‘Be right back.’
He disappeared, returning almost immediately.
‘Come with me.’
He led her to a cell, opened the door then locked it again behind her. A shudder ran through Hulda as she was shut in. Whenever she’d committed some misdemeanour as a child, her grandmother used to send her to the store cupboard to reflect on her sins. The cupboard had been dark and poky and, to make matters worse, her grandmother had always locked the door. Neither Hulda’s mother nor her grandfather had dared to stand up for her over the business of the naughty cupboard. Perhaps they’d thought it wasn’t so bad, but for Hulda it had been a torment which left her with a lifelong phobia of being confined in narrow, enclosed spaces. In an effort to distract herself now, she cast around for something positive to focus on: the upcoming evening with Pétur, that would do. She told herself she had to be strong, for her own and Elena’s sake.
The Syrian girl was a thin, wan figure, hunched in misery.
‘Hello, my name’s Hulda.’ The girl didn’t react, though Hulda had spoken in English. She was sitting on a bed that was bolted to the wall. There was no chair in the cell and, guessing that it would be unwise to sit down next to her at this stage, Hulda stayed by the door, respecting her personal space.
‘Hulda,’ she repeated, slowly and clearly. ‘Your name’s Amena, isn’t it?’
The girl glanced up, meeting Hulda’s eyes for an instant, before lowering her gaze to the floor again, her arms folded protectively across her chest. She was so young, not yet thirty, perhaps closer to twenty-five, and her manner was anxious, even fearful.
Hulda continued: ‘I’m from the police.’
Just when she had begun to wonder if Ólíver had misinformed her about the young woman’s knowledge of English, Amena answered gruffly: ‘I know.’
‘I need to talk to you, just to ask a few questions.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘You want to send me out of country.’
‘That’s nothing to do with me,’ Hulda assured her, keeping her voice slow and gentle. ‘I’m investigating a case and I think maybe you can help me.’
‘You trick me. You want to send me home.’ Amena glared at Hulda, visibly seething with impotent rage.
‘No, this has nothing to do with you,’ Hulda reassured her. ‘It’s about a Russian girl who died. Her name was Elena.’
At this, Amena became suddenly animated. ‘Elena?’ she said, then added with vehemence: ‘I knew it. Finally.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When she die, there is something strange. I tell police officer.’
‘The police officer? Was it a man? Was his name Alexander?’
‘A man, yes. He don’t care,’ Amena said. Although her English was halting, she was perfectly capable of getting her message across.
Yet again, Hulda mentally cursed Alexander for his incompetence and prejudice. What else had he ‘forgotten’ to write in his report? The case had supposedly been solved, yet she felt she was fumbling her way in the dark.
‘Why did you think there was something strange about her death?’
‘She get permission to stay. Stay in Iceland. She get a yes.’ The Syrian girl was emphatic.
Hulda nodded to show she understood.
The girl carried on: ‘Nobody who get a yes do this. Jump in the sea. She was very happy, sit downstairs, in reception, talk all evening on the phone. Very happy. We were all very happy. She was a good girl. Warm heart. Honest. Have a difficult life in Russia. But then … next day she is dead. Just dead.’
Hulda nodded, while taking the description with a pinch of salt, suspecting that this rosy view of Elena might be coloured to some extent by their friendship, and by the Syrian girl’s own feelings about what it must be like to be granted asylum.
The enclosed space was beginning to get to Hulda, affecting her ability to concentrate. She had broken out in a sweat, her hands were slippery and her heart was beating unnaturally fast. She had to wrap up this conversation quickly and get out of here. ‘Is it possible that she was brought to Iceland to work as a prostitute?’ she asked.
The question seemed to take Amena completely by surprise. ‘What? Prostitute? Elena? No. No, no, no. Not possible.’ She seemed to be groping for words, for a way to refute the tiny seed of doubt that Hulda’s question had sown in her mind. ‘No, no, I am sure. Elena was not prostitute.’
‘A man was seen picking her up in his car. He was short and fat, and drove a four-by-four – a big car. I thought maybe he was a client …’
‘No, no. Perhaps her lawyer. He drive a big car.’ Amena thought for a moment then qualified this: ‘But he is not fat. I don’t remember name. He is not my lawyer; my lawyer is a woman.’
‘Do you have any idea who the man in the big car could have been? Could he have been someone Elena knew?’
Amena shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
Hulda decided to bring their conversation to an end. Her claustrophobia was so bad now that she was drenched in sweat and mentally exhausted. But before she could say another word, Amena forestalled her: ‘Listen, you must help me. I help you. I cannot go home. I cannot!’ The raw desperation in her voice elicited an instinctive rush of pity in Hulda.
‘Well, I don’t suppose … but I’ll mention it to the police officer on duty. OK?’
‘Ask him to help me. Tell him I help you. Please.’
Hulda nodded again, then, changing the subject, asked: ‘Do you have any idea what really happened to Elena? Did anyone have a reason to murder her and, if so, who?’
‘No,’ Amena replied instantly. ‘No idea. She only know this lawyer. She have no enemies. Very good girl.’
‘I see. Well, thanks for talking to me. I hope things work out for you. It was good to meet someone who knew Elena. What happened to her was very sad. Were you close friends? Best friends?’
‘Best
