The vicar had duly given the funeral address, but Hulda couldn’t remember what he had said, since she hadn’t taken anything in. Instead, she had found herself thinking about the address that would one day be given at her own funeral, whenever that might be.
Although she had sat in the pew beside Jón, there had been an invisible, impenetrable wall between them. They both knew that their daughter’s death was entirely his fault. What he had done to her was so unforgiveable that it couldn’t be put into words.
Sometimes Hulda found herself wishing that Dimma had left a suicide note, but at others she was extremely relieved that she hadn’t. Such a letter would no doubt have been a severe indictment of both her parents; Jón for his crimes, Hulda for her complacency.
As the coffin was lowered into the ground on that bitterly cold day, Hulda’s tears had melted the snow at her feet and the howling of the wind had echoed the scream inside her.
XI
It was nearly midnight. Hulda and Inspector Jens were once again on their way back to the village in the big police vehicle. Although the snow was still coming down, the flakes were wetter and no longer settling, which made the road easier to negotiate.
Hulda kept picturing the missing girl, Unnur, trying to persuade herself that she might still be alive, that it might still be possible to rescue her. She simply had to believe it.
She dreaded the night ahead. Nights were the most difficult time. Her sleep was fitful at best, disturbed by feverish dreams, but worst of all were the hours she lay awake, her head thrashing back and forth on the pillow, alone with her merciless thoughts. That was when she came closest to tipping over the edge.
And now the night was approaching with inexorable speed. Hulda would have preferred to remain at the scene and wait for news, passing the time by talking to Jens. She might even have been able to doze a bit and recharge her batteries that way.
‘Are you building up a picture yet?’ the inspector asked, his voice barely audible over the roar of the engine and the battering of the wind against the windows.
Hulda had to admit that much remained unclear. Judging by the evidence at the scene, they could be fairly certain that a third person had killed both husband and wife, for reasons that were obscure. They had also established that there had been another person with them in the house, and the odds were that this had been Haukur Leó. Otherwise, why on earth would his car have been abandoned there? The question was what had happened to him, and what possible reason could he have had for travelling right across the country to this remote spot just before Christmas?
Unnur.
There could be no other reason. He had to have been looking for his daughter.
But why here?
Did Unnur have some connection to the couple on the farm? None had emerged during the original inquiry following her disappearance, though the search had been very thorough and every possible clue had been followed up.
No, there wasn’t any connection. Except the odd coincidence that the couple’s daughter had borne a striking resemblance to Unnur. Was there any chance they had been related?
She would have to ring Unnur’s mother when they got back to the village, however late the hour. The woman might be able to shed some light on what could have taken her husband to a remote farm in east Iceland, over 600 kilometres from home. And besides, she had every right to know that Haukur Leó’s car had turned up.
Hulda sat on the bed in the little guesthouse where she had been provided with a room. It was clean but rather chilly, as if the owner were too mean to heat the rooms properly.
She had looked up Unnur’s mother’s number in the telephone directory. After sitting there for a while, mentally preparing herself, she went ahead and dialled it. The phone rang and rang before eventually the poor woman answered, her voice husky with sleep and anxiety.
‘Hello, this is Hulda Hermannsdóttir, from CID,’ she said formally, although there was no real need to give her full name since she had been a frequent visitor to the couple’s home in the period following Unnur’s disappearance.
‘Hulda? Hello…’
Hulda heard the woman’s sharp intake of breath as she realized what this could mean.
‘I’m sorry to ring you so late. It’s about your husband, Haukur Leó … We’ve found his car.’
‘What, you’ve found it? But he … have you found him?’
‘No, not yet. We’re going to launch a search first thing in the morning.’
‘Where … where was it?’ the woman asked, her voice choked by tears.
‘In the east,’ Hulda told her, and proceeded to give a more detailed description of the location.
The woman’s bewilderment was obvious. ‘What … why … what on earth was he doing there? I just don’t understand.’
‘Do either of you have any link to this area? The car was found near the farm of a couple called Einar and Erla. Are you familiar with those names?’
‘We … we don’t have any family out east. I’ve never … never heard of these people.’
‘That’s helpful to know. We’re working round the clock to try and shed some light on the matter. It appears that the car may have been there since before Christmas.’
‘And Unnur … Is there any…?’
‘At the moment there’s nothing to suggest that Unnur was here,’ Hulda said. ‘But of course we’re trying to find out if there’s any chance she could have been.’
‘Yes … OK … Can I ring you if…?’
‘You can get in touch via the police station here in the village. But rest assured that I’ll let you know the moment I hear anything.’ Hulda gave her the phone number.
‘OK … OK … thanks.’
