Convenient as Magnús’s non-intervention was, Hulda knew she couldn’t rely on it for long. She had been given two weeks’ grace to work on the case, but there was a real risk she would be ordered to wrap up her inquiry before that, perhaps with only a day’s notice to clear her desk, so it was vital to use her remaining time well. The first task on the agenda was to follow up the lead she’d got from the interpreter, Bjartur. And when it came to the sex industry or human trafficking, the fount of all wisdom in the police was an officer known as Thrándur. He’d actually been christened Tróndur, since he was half Faroese, but as he’d lived in Iceland all his life he usually went by the local version of the name. Hulda had never particularly warmed to the man, though he’d always been perfectly polite to her. His manner struck her as too smarmy, but she had to admit that her opinion of Thrándur and various other male colleagues was bound to be coloured by the fact that she wasn’t part of their clique. To give him credit, though, at least Thrándur was a competent detective: he was cautious, intelligent and generally got good results, unlike Alexander.
Thrándur didn’t answer his desk phone, so she tried his mobile. It rang for ages until, finally, he picked up.
‘Thrándur speaking,’ he said formally. To her chagrin, she realized this meant he hadn’t bothered to add her number to his contacts list, in spite of all the years they’d worked together.
‘Thrándur, it’s Hulda here. Could I see you for a quick chat?’
‘Why, Hulda! It’s been ages,’ he said, with a politeness she felt was put on. ‘I’ve got the day off, actually – had to use up a bit of leave left over from last summer. Can it wait until tomorrow?’
She thought for a moment. Time was of the essence: she had to make some sort of progress today and this was the most promising lead she had.
‘I’m sorry, it’s urgent.’
‘OK, fire away.’
‘Could I come and see you?’ She knew this would be more likely to produce a result: if he lied to her, she’d have a better chance of spotting it from his body language.
‘Well, I’m on the golf course.’ This didn’t surprise her: Thrándur was the police team’s star player. ‘And I’m about to tee off. Can you be quick?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Urridavellir.’
This didn’t mean anything to her.
‘The course up at Heidmörk,’ he clarified, when she didn’t react. He gave her directions.
‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ she lied, well aware that her old Skoda wouldn’t be up to the challenge.
As she drove south-east out of town, she found her thoughts dwelling on Pétur. On what a good evening they’d had and how much she’d missed that kind of companionship. She also reflected on what she’d told him about her past, and even more on what she’d left unsaid. For now. There would be plenty of time for that later.
Just beyond the outskirts of the city, the Heidmörk Nature Reserve greeted her in all its fresh spring greenery, the conifers, birches and low-lying scrub caught midway between the drabness of winter and their full summer glory. In the ever-expanding concrete jungle of Reykjavík, Heidmörk offered a calm oasis of trees and hiking trails where people could enjoy days out with their families.
Thrándur’s directions had been clear, and a long career in the police had taught her to pay attention to details, so the way to the golf course wasn’t hard to find. In spite of the tortuous winding of the narrow gravel road that made it impossible to see any oncoming traffic, Hulda and the Skoda made it to their destination in one piece.
Thrándur was standing waiting for her in the car park, dressed up to the nines in a natty golfing costume of diamond-patterned jumper and peaked cap, a trolley and a set of clubs at his side. Hulda had no basis on which to judge his outfit but, given Thrándur’s golfing mania, she assumed he would have no truck with anything but the best.
‘I’m a bit pressed for time,’ he said as she approached, unable to keep a note of impatience out of his voice. As if for emphasis, he glanced over at the large clock on the clubhouse. ‘What was it you wanted to discuss?’
Hulda wasn’t used to being chivvied but, clearly, Thrándur wasn’t prepared to let anything get in the way of his game.
She came straight to the point. ‘It’s about a Russian girl who died a year ago. Her name was Elena.’
‘Doesn’t ring any bells, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Wish I could help you.’ He was politeness personified, in spite of his evident hurry.
‘She came to the country as an asylum-seeker, then turned up dead on a beach on Vatnsleysuströnd. The original investigation was a bit sketchy, but I’ve just learned that she may have been brought over to work as a prostitute, possibly as part of a trafficking ring.’ She kept a close eye on Thrándur’s reaction, noting that she had piqued his interest. ‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you,’ she finished.
‘I … I don’t know anything about that,’ he said in an altered tone, more hesitant now, and evasive. ‘I’ve never heard of any Elena.’ Then, as an afterthought: ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s not unheard of, though, is it?’ Hulda persisted. ‘For people to come to this country on the pretext of seeking asylum when they’re actually part of some kind of organized prostitution network?’ She had done some quick research online before coming out and had found enough to justify this assertion, at least for the
