The Darkness
one: whatever the cause of Elena’s death, it was obvious that the original investigation had been disgracefully slack. ‘Did you meet her often?’‘Not that often, no. I take on these jobs when they come up. They don’t involve a lot of work and the pay’s pretty good. It’s hard to live off translation alone.’
‘But you manage?’
‘Just about. I do quite a bit of interpreting for Russians, some of it for people in the same situation as … um …’
‘Elena,’ prompted Hulda. Not even Bjartur could remember her name. It was extraordinary how quickly the girl’s presence in Iceland was fading from people’s memories: no one gave a damn about her, it seemed.
‘Elena – of course. Yes, now and then I interpret for people in her situation, but I mainly work as a tour guide for Russians, showing them the sights. Some of them are rolling in it, so the pay’s not bad. Apart from that, I translate the odd short story or book, even do a bit of writing myself –’
‘What was your impression of her?’ Hulda interrupted. ‘Did she seem suicidal at all?’
‘Now you’re asking,’ Bjartur said, thwarted in his desire to talk about himself. ‘Hard to say. Maybe. As you’d expect, she wasn’t exactly happy here. But wasn’t it … I mean, surely it must have been suicide?’
‘Probably not, actually,’ said Hulda, with unwarranted confidence. She had a hunch that the interpreter knew more than he was letting on. The trick was to avoid putting too much pressure on him: all she had to do was be patient and allow him to open up in his own time. ‘Did you study in Russia?’ she asked.
He seemed a little thrown by this abrupt change of subject. ‘What? Oh, yes. At Moscow State University. I fell in love with the city and the language. Ever been there yourself?’
Hulda shook her head.
‘It’s an amazing place. You should visit sometime.’
‘Right,’ said Hulda, knowing she never would.
‘Amazing, but challenging,’ Bjartur went on. ‘A challenging place to be a tourist. Everything’s so alien: the language, the Cyrillic script.’
‘But your Russian’s fluent, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, sure,’ he said airily, ‘but then I got the hang of it years ago.’
‘So you had no problem communicating with Elena?’
‘Problem? No, of course not.’
‘So what did you two talk about?’
‘Not much, really,’ he admitted. ‘Mostly, I just interpreted for her at meetings with her lawyer.’
‘He mentioned that she was keen on music,’ Hulda said, in an effort to keep the conversation moving forward.
‘Oh, yes, that’s right. As a matter of fact, she did talk to me about that. She writes … used to write music. She had no chance of doing it professionally in Russia, but that was the dream: to work as a composer here. She played a tune for us once at the lawyer’s office. She was quite good – well, not bad, you know. But it was totally unrealistic. No one can make a living as a composer in Iceland.’
‘Any more than they can as a translator?’
Bjartur smiled but didn’t rise to this. Instead, after a brief pause, he said: ‘Actually, there was something else …’
‘Something else?’ Hulda asked encouragingly. She could tell from his expression that he was in two minds about whether to go on.
‘You’d better keep it to yourself, though.’
‘Keep what to myself?’
‘Look, I don’t want to get dragged into anything … I can’t …’
‘What happened?’ Hulda asked, employing her friendliest voice.
‘It was just something she said … By the way, this is strictly off the record.’
Hulda forced herself to smile politely, resisting the urge to point out the difference between a police officer and a journalist. Although she had no intention of making any promises, she maintained a diplomatic silence, not wishing to frighten him off.
Her tactic worked. After a moment’s hesitation, Bjartur continued: ‘I think she might have been on the game.’
‘On the game? Working as a prostitute, you mean?’ Hulda asked. ‘What reason do you have for thinking that?’
‘She told me.’
‘This didn’t come out in any of the reports,’ Hulda said angrily, though her anger was directed more at the absent figure of Alexander than at Bjartur.
‘No, it wouldn’t have. She told me the first time we met but insisted she didn’t want anyone else to know. I got the feeling she was scared.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of who, you mean.’
‘An Icelander?’
‘Not sure.’ He wavered, seeming to think it over. ‘To be honest, I got the impression from what she said that she’d been brought over to Iceland solely for that purpose.’
‘Are you serious? You mean her application for asylum was just a cover?’
‘It’s possible. She was a bit vague about the whole thing, but it was very obvious that she didn’t want the news to get out.’
‘So her lawyer didn’t know?’
‘I don’t think so, no. I certainly didn’t tell him anything. I kept her secret.’ After a beat, he added, a little ashamed: ‘Until now, of course.’
‘Why on earth didn’t you tell anyone?’ Hulda demanded, sounding harsher than she’d intended.
There was another brief pause, then Bjartur replied, rather lamely: ‘Nobody asked.’
IX
The young mother walked home as usual, but this evening she was unusually tired. It had been a long day at Hótel Borg, the weather had been dark and dreary, the wind and rain dragging her down. Her job description at the landmark hotel in the town centre was rather vague; sometimes she was asked to clean the guestrooms and other times she helped out in the restaurant and bar, often well into the night. She took any shift she was offered, as long as it didn’t interfere with her visits to her daughter.
It had been a day of celebration, 1 December, Sovereignty Day, commemorating Iceland’s achievement of partial independence from Denmark thirty years earlier, in 1918. Students had gathered at the hotel during the evening for a party, and there had been lots of singing and speeches, and the well-known poet Tómas Gudmundsson had performed some of his works.
Christmas was fast approaching and she wanted