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

‘Salka, this has nothing to do with Edda. But I do see what you mean. This incident – this man’s disappearance – doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with us. I promise I’ll think about it before I take any action.’

Salka nodded, looking appeased. ‘Good. I’m glad to hear that. And I’m sorry …’

‘No need to apologize,’ Una said, but the conversation had only made her more determined to contact the police.

XXII

She got her chance to make the call the following evening.

It had been an unusually peaceful night, her dreams untroubled by visitations from Thrá, and she found herself hoping once again that the haunting had all been in her mind, a symptom of the stress she had been under.

Una had gone to Kolbeinn and Inga’s house to give Kolbrún her lessons in the morning, but hadn’t liked to ask to use their phone, since she didn’t want to owe them any favours. Inga made no effort to hide her dislike for Una, whereas Kolbeinn went out of his way to be excessively charming, as if their awkward encounter earlier that winter had never taken place. Maybe hitting on other women was something he took for granted as his right.

When Una got back from teaching, Salka was at home; she didn’t seem to have set foot outside all day, and Una hadn’t dared to use the phone for fear that Salka would catch her in the act. Still, she comforted herself, at least there was only the one phone in the house, so there was no way of listening in on calls from an extension. Or rather, it was the only phone in the house as far as Una was aware …

Then, just after seven o’clock, Salka unexpectedly went out. She didn’t call upstairs to say goodbye, but Una, hearing the front door closing, peered out of the attic window and saw Salka’s figure receding into the gloom.

She would have to act fast; her landlady might only be going for a short walk.

Una raced downstairs, almost tripping in her haste, and thought what a ridiculous ending to the story it would be if she broke her neck running down a staircase. Maybe Salka was right and the whole thing really was none of their business.

Yet Una had got it into her head that she had to make the call, despite momentary qualms when she wondered if the solitude was affecting her judgement. When it came down to it, though, she knew it was the right thing to do. Sometimes you just had to have the courage of your convictions. Her father had taught her that. He always used to impress two things upon her: one was the importance of reading medicine, of studying ‘the noble science’, as he used to call it. She had failed him in that. The other was the need above all else to be a good person. Altruism had to take precedence over any self-interest. It was a lesson she had never forgotten. Perhaps that was why she was now standing by the telephone, the dog-eared phone book in her hands, leafing through it with trembling fingers to find the number of Reykjavík CID.

It didn’t take her long to locate and learn the short, memorable number before replacing the phone book. But next moment she heard the dining-room door slam. Una almost jumped out of her skin. Was Salka at home after all?

Damn it, Una had seen her go; she’d watched her from the window. Could she have been hallucinating?

Una looked round, then went into the sitting room. The door to the dining room was indeed closed. Could Salka be in there? There was no perceptible draught and, as far as Una was aware, none of the windows were open downstairs. She wanted to double-check that there was no one in the dining room but for some reason her legs wouldn’t obey her and she just stood there, rooted to the spot.

Then she heard the faint tinkling of the piano.

It was so quiet that she couldn’t be absolutely sure. Nor did she want to be sure.

Instead of going in to check, she retreated to the front door, opened it and went out on to the step, where she heaved a deep breath and tried to control her shaking knees.

She was safe out here, at least for now.

She strained her ears but couldn’t hear the faint notes of the piano.

Why the hell didn’t I move back to Reykjavík weeks ago? Una asked herself.

She waited a minute or two longer, staring out into the murk. There was a light on in Guffi’s house, but apart from that the village was wrapped in gloom, darker even than usual.

Finally, she plucked up the courage to go back inside out of the cold, closed the front door behind her and walked with firm steps towards the dining room. She listened warily, then, hearing no noise from within, opened the door with infinite care. There was no one in the room, but the lid of the piano was open.

She felt her stomach constrict.

Closing the door behind her, she went back to the phone in the hall and dialled the number with frantic haste.

‘Reykjavík CID, good evening.’ Judging by his voice, the officer who answered was getting on in years.

‘Good evening.’ Having introduced herself, Una continued: ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m ringing in connection with a news story I read about a missing person.’

‘A missing person, you say?’ the policeman repeated with slow deliberation, apparently reserving judgement.

‘The police reported him missing on New Year’s Eve. His name’s Patrekur Kristjánsson.’

‘Ah, Patrekur. Yes, that’s right, we’re still looking for him. Have you seen him, Una?’ His manner was still calm and reassuring, almost paternal.

‘Yes, at least I think so.’

‘You think so, I see. When was this?’

‘Just before Christmas.’ Una thought back. ‘Yes, it was on the twenty-first of December.’

‘And where did you see him?’

‘Oh, sorry, I should have mentioned that before. I live in Skálar on Langanes.’

‘On Langanes,