The Quiet Mother

30

When explaining her cracked lip and other facial injuries, Glóey said that it had been the car door, which had just blown open and hit her in the face, seriously injuring her. As if to prove it, she said that she’d experienced the same thing once before, quite a few years ago. As she was opening her car door, the same sort of gust, or whatever you’d call it, blew it smack into her face and split her lip. This time, the cast on her arm didn’t help, she said.

Glóey was sitting in Marta’s office, and had asked twice if she could smoke. Marta said no both times, but offered her her e-cigarette, which Glóey said was of no use. Marta had asked about her injuries and received that explanation, but otherwise Glóey said that she hadn’t come down to the police station to talk about her interactions with car doors and wind gusts, but to point out that she hadn’t been herself for the past few days, having drunk excessively and taken drugs and that everything she’d previously said about her husband had been greatly exaggerated. The truth was that she’d been practically out of her mind with anger at Hallur when she found out about his relationship with her sister, and started saying all sorts of things about him that had no basis in fact. She’d said all of it in a fit of rage and regretted it and wanted the police to know that. Hallur didn’t owe anyone anything and hadn’t been using drugs for a long time. No one had threatened him about anything. All of it had been said in order to hurt him and she didn’t even know how she’d come up with that nonsense.

Marta listened to her calmly and tried to imagine how a person got their car door in their face when getting into the vehicle. It wasn’t impossible. Even twice in a life as short as hers. She knew first-hand about such gusts. They were no joke. Once she’d lost her grip on her own car door in a gust of wind, and it was damaged. She’d been getting out of the vehicle at the JL building, where it was notoriously windy, and hadn’t been careful.

Marta had heard far worse lies in her time, but it wasn’t Glóey’s story that caught her attention, despite it being a decent one. It was Glóey herself. She was no longer angry, but scared, squirming in her seat with her pretty face all messed up and the cast on her arm.

‘What’s wrong, Glóey?’ she asked.

‘My lip stings a little.’

‘No, I mean, what are you afraid of?’

‘Nothing. I’m not afraid of anything.’

‘What about Hallur? Aren’t you afraid of him?’

‘No, why? Why should I be afraid of him?’

‘What about his friends? Are you afraid of them?’

‘No, I don’t know... I don’t know them.’

‘Not the ones he owes money?’

‘No. I mean, he doesn’t owe anyone money. No one.’

‘You told me he owed certain individuals, but didn’t want to name them. Do you want to name them now?’

‘I don’t know—’

‘Were they the ones who did that to you?’

‘No, it was—’

‘Yes, the car door, I’d forgotten that,’ said Marta. ‘Your husband owed them a lot of money, you told me last time we met. You had no idea how Hallur was going to pay them. I ask again, were they the ones who did this to you?’

Glóey didn’t answer her.

‘They threatened him,’ Marta said, ‘and he thought he’d found a way to pay them. That’s what you said.’

‘I wasn’t in my right mind,’ said Glóey. ‘I was just making stuff up. All of it. Complete nonsense.’

‘Were they the ones who did this to you?’

‘I was just clumsy when I opened my car door,’ said Glóey.

‘Who are these people?’

‘It was just clumsiness on my part.’

Hallur’s interrogation hadn’t yielded much. The only conceivable signs of his presence in Valborg’s flat were traces of soil from the back garden found on his footwear and that he said had nothing to do with the case. He’d talked about the odour of garbage or an unclean smell in the stairwell when he left Glóey’s sister’s place, and no one knew what it could be until someone suggested the garbage chute in the wall of the hallway, which opened onto a wheelie bin.

The police had put some effort into obtaining data from the security cameras in the area around Valborg’s home, in the hope of mapping Hallur’s movements and comparing them with his testimony. The cameras, however, were few and far between, as in most residential areas, and their yield was proportional.

Marta had gone to see Emanúel. He said again that he’d only been testing a new spotting scope that he’d bought solely for use in amateur astronomy. The scope was an Acuter, on a sturdy tripod of the sort used by photographers, and took up quite a bit of space once Emanúel had set it up in his living room. For some reason, the astronomer had packed it away immediately after Konrád’s visit.

The scope had a very good range, especially for those who wanted to explore something other and closer than the orbits of the planets. Marta tried to recreate with some accuracy the sequence of events that led to the murder of Valborg. Emanúel proved to be cooperative. Hallur not so much, but he let himself be persuaded. He was taken to the stairwell of Valborg’s block of flats. A policewoman opened the door to the flat and Hallur pretended to attack her. She lay on the floor and Hallur entered the flat and went from one room to another. On his head he wore a black balaclava that had been found in his home, and he was dressed in the clothes he wore the night Valborg was attacked. Then he ran back out of the flat and the experiment was over.

Through it all, Emanúel stared into his spotting scope and followed Hallur’s movements until he went back into the stairwell and out of sight. Marta stood next to him and made sure he stuck with it and finally asked what he thought. The question was simple. Was this the same man who attacked Valborg?

‘I think it could be,’ said Emanúel. ‘But I’m not sure.’

Marta stood there silently, staring at the peeping Tom with a stern expression as if it might force a more categorical answer.

‘I think so,’ said Emanúel.

‘Good,’ said Marta.

‘But I’m not sure.’

‘Which one is it?’

‘It could be. But I’m not sure.’

‘Good Lord,’ Marta groaned.

She’d spoken to Emanúel’s son, who said his dad was a complete pervert who hung out at the window in the evenings with his spotting scope and spied on people when he thought he couldn’t be seen. Yes, sometimes he went out on the balcony with the scope and looked at the stars. The other was more usual. He started it about a year ago, or soon after the divorce. The son was ashamed of his father’s behaviour, and said he’d taken no part in it and was just waiting to move away from home. He and three friends of his were going to rent a place together in Breiðholt.

Marta didn’t get much clearer answers from Emanúel about the experiment in the block of flats and let her colleagues know that it was finished. Hallur was taken back into custody. He maintained his innocence and didn’t understand this ridiculous treatment. Marta continued to question Emanúel closely about what he saw through the telescope the evening Valborg was murdered. He stood miserably beside his spotting scope, waiting for the barrage of questions to subside and the policewoman to leave so he could get on with his daily business. She felt somewhat sorry for him, particularly when she thought about his son, who clearly resented his father.

‘Why do you do this?’ she asked towards the end.

‘I don’t know,’ said Emanúel.

‘Aren’t you a little too old-fashioned? You know, these days, people spy on each other online. Isn’t it simpler just to be on Facebook? No one peeps through scopes or binoculars from their living rooms nowadays.’

It was as if Emanúel sensed the slight sympathy that his son’s resentment had sparked in Marta.

‘What are you looking for?’ she asked. ‘Naked ladies?’

‘No,’ Emanúel was quick to answer.

‘What, then?’

‘Something else,’ said Emanúel.

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. Happiness.’

‘Happiness? What the hell are you talking about?’

Emanúel said nothing, and Marta looked at the spotting scope and tripod and asked if he took photos. If he had a camera that he could mount on the tripod, and a strong telephoto lens to go with it. Emanúel was slow to reply, but admitted that he had a decent camera and went and got it.

‘I was going to delete the photos,’ he said apologetically.

He went to a special gallery that held his search for happiness, according to what he’d said, and allowed Marta to scroll through some of the photos. Most of them were taken on the street and showed people walking hand-in-hand, a family in front of an ice-cream parlour, young people kissing. A few were taken using the tripod in his living room and showed elderly people reading in their homes, children sitting at the kitchen table, a couple snuggling in front of the TV. All of the photos violated privacy laws, but none of them were indecent. Marta looked at one photo after another until she saw images of a woman she recognised. She was sitting alone in her living room and appeared to be crying.

‘You’ve hardly found happiness there,’ Marta said, showing Emanúel the photos of the woman she’d met and was convinced was the victim of chronic domestic violence.

‘No,’ said Emanúel. ‘Her husband is awful. I saw him attack her that night. Saw how he... it was horrendous. Just horrendous.’