‘Of course. Where do you live?’
She reeled off her address, finishing: ‘Fourth floor, my name’s on the bell.’
‘I’ll be straight over,’ he said, and rang off without saying goodbye.
‘About time you invited me round,’ was Pétur’s first comment when she opened the door. At getting on for seventy, he was a few years older than Hulda but wore his age well, looking neither much younger nor much older than he really was, though his grey beard did give him a slightly grandfatherly air. Hulda couldn’t stop herself from wondering, just for an instant, what Jón would have looked like at seventy.
Almost before she knew what was happening, Pétur was in the sitting room, making himself comfortable in her favourite chair. Hulda felt a twinge of irritation: her mother’s armchair was her spot, but of course she didn’t say this aloud. After all, she was pleased to have him there, happy that someone wanted to spend the evening with her. She had got used to the loneliness, as far as this was possible, but there was no real substitute for the company of another human being. She had sometimes tried going out by herself, to restaurants for lunch or dinner, but it had made her feel self-conscious and embarrassed, so now she tended to eat in the office canteen or alone at home.
She asked if he’d like a coffee.
‘Thanks, no milk.’
Pétur was a doctor. He’d taken early retirement at sixty, when his wife fell ill, and had told Hulda, without going into any details, that they’d managed some good years together before the end. This information was enough for her to be going on with; she had no wish to make him relive his grief and hoped he would be similarly understanding about not requiring her to reopen old wounds. All she had told him was that Jón had died suddenly at fifty-two. ‘Long before his time,’ she had added, stating the obvious.
Beneath Pétur’s comfortable manner there was a hint of steel, a combination which Hulda guessed would have made him a good doctor. He’d certainly done well for himself. She had visited his large house in the desirable neighbourhood of Fossvogur. It was spacious, with high ceilings and a living room graced with handsome furniture, oil paintings on the walls, a wide selection of books on the shelves and even a grand piano taking pride of place in the middle. Ever since seeing it, she had entertained fantasies about living there, spending her days ensconced in a lovely living room in a cultured home. She could ditch her dreary high-rise apartment, use the cash to pay off her debts and enjoy a comfortable retirement in a large house in a nice neighbourhood. But, of course, that wasn’t the main reason; the truth was she felt good in Pétur’s company, and she was gradually coming to the realization that she might be ready to move on, to commit again after all these years of loneliness.
‘I’ve had quite a day,’ she said, before stepping into the kitchen to fetch the coffee she’d made in advance.
When she came back into the cramped sitting room and handed Pétur a cup, he smiled his thanks and waited for her to continue with what she had been saying, radiating patience and sympathy. He’d been a surgeon, but she thought he’d have made an excellent psychiatrist: he was a man who knew how to listen.
‘I’m stopping work,’ she said, when the silence grew uncomfortable.
‘That was on the cards, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds, you know. You’ll have more time for your hobbies, more time to enjoy life.’
He certainly knew how to do that, she reflected, allowing a moment of envy to sour her thoughts. As a doctor with a successful career behind him, he didn’t have to face any financial worries in his old age.
‘Yes, it was on the cards,’ she agreed in a low voice, ‘but not quite yet.’ Best to be honest with him, not try to embellish the facts. ‘To tell the truth, I’ve been given my marching orders. I’ve only got two weeks left. They’ve hired some boy in my place.’
‘Bloody hell. And you took that lying down? It doesn’t sound like you.’
‘Well,’ she said, mentally cursing herself for not having put up more of a fight when Magnús broke the news, ‘at least I managed to wangle one final case out of my boss, to finish on.’
‘Now you’re talking. Anything interesting?’
‘A murder … I think.’
‘Are you serious? Two weeks to solve a murder? You’re not worried you won’t succeed and that it’ll prey on your mind after you retire?’
She hadn’t thought of that, but Pétur had a point.
‘Too late to back out now,’ she said, without much conviction. ‘Anyway, it’s not a hundred per cent certain that it was murder.’
‘What’s the case about?’ he asked, managing to sound genuinely interested.
‘A young woman found dead in a cove on Vatnsleysuströnd.’
‘Recently?’
‘More than a year ago.’
Pétur frowned. ‘I don’t remember that.’
‘It didn’t attract much media coverage at the time. She was an asylum-seeker.’
‘An asylum-seeker … No, I definitely didn’t hear about that.’
Not many people did, Hulda thought.
‘How did she die?’ he asked.
‘She drowned, but there were injuries on her body. The detective who handled the case – not one of our best men, I might add – dismissed it as suicide. I’m not so sure.’
Feeling pleased with the progress she’d made that day, she gave him a brief account of her discoveries but, to her disappointment, Pétur looked sceptical.
‘Are you sure,’ he asked hesitantly, ‘are you sure you’re not building this up to be bigger than it really is?’
Hulda was a little taken aback by his frankness, but another part of her appreciated it.
‘No, I’m not at all sure,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m determined to follow it up.’
‘Fair enough,’ he said.
It was getting late. They had swapped their coffee for red wine a couple of hours ago. Pétur had stayed longer than anticipated but, far from
