XII
Hulda shelled out for a taxi back to Reykjavík: CID could pay. She supposed she could have rung Ólíver and accepted his offer but that would have taken more time and she was in a hurry.
To her intense relief, the driver who picked her up showed no propensity to chat, leaving her free to think. Halfway back to Reykjavík, she realized she had failed to keep her word to Amena: she had promised to tell Ólíver that she had helped the police, but then forgotten to do so, too preoccupied with her own problems. She had felt so sorry for herself all day, but now she felt a sense of guilt. Poor Amena didn’t have many allies in this country, and Hulda could have done something to help her, a small favour. She had been entirely focused on saving Elena, though it was too late for her. But Amena was still alive and Hulda had a chance to right this wrong; she resolved to call Ólíver later, just not right now.
The sky was brightening: with any luck, they’d leave the drizzle behind on Reykjanes.
With her nerves still jangling from her phone conversation with Magnús, there was no chance of grabbing a nap during the drive. The adrenaline was pumping through her veins and her mind was racing. She had no idea what was coming but, prepared for the worst, decided she’d better ring Pétur.
‘Hulda, what an unexpected pleasure,’ he said, sounding as upbeat as ever. ‘How are things?’
‘Busy, actually,’ she said. It was a relief to hear a friendly voice and know that, in him, she had found someone she could trust, someone she could really talk to. It was a heart-warming feeling.
‘I’m looking forward to this evening. I’ve booked a table.’
‘Yes, about that … is there any way we could postpone it till tomorrow? I’m not quite sure how my day’s going to pan out.’
‘Oh, I see.’ The disappointment was clear in his voice. ‘No problem.’
‘Could I maybe ring you once I’m free? We could grab a bite to eat then.’
‘Yes, that sounds good. But we can’t postpone till tomorrow: it’ll have to be the day after.’
‘What?’
‘Dinner at Hótel Holt. We can’t postpone it till tomorrow because we’re climbing Esja tomorrow evening. Had you forgotten?’
‘Oh, yes, of course, so we are.’ At the thought, she was filled with a surge of happy anticipation, looking forward both to the hike and to spending time with Pétur.
‘I’ll hear from you later, then,’ Pétur said.
‘Yes, I’m hoping I won’t be too late,’ Hulda replied, grateful that he had reacted so well to the last-minute change of plans.
They rang off and Hulda was left alone with her thoughts again. Part of her wanted to give the taxi driver a different destination, chicken out of the coming meeting with Magnús. Her complete ignorance of what he wanted to see her about only made matters worse. If only she could go home, relax, recover her composure and never darken the doors of CID again. Never be forced to deal with her useless boss, never have to listen to his reprimands. But that would mean abandoning Elena to her fate and perhaps allowing her killer to walk free.
She knew only too well that this wasn’t an option: she was someone who stuck to her guns, always had done. So she sat there in silence as the taxi ate up the kilometres, the lava-fields of Reykjanes giving way to the suburbs of Reykjavík, a mixture of apartment blocks and large detached houses with back gardens where families might be enjoying a barbecue, now that the weather was cheering up; the kind of life that Hulda had lost.
As soon as she walked into the station, preparing herself mentally for the coming storm, it struck her: something had changed. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. She made a beeline for Magnús’s office, looking neither left nor right, avoiding her colleagues’ eyes. For once, though, he wasn’t there. At a loss, Hulda looked around awkwardly, before deciding to try his second-in-command, who occupied the smaller office next door. Yet another young man whose rise through the ranks had been more meteoric than Hulda would have ever dreamed possible.
She was spared the effort of explaining her business. He started talking the moment he saw her, and it was plain from his expression that he didn’t envy her the impending encounter. ‘Maggi’s waiting for you in the meeting room.’ He told her which one, shaking his head as if to imply that the battle Hulda was about to engage in was already lost.
She made her way to meet her doom with dreamlike slowness, like a condemned prisoner on her way to the gallows, still completely in the dark about what was going on.
Magnús was alone in the room. From the look on his face it was painfully obvious that he was in a foul mood. Before she could even greet him, he asked curtly: ‘Have you spoken to anyone?’
‘Spoken to anyone?’ she echoed, confused.
‘About what happened last night.’
‘I haven’t a clue what happened, I’m afraid,’ she said.
‘Good. Sit down.’
She took a seat across the table from Magnús. There were some papers in front of him, but Hulda’s eyesight wasn’t what it used to be and she couldn’t make them out.
‘Emma Margeirsdóttir,’ he said slowly, after a long pause, his eyes resting on the papers.
Hulda’s blood ran cold when she heard the name.
‘You know who she is, don’t you?’
‘Oh my God, has something happened to her?’ Hulda asked, in a voice close to breaking.
‘You’ve met her, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, of course. But you knew that. I’d already told you.’
‘Quite.’ He nodded and allowed a silence to develop. And drag on. He was clearly hoping to entrap Hulda with her own tactics, but she wasn’t going to fall for that; she was determined to force him to make the next move.
In the end, he caved in first. ‘You questioned her, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,
