The fallout, p.23
The Fallout, page 23
Erla also had private reasons for wanting to get on the men’s good side. Normally she would have delegated someone else to talk to them, in light of the latest setback, but she was in charge of the inquiry and if Mía’s fathers went to the papers, she would bear the brunt of the negative coverage. To increase the chances that these tactics would work, the senior management had ordered her to take the others along; Freyja, presumably to pacify the men, armed with her psychological expertise; Gudlaugur, perhaps because he was gay, although this had not been stated in as many words. Freyja couldn’t see what they thought this would achieve.
The front door opened to reveal a man in his thirties. He had dark hair, glasses, was of average height and looked in good shape – from running or cycling, Freyja guessed. His face, which would no doubt have been friendly in normal circumstances, now appeared anxious, but the crease between his brows disappeared and his eyes opened wide when he saw how many of them there were. ‘Are you all from the police?’
Erla said they were and introduced them. When the man showed no signs of inviting them inside, she prompted him by asking if they could come in for a minute.
They could see into a hall with a floor and walls of large, shiny black tiles, which looked as if they had been polished that morning. The man called out: ‘Stebbi, the police are here!’ Then he retreated into the gloomy hall as they stepped in through the absurdly high, wide entrance. The massive door must have weighed at least fifty kilos.
Beyond the hall was an open space, from which some steps led down into a breathtakingly grand living room. The ceiling was so high one could almost have fitted in an extra storey, but it was well worth sacrificing a room or two for the floor-to-ceiling glass wall. The dramatic view of the choppy, dark ocean completely stole the show, putting the designer furniture in the shade. The men could just as well have chucked a few pallets in there, plonked some cushions on them and hung IKEA posters on the walls, as few visitors would have eyes for anything but the view.
The man who’d let them in – Númi, presumably – showed them down into the living room and invited them to take a seat on the stylish, brown leather sofa. As they sank into the huge cushions that must have been stuffed with goose down, Freyja wondered if she would have to haul Erla to her feet at the end of the meeting. Númi sat down facing them in a large, black leather chair, which was as stylish as the sofa but didn’t look anywhere near as comfortable. Perhaps that was why he appeared so ill at ease. He didn’t meet their eyes or say a word while they waited for his husband, Stefán, to join them.
‘What a stunning house,’ Freyja said to break the awkward silence. She received no reply. Númi had turned away from them to stare out of the window. Freyja found herself thinking about what it must have been like for the fathers living in that house for all those years after their daughter Mía was believed to have drowned in the sea. The view must have lost its charm for them, especially while there was still a risk their baby might one day be washed ashore. The thought made her shudder and she wondered why they hadn’t sold up and moved somewhere inland.
Stefán appeared on the landing from another part of the house. He stormed down the steps, his face livid, and took a chair matching Númi’s, but in contrast to his husband he made no attempt to avoid eye contact. He was taller and darker than Númi, with thicker eyebrows, but looked in similarly good shape. He was dressed in a smart shirt and suit trousers, which were a bit on the short side, in Freyja’s opinion. Above the expensive leather shoes, there was a flash of colourful socks. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, giving him the look of a banker who was spoiling for a fight on his way to work. He wasn’t a banker, though – according to Erla, Stefán was a lawyer, partner in one of the bigger legal practices in the city. He immediately struck Freyja as the kind of arrogant prick who’d be a nightmare to work for. Númi came across as a much gentler character: he worked for an investment fund, dealing in securities.
Erla explained that she was the person they’d spoken to on the phone yesterday evening and again this morning. She went on to introduce Freyja and Gudlaugur, but had barely finished speaking when Stefán jumped in. ‘Is this some kind of joke? They send along a pregnant woman, a psychologist and – what? – a gay man? Is this supposed to win us over and make us forgive the way the police treated us in the past?’
Erla quashed this immediately, though Stefán wasn’t actually that wrong. ‘No. We aren’t clairvoyant enough to have planned the interview nine months in advance. The reason there are three of us is so we can answer all your questions and provide assistance, should you require it. The news is bound to be hard to take in.’
Stefán’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the shiny steel arms of his chair. ‘I’m speaking for both of us when I say we want absolutely no assistance from the likes of you. You’re the very last people we’d turn to if we needed help. We’re not interested in fake sympathy from you or anyone else in the police. Why don’t you just get on with your job and stop wasting our time?’
The meeting was already going off the rails but Erla reacted stoically. No doubt she had recovered from her initial shock at the misidentification and had progressed to the numb stage. ‘Regardless of what happened between you and our colleagues eleven years ago, we’re not faking anything. We urgently need to find out how your daughter’s DNA has suddenly turned up like this. But before we go any further I must repeat what I said yesterday: although all the indications are that she is alive, nothing’s guaranteed.’
‘What’s the matter with you people?’ Númi had turned back to face them when Stefán joined them. His voice was shaking, but whether from rage or overwhelming emotion, it wasn’t immediately obvious. ‘How dare you break the news to us like this? Mía’s alive – except maybe she isn’t. You can’t do this to us. Why don’t you go out and search for her instead of trying to prove she’s not alive after all, just to cover up your mistakes? I bet that’s what you’re up to. Why else are you here? Do you think we’re hiding her down in the cellar or something? Seriously?’
Erla seized her chance to dive in at this point. ‘No. Of course not. Nor are we trying to excuse the people responsible for the original investigation. Our priority is to find Mía.’ Before Númi or Stefán could interrupt, she continued: ‘We’ve been through the case notes from the time of her disappearance, searching for anything that could shed light on this latest development. But I can’t say there’s much to go on. The conclusion of the investigation was reasonable, given the information available at the time.’
‘Oh, it was, was it?’ Stefán shot back. ‘That’s quite a surprise, considering that the officer in charge was totally incompetent. And a homophobe too. Does it mention in the case files that they suspected us for a long time?’ This last sentence emerged almost in a growl.
‘Yes, I saw that.’ Erla was struggling to sit upright, which meant perching on the edge of the squashy sofa as if it were a park bench. ‘It’s standard practice for suspicion to fall on family members in serious crimes like this. In your case, the assumption was wrong. In the majority of cases of this type, it proves correct.’
Númi was rubbing his hands together in his agitation. ‘I couldn’t care less about the old inquiry. Don’t waste any more time on that now. We can come back to it later. The only thing I’m interested in knowing is what’s happening about the search for Mía. When do you think you’ll find her, so she can come home?’
Erla had sunk back into the sofa but struggled upright again before answering. ‘The investigation is at a very early stage, so I’m afraid we can’t realistically give an estimate of when we’ll track her down. So much is still unclear. As I told you yesterday, all we know is that we have a DNA profile that matches the one taken from her umbilical cord during the original inquiry.’
Freyja had heard about this from Huldar, who had read it in the old case files. After Mía was presumed dead, a sample of her DNA had been required for the Trace Database, in case her remains were ever washed up by the sea or turned up in some other context. The biological material had been extracted from the dried-up stump of her umbilical cord that her fathers had kept in a bag at the bottom of the freezer. They’d been planning to have it preserved in a plastic mould to commemorate her birth but had never got round to it. Huldar had never heard of such a bizarre idea. He had added that, as far as he was aware, none of his five sisters in Egilsstadir had ever dreamt of doing such a thing. When their sons shed their umbilical cords, the stumps had been tossed straight in the bin. He assumed it must be some weird city custom and Freyja didn’t contradict him.
‘Where did her DNA turn up?’ Stefán kept his eyes fixed on Erla’s. ‘You wouldn’t tell us yesterday but I insist you do us the courtesy of informing us now. Mía’s our daughter and she’s still a minor. I can’t see how it would compromise the interests of the police or the investigation to give her parents this information. It’s our right. I’m warning you now that if you don’t respect our wishes, we’ll take the matter as far as we have to – to the Children’s Commissioner, the courts . . . We’ll go to the papers, if necessary. Perhaps I should take your full names now in case I need to mention you in an interview.’
Erla hesitated, evidently conducting a quick risk assessment in her head. When she spoke, she had obviously concluded that sharing the information was less risky than dragging the police through the kind of unpleasantness Stefán was threatening. ‘We found her DNA at a crime scene.’
Erla could hardly have expected to get away with leaving it at that, though she’d thought it was worth trying.
‘A crime? What crime?’ Númi raised a hand to his heart. Naturally, he was imagining the worst.
‘A murder.’
Númi’s stunned expression showed that this hadn’t even occurred to him. ‘Murder? Murder? I don’t understand. Is she dead? What the hell’s wrong with you people? First you say she’s alive, then that she’s been murdered. What the hell?’ He started to rise to his feet but Stefán reached out and grabbed his arm, forcing him down again.
Stefán rounded on Erla, looking as if he’d like to see her boiled in oil. ‘Are you referring to the murder in the news? Or is this some other case that the media don’t yet know about?’
‘The one in the news.’ Erla braced herself.
Númi clasped a hand over his mouth, his eyes huge above it. Then he dropped his hand and said, his voice trembling: ‘The woman found in the boot of the car? Has the murderer got Mía? Why aren’t you out there looking for her?’
‘Unbelievable,’ Stefán broke in. ‘She’s been alive for eleven years and you lot haven’t been able to find her. Eleven years. And you turn up here now. Couldn’t you have come six months ago?’ He glared at them all contemptuously. Freyja felt like a defendant in the dock. ‘This must be some sort of world record in incompetence. Not to be able to find a missing child in a country as small as Iceland.’
Númi had turned his head away to stare out to sea again. When he finally spoke, he sounded exhausted. ‘No one was looking. Everyone was satisfied with the theory that she’d vanished in the sea. Everyone except me. But no one would listen to me.’
There was no answer to that. Erla returned to the point of the visit. ‘Do either of you know a woman called Ólína Traustadóttir? Or Bríet Hannesdóttir?’
Both men shook their heads and Stefán asked: ‘What do they do?’
‘Ólína’s a freelance photographer and Bríet’s a lab technician at the National Hospital,’ Erla replied. ‘She’s also studying public health at the University of Iceland. More specifically, researching childhood immunisation. Are you by any chance opposed to vaccinations?’
‘No, of course not.’ It was Númi who answered. ‘And I don’t know any lab technicians.’
Stefán nodded in agreement.
‘What about Rögnvaldur Tryggvason? Do you know him? Or Aldís Ellertsdóttir? They’re married; he works for an insurance company, she’s an accountant, though she hasn’t worked much in the last few years. Their daughter had leukaemia. Her name was Íris and she was ten when she died – Íris Rögnvaldsdóttir.’
‘I don’t know any of these people.’ It was Stefán who replied. ‘I’ve seen the photo of Rögnvaldur in the papers and I’m quite sure I don’t know him. The wife and daughter’s names don’t ring any bells either.’ He glanced at Númi, who shook his head. ‘Did he murder the woman? Is that why you put out a wanted notice for him? Has he got our daughter?’
As Erla showed no signs of answering these questions, Freyja came to the rescue by changing the subject. ‘It goes without saying that it must be extremely difficult for you to take in this news, especially as it’s bound to reopen old wounds.’ She had taken her card out of her coat pocket and now placed it on the coffee table. ‘I urge you to get in touch with me when it’s convenient. I may be able to help you work through your feelings. I can also refer you to another psychologist, if you’d prefer. Whichever you choose, I strongly recommend that you accept the offer of help.’ Freyja paused to allow Númi or Stefán to speak but, when neither said a word, she continued: ‘When . . . if . . . Mía is found, it’s going to be a real emotional rollercoaster for the three of you, and how you handle the situation will make all the difference. As yet, we have no idea where she’s been all these years but you need to be prepared for the possibility that the person who abducted her hasn’t looked after her properly. Let’s hope it’s no more serious than that. I’m a specialist in child psychology and will be there to ensure that Mía’s interests are protected at every stage of the inquiry. Everything will be done to make the process as painless as possible, whatever your previous experience of the police. But I won’t pretend that it’s going to be easy.’
Stefán and Númi were each looking in different directions, Númi at the name card on the table, Stefán at Freyja. He might not be directing quite the same hate-filled glare at her as he had at Erla, but it wasn’t far off. ‘We don’t need your help.’
Freyja didn’t let this disconcert her. ‘Nevertheless, the offer’s there if you change your mind.’
She was alarmed by Stefán’s rage, which seemed to be intensifying rather than subsiding, but neither Erla nor Gudlaugur appeared remotely intimidated. Erla’s voice was perfectly level when she spoke again. ‘If we could get back to the point. Can you think of anyone who could have abducted Mía, now that all the evidence suggests it wasn’t her birth mother? Seeing as Droplaug quickly became the focus of the original inquiry, perhaps you never seriously considered any other possibilities?’
‘No. Of course not,’ Stefán snapped. ‘If we’d suspected anyone else, we’d have noticed if that person had suddenly acquired a child – especially a child who looked like Mía.’
Númi didn’t say anything, just nodded his agreement.
‘Children change a great deal during their first year.’ Gudlaugur now entered the conversation for the first time since they’d sat down. ‘It would probably only have been necessary to hide her for the first few months to a year. After that, it’s not certain that you would have recognised her. It says in the files that she didn’t have any distinguishing features that would have made her stand out.’
‘We’d have recognised her after a year. We’d recognise her today, for that matter.’ Númi folded his arms across his chest, as if waiting for someone to contradict him. None of them shared his conviction, but they all remained silent.
‘There is one person who springs to mind.’ It was Stefán who spoke. Númi’s lips parted in surprise. ‘Droplaug’s sister,’ Stefán went on. ‘Ellý. She’s as crazy as her sister was.’
Erla noted this down. ‘We’ll look into it.’
She didn’t get any further because at that moment the front door opened and there was a commotion in the hall. A cheerful child’s voice called out: ‘Hi, Dad! Hi, Dad! I’m home. We got the day off school, so we went round to Rósa’s, but now we’re going to play here.’
All heads turned towards the hall where three little girls appeared in their socks. One came down the steps into the living room, examining the assembled company with interest. She was small and skinny, her hair in two thin plaits, wearing dungarees and a roll-neck jumper that had ridden up on one side. Her glasses, which had slid down her nose, were noticeably smeary. ‘Why are you home? Who are these people?’
‘We got the day off too. And these are just visitors.’ Stefán waved a hand at the girl. ‘Take Selma and Rósa to your room. You can play there. We need a bit of peace.’
‘Are you getting a divorce?’ The girl didn’t seem particularly bothered by the prospect.
‘No, we’re not getting a divorce. They’re just visitors.’
The other two girls came closer to get a better look at the guests. Neither seemed particularly impressed. The smaller one elbowed the daughter of the house. ‘Come on. They’re probably just debt collectors.’
The third girl watched over the shoulders of the others, which was easy as she was considerably taller. ‘Or social workers. They sometimes come round to my house.’
‘Go and play, girls.’ Stefán made as if to stand up and they scuttled off in the direction of the bedrooms.
‘So you have a daughter?’ Erla voiced what they were all thinking. Freyja assumed the others were as taken aback as she was herself. From what she had read so far in the old case files, she’d assumed the two men wouldn’t try engaging the services of a surrogate mother again until it was legalised. No magistrate would agree to another step-adoption after their arrangement with Mía’s mother had been exposed, especially since the magistrate who’d approved Mía’s adoption had come in for harsh criticism. But it seemed that some people’s sins were soon forgotten. ‘How old is she? Who’s her mother?’
