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

without moving. Her thoughts returned to Edda’s death. She wasn’t sure what to think. Was it conceivable that Salka could have done something crazy and suppressed the memory? Could she have poisoned her daughter in a fit of insanity, just as her grandmother had done long ago?

Una knew from her medical studies that there were drugs, easily available drugs, that could damage the liver but leave no trace in the body afterwards. Perhaps … perhaps …

She was no longer sure of anything.

‘The accused, Björg Helgadóttir, is hereby sentenced to sixteen years in prison. The time she has already spent in pre-trial detention will be deducted from …’

The wording of the Supreme Court verdict was etched on her memory. She had let herself hope, and that had been a mistake. Hope had made her disappointment all the keener. It seemed she wasn’t to receive any justice in this life.

She sat in her cell, and now she had started counting down the days. There were years left, of course, but now the verdict had been passed and couldn’t be undone she had to reconcile herself to it and try to focus on the future. It wasn’t easy, though; it was so far from being easy.

She had been sober for so long now that she had got used to the condition. The alcohol and drugs that had cast such dark shadows over her life were now nothing but a hazy memory from another world. And the more she thought about the case – she had no shortage of time to think these days – the more certain she became in her own mind. If she’d been involved in a murder – let alone two murders – she would have remembered it, however drunk or out of it she had been at the time. In spite of her confession, she couldn’t for the life of her recall having taken part in killing Hannes and Hilmar.

Yet here she sat, unable to do anything about her situation.

All the escape routes were closed.

She met her lawyer from time to time, though increasingly less often with the passing of the years, and he still claimed he believed her; that he knew she was innocent.

Perhaps he was lying; perhaps not. It wasn’t important.

He promised not to forget her. Promised he would fight for the case to be reopened if any new evidence came to light; anything that could suggest she was innocent.

The problem was that, so far, there was no sign of any such evidence.

XXXI

Una was sure about one thing: the man, who she still believed was Patrekur, had been looking for Hjördís.

Which meant Hjördís might hold the key to the whole mystery, assuming Una hadn’t lost all touch with reality.

For once, she was stone-cold sober. She could picture it clearly: Patrekur’s visit, the fact he had asked where to find Hjördís. Damn it, of course she remembered what he looked like. She wasn’t going to let Salka deliberately confuse her.

It was the same man.

It was nearly midnight, but Una didn’t feel at all tired. Rather, she was filled with determination to get to the bottom of the mystery. So what if it was none of her business? The fact was that she had been threatened by Guffi, whether directly or by implication. Salka had lied to her and to the police. The villagers had closed ranks against her. A little girl had died and a man connected to a notorious criminal case had come to Skálar and was now missing.

She had to know the truth.

XXXII

Una headed up the track towards the farm, regretting the fact she hadn’t put on warmer clothes but trying to ignore the cold.

Despite the late hour, there was a light on in the farmhouse.

As she drew near, she could make out the shapes of two people through the windows: Hjördís and Thór. They didn’t notice her, cloaked as she was by the darkness, until she approached the front door and entered the circle of light, at which point she saw the quick lift of Thór’s chin as he caught sight of her.

Their eyes met for an instant and he shook his head, almost imperceptibly, conveying the message that she should go away and avoid causing any more trouble than she already had.

The moment reminded her, oddly, of that first evening in Skálar when the girl had watched her from Salka’s window. Had it been Edda … or Thrá? Had she been trying to warn Una? To tell her to turn back before it was too late? And now the same thing was happening again.

She halted, unsure what to do. But she couldn’t back down now. She took another step forward and knocked on the door. Despite Thór’s silent warning, she had no intention of giving up. She’d had enough. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a movement as Hjördís rose to her feet. Then the door opened and Hjördís was standing there.

‘Una,’ she said, her voice emotionless, betraying neither surprise nor anger, fear nor pleasure.

‘Can I come in?’ Una asked, dispensing with all small talk. The time for that was over.

Hjördís gave a curt nod and stood aside. ‘Take a seat.’

Thór was still sitting at the kitchen table. He seemed keen to avoid eye contact now and the thick beard obscuring his features made his expression impossible to read.

She took a seat at a discreet distance from him, and Hjördís joined them, pushing a mug and the thermos of coffee across the table to Una.

‘So, Una, what can we do for you?’ she asked, a note of exasperation breaking through.

‘I had a visit from the police,’ Una said. ‘About the man who came and stayed with you.’

‘So we heard,’ Hjördís said drily.

‘He went away again. Salka made sure of that.’

Hjördís nodded. ‘Quite. What did he want here anyway? This is … this must be the quietest spot in the country.’

‘The stranger who visited – I know who he was. His name was Patrekur, wasn’t it?’

Hjördís shook her head. ‘He