Yrsa Sigurðardóttir - I Remember You

‘But couldn’t the husband suggest any likely explanation? Did it take him completely by surprise?’

‘Apparently so. He was very shocked and seemed not to have had the slightest suspicion that something like this might happen. If he knew about any underlying depression or other illness, he didn’t share it with us. He did mention that she’d been a bit stressed and unsociable recently, but not enough to make a big deal about it. It was just a phase some people go through, which eventually passes – that’s what he seemed to think, anyway.’ Dagný looked Freyr in the eye. ‘But not this time.’

‘How did she die?’ Freyr didn’t know whether Dagný would tell him, though it didn’t actually matter since an autopsy would be performed on the corpse tomorrow.

‘She hanged herself.’ Dagný studied Freyr’s reaction. ‘And it can’t have been easy. The roof is quite high in that church.’

‘Right.’ Freyr knew that dying this way was ugly, recalling that those who chose this method to end their lives more often than not ended up with deep scratch-marks on their necks. They realized too late that while life might be no picnic, it was much kinder than death. ‘Did she leave a letter or a note?’ he asked, although he already knew only a quarter of those who chose to go down this road left behind goodbyes, since it wasn’t easy to explain such a decision – and probably sometimes there was nothing to say.

‘I’m not at liberty to discuss that.’ Dagný looked away.

‘I understand. I’ll stop asking questions. I just wanted to let you know what the old man told me; I thought it might matter.’ He began to put his jacket back on.

Dagný leaned back in her grand office chair, which looked far more comfortable than the rickety thing that Freyr was sitting on. ‘You didn’t mention if anything else was written on the walls of the old man’s primary school. Was there anything besides the word “dirty”?’

‘Yes. There was more. I don’t know precisely how many words there were, but the old man did specifically mention one that was written on the wall of his classroom: “ugly”. There might have been other words scribbled on the walls elsewhere in the school. I can ask him for more details if you want.’

Dagný’s computer signalled that she’d received an e-mail, but she seemed not to notice. Her cheeks appeared redder than before, but when she spoke again after an awkward silence it was as if nothing had occurred. Maybe the room was just getting warmer. ‘Yes, yes. Go ahead and do that. It can’t hurt to hear what he has to say.’

After Freyr had shut the door behind him, Dagný reached for a plastic file holder that had been lying next to the computer, upside down. She lifted the plastic and stared at the paper inside. Delicate feminine handwriting filled every inch of the page, scarcely leaving room for even one more letter. Dagný stared at the text as she picked up the phone, but glanced away from it briefly to select a number. ‘Veigar. Where are the old police reports stored?’

The faded white wooden crosses lay side by side on the little kitchen table, their melancholy appearance contrasting with the spotted, tablecloth that was trying its best to make things look more cheerful. ‘They have nothing to do with the house,’ said Garðar, who hadn’t seemed too annoyed about having to put his shoes on again when he’d heard Katrín shouting from outside, but was now clearly tired of this topic. He would have chucked the crosses onto the pile of timber outside long ago if Katrín hadn’t objected. ‘You can see for yourself that the crosses have broken or been broken off graves somewhere and then brought here. If the graves had been where you found the crosses, the stumps would have been sticking out of the grass.’

‘Why would anyone remove crosses from graves and throw them out here?’ Katrín couldn’t take her eyes off the weathered wood and peeling white paint.

‘I agree.’ Líf was standing in the corner, as far from the table as possible. Her arms were crossed on her chest and her face was full of displeasure at Katrín’s discovery. At her feet lay Putti, sound asleep after his meal of liverwurst and assorted other delicacies. Now and again he twitched, as if involved in some great adventure in dreamland. ‘Who would do such a thing?’

‘Shouldn’t we be asking why a child and a woman, maybe its mother, would have been buried here behind the house? I find that much more difficult to comprehend than the fact that the crosses were thrown out there. And they would have been in a much worse state if they’d been left there untouched for more than half a century. Someone must have maintained them over the years, yet this house has been more or less empty.’ Garðar read the faint inscription on the bronze plates attached to the crosses: ‘“Hugi b. 1946 – d. 1951” and “Bergdís b. 1919 – d. 1951”.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Forget this. Let’s put the crosses back where we found them and ask someone who might know something about it when we’re back in Ísafjörður. It’s my guess that headstones replaced the crosses and whoever was responsible was uncomfortable about getting rid of them. Whether that person or those persons had ties to this house, I have no idea, but there’s no reason to make a big deal out of it.’

Katrín gnawed her upper lip thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, maybe.’ She stared out through the dirty kitchen window. ‘I can’t do anything about it, but it still makes me feel uncomfortable. Even though you might think it’s silly, there’s something unnatural about this. I had a very strong feeling that something bad was going on here when I saw the crosses poking up out of the weeds. That’s how they were, not just thrown haphazardly into the hollow.’

‘But why?’ Líf pressed herself back even further into the corner. ‘I’m absolutely certain those people are buried there.’

‘I have no idea how they got there, but if I were going to bury just one person, let alone two, on this site, I’d choose flat ground over that hollow. Maybe whoever it was wanted to hide the graves.’ Katrín was unhappy with how whiny she sounded.

‘And then put crosses on them?’ Garðar gave her a tired smile. ‘Believe me, these crosses come from somewhere else. There are no graves in that depression.’

‘Should we try digging a bit?’ Katrín looked at Garðar, hoping he would say no. She didn’t want to find coffins or skeletons a mere hundred metres from the house. ‘Maybe the graves are somewhere else around here.’

‘We should check it out. If there are graves here, I’m off.’ Líf’s voice grew more agitated with each word. Her reaction had surprised Katrín, because even though Líf was generally highly strung, she was never this much of a nervous wreck. Maybe it was too soon after Einar’s death for her to tolerate hearing about people dying in strange circumstances. ‘I’ll swim if I have to.’

‘That’s enough nonsense.’ Garðar bristled. ‘No one’s going anywhere and we’re not searching for graves around the house. Do you really want me to start digging the place up?’ He didn’t wait for a reply, but added: ‘No way. Firstly, we won’t find anything, and secondly, we’d end up wasting all our time on it.’ He stood up, grimacing slightly. ‘Things are going to go slowly enough after that bloody hike – my legs are killing me.’ He moved over to the wall by the door and stretched one calf muscle. ‘We’ve got to work hard if we want to get things finished on time. And that’s hardly going to happen if I’m limping around out there with stiff muscles and blisters, searching for old graves with you screaming over my shoulder every time my shovel hits a rock.’