The Creak on the Stairs Read online

  ‘Us,’ Eiríkur said immediately. ‘She doesn’t have any contact with her family. Her mother died many years ago, before I came on the scene. There was an aunt, Guðrún, who she lived with after her mother died, but they’re not on speaking terms anymore. And there’s only one friend who visits regularly. Her name’s Aldís. Apart from that, it’s just me and the boys.’

  ‘What about you? Where were you over the weekend?’

  ‘Here at home with the boys. We didn’t do much.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm that?’

  Eiríkur sighed and stared into space: ‘Let’s see … on Friday I was at work and my colleagues should be able to confirm that. The boys had friends round in the afternoon and their mother picked them up at around seven. They live on a farm about ten minutes from here. On Saturday we stayed at home. No, actually, I gave the boys a lift to see their friends, and while they were there I did a food shop for the weekend. In the evening we had supper here, and Sunday was more or less the same, except that we went for a bit of a drive and got ourselves some ice-creams in Borgarnes.’ He looked at them, adding wearily: ‘Will that do, or do you want me to wake the kids to confirm my story?’

  ‘No, there’s absolutely no need for that,’ Elma said quickly. ‘But I’m afraid we will need to confirm your alibi. It’s just a formality, though.’ She gave him a brief smile.

  ‘Right, well, I’m sure that’s quite enough for you to be thinking about. We’ll head off shortly and leave you in peace to deal with what’s happened. But tomorrow it would be good if you could come and do a formal identification of…’ Sævar hesitated. He had been about to say ‘the body’ but it sounded so cold. ‘We offer trauma counselling for circumstances like this and I recommend you accept it. In the meantime, we’ve asked the local vicar to come round and see you, if you don’t object. I’m afraid, given the nature of the case, we’ll have to ask you further questions, so it would be helpful if you could keep your phone on you at all times. Also, do you have a recent photo of Elísabet you could give us?’

  Eiríkur didn’t immediately react, but after a few seconds he got up and found a photo of his wife for them. Elma wasn’t sure he’d taken in everything Sævar had said but they both knew there was little point trying to ask him any more questions now.

  Fortunately, they didn’t have to wait long before the bell rang to announce the arrival of the vicar. Sævar went and opened the door for him. Elma hoped Eiríkur’s family would be able to come and keep him company as well, despite the late hour. She got a lump in her throat when she thought about the two little boys sleeping, unsuspecting in their beds. Eiríkur was still sitting there, staring down at his hands, as she rose to her feet.

  ‘Don’t hesitate to get in touch if you think of anything,’ Elma said before they took their leave, and she wrote down their phone numbers for him. She added, as she handed him the piece of paper: ‘I’m really very sorry.’ Eiríkur took the note in silence. They had started walking back to their car, leaving him with the vicar, when they heard his voice behind them.

  ‘What am I to tell the boys?’ he asked, looking from one of them to the other, his mouth hanging open in an expression of bewildered despair.

  They had no answer to that.

  Akranes 1990

  Her daddy used to tell her stories. She knew most of them weren’t true but that was what made them so fun. In her daddy’s stories, anything could happen. The most unlikely things could come to life and her daddy was always getting into the funniest scrapes. He told her stories from when he was a little boy and used to get up to all kinds of mischief. He had been brought up on a farm, with sheep, cows, horses and hens. She used to listen enthralled, wishing that she could have grown up in the countryside like him, surrounded by all those animals. He promised to take her to the farm one day to visit them. Yet another promise he would never be able to keep.

  One story kept running through her head. She didn’t know if it was true or made up – perhaps nobody knew, as it had happened such a long time ago. He had told it to her as they were walking along the beach one mild, sunny day. The surface of the sea had been almost perfectly smooth and the Snæfellsjökull glacier had been clearly visible far away to the north-west.

  ‘Do you know who lives in Snæfellsjökull?’ her daddy had asked, smiling down at her. She had been writing in the sand with a long stick but paused to look at him, screwing up her eyes against the dazzling sunlight.

  ‘Father Christmas?’ she had guessed.

  ‘No, not him,’ her daddy had said. ‘Bárður – Bárður Snæfellsás. They say he was so big that he must have been descended from both giants and trolls.’

  ‘Was he dangerous?’

  ‘Not at first, but then something happened to change him.’

  ‘What happened?’ she had asked and stopped writing in the sand. She knew he was going to tell her a story and she loved his stories.

  He cleared his throat and sat down beside her on the sand.

  ‘Well, you see Bárður had a daughter called Helga, who he loved very much. And one day Helga was playing with her friends, Sölvi and Rauðfeldur.’

  ‘Rauðfeldur,’ she repeated, giggling.

  ‘Yes, Rauðfeldur, because he had red skin. Don’t you think it’s a good name?’

  She shook her head, laughing.

  ‘Anyway, they were outside playing on the shore at Arnarstapi, near the boys’ home. It was a foggy, windy day and the sea ice had come in close to land. They were having a competition, which turned into a fight, and it ended with Rauðfeldur pushing Helga out to sea on an iceberg. The wind was so strong that the iceberg floated away from shore, taking Helga with it.’ He paused a moment before continuing: ‘Do you know the name of the country that’s our neighbour to the west? It’s called Greenland. Well, the wind was so strong that it only took seven days for Helga to float all the way to Greenland on the iceberg.’

  ‘Wow, seven days is a very long time,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is quite a long time,’ her daddy agreed. ‘But the story’s not finished, because when Bárður heard what had happened to his daughter he went mad with rage. And that was bad, because he was from a family of trolls and giants, remember?’

  She nodded.

  ‘So, he went to Arnarstapi, picked up Rauðfeldur and Sölvi, one under each arm, and carried them up to the mountain. First, he threw Rauðfeldur into the big, deep fissure that’s called Rauðfeldsgjá today – that means Redskin’s Cleft. Then, he threw Sölvi off the high cliff which has been known as Sölvahamar, or Sölvi’s Cliff, ever since. After that Bárður changed, and became silent and bad-tempered. He didn’t feel he belonged in the world of men anymore so he went to live in the Snæfellsjökull glacier and that’s how he got his name – Snæfellsás, the god of Snæfell. They say that he rescues people who get into trouble when they’re climbing the glacier.’

  ‘A bit like Superman?’

  ‘Yes, a bit like Superman,’ her father had said, laughing.

  Sometimes, when she gazed at the glacier, rising from the sea like a pyramid on the horizon, she wished she could copy Helga – float on an iceberg to another country in only seven days. She knew now that seven days wasn’t a very long time. And sometimes she told herself that if Bárður was the guardian spirit of the glacier, maybe her daddy was the guardian spirit of the sea. And, because of that, nothing bad would happen to her if she went to sea on an iceberg. She used to sit there for hours, remembering that day on the beach and daydreaming of a future in another country and of her daddy living under the sea. Soon she would be seven and then it would be a whole year since she had last seen him. She made up stories in her head about all the adventures she would have on her voyage. They were all nice stories, with happy endings.

  Tuesday, 28 November 2017

  By 9.00 a.m. Elma and Sævar were sitting at the table in the little meeting room, waiting for Hörður. He arrived a few minutes later, panting, his cycle helmet still on his head. He took it of
f and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a white handkerchief that he stuck back in his pocket. His hair was flattened down to his ears, below which it kinked out again in bushy curls. Drawing his glasses from his pocket, he stuck them on his nose.

  ‘Beautiful morning,’ he said, smiling at them as he took a folder out of his satchel and placed it on the table. He sat down, leafed quickly through the papers it contained, then got up again, asking them to hang on a minute. Sævar grinned at Elma, who raised her eyebrows. When Hörður came back, he was carrying a white cup that he put down carefully on the table to avoid spilling any tea.

  ‘Right,’ he said, having recovered his habitual composure, ‘we’ve received confirmation that the body is that of Elísabet Hölludóttir, born 1983.’ He wrote the victim’s name on the shiny whiteboard with a red marker pen. ‘Her husband Eiríkur formally identified her this morning. The verdict of the Identification Commission should be available in a couple of days.’ Hörður turned, his face grave, and adjusted his glasses. ‘The pathologist is due back in the country today and will start the post-mortem immediately, but the doctors who have already examined her are fairly sure that she was hit by a car.’

  ‘Hit by a car?’ Sævar asked, looking up from the picture he had been doodling on his pad. Elma, who had leant over to see what it was, also turned to Hörður with renewed interest.

  ‘Yes, that’s what the injuries to her legs and head suggest. The doctors don’t believe they can have been caused by anything else. That doesn’t necessarily mean she was run over at the scene. It’s more likely that the culprit knocked her down, then moved her to the place where she was found in an attempt to dispose of her body.’

  ‘Did she die as a result of the impact?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. As I said, I’m expecting the pathologist to get in touch as soon as he’s completed the post-mortem. But we all saw the marks on her neck, which show that someone tried to strangle her, either before or after the collision. So the odds are that we’re dealing with direct intention to kill.’

  ‘So it can’t have been an accident,’ Sævar said.

  ‘I sincerely doubt it.’

  ‘She could have been chased there,’ Elma suggested.

  ‘Chased?’ Sævar turned to her.

  ‘Yes, given that she was found such a long way from the road. Maybe she was knocked down and tried to run away.’

  ‘Towards the sea?’ Sævar queried. ‘It’s not much of an escape route.’

  ‘I doubt anyone would be thinking straight in circumstances like that,’ Elma said, feeling that she was having to point out the obvious.

  ‘Is it possible that someone could have knocked her down by accident, then panicked and tried to get rid of the body?’ Sævar sat back in his chair. ‘Then, when they realised she was still alive, they freaked out and finished her off?’

  Elma shuddered. It sounded like a scene from a bad film.

  ‘As we heard yesterday, forensics found blood on the gravel near the car park and on the rocks as well, so we know she received the injuries before she was moved. And don’t forget that, according to the bloodstain-pattern analyst, she was dragged over the rocks.’ Hörður sat down again. He fished the teabag out of his cup and put it on the saucer before continuing. ‘You went round to see the husband yesterday. Anything of interest there?’

  ‘He seemed shocked and told us he’d been at home all weekend with their sons,’ Elma said, looking away from the greenish liquid that was leaking from the teabag to form a puddle on the saucer. ‘But there’s no one really to confirm his alibi, except maybe the parents of the kids who played with his boys at the weekend. Though of course Eiríkur could have gone out without the boys noticing. When they were asleep, for example.’

  ‘Yes, that’s possible. We’d better take a good look at the husband.’ Hörður frowned. ‘We’ll need to ring his employer and check whether he turned up to work on Friday – and, if he did, when. The guys in forensics reckon Elísabet couldn’t have been in the sea for more than twenty-four hours but we’ll have to wait for the pathologist to confirm that.’ Hörður broke off to leaf through the papers that lay in a neat pile in front of him. ‘As you know, she called in sick on Friday, but Eiríkur claims he had no idea about that. Could she have been intending to stay somewhere else over the weekend while her family thought she was abroad on a flight?’

  Elma leant back in her chair. ‘Could she have been having an affair?’

  ‘With someone here in Akranes, you mean?’ Sævar asked.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Elma said, ‘though if her body was moved to the lighthouse, we can assume that it must have been done by someone who was familiar with the town. Or at least knew where to find somewhere quiet and off the beaten track.’

  ‘Would you really describe Breiðin as quiet and off the beaten track?’ Hörður sounded sceptical.

  ‘Well, late in the evening or at night, yes, I would,’ Elma said. ‘According to Eiríkur, Elísabet couldn’t stand Akranes and went out of her way to avoid coming here. He was also quite sure she didn’t know anyone in the town, despite having lived here as a child. Which makes it extremely odd that her body should have turned up where it did. If she came here of her own accord, the question is what was she doing or who was she meeting?’

  ‘Yes, she used to live here, apparently.’ Hörður nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘We know she had a car, a grey Ford Focus,’ Sævar said. ‘Since it hasn’t turned up yet, the chances are she was driving it, so it’s vital to track it down as soon as possible. We could start by checking if a car of that make is parked anywhere in or near the town.’

  ‘Yes, that has to be our absolute priority. I’ll get the officers on duty to start looking for it,’ Hörður said. ‘It could have been parked just outside the town, at one of the recreation areas like Elínarhöfði or Garðalundur. We’ll need to check the local garages as well – see if anyone’s brought in a vehicle with damage to the bodywork that matches the victim’s injuries. It’s unlikely the perpetrator would have taken it straight to a garage, but you never know. Sævar, you come out to Breiðin with me. I’d like to take a better look at the area now we know she was knocked down.’

  ‘Did Forensics find any broken glass or other material from a car to indicate that the collision happened near the lighthouse?’ Sævar asked.

  ‘No, they didn’t find anything like that at the scene. But conditions were so bad that I’d like to have the area carefully combed again by daylight, now that the weather’s better, with the specific aim of searching for possible debris from a vehicle. The question is whether the boys from Reykjavík will agree.’ Hörður turned to Elma. ‘I’d like you to gather together all the information you can find about Elísabet and her past. Try to talk to the people she associated with. Someone must be sitting on information.’

  ‘What about her phone?’ Elma asked.

  ‘I’ve sent a request to her provider for her phone records. Then we’ll be able to see whether the call to the airline when she rang in sick definitely came from her phone.’ Hörður replaced the papers in the folder and rose to his feet. ‘See you back here this afternoon.’

  Breiðargata had once been Akranes’s main street, but the focus of the town had shifted away, relegating it to the outskirts. They drove past the abandoned fish-processing sheds and old wooden racks that had once been used for drying fish but now mostly served as climbing frames for the local children. Sævar parked by the information board next to the new lighthouse. A wooden walkway had recently been built out to the rocks and the paths had been surfaced with concrete. He wasn’t sure what he thought of these developments. The place had lost some of its charm now that the lighthouse had become a tourist attraction.

  They got out of the car and slammed the doors, breathing in the fresh sea air. The weather had improved since Sunday night, and by daylight it was much easier to see the rocks around the old lighthouse, which tapered into a long narrow reef at the very tip of the Skagi
Peninsula. In rough conditions the surf could come right up to break against the old lighthouse. Here, at the westernmost point of Akranes, land, sea and sky seemed to converge. Looking back in the other direction, they could view the town at a slight remove. The foreground was dominated by disused oil tanks and the tall chimney of the derelict cement factory, which had once been white but was now showing its age. There was talk of demolishing it. Beyond it, the yellow curve of Langisandur stretched away towards the steep slopes of Mount Akrafjall, which looked like a crater that had collapsed in the middle. To the south, dimly visible across Faxaflói Bay, they could make out the buildings of the capital, while far off on the horizon the long line of the Reykjanes Peninsula reached away to the south-west.

  Nearer at hand, a flock of seagulls was swooping and screeching over the rocks, as if they’d found something edible. In summer the birdlife was more varied, with sandpipers, turnstones, oyster catchers and eider ducks. Sævar liked to go for walks along the shore to watch them, though he wouldn’t describe himself as a serious birdwatcher. Still, he found it soothing and his dog, Birta, enjoyed their outings too. The apartment block where he lived made him claustrophobic. The walls were thin, and there were families with children both above and below. One of the couples had such noisy rows that the sound of their shouting often kept him awake at night. When this happened, he would flee the building and walk down to the harbour, sometimes coming all the way out here to Breiðin. Telma was so used to it that she didn’t make a fuss when he slipped out of bed in the middle of the night.

  ‘Look at this,’ Hörður called. ‘These marks could have been made by someone braking hard.’ He had been walking around the car park, taking photos. ‘Mind you, it’s hard to tell on this gravel.’

  Sævar examined the marks Hörður had pointed out. He was right. The tyre tracks were just off the road, as if someone had swerved to the side and braked suddenly. The area had been cordoned off and kept under guard ever since forensics had undertaken the crime-scene investigation on Sunday evening, so it was unlikely that the marks could have been made since then. On the other hand, it was impossible to tell how old they were.