Oblivion

9

He wasn’t surprised that the woman should be momentarily lost for words when he said he was calling to see if he could have a word about her niece, Dagbjört, who had vanished one morning many years ago on her way to school. After a stunned silence, she asked him to say again who he was. He explained that his name was Erlendur, he was a detective, and he had come across her niece’s case in the police archives. As he was interested in missing persons, he wondered if he might visit her. He made it absolutely clear, to prevent any misunderstanding, that there had been no new developments and that the inquiry had not been reopened. His interest was purely personal. He omitted to say that he had in fact come across the girl’s case long before, shortly after joining the police, had read up on the background and often visited the relevant sites, consumed by curiosity. Nor did he tell her why, after all this time, he had finally, hesitantly, taken the step of contacting one of the girl’s relatives. He hardly knew. Some time ago he had promised himself not to pursue it, unwilling to expose himself to the pain associated with the disappearance of a loved one, yet in spite of that he had gone ahead. The obituaries for the girl’s father had made him think. In the end there would be no one left to tell what had happened. No one to provide answers to the questions about her disappearance that had so often plagued him. And perhaps worst of all: no one left waiting for those answers.

After a quarter of a century, the case had long faded from the public consciousness, but when he rang the girl’s aunt to explain his business, he realised that it was far from forgotten in that household. The woman was instantly on the ball. After bombarding him with questions about the case and his interest in it, she finally seemed satisfied that he was in earnest and invited him round to see her. Before she rang off, she thanked him for the call and his concern.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said Erlendur once he had taken a seat in her living room. ‘I saw the obituary you wrote for your brother.’

She thanked him again, pushing back a lock of hair that had fallen over her forehead as she poured them both coffee. Her name was Svava, she was around seventy, and had prepared for his visit by baking kleinur and brewing strong coffee. She said she needed a pick-me-up too and offered him a glass of chartreuse which he accepted. She knocked hers straight back and refilled it immediately. The bottle was almost empty and he wondered if she often had recourse to pick-me-ups. He sipped his slowly. She had come across in their phone conversation as forceful and assertive; not someone who suffered fools gladly. She demanded straight answers and would not tolerate any beating about the bush. He did his best to satisfy her. He didn’t know much about her situation but got the impression she lived alone. A prominently placed photograph showed her beaming at the camera, flanked by three boys and a husband. He assumed her sons had long since flown the nest. He didn’t ask about the husband. Perhaps they were divorced. Or he was dead. She soon supplied the answer.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Yes, I felt I had to put a few words down on paper. Felt it would do me good. To write about my brother. It was his heart, you know. My husband went the same way four years ago. So, you’ve been interested in our Dagbjört for quite a while?’

‘Ever since I first read her files, about seven years ago,’ said Erlendur. ‘I don’t remember the actual events — I’m too young — but there was a good deal written about her disappearance at the time and I’ve read all of it, along with the police reports. About her route to school. The boyfriend she’s supposed to have had in Camp Knox.’

‘And what... do you think you can find out what happened?’

‘No, I’m not getting my hopes up,’ said Erlendur. ‘And neither should you.’

‘Then what’s the point of this meeting?’

‘I wanted to see you, to hear the family’s version of the story, if you’d be willing to share it with me,’ said Erlendur. ‘You mustn’t expect me to come up with any magic solution. I’m just...’

‘What?’

‘I’m just trying to get a handle on what happened,’ said Erlendur.

‘Out of curiosity?’

‘Yes, I’ll be frank with you — out of curiosity. I have a particular interest in this kind of case. I want to look into her story in more detail. In my own time. If I discover any new evidence, anything that might shed light on the mystery, naturally I’ll inform you and my colleagues in CID. I want to gather information about her disappearance and see if I can find a fresh angle. A quarter of a century has passed and soon it’ll be too late to... do anything.’

‘You mean there’ll be no one left for you to talk to?’

Erlendur nodded. ‘Both her parents are dead. When I read about your brother I thought to myself that if I was going to act, I couldn’t wait any longer. It was now or never.’

‘I see. You’re in a race against time.’

‘But as I said, you shouldn’t get your hopes up about any new leads. I can’t stress that strongly enough. Anyway, I think I’ve got a fairly clear picture of what happened, from the public point of view, but of course that’s only a fraction of the whole story.’

Svava studied Erlendur with searching grey eyes, sizing him up, trying to gauge whether she could trust him. She sensed that he had been honest with her, admitting his curiosity, laying his cards on the table. She felt this was important.

‘You’re a policeman,’ she said, ‘but you’re not here in an official capacity?’

‘No, and I’ll quite understand if you don’t want to talk to me.’

Svava smiled. ‘You’re very serious,’ she said, ‘for such a young man. Why are you... why are you doing this?’

Erlendur had no answer ready. Why was he doing this? Why couldn’t he leave well alone? Why did he have to reopen old wounds and wallow in grief and loss?’

‘Is it something to do with those mournful eyes of yours?’ she asked. ‘Has anyone ever told you? What beautiful eyes you’ve got?’

Erlendur was embarrassed; he hadn’t been prepared for this.

‘I’m just interested in missing-persons cases.’

‘Why?’

‘I have been for a long time. I’m fascinated by accounts of accidents and disasters. I come from the East Fjords where there are quite a few stories of that nature. They’ve always been part of my life.’

Instinct told her that he was no longer being completely honest, no longer telling the whole truth, and had closed off the small chink he had opened into his soul. He didn’t meet her eye as he answered her question but lowered his gaze to the table as if afraid she would interrogate him further. She changed the subject.

‘Are you married?’

‘No... no, I’m divorced.’

‘Oh, sorry to hear that.’

‘Yes. So... now you know plenty about me,’ Erlendur said, trying to smile. ‘Everything, really, so—’

‘I don’t believe that for a minute,’ said Svava, smiling in her turn. ‘But enough to be going on with. No one’s asked me about poor Dagbjört for years, then you ring up out of the blue. I won’t deny it’s a shock. You’re the first person to show the slightest interest in her for more than twenty years. So, what do you want to know? How can I be of help?’