Yrsa Sigurdardottir - Ashes To Dust

Thóra could have kissed the woman, but restrained herself. It was clear to her that she shouldn’t accept the diaries, which could be used as evidence in the police investigation, but equally she knew that if she turned them over she wouldn’t get to see them again any time soon, and even then she’d probably never get to read every word. However, as a lawyer she had an obligation to do the right thing. ‘The most proper course of action would be for these diaries to go to the police,’ she said, holding the bag out to Jóhanna. ‘It’s possible that the diaries contain information they have the right to receive.’

Jóhanna’s expression hardened and she stopped rubbing her jaw. ‘I won’t give these to Gudni and his colleagues. It’s out of the question. These are my sister’s private thoughts from her sensitive teenage years, and I don’t want them being made public for strangers to rip them apart.’

‘Have you read them?’ asked Thóra, still holding out the bag.

‘No,’ said Jóhanna, shaking her head. ‘I can’t bring myself to do it. At the time these diaries were the holiest things that Alda owned and she wouldn’t let me near them, even before I could read. I don’t want to know her secrets, no matter how trivial they might seem today.’ She looked imploringly at Thóra. ‘I trust you, although I don’t know you at all. You know how it is to be a young girl, and besides, you will be able to judge whether there’s anything relevant to the bodies and to Alda’s murder.’

‘It’s not definite that Alda was murdered,’ said Thóra, mainly as a formality. Jóhanna had clearly fixed the idea in her head and right now nothing Thóra could say or do would change that. ‘And even if the diaries shed some light on the case, that doesn’t mean they’ll explain her death.’

‘I understand that,’ replied Jóhanna, although her expression said otherwise. ‘Maybe there’s absolutely nothing there. But there might be something. We’ll just have to see.’ She took Thóra’s hand. ‘Could I ask you to read through them for me? If there’s nothing in them of interest to the police, then I could have them back and no one would need to know anything.’ She paused for a moment. ‘If you do find something, then I suppose that particular diary would go to the police, and that would be fine with me. I just can’t disrespect my sister by handing these over to the police if there’s no need for it.’

Thóra looked at the woman standing before her. She was, as before, wearing the plain uniform of a bank clerk, and the green blouse she’d chosen to go with her blue suit didn’t match at all. There was a white spot of toothpaste at one corner of her mouth. Fashion and grooming are naturally not uppermost in one’s mind during times of grieving, and Thóra couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.‘I’ll read these, but I’ll have to hand over everything that I think pertains to the case.’ She looked at the bag. ‘It would, of course, be best if you read them yourself.’

Jóhanna shook her head briskly and her hairstyle, if you could call it that, went completely askew. ‘No. I don’t want to. You might think me silly or cowardly but it’s more than loyalty to my sister that stops me reading what’s in them.’She inhaled through her nose and exhaled slowly. ‘Something went wrong between Alda and Father. I don’t remember them ever speaking, or meeting up. I’m too scared to find out what caused it, in case Father did something unforgivable to her. I want to remember them both as they were, and it’s too late to change anything. They’re both dead.’

Thóra nodded. She got the picture. Incest cases were reported far too often, so of course Jóhanna was afraid this was the case. She said: ‘I understand. You can rest assured I won’t hand over anything that’s not directly related to the case. And I’ll get in touch with you before I give them anything.’

Jóhanna smiled, relieved.‘Good.’ She looked at the large clock hanging in reception.‘God, I’ve got to get going. I’m really late.’

Thóra watched the woman walk out through the hotel door and trudge off in the direction of her work, her eyes following her until she disappeared around a corner. The bag hung heavily from Thóra’s clenched fist, and she was itching to read the diaries. She sincerely hoped there was nothing in them that might cause Jóhanna unnecessary pain, but she feared there would be. Anything relevant was bound to be both negative and painful for the woman. What Matthew had said about hatred echoed in her mind, and Thóra asked herself if she really wanted to know how this tragic series of events had started.

Bella plonked herself down next to Thóra at a table in the airport. She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, in the direction of the refreshment kiosk. ‘Load of rubbish. They don’t even stock it.’ She twisted round in her seat, and it looked to Thóra as if she were giving the cashier the evil eye. ‘And they call this an airport.’

‘The flight takes twenty minutes, Bella,’ said Thóra irritably. ‘I’m sure you can survive without nicotine gum.’ Now the evil eye fell on her so she looked away, in the direction of the boarding gate. ‘They’ll probably announce the flight soon,’ she said, just to have something to say. It wasn’t just Bella’s nonsense that made her impatient to get going, but the fact that she was waiting anxiously to dive into the diaries. She was in a hurry to read them, not just from excitement over what they might reveal, but also because if she had to hand them over to the police, it would obviously look better if she did so quickly. The police would be annoyed with her no matter how promptly she gave them the books, but it would reduce the damage if she did it as soon as possible after getting hold of them. If she could read through them today, it would be possible to make photocopies of them and return the diaries tomorrow.

‘They’re in no hurry,’muttered Bella. ‘We’ve paid for our tickets and they can’t leave without us.’ She stood up. ‘I’m going out for a smoke.’ Thóra felt relieved to be left alone again, and her relief grew when she heard the call to board their flight to Reykjavik. She went to fetch Bella from the airport entrance, where she was leaning up against a statue honouring the visit to Iceland of Gorbachev and Reagan and blowing out one stream of smoke after another. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to miss our plane.’

‘It’s not going anywhere,’said Bella confidently, but nevertheless took one last drag and stubbed out the cigarette. She pointed at the inscription on the statue’s base.‘Who are these guys?’

‘Come on,’ said Thóra, not caring to tell the girl the story behind the world leaders.‘They’re just some former big- shots who don’t matter any more.’ She hurried inside, even holding the door open for her secretary to chivvy her along, but they were still the last to board the plane and take their seats. As soon as she had fastened her seatbelt, Thóra took out the diaries.

‘What are those?’ asked Bella in surprise when she saw the multicoloured, slightly battered books in Thóra’s lap. She raised her pencilled eyebrows. ‘Diaries? I had some like that when I was a kid. Whose are they?’

The tracks of Reagan and Gorbachev might have been covered over by time, but some things survived from generation to generation. Thóra had kept diaries herself, not unlike those lying at the top of the stack. ‘Oh, this is something that I need to go over,’ replied Thóra, not saying anything about whothe diaries belonged to. ‘I don’t think they’re anything important.’ Thóra had hit the nail on the head, judging by the first diary. It was from 1970, and at first glance nothing in it appeared relevant to the investigation. Alda’s handwriting was typical for an adolescent girl: big rounded letters, the letter ‘i’ sometimes dotted with a heart. There was often a whole week between entries, which was perhaps the reason Alda had been able to keep her diaries going for years. Thóra had given up keeping a diary after six months, when the entries started to show her in black and white just how little happened in the life of an eleven-year-old, and she decided it would be better just to note down special events. She would have given a lot now to have the chance to peek into the mental world of her own childhood, which was now almost entirely lost to her.