Alone in a blizzard, far from civilization.
Almost certainly with two murders on his conscience.
His body was lying in the snow, his backpack not far off.
Tragic as it was to think of his poor wife waiting at home, there was no getting away from the fact that if he’d lived, he would have found himself charged with double murder.
The man had been a virtual stranger to Hulda, though she had met him several times in connection with the investigation, at a difficult time in his and his wife’s life. Yet she felt as if, on some deeper level, she had known him well. Staring at his lifeless body, she experienced a powerful surge of feeling. He had, in short succession, suffered an unspeakable tragedy, found himself caught up in these traumatic events, then lost his life without ever finding his daughter, though it appeared that he had suspected where her body was buried.
Even if he had murdered two people, she didn’t get the feeling that this was the body of a cold-blooded killer.
Life wasn’t that simple; the line between good and evil wasn’t that well defined.
‘There are two or three things we need to show you,’ Hulda’s colleague from Forensics told her. Haukur Leó’s body had been removed and taken away for further examination, along with his rucksack. The police were now sitting in the dead couple’s house. Evening had fallen, bringing a slight improvement in the weather; although the wind was still gusting strongly, the snow had at least stopped.
‘We found a bloodstained knife in his backpack.’ The man showed her the weapon, which was now sealed in a clear plastic bag.
‘I suppose the chances are high that this was the knife used to kill Einar,’ Hulda said.
‘Well, of course, we need to carry out tests,’ the man replied, ‘but, between you and me, I think there can be no doubt, in the circumstances.’
Hulda nodded.
‘He had a bunch of keys too, to this house.’
‘And the third thing you mentioned?’
‘Here.’ He handed her another plastic evidence bag. ‘There was this letter. I’m sure you’ll find it enlightening.’
XVIII
Dearest Mum and Dad,
I’m so frightened. I wish I was at home with you.
This letter may never arrive, but I don’t know how else to get a message to you. I’m going to hide it in here, between the books.
Hopefully, I’ll be able to take it with me if I get out of here alive.
She’s locked me in. Her name’s Erla and she lives here. I’m in the east of the country. I’m enclosing the advertisement I found at the petrol station in Kirkubæjarklaustur, which includes information about how to find the farm. It’s in the middle of nowhere, and the woman has lost her mind.
I’m locked in a room in the attic.
She keeps calling me Anna and won’t let me leave. I don’t know why. I haven’t done anything to her.
I know you didn’t want me to go on this trip and I regret not having listened to you now. I daren’t try to escape, as she keeps threatening to kill me, saying she doesn’t want to lose me.
Of course, I know you’ll probably never see this letter, but I feel a little better just from writing it. I feel as if you’re both so near and that somehow you’ll save me.
XIX
Haukur Leó believed he’d found the most likely spot. Behind the house, under the snow, there appeared to be some kind of vegetable garden.
He had set out on this journey in search of his daughter, afraid he wouldn’t find her but even more afraid that he would receive confirmation of her death. But he had to know the truth and so did his wife … They had talked of nothing else since Unnur disappeared but their desperate need to know what had happened.
They had assured each other that it was better to know the worst than to fear it, but now he wasn’t sure they had been right. Now he knew, or believed he knew, that Unnur wasn’t only dead but had been murdered, the knowledge was so horrifying that he couldn’t think straight or work out what to do. It was as if the ground had been pulled out from under his feet, as if he had turned into a different person. He was a good person, or had been, but despair had changed him … When the letter arrived in the post, he hadn’t been able to believe his eyes. He had been at home when it fell through the letterbox. He had started working from home more often because he found it so hard to be around other people at the office. When the letter from Unnur arrived, just before Christmas, it had seemed utterly unreal.
For an incredulous moment, he had believed Unnur was alive and the nightmare was over; that her disappearance had been deliberate and she was now writing to let them know she was safe. He had been about to leap to his feet and run to the phone to ring his wife at work when he saw the date on the letter.
Time had stood still. Feeling faint, robbed of all his strength, he hadn’t been able to read any further at first, but when he did, he discovered that the letter was a cry for help. When she wrote it, though, Unnur had had no way of posting it.
It was plain that Unnur had been terrified. Haukur Leó had read and reread the letter, seized by an uncontrollable rage and hatred towards the woman called Erla. The letter had been dated early last autumn, not long after he and his wife had lost contact with their daughter. Since then, they’d had no further news of her.
He remembered Einar mentioning, carelessly, that he
