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

XI

New Year’s Eve dawned bitterly cold. Una had started the day with a walk down to the shore, where an icy wind had blown in from the sea, piercing her flesh to the bone. She would have given anything for some snow, even just a faint dusting; New Year was inextricably linked to snow in her childhood memories; to her father poking fireworks into drifts before lighting the fuses. This year she didn’t know if she’d get to see any fireworks at all. She hadn’t ordered any from the shop herself and didn’t know what the tradition was in the village.

Salka still hadn’t come home, but Una had learned from Gudrún that Edda’s funeral was to take place on 2 January in the town of Egilsstadir, where most of their relatives lived. No one had said anything to Una about attending and, although it didn’t pay to mark yourself out as different in a place like this, she was reluctant to turn up to the funeral uninvited.

She had started spending more time downstairs, having grown bolder in Salka’s absence. It was several days since she had last slept in the attic. Instead, she had been sleeping on Salka’s sofa, making sure that she could easily remove all signs of her presence if her landlady came home unexpectedly. She felt guilty as if she was trespassing, because she hadn’t asked permission. And if Salka turned up in the middle of the night or early in the morning and found Una on the sofa, she had an excuse ready: she would claim it had been so cold in the attic that she had taken refuge downstairs, just this once.

At present she was sitting at the table in the downstairs kitchen, listening to the midday news on Salka’s radio. It was surprising how quickly she had got used to having this big house all to herself. Her lunch consisted of toast and a bottle of Coke – a bad habit, but she had always had a sweet tooth. Besides, her supply of booze had run out yet again and she had resolved to get through New Year without replenishing her stocks. Thór had invited her to dinner at the farm. Sadly, Hjördís would be there too, but with any luck they would have something to drink to welcome in the New Year.

The radio news generally went in one ear and out the other in a pleasant murmur, and she was sitting, half listening to the announcer’s deep tones reading the headlines, when she was brought up short by the first item of the main bulletin: ‘The police are appealing for help in finding a missing man, Patrekur Kristjánsson, who was last sighted in Reykjavík, three days before Christmas. Patrekur is thirty-three years old, with close-cropped hair, and is believed to be wearing a black leather jacket and jeans. Anyone who has seen Patrekur is asked to contact the Reykjavík police.’

Una was so taken aback that she shot out of her chair, seeing again the man who had appeared at Salka’s door three days before Christmas. Perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her – after all, she seemed to see apparitions in every corner these days – but the description matched. Of course, it could apply to any number of Icelanders, but she had such a clear memory of the man in the leather jacket.

She went straight to the phone in the hall, only to withdraw her hand at the last minute, realizing she didn’t know the number of the Reykjavík police. It was one of those supposedly easy to remember five-digit numbers, but she’d never had to call the police before. She would have to look it up in the directory, but, on second thoughts, she told herself it might be better to see a photo of the missing man before she made the call. It wouldn’t be a good idea to disturb the village during a holiday with a visit from the police, especially when she had no concrete information to report. What’s more, it occurred to her that if the police came in search of this Patrekur, the trail would end at the farm with Hjördís and Thór. The very last thing she wanted was to get them – or him, anyway – into trouble.

The police were bound to have published a photo of the missing man in the papers. She assumed they came out on New Year’s Eve, as it wasn’t a holiday; in fact, she had a clear memory of reading Morgunbladid at home in the old days on 31 December. And although today’s edition was unlikely to have reached the Co-op yet, no doubt it would turn up in the next few days.

Yes, it would be better to wait until she had seen his picture; better to be absolutely sure before doing anything drastic like involving the police.

XII

It was past one o’clock when Una nipped out to the Co-op to check if it was open. If anything, it was even colder than it had been that morning, and the wind was now gusting strongly. Her thick anorak provided little protection against the weather: just as well it was only a short step between the houses.

The shop was indeed open. The bell emitted its familiar jingle as Una stepped into the warmth. Gudrún looked up from her knitting and smiled at her.

‘Una, dear. Are you after something for your New Year’s Eve dinner?’

‘Hello,’ Una said cheerfully. In spite of Gudrún’s bossiness over the concert, she was one of the only friendly faces in the village, and Una was grateful for that. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to be here today.’

‘I’m always open until two on New Year’s Eve, as well as on Christmas Eve. There’s quite a … well, quite a holiday atmosphere, I always feel. Not much to do, but people often drop in for a chat and to buy last-minute things they’ve forgotten, like something for the gravy, or peas to have with dinner,