‘Katja?’
‘Yes, also Russian.’
‘Russian?’ Hulda was so startled that she momentarily forgot her feeling of suffocation. ‘Were there two Russian girls?’
‘Yes. They come here together. Katja and Elena.’
Hell, Hulda thought: Katja had probably left the country months ago, which was frustrating, as Hulda would definitely have liked to talk to her. She needed to get closer to the victim, get a better sense of what had been going through her mind, who she associated with, whether she was afraid of someone, and whether she had really been trafficked to work in the sex industry.
‘Do you know where Katja is?’ she asked, assuming the answer would be no. ‘Was she granted a residence permit, too?’
‘I don’t know. Nobody know.’
‘What do you mean?’ Hulda felt her heart beating faster, though with excitement now, rather than panic.
‘She disappear.’
‘She disappeared? How do you mean?’
‘Yes, disappear. Or run away. She is hiding, maybe. Or leave country. I don’t know.’
‘When did this happen?’
The girl wrinkled her brow. ‘Before Elena die. Some weeks before. Maybe one month. I am not sure.’
‘Weren’t you worried? How did the police react?’
‘Yes … yes, sure. But she just run away. I should have done same … And nobody has found her, I think.’
‘What about Elena, how did she take the news? You say they were best friends?’
‘Well … At first she is angry. She think Katja is stupid. Think they both get permission to stay. But then …’ Amena’s face grew grave. ‘Then she is worried. Very worried.’
‘Was there any explanation for her disappearance?’ asked Hulda, not really expecting an answer.
Amena shook her head. ‘She just go, she don’t want to be told to leave country. People here are …’ She searched for the word. ‘Desperate. Yes, we are all desperate.’
‘What was Katja like?’
‘Nice. Friendly. Very beautiful.’
‘Is it possible that it was her, not Elena, who was working as a prostitute?’
‘No. No, I don’t believe it.’
‘I see.’ Hulda had been completely absorbed in the interview, but now the feeling of claustrophobia gripped her with renewed force.
Thanking Amena profusely for her help, she rapped on the door and waited, twitching with nerves, for Ólíver to open it and let her out.
‘You remember,’ Amena said, breaking the silence. ‘You will help me.’
Hulda nodded: ‘I’ll do my best.’
At that moment, the door opened.
‘Get what you wanted?’ Ólíver asked, without any real interest.
‘You and I need to talk. Now,’ Hulda snapped, her tone that of a senior officer addressing an underling.
She stole a single backward glance before Ólíver locked the cell again, and saw the Syrian girl framed for an instant by the doorway, her face the picture of despair.
VI
The river had emerged on to the surface now and they were walking along its banks in the middle of a narrow valley surrounded by mountains.
‘Look,’ he said suddenly, gesturing into the darkness. ‘There’s the hut.’
She strained her eyes in the direction he was pointing, peering through the light haze of snow, but only when they drew closer was she able to make out a tiny black dot that gradually began to take shape against the backdrop of white, revealing itself as a pitched roof on top of dark wooden walls; a tiny hut, far from civilization.
When they reached it, they found the windows and door covered in snow. He scraped the drift away from the door, but it turned out to be frozen shut and opened only after a protracted struggle. Once inside, she took off her rucksack, relieved to be free of its dragging weight. It was pitch dark, but the beams from their head torches illuminated the interior wherever they fell, revealing bunks with sleeping places for four people, maybe more. She sank down on one of the thin mattresses to catch her breath.
The hut was primitive in the extreme. It contained nothing but a small table, a few chairs and the bunks. The idea was presumably to provide basic shelter for travellers – a way to survive the Icelandic wilderness – rather than any level of comfort.
‘Could you fetch us some water?’ He handed her the empty bottle.
‘Water?’
‘Yes. Go down to the river.’
Although daunted at the thought of having to go back outside into the night, alone this time, she obeyed, armed only with the head torch. The hut stood on a slope and the descent to the little river was steep. She edged her way down, taking tiny steps, as it was treacherously slippery and she was no longer wearing crampons: they had taken them off once the most difficult section of the route was behind them. The last thing she wanted was to take a tumble and slide down the slope, landing in the cold, wet snow at the bottom.
Having arrived safely on the river bank, she dipped the bottle into the icy water and waited for it to fill, then lingered a moment, sneaking the first drink. The water was pure, clear and bitterly cold, straight from the glacier, wonderfully refreshing after the long hike.
Back inside the hut again, she took off her jacket, still sweating from the climb up the slope from the river. Her companion was busy lighting candles: he had explained that there was no electricity or hot water in the hut. She joined in and soon there were ten small, flickering flames helping to dispel the gloom, though they didn’t give off much warmth.
‘You should put your coat back on,’ he said, ‘or you’ll soon start feeling chilled. It’s the same temperature in here as it is outside.’
She nodded but didn’t immediately obey. She couldn’t face pulling on the bulky jacket again, not quite yet.
He took out a stove that he called a sprittprímus in Icelandic, saying he didn’t know how to translate the name, lit it and heated up some baked beans. She wolfed hers down. They were delicious accompanied by cold water from the river, and brought a warm glow to her
