Hulda left the couple’s room and went back into the spare room, where Haukur Leó had presumably slept. There were the family photos, all in one place. Hulda had given them a cursory glance when she examined the room the first time round but now she stopped to consider them more closely. Her attention was arrested by one particular snapshot in the middle. It showed the couple, Erla and Einar, probably in their thirties, looking young and carefree, and between them a pretty, red-haired girl in her teens … And … there was something about the girl that struck Hulda; yes, she reminded her a little of Unnur, the missing girl from Gardabær. Maybe it was just that Hulda was preoccupied by both cases, and yet there was a resemblance. They were both redheads, of course, but it was more than that; they were actually quite alike.
She wondered who the girl in the picture was and guessed she must be the couple’s daughter; the atmosphere in the photo certainly gave that impression, since they both had their arms around her, and Hulda’s immediate assumption had been that this was a family portrait.
But if so, where was the girl now?
And why had nobody mentioned her?
Inspector Jens was standing outside in the driving snow, buffeted by the wind, which seemed unrelenting in this exposed spot.
‘Could I have a word?’ Hulda asked, but he continued to stare into space. Walking over, she tapped him on the shoulder and he jumped.
‘I wanted to ask you something.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you. Should we go inside?’
She nodded and they returned to the welcome shelter of the hall.
‘I was looking at the photographs – the family photos, you know – and there was one of the couple with a young girl. Did they have a daughter?’
‘Yes,’ the inspector answered promptly: ‘Anna.’ His expression grew sombre.
‘Where is she?’
This time it took him longer to reply: ‘She lived on the neighbouring farm, in the blue house we visited earlier.’
‘She lived there? Then where is she now?’ Hulda pictured the rooms in the empty house, the home that someone seemed to have left in a hurry, never to return.
‘She’s dead,’ Jens said heavily.
‘Dead? But … she must have died very young.’ Hulda tried hard to focus, to keep her thoughts from straying to Dimma, but she could hear her voice breaking.
‘Very. She was no more than twenty, if I remember right. She’d just moved home again after finishing sixth-form college. Well, not exactly home: she moved into the old tenant farm, as I said. It caused quite a stir in the village. Most people had taken it for granted she’d move south to Reykjavík and do something different with her life. But the countryside exerts a strong pull. It was in her blood. I remember bumping into her not long after she moved home, and she was radiant with happiness. She lived for this place.’
Hulda was feeling too choked up to continue with the conversation. All she could see was Dimma, and she knew that any minute now she would break down in tears. The only way she could hide them was outside in the falling snow. Yet, clearing her throat, she forced herself to ask, trying to keep the quiver out of her voice: ‘What … what happened to Anna?’ She had to know.
VIII
Unnur experienced an intoxicating feeling of pure, unadulterated freedom. She was as free as a bird, dependent on no one, all her belongings in her backpack – everything that mattered, at least; most importantly, her notebooks. Her writing was going well. And nobody knew where she was. She hadn’t got round to telling her parents where she was heading next, as there was no urgency. She was taking a year’s break from them as well. Of course, she loved them dearly, but this was her time and she was determined to manage on her own.
It had taken her a couple of days to get here. From Kirkjubæjarklaustur she had travelled by bus along the south coast to Höfn í Hornafirdi. It was one of the most spectacular roads in Iceland: to the south, there was nothing but the immense, flat ocean; on the landward side to the north, the vast Vatnajökull icecap with its jagged fringe of peaks and succession of glacial tongues, tumbling one after another down towards the plain. With the handful of other passengers – a few locals and a scattering of foreigners – she had got out to marvel at the intensely blue glacial lagoon at Jökulsárlón, with its jostling crowd of icebergs. Yet, stunning though the scenery was, the experience had made her feel like a tourist rather than an adventurer. She was impatient to get off the beaten track, leave behind the Ring Road with its famous sights and head up into the lonely valleys of the interior, where a few last farms were still clinging on.
After a night in the youth hostel at Höfn, Unnur had continued her journey by bus up the east coast, leaving the icecap behind and entering a new, green landscape of fjords and layer-cake mountains, finally arriving at the village the woman had mentioned on the phone. From there, she had kept to her plan of walking rather than trying to organize a lift. It was a fine day, with that extraordinary clarity that you only get in an Icelandic autumn, every ridge and gully standing out so clear in the pure air that it looked as if you could reach out and touch them. The hike took hours, but the exercise and the sensation of being completely alone, following a narrow ribbon of road up the uninhabited, treeless valley, left her feeling mentally and physically invigorated. She had brought along a packed lunch and perched
