The solicitor’s office turned out to be a modest affair in the city centre that didn’t even run to a receptionist. Albert Albertsson, who had come out to greet Hulda in person, seemed to read her mind: ‘We run a tight little outfit here,’ he explained. ‘Don’t waste any money on frills. We all turn our hand to whatever needs doing. Anyway, it’s nice to see you again.’
Albert had always had an easy manner and spoke in the warm, well-modulated tones of a congenial late-night radio host chatting to listeners against a background of soothing music. By no stretch of the imagination could you call him good-looking, but he had the kind of face that inspired trust.
The office Albert showed her into couldn’t have presented a greater contrast to Dóra’s bare, soulless little workspace at the hostel. The walls were hung with paintings, there were photographs lined up on the shelf beside the desk and towering stacks of papers on every available surface. Hulda found it slightly overwhelming. It felt a bit over the top, like an attempt to cover up the fact that maybe Albert didn’t actually have that much to do. All the photographs and paintings would have been better suited to a home than a workplace. Unless this was all the home he really had?
‘Have you taken over the case?’ he asked, once they were seated.
Hulda barely hesitated: ‘Yes, for now.’
‘Any developments?’
‘Nothing I can comment on at present,’ she replied. ‘Did Alexander speak to you in the course of the original inquiry?’
‘Yes, he did. We had a meeting, but I don’t think I was able to help him much.’
‘Did you handle Elena’s asylum application from the beginning?’
‘I did. I take on a lot of these human-rights jobs. Alongside my other work, of course.’
‘Could you fill me in on the background to her case?’
‘Well, she was claiming asylum in Iceland on the grounds that she’d suffered persecution at home in Russia.’
‘But her application was unsuccessful?’
‘What? No, on the contrary, we were making good progress.’
‘How good?’
‘They were about to allow her claim.’
Hulda was completely wrong-footed. ‘Hang on a minute: you’re saying they were going to grant her asylum?’
‘Yes, it was in the pipeline.’
‘Was she aware of this?’
‘Yes, of course. She heard the day before she died.’
‘Did you tell Alexander?’
‘Naturally, though I don’t really see how it’s relevant.’
Alexander had ‘forgotten’ to mention the fact in his report.
‘Well, it reduces the likelihood that she’d have taken her own life,’ Hulda pointed out.
‘Not necessarily,’ Albert argued. ‘The whole process puts the applicants under a huge amount of strain.’
‘How did she strike you – in general, I mean? Was she the cheerful type? Or inclined to be depressive?’
‘Hard to say.’ Albert leaned forward over his desk. ‘Hard to say,’ he repeated, ‘since she spoke very little English and I don’t know any Russian.’
‘You used an interpreter, then?’
‘Yes, when required. The process generated quite a bit of paperwork.’
‘Maybe I should talk to the interpreter,’ Hulda muttered, more to herself than to Albert.
‘If you think it’ll help. His name’s Bjartur. He lives in the west of town, works from home. But it’s all in the files. You can borrow them, if you’d like.’
‘Thanks, that would be great.’
‘She was musical,’ Albert added suddenly, as an afterthought.
‘Musical?’
‘Yes, I gather she loved music. My partner keeps a guitar in the office and Elena once picked it up and strummed a couple of tunes for us.’
‘What else did you know about her?’ Hulda asked.
‘What else …? Nothing much,’ Albert replied. ‘We never really learn much about the asylum-seekers we represent, and I try not to get too personal. They usually get sent back, you know.’ He was silent for a moment, then added: ‘It was all very sad. The poor girl. But then, suicide always is.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Yes. Wasn’t that what Alexander’s investigation concluded?’
‘Yes, quite. Alexander’s investigation.’
VIII
‘I thought the case was closed.’ The interpreter, Bjartur, settled himself in an office chair so old and rickety it must have dated back to the eighties. ‘But, if not, I’d be glad to offer any help I can.’
‘Thanks. Did Alexander talk to you at the time? Were you able to provide him with any information?’
‘Alexander?’ Bjartur’s face was blank under his handsome blond mane. He was well named. Bjartur meant ‘bright’. They were sitting in a converted garage, attached to a small detached house in an affluent suburb in the west of town. Surrounded by sea on three sides, the location was pleasant, if windy. When Hulda arrived, she’d rung the bell by the front door and an elderly lady had directed her round to the garage ‘where Bjartur has his office’. There was no chair for visitors, so Hulda made do with perching on the edge of an old bed that was buried under books, many of them in Russian, or so she deduced from the lettering on the spines. Although she had called ahead to warn him she was coming, Bjartur seemed to have made no effort to tidy up. The floor was littered with piles of papers, walking boots and pizza boxes, and there was a heap of dirty clothes in one corner.
‘Alexander’s a colleague of mine from CID,’ she explained, a bad taste in her mouth. ‘He was in charge of the investigation.’
‘Oh, well, I never met him. You’re the first person who’s ever spoken to me about this.’
Hulda felt the bitter resentment flaring up inside her again. If she’d been promoted above Alexander, as she’d deserved, she’d have given him his marching orders long ago.
‘What’s up?’ asked Bjartur, breaking into her thoughts. ‘Has something new come to light?’
Hulda resorted to the same answer she had given the lawyer earlier: ‘Nothing I can comment on at present.’ The truth was that she had nothing to go on apart from a gut feeling, but there was no need to admit the fact. Besides, the conviction had been steadily growing inside her all day that her decision to reopen the inquiry had been the right
