The Girl Who Died, Ragnar Jonasson [small books to read .TXT] 📗

woman after a pause. Although she hadn’t been given the job then and there, she had known that she must be in with a good chance. Before ending the conversation, she had asked: ‘How many children are there … for me to teach?’

‘Just two, two girls. Seven and nine years old,’ came the reply.

‘Just two girls? And you need a teacher?’

‘Yes, the fact is, we do. It’s too far to drive them back and forth to the nearest school, especially in winter. They’re lovely girls as well.’

And now the moment had come. Una was embarking on her adventure here in Kópavogur, at the crack of dawn: a winter in the countryside, right out at the end of the Langanes Peninsula, among strangers, with only two pupils. It still seemed faintly ridiculous that she was being hired to teach such a tiny class, as if it would hardly justify a full teacher’s salary. But inside she was excited; there was something so appealing about the idea.

Salka, the woman she had spoken to on the phone, had come across as friendly and approachable. If all the locals were like her, perhaps the little village would welcome Una with open arms. And perhaps she would be so taken with the scenery and the people that she wouldn’t want to leave after her contract was up …

She snapped out of her thoughts when her mother touched her arm and repeated her question, although Una had already answered it: ‘You’re sure it’s only for one year?’

‘Just for one winter, yes. I’ve no intention of living that far from Reykjavík for ever.’ She smiled reassuringly at her mother.

‘Well, Una. I feel as if the bird’s finally flown the nest.’

‘What nonsense, Mum. I flew the nest years ago.’

‘Yes, darling, but you’ve never been far away. We’ve always been there for each other … I just hope it won’t be too difficult for you, being alone up there, not being able to come and see me to talk about … well, about the past.’

Una had a sudden suspicion that her mother was in fact describing her own fears; that this parting might prove harder for her than Una had realized.

Una hugged her tight, and they stood there for a moment, neither of them saying a word.

There was nothing more to say.

He had never killed a man before.

Had never come close, despite his sinister reputation. It was a reputation designed to instil respect and fear, cultivated deliberately because he had a position to maintain. Plenty of people no doubt believed him capable of murder, and some probably thought he had already killed, given all the times he’d been forced to resort to violence. Although his appearance didn’t necessarily suggest it, he was strong and knew how to fight.

And today he had finally done it; he had killed a man.

It had been a strange feeling. At first, all he had been aware of was the adrenaline pumping through his veins, telling him that from now on there was nothing he couldn’t do. He’d proven capable of taking a life, of standing and watching as a man drew his last few breaths, savouring the power of knowing that at any moment he could have intervened to save him.

He had brought along the sawn-off shotgun. It was late, the evening was dark, wet and cold. He had battered violently at the door, knowing there was little risk that anyone would hear. The block of flats was hardly more than a construction site, the first half-completed building in a concrete jungle. No one else had moved in yet; there were no witnesses to his visit. His victim – who didn’t deserve to be called a victim – had obviously realized what was happening and tried to defend himself. He had felt an urge to shoot him, but the purpose of the shotgun had only ever been to intimidate, not to kill. The fallout from a gunshot would be too messy.

Instead, he had spun the gun round and used the butt to knock the man senseless, then finished him off with his bare hands.

It hadn’t been that hard. Not really. He had to do it; he had no choice.

Now the poor bastard was lying dead on his own living-room floor, and somehow the body would have to be removed and made to disappear. That was tonight’s job.

He stood there motionless for a while, examining the lifeless corpse, and as he did so it came home to him that everything had changed; he had crossed a line, committed a deed that couldn’t be undone. He would have to learn to live with it. From now on, he would always be a fugitive, because he had every intention of getting away with it. The alternative was unthinkable. There were people who knew about this visit, but they were on his side. They were the ones who had asked him to deal with the problem. He wasn’t too worried about the police, as long as he managed to dispose of the body without a trace. The Icelandic CID didn’t have much experience of real crimes. He would probably be interviewed, since he had links to the victim; he might even be a suspect for a while, but he could live with that. He just needed to make absolutely sure he didn’t leave behind any incriminating evidence like fingerprints.

Luckily, there was no blood as it had been a clean blow, and it was dark – in fact, it was pretty much dark round the clock now, in late November. He just needed to get the body out to the car, then find a good place to dump it. He had an idea or two about suitable places, but he would probably need one of his mates to give him a hand.

It briefly crossed his mind to wonder if anyone would miss the dead man. Did he have parents who were still alive, or siblings, perhaps? He’d never had many friends, treacherous scum that he was. No, nobody would