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

‘Oh, the papers don’t always reach us here and I just needed some information.’

‘Sure, of course, no problem.’

‘That man who went missing just before New Year, Patrekur something … Do you remember the story?’

‘Yes, you couldn’t miss it.’

‘I need a picture of him.’

‘What? You need a picture of him? What on earth for?’

‘It’s a long story.’ Una added, rather pointedly: ‘I’ll tell you when you come and visit.’

‘OK, I’ll go and check. It was probably on the back page over New Year. I seem to remember that. Hang on a sec.’

There was silence at the other end. Una waited patiently. What on earth for? Sara had asked, and not without reason. Una wondered if she was letting herself get carried away. Could she have felt the need to invent some drama in an attempt to escape the dreary reality that confronted her up here in Skálar?

After a short while, she heard rustling at the other end of the line. ‘Hi, found it.’

‘Is there a photo of him?’

‘Yes. He’s got very short hair and looks quite muscular, and unsmiling – it’s not a very good picture. He appears to be round about our age.’

That wasn’t much help. Una needed to see the photo with her own eyes, if only to convince herself that everything was fine and the man’s disappearance had nothing to do with the village.

‘Could you send me the paper, Sara?’ she asked after a moment.

There was a short delay, then Sara said: ‘Sure, of course. I’ll put it in the post to you tomorrow.’

‘Thanks so much.’

‘I don’t understand why you want it, but of course I’ll do it.’

‘Aren’t you going to come and visit me soon?’

‘Yes, of course. But I’d need to check that my husband’s happy to look after Rebekka by himself. And won’t the roads be a bit dodgy at this time of year? Wouldn’t it be better in the spring?’

‘Yes,’ Una replied tonelessly, ‘it would be better in the spring.’ Struck by a thought, she added: ‘Actually, maybe it would be enough if you just cut out the news story with the photo. That’s all I need. There’s no need to send the whole paper.’ It had crossed her mind that a bulky package containing a newspaper might attract attention, whereas a small envelope was more likely to pass under the radar. She tried to dismiss these suspicions as unworthy.

Could she be losing her mind?

Of course there was nothing to fear in this little community.

XX

It took Sara’s letter four days to arrive. Una had tried to put it out of her mind in the meantime and get back into a routine, and a miserably cold Tuesday had heralded the first day of the new school term. Teaching had proved an uphill struggle. Kolbrún had never been a very responsive pupil; it was Edda who had generally kept up a conversation with Una during lessons, and now not only did her absence leave a gaping hole but Kolbrún seemed even less receptive than before.

The letter seemed to have passed unnoticed, though Una didn’t receive post every day. She took it up to the attic, sat down at the kitchen table and opened it there, carefully, full of suspense, though really she was expecting the man in the picture to be someone she’d never seen before.

The cutting from Morgunbladid was folded together and Una waited a moment before opening it out.

And there he was, the man who had knocked on their door the day before Edda died …

Her heart lurched. There was no question at all, despite the poor quality of the photo. The man was still unaccounted for; she’d heard as much on last night’s news. The case wasn’t attracting much attention, though, and as far as she knew there had been no organized search for him.

Una stood up, leaving the cutting on the table. She had to decide on her next step. The man had asked after Hjördís, claiming to know her, and had apparently turned up at the farm. The question was, where had he gone after that? Hjördís and Thór should at least be able to give the police an important lead. Of course, it was absurd to think that they could have had anything to do with his disappearance. Una smiled at the thought. Completely absurd … She didn’t want to get them into any sort of trouble, but she had to talk to the police. Sitting on this information was out of the question.

She didn’t hurry downstairs to the phone, however. Not quite yet. The man had been missing for a couple of weeks at least; a few more minutes wouldn’t make any difference. She needed to think. But she was sure she was doing the right thing. Confident in her own mind.

A knock at the door made her jump.

Salka appeared in the gap. Una was disconcerted by the way Salka had opened the door without waiting for an answer. Some instinct made Una slide the cutting under an old newspaper that was lying on the kitchen table. She couldn’t explain her reaction to herself, except that at this moment she didn’t trust anybody. Of course, it was a crazy way to think. She had to learn to resist such delusions if she was to survive the winter in the village. Perhaps she should show Salka the picture so she could confirm that it was the same man and get her support for the decision to ring the police. After all, visits from the police weren’t everyday events in Skálar and Una had a hunch that interference by the city girl would not be taken kindly.

‘Sorry, am I bothering you?’ Salka came right into the flat. She was unsmiling and her tone was flat but polite.

‘No, that’s OK,’ Una replied.

‘I was just wondering what you wanted to eat, if you’d like me to cook? It’s hardly worth my while making something just for myself.’

‘Yes … that would be great. I hadn’t made any particular plans. Did you