to pop home for a shower herself but decided to go via the shop instead and grab a bite to eat.

  She put down her mug and stood up. Hörður could hardly object to her having a brief chat with Magnea – surely? She darted a shifty glance in the direction of his office as she was sneaking out and heaved a sigh of relief once she was safely out of range. Although she’d half expected to bump into Sævar as she was leaving, there was still no sign of him, so she got into her chilly car and drove off alone.

  Magnea was so impeccably dressed that it made Elma feel acutely self-conscious. She started pulling down her bobbly jumper where it had creased up at the front and trying in vain to hide the embarrassing coffee stain she had failed to notice that morning. To her chagrin, it was situated just below her left breast, so there was no way of covering it up without having to adopt an unnatural pose.

  ‘Can I bring you something – coffee, water?’ Magnea asked, after inviting Elma to take a seat on a white sofa in the sitting room because the home help was cleaning the kitchen.

  ‘No, thanks, I don’t need anything,’ Elma said.

  As on the phone earlier, Magnea hadn’t seemed particularly surprised by Elma’s request for a chat; she’d just smiled and invited her in, without asking what she wanted. Since Magnea was wearing a tight jumper and neatly pressed black trousers, Elma couldn’t help noticing that her stomach was still perfectly flat, betraying no sign that she was three months pregnant.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’m going to get a glass of water for myself,’ Magnea said.

  ‘Sure.’

  While she was away, Elma took in the elegant sitting room. A large, imposing canvas hung on one wall, featuring insubstantial figures among a swirl of moss and lava. A Kjarval, Elma saw from the signature at the bottom. That figured: although she didn’t know much about art, she did know that Kjarval was Iceland’s most important painter. There was no television to be seen, just two big leather sofas and an armchair with curved arms. A large, old-fashioned chandelier was suspended from the ceiling above a coffee table with a glass top, supported on curved stone legs. The black-stained parquet floor formed a striking counterpoint to the white walls and furnishings.

  ‘So,’ Magnea said, once she had sat down again, ‘what did you want to ask me?’

  ‘I wanted to ask you about Elísabet.’

  ‘Elísabet? Sævar and Hörður have already been round to talk to me about her.’ Magnea revealed her teeth in the same brilliant smile that Elma had noticed in the school photos.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Elma replied. ‘But still, I’d be very grateful if you could answer a few questions. People often don’t realise they know something that could turn out to be important.’

  ‘Of course,’ Magnea said. ‘But, like I told them, I hadn’t spoken to her since we were girls, then she suddenly appeared on my doorstep the other day.’

  ‘Didn’t it strike you as odd that she should have knocked on your door that evening?’

  ‘Yes, I have to admit I was a bit thrown. I’d never expected to see her again. I only recognised her when she told me who she was. It wasn’t as if we were ever really friends.’

  ‘How did she look?’

  ‘She looked good. But then Elísabet was always very beautiful, with her dark hair and dark eyes. I remember how I used to envy her.’ Magnea laughed. ‘Of course she was older, but just as stunning. She seemed a bit on edge, though.’

  ‘On edge?’

  ‘Yes, as if she was stressed or nervous about something. She kept looking round and … yes, a bit stressed.’

  ‘Do you think she might have been afraid of someone?’

  ‘You mean that someone was following
her? The murderer, maybe? God, that hadn’t even occurred to me. Do you think that could have been it?’ Magnea appeared shaken.

  ‘What did she say to you?’ Elma asked, instead of answering her question.

  ‘At first I thought she’d just come to see me for old times’ sake and I found that kind of strange. I mean, you don’t just go round to someone’s house thirty years after you last saw them and have a cup of coffee as if nothing had happened. I told her that unfortunately I couldn’t invite her in as we were expecting guests for dinner, but we could meet another time.’ Magnea took a sip of water. ‘But Elísabet said it couldn’t wait and asked if I’d meet her later that evening. I said the next day would be better but she wouldn’t hear of it. I thought that was rather rude, actually, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer, so in the end I gave in and agreed. She insisted on meeting at the lighthouse.’

  ‘But you didn’t go?’

  ‘No, it completely slipped my mind. Now, of course, I wish I’d gone. She might still be alive if I had.’ Magnea looked suitably sorrowful at the thought. Yet Elma couldn’t help thinking that everything Magnea said and did was a well-rehearsed act. Her smile and her sadness, the expressions she adopted, the way she tilted her head on one side and crossed her legs were all part of a performance. ‘Do you think it would have changed anything?’ Magnea asked.

  Elma shrugged. ‘Impossible to say.’ Which probably wasn’t the answer Magnea had been hoping for. ‘Have you any idea what she wanted to discuss with you?’

  ‘Well, obviously I’ve been wondering that ever since it happened. There’s only really one thing I can think of that she might have wanted to discuss.’ Magnea broke off and took a deep breath. ‘When we were at school we knew each other slightly through a mutual friend. We were so young – just little girls, you know. At that age you don’t realise the consequences of your actions – the effect they can have on other people. That’s why I’d totally forgotten until now…’

  ‘What?’ Elma prompted, when Magnea didn’t immediately continue.

  ‘We used to pick on a boy in our class. He was tall and thin with sticking-out ears. We used to bully him and call him names and were really horrible to him.’

  ‘And you think that was what she wanted to talk about?’ Elma asked.

  ‘Well, it’s the only thing I can think of. Perhaps her conscience had been bothering her all these years.’

  ‘Do you remember the boy’s name?’

  ‘He’s called Andrés. He works at the library.’

  This was consistent with what Ingibjörn had said about Elísabet attacking Andrés. Elma made a note. ‘Do you remember Sara?’ she asked.

  ‘What? Sara?’ Elma could see how the blood rushed to Magnea’s cheeks under the thick layer of make-up.

  ‘Yes, she was in your class, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, of course I remember Sara.’ Magnea definitely wasn’t smiling now. ‘Sorry, but I’d rather not talk about her. What happened to Sara is too personal. Not only because we were school friends but because she was my husband’s sister.’

  ‘Yes, I’m aware of that. It must have been a terrible blow for the family.’

  ‘You have no idea.’

  ‘I understand that Elísabet and Sara were close friends.’

  ‘Yes,’ Magnea replied curtly. ‘They were.’

  ‘I know you were only a child at the time, but did you ever get the impression that there was something else bothering Elísabet apart from her difficult home life?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Magnea frowned.

  ‘I’m just wondering what went on at her house. If something could have happened to her there.’

  ‘If you’re asking if I think she was abused, I doubt it. Not physically, anyway. She never struck me as … a victim. She was self-confident. Almost arrogant. And she never, ever let anyone push her around.’

  Elma bit back the urge to explain to Magnea that children could react to abuse in very different ways; they didn’t necessarily behave like victims. ‘Do you remember any incidents in which she herself was violent, at school or outside it?’

  Magnea shrugged. ‘No, I can’t say I do. But she was imaginative and got up to all sorts of mischief. The other kids didn’t like her much but she got away with a lot. All she had to do was blink those big eyes of hers at the teachers and they’d forgive her.’ Magnea’s laughter was unusually shrill.

  ‘What about Sara, what was she like? Was she as determined as Elísabet?’

  ‘No, not at all. Sara was the small, sensitive type.’ Elma could have sworn she detected a note of anger in Magnea’s voice, although her expression didn’t change. ‘There was something about Elísabet that made you wary. I didn’t particularly dislike her but I could never understand why they were friends.’ And from the way she said it, there was no doubt at all in Elma’s mind that Magnea had loathed Elísabet.

  Elma was no reader. She hadn’t set foot in the town library since she was a little girl. In those days it had been in a completely different place, near Brekkubær School and the hospital, but now the old library had been converted into flats. She remembered clearly what it had been like inside: the smell of books, the brown carpet, the big wooden shelves. She also remembered the librarian, a small woman with curly hair and a friendly face, who had always made her feel welcome.

  She was aware of mixed feelings when she thought about the library. It had been a refuge of sorts; a place she went to forget herself, to wander from shelf to shelf, searching for exciting-sounding titles. It was somewhere to go when she was unhappy. She used to cycle there after school and often spent the whole day there at the weekend. Perhaps that was why the thought of it made her feel so melancholy now. Had she really been that unhappy as a child? She had never stopped to consider it at the time or to analyse her feelings. She had simply escaped into the world of books.

  Akranes Library was now housed in a new building on what had once been a marsh where they used to skate in freezing weather. Inside it had a high ceiling, a grey floor and white walls. Modern chairs and light-fittings were lined up in the middle of the space and the girl at the desk, a young blonde with her face buried in a magazine, didn’t even look up when Elma walked in. There was little trace of the old library’s faded charm.

  She walked over to the desk where the girl was turning the pages of her magazine.

  ‘Is Andrés working today?’ Elma asked when the girl finally bothered to look up.

  The girl shook her head. ‘No, he went home early.’

  Elma thanked her and was on her way out again when suddenly she paused. Since she was here, she might as well look around. She remembered what a soothing effect the old library had had on her and how much pleasure she used to derive from wandering among the stacks, breathing in the smell of the books. Perhaps she could recapture that feeling now. She walked slowly back to the shelves and spent a while scanning the titles. She had just found a book she liked the look of when she heard someone say her name.

  ‘Elma?’

  It took Elma a moment or two to recognise the woman.

  ‘Kristín?’ she asked hesitantly.

  For a brief interval, neither of them said a word, as if they didn’t know how to behave in each other’s presence. Then Elma went over and gave Kristín a quick hug.

  ‘Nice to see you,’ she said. ‘I was hoping I’d bump into you now I’m back in town.’ She only realised something was wrong when Kristín raised her eyes.

  ‘God, what’s the matter with me?’ Kristín said in a strangled voice and sniffed.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Elma asked. She studied her old friend. Kristín’s face was pale and bare of make-up. Her hair was tied back in a pony-tail and she was wearing tracksuit bottoms. This wasn’t the Kristín Elma had seen on social media. There, she was invariably photographed beaming, surrounded by her three children, living what appeared to be the perfect life.

  Kristín drew a deep breath and seemed almost too choked up to speak. ‘Are you … b
usy?’ she asked.

  ‘No, of course not. Shall we get a coffee somewhere?’ Elma suggested, and Kristín nodded gratefully.

  She hadn’t spoken to Kristín for years, probably not since they finished sixth-form college. Their friendship had gradually petered out, without Elma really noticing. Now, as she sat face to face with Kristín, she wondered why that had happened. She remembered all the secrets they used to share; the in-jokes that only they had understood.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kristín said, with a watery smile. They were sitting in Garðakaffi, the café attached to the open-air museum. Inside, the wooden beams and furniture gave the place a homely, rustic feel. ‘I don’t know what came over me. It was just so good to see a familiar face.’ She nursed her steaming coffee cup in both hands. Kristín had always been a little on the plump side. Not fat, but not thin either. But now, in spite of the thick knitted jumper, Elma could see that she had lost weight. The tracksuit bottoms hung loose on her thighs and her face looked different. Her cheeks, which had always been so round and rosy, now looked haggard and pale. She met Elma’s eye. ‘I know we haven’t talked for a long time, but there’s something special about childhood friends – it’s like they always know you best. New friends can never know you as well as the old ones do.’

  ‘No, I suppose you’re right,’ Elma said. ‘To be honest, I haven’t been good about keeping up my friendships over the last few years.’

  ‘I heard what happened, Elma,’ Kristín said. ‘I’m so sorry. How are you?’

  Elma smiled. ‘Getting there,’ she said, wondering if everyone knew about Davíð. ‘Anyway, what about you? What’s your news?’

  Kristín heaved a sigh. ‘I’m divorcing Guðni and suddenly it’s like the whole of Akranes has turned against me.’