Read Satu Rämö's latest ‘Hildur’ installment – written exclusively for Vogue Scandinavia

The serrated knife made a gentle sound as it rested against the white porcelain. Detective Hildur Rúnarsdóttir placed her cutlery pointing to five o’clock on the empty plate, got up and grabbed her puffer jacket from the back of the chair. She walked up to the till to pay for the dinner she had just enjoyed in the village’s only restaurant.

“I’ll pay for the soup too”, Hildur said, searching her pocket for her credit card, and paid for the two meals. Wildlife photographer Patrick Sund had had to leave the restaurant early to catch his 7pm flight back to the capital, Reykjavik for his onward journey to Stockholm early the next morning. Hildur had met Patrick during a cross-country skiing trip over the weekend. The nearby nature reserve with its arctic foxes and hilly terrain is the perfect place for a trip in the wilderness. After their last day of skiing Hildur and Patrick wound up in Hildur’s apartment. Hildur thought about the broken headboard that was waiting for her at home and laughed quietly. She would fix it tomorrow. Right now, all she had the energy for was the sofa and TV.

Hildur stepped out of the restaurant and was immediately greeted by the cold wind. It was early April and the days were already much longer than the nights, but the sun didn’t feel warm yet. A candle burning outside by the smoking area was also struggling in the wind. A red-headed woman pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her long winter coat and shook out a cigarette. Hildur noticed the woman was wearing a white apron that reached just above her ankles. She thanked the chef for a great meal. The woman nodded in return and reached for the candle with her cigarette pursed tightly between her lips.

“Never light a cigarette with a candle. A sailor will die.”

The woman didn’t reply. She gave Hildur a long look as she held her cigarette against the wick. Her thick eyebrows highlighted the intensive stare.

“It’s an age-old superstition.” The redhead calmly blew out smoke from her lungs. “Listen, lady, you’re a little late. They’re already dead.” The woman laughed as she said it, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes.

As Hildur was walking home, the melancholic feeling she had carried around since the morning grew stronger. Initially she had thought it was to do with Patrick. After all, they had a great time together and though Hildur had known the relationship would only last for one night, it was still always hard to let them go. But the feeling had become stronger during the course of the evening. Something had begun to really bother her, but she didn’t yet know what.

The next morning was dull and grey. Hildur glanced out the off ice window. Usually views from the second floor of the police station opened up all the way to the back of the fjord, but today you could barely make out the carpark next-door. Foggy rain, or súld, had engulfed everything with its thick, pale blanket. The raindrops were so small it didn’t feel like rain, but more like tiny droplets simply falling down through the air.

Hildur gave the printer a good slap. Usually any issues with the printer were resolved by this type of firm whack to the side. This time was no exception. Hildur shared an office with her young detective partner, Jakob Johanson, and her boss, chief constable Elísabet Baldursdóttir, or Beta. The Finnish native Jakob had moved to Iceland a few years ago to do an internship as part of his police academy studies in Finland. Hildur had always been happiest in her own solitary company, but with Jakob she had quickly become friends. Jakob was her closest and probably her only real friend. She was pleased when Jakob had decided to stay in Iceland permanently.

The printer begun to spit out sheets of paper. Hildur grabbed the pile and sank into her office chair and swung her feet on the table. Her presentation on the interagency collaboration model between the Icelandic police and the child protection unit was ready.

Hildur was proofreading the material and half-listening to Jakob’s video call. Jakob was part of a Reykjavik-based investigative unit working on a series of burglaries of cabin and holiday homes across Iceland. Jakob pulled out more yarn from his bag and continued knitting. He kept working the stitches effortlessly from the left-hand needle to the right without even glancing down at his hands.

Jakob ended the call and removed his noise cancelling headphones.

“I hope these guys don’t try to leave the country while the investigation is still on going”, Jakob said, mainly to himself and adjusted the half-finished jumper on his lap and continued knitting.

Soon they heard footsteps approaching in the hallway, then a knock on the open door frame.

“A body has been found in the fish storage warehouse by the harbour, about fifteen minutes ago. Seems like a workplace accident,” Beta said.

Hildur turned to Jakob who was already swapping his office shoes for his thick winter boots.

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Beta added that none of the fishing vessels had been out to sea that night, so the morning shift workers had started later than usual. The forklift driver had been the first to arrive.

“The driver had found an elderly man lying on the floor, quickly realising it was the storage manager, Markús Helgason. He had tried to find his pulse and start CPR.”

The drive from the police station to the storage warehouse was three minutes. Pale grey walls, grey metal sheet roof. The building blended into the foggy rain.

“I can see the doctor’s arrived,” Hildur said as she parked his car next to the ambulance.

Hildur pushed open the large sliding door and stepped into the cold storage hall, with Jakob close behind. She looked around. High ceilings, no windows, bright LED lamps. Stacked up against the back wall were dozens of pale brown plastic containers. The containers were packed with crushed ice and fish, lifted into refrigerated trucks, and driven off to the capital to be sold. Next to the containers, on the cold concrete floor, lay a large-sized man dressed in a blue tracksuit and a puffer jacket left wide open.

Hildur recognised the doctor who was crouching next to the body. Nína Jónsdóttir had moved to the village earlier in the winter.

“He has been dead for a while,” Nína concluded, closed her doctor’s bag and got up. She had arrived at the scene about five minutes ago. Any attempts at resuscitation had been pointless. He didn’t have a pulse and his eyes weren’t responding to light. The forklift operator was standing with Nína’s colleague further away from the body.

“How recently did he die?” Jakob asked in his slightly broken Icelandic. Hildur thought Jakob’s Icelandic was pretty good. He didn’t roll his R’s as strongly as native speakers though, which gave away his non-Icelandic roots.

Nína couldn’t give an accurate estimate on the time of death. The body was no longer limp, which meant he had been dead for several hours. On the other hand, the temperature in the cold storage was just below zero, cooling the body quicker.

“I have to get back to the hospital; I’ve got a Caesarean scheduled. I’ll leave you with this, if that’s okay? I haven’t moved the body or measured the temperature,” Nína said. Hildur put on a disposable protective suit she had brought from the car to avoid contaminating the scene. The doctor had said there were no clear signs of violence, but as the cause of death was unclear, all angles had to be carefully considered.

“Can you go speak to the forklift operator for an initial statement, we’ll ask him to come down to the station later for a proper interview. I’ll have a better look at our dead guy,” Hildur said to Jakob and put on a pair of disposable latex gloves.

Something about this scenario bothered her. A man lying on the floor in the middle of a half-empty cold storage. No signs of a struggle nor of an accident. No stab or bullet marks, just like the doctor had said. She gently lifted the man’s head to check for any head injuries. Nothing.

Hildur took a look at his shoes. Sturdy safety boots with slip-resistant soles. Hildur knew that similar footwear are used a lot on fishing vessels and in cold storage facilities. So there was nothing to suggest the man may have slipped.

“Hildur, you need to hear this.”

Hildur looked up to Jakob who had approached her, holding a notepad. He had sent the forklift driver home.

“When Gunnar, I mean the forklift driver, had arrived at work, the front door had been locked.”

Hildur rubbed her arm across her forehead and looked at her colleague, puzzled.

“I mean, everyone knew that the key was in a lockbox outside. But people hardly ever locked the door. The key was just there for...” Jakob looked down at his notes. “...insurance reasons.” Hildur nodded. Of course. In the countryside, no one ever locked their doors in the daytime. Car keys are left in the ignition. Bikes aren’t locked or chained to lampposts. So it was in no way unusual that businesses didn’t lock up their premises, either. You still had to have a lock though, as otherwise a business couldn’t get insurance.

“Gunnar had taken the key from the lockbox, opened the door, and the first thing he had seen was a man lying on the floor. He hadn’t touched anything, apart from the body when he had tried to resuscitate him.”

Hildur groaned and stood up. She walked to the door to check something. Her suspicions were confirmed. Markús was not alone when he died.

Hildur peeled the latex glove off her right hand to get her phone out and dial her colleagues in Reykjavik.

“The door only locks from the outside. We need the forensic team here,” Hildur said to Jakob.

Jakob shifted his weight from one foot to the other and glanced at the view from the open door.

“The skies are relatively clear so the helicopter will be taking off soon. The guys will be here in about an hour and a half,” Hildur told Jakob as she got off the phone.

Iceland’s forensic investigation unit with is laboratories was based in Reykjavik. Hildur was the only criminal investigator in the Westfjords region. Though she could carry out simple forensic tasks, her team didn’t have the tools for more detailed investigations such as lifting shoe prints or taking DNA and fibre samples.

Hildur and Jakob left the fish storage warehouse the same way they had come in, and pulled the door shut behind them. Jakob stayed behind to guard the scene until the forensic team arrived. He needed to make sure no outsiders could get in.

“How is Guðrún?” Hildur asked. Guðrún owned a wool yarn shop in the village centre and worked as a flight attendant on domestic flights. She had been in the cabin crew when Jakob had first arrived in the Westfjords. They met in the air, fell in love and quickly moved in together. Jakob didn’t answer straight away.

“Allt í köku? Everything’s in cake? I mean, are you stressed?” Hildur continued. Jakob looked at Hildur.

“I don’t really know... We had a stupid fight this morning. About how to clean out an empty yoghurt pot.”

“Fun times then, eh?” Hildur replied sardonically.

Jakob’s face turned into a smirk.

“Speaking of fun times... I gather you’re having overnight guests?”

Hildur and Jakob lived in the same house. Hildur owned a wooden semi-detached house in the old village centre, Jakob was renting the other half of the house.

“I had one. He went home last night.”

“Ah, so an RBB?”

“Yep,” Hildur laughed quietly and waved Jakob goodbye.

Hildur was pleased how quickly Jakob had learned Icelandic. Including new slang phrases, too. RBB stood for ríða, búin, bless: Fuck, finish, farewell.

A long-term relationship didn‘t appeal to Hildur. She wanted to live alone and meet nice men every now and again. She also had clear rules for dating. The man had to be from abroad and only visiting, or if he was Icelandic, he coudn‘t live in the same town. Word travels fast in small places, and Hildur wanted to keep her business to herself.

Hildur put on her seat belt and started the car.

Next she had to go break the news to the dead man‘s family. According to official records, Markús only had one close family member still alive and they lived in the same village.

A black wooden house with white window frames. Lilja Lind’s home stood out from the other houses on the street. Hildur knocked on the small window on the front door and closed her eyes for a second. Delivering the news to families was hard. In a few minutes, one person’s life would be changed forever.

The door opened. A tall woman with thick bushy eyebrows appeared. Hildur recognised her straight away. They had met outside the village restaurant last night.

Hildur introduced herself and asked if she was talking to the daughter of Markús Helgasón. “Could we go inside and take a seat?” “Yes. I am Lilja Lind. I changed my surname when I moved to Sweden. But no. No need to sit down. Here is fine.”

Her words came out firmly. Hildur was a little flummoxed at first, but didn’t let it show.

“I have some sad news. Your father Markús Helgason has been found dead at his place of work. We do not yet know the cause death, but we are investigating it as we speak.”

Lilja blinked once and nodded.

“I am sorry for your loss. Are you sure you don’t want to go in and talk?”

Lilja shook her head.

“Was there something else?” Lilja’s behaviour was very subdued. She may have been in a state of shock.

“Is there anyone whole lives nearby that could come and stay with you? I can also give the crisis team a call,” Hildur suggested and took out her business card along with an information leaflet for people who have just lost a family member.

Lilja took the leaflet from Hildur and after a cursory glance put it on a small table in the hallway. Lilja’s house felt cosy. There were fresh tulips in a vase, framed old photos dotted around on the walls. Hildur thought she recognised Lilja in some of the photos. She was a long-legged girl already at a young age.

“Where are you taking the body? As I am the only living family member, is there something you expect me to do?”

Lilja asked direct questions, so Hildur responded with similarly direct answers.

The body will be transported to Reykjavik today for an autopsy by the forensic pathologist. The cause of death must be determined before the body can be buried. Lilja would be notified when funeral arrangements can be made. Hildur passed her business card to Lilja and said she could be in touch any time.

“It could be that I have some further questions for you about your father.”

“As cheap as possible,” Lilja sighed.

Hildur looked confused.

“The funeral. As cheap as possible.”

Before Hildur left, she turned around to ask something.

“We met last night, outside the restaurant. You are a chef there, correct?”

Lilja nodded but didn’t say anything.

Hildur said goodbye and walked across the yard to her car. A big black raven stood on top of the bin, looking around inquisitively. Hildur shuddered. A black raven appearing on your yard means death.

“What do you mean nothing?” Beta opened a pack of biscuits, took one for herself and placed the rest in the middle of the meeting room table. “The floor was cleaner than a vicar’s conscience,” Hildur said and kept rolling her shoulders. Her upper body had felt tight after her last surf session.

Hildur had just got off the phone with the head of the forensics unit.

The team had flown back to Reykjavik late last night, with few findings. They hadn’t found any fingerprints at the scene, and the only shoeprints were those of the deceased, the forklift driver, the doctor, and the police officers. The staff room had also been clean, and all bins had been emptied.

“Fibre analysis is still ongoing, but based on the fibres they have gone through that were discovered on the body, there isn’t much to tell.”

Jakob walked in carrying a tray with three mugs of coffee, a carton of milk and a bowl of sugar with a teaspoon stuck in it. Jakob placed the mugs gently on the table and pulled up a chair for himself.

“The warehouse is used for storing perishable food items. So the cleanliness of the place doesn’t surprise me as such,” Jakob said and stirred three spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. He took a sip and picked up his knitting bag again. The circular needles already had a good twelve inches of stocking stitch on them.

Hildur continued her report. She said that the forensic pathologist – the country’s only forensic pathologist – Hákon Bjarnason would be in touch when there were more details to share. Hákon had mentioned that work had been quieter than usual, so he had been able to start the autopsy straight away.

Hildur had spoken to all the fish storage staff last night, and none of them confirmed locking the door that day. Maybe Markús had died of a sudden illness, and some outsider passing by had locked the door without looking inside. Hildur was thinking out loud, but even she didn’t believe herself. The harbour’s security cameras unfortunately didn’t cover the front of the storage building. She moved on to talk about the deceased.

“Markús was like grey matter. His employees didn’t know anything about his private life. Many said he was always at work. He worked late, and often had his dinner in the staff kitchen. I met his daughter yesterday, she seemed very unemotional about her father.”

Jakob pulled out more yarn from his bag and picked up after Hildur: “I went through Markús’s background information yesterday. He had been the warehouse manager for about five years.”

Jakob’s steady tone of voice was paced by the rhythmic clicking of his knitting needles.

Markús had lived alone. His wife had died in a traffic accident around the same time he had moved to the Westfjords for a job. He’d had a mobile phone contract, but no internet connection. His phone was an old basic one, good for calls and texts only. No criminal record, and his credit score was faultless.

“What a strange hermit,” Hildur said and quickly heard her own words. She worked a lot and lived preferred to spend her time in her own company.

Hildur’s thoughts were interrupted by a mobile phone vibrating on the table.

“Hi Hákon,” Beta answered. “I’m here with Hildur and Jakob. I’ll put you on speaker.”

Based on the body temperature, room temperature, the body’s rigidity as well as the stomach contents, Hákon placed Markús’s time of death to yesterday early evening.

“His food wasn’t fully digested yet,” Hákon specified and added that Markús most likely died of asphyxiation.

“He choked on his food? Or someone had blocked his airways?” Hildur asked. She hadn’t noticed any signs of violence or force around Markús’s nose or mouth.

“His airways had swollen shut. The contraction had been so strong that he would’ve been unable to breathe.”

The sound of typing on a keyboard echoed down the phone.

“According to his medical records, the man had a severe shellfish allergy. I haven’t completed a full analysis on his stomach contents yet, but it does appear that he experienced a life-threatening allergic reaction.

“Did you find any adrenaline auto-injectors on him?” Beta asked, looking at Hildur and Jakob.

Hildur knew that one of Beta’s children had a severe peanut allergy and they never went anywhere without an EpiPen.

“No,” Hildur said.

“I will call you back if I find anything new,” Hákon said and ended the call.

Jakob had gone to check the private boat harbour for any possible security camera material. If he was lucky, one of the cameras might have covered the area in front of the storage.

Hildur’s pocket vibrated. “Finally,” she thought to herself as she saw the email notification, and sat down at her computer. The documents she had requested from the district courthouse.

Hildur had continued researching Markús’s background. At first look, she couldn’t find any mentions of Markús anywhere in the public domain. No magazine or newspaper interviews, no news bulletins about his management appointment. Hildur had refined her search criteria and had finally come across an obituary Markús had written about his older brother, Ingi Helgason, who had died of ALS. The obituary had been published a year ago.

The text had caught Hildur’s eye as she knew who Ingi was, at least distantly. In fact, many Icelandic people would have recognised the name. Ingi Helgason had been an infamous lawyer back in the day. He had successfully managed many high-profile corporate cases. The general public, however, would remember him from something else entirely. Years ago, Ingi had been convicted of child sexual abuse. This abhorrent side of a well-known, successful lawyer had generated a lot of headlines.

In the obituary, Markús had written many kind words about his brother’s work ethic and how he had continued to work on cases until the very end, despite being in severe pain.

Finding out that Ingi’s career had persisted despite his criminal conviction had piqued Hildur’s interest; the man had been found guilty of a serious sexual abuse offence, yet he had returned to practice law? The stark differences between the brothers – one a convicted sex offender, the other a diligent workaholic – had made Hildur suspicious, and so she had wanted to take a closer look at the pair. Hildur pushed her chair so close to the desk her face was practically touching the computer screen. She began to read through the court documents from Ingi’s case. The victim’s name was redacted, which was common practice, especially if the victim was a minor. Ingi had been sentenced to four years in prison.

Hildur walked into Beta’s office without knocking. “Do you remember Ingi Helgason?”

Beta snarled instinctively upon hearing the name.

“That slimy scumbag of a lawyer. I couldn’t forget him if I wanted to.”

Hildur had read in the documents that one of the police officers who had interviewed the victim, as well as testified in court, was Beta. She had been with the Reykjavik Metropolitan Police at the time.

“Ingi claimed that the girl had lied about her age and asked for an older man to teach her. Or some bullshit like that.”

Beta was spitting out her words. She took a few deep breaths and continued: “Ingi died last year of motor neurone disease, didn’t he? I do understand that ALS is a terrible disease, but that absolute miscreant deserved it.”

Hildur liked Beta. She was a good boss, she didn’t micromanage but rather let Hildur and Jakob get on with their work. And she wore her heart on her sleeve.

“Ingi was sentenced to prison. How on earth could he have returned to his job as a lawyer?” Hildur asked. Beta released a big sigh and agreed that, objectively, it was difficult to accept the legalities around Ingi’s case. Beta started lecturing about all the oddities in the Icelandic legislation – one of which allowed convicted criminals to have their tarnished reputation cleared. To have their ‘honour restored’.

The law meant that even after a long prison sentence, a criminal could clear their damaged reputation. As long as enough time had passed since the conviction, and you had upstanding members of the Icelandic community willing to write you a letter of recommendation, getting your honour restored even after a lengthy prison sentence was entirely possible.

“You make a request to the justice department. The request can be granted by the president.”

Hildur remembered hearing about this in the past, but only briefly and in passing. She hadn’t given it much thought since. “Or rather, you could make a request to the justice department,” Beta added. The outdated legal procedure had been scrapped a few of years ago. Ingi had had time to make use of it, however.

Hildur struggled to understand how anyone could be given the opportunity to restore a reputation they themselves had ruined.

“Who had written the letter of recommendation for that bastard?”, she asked. Beta opened her desk top drawer, pulled out a pack of biscuits and took a piece of one.

“There was a rumour going around in the police that it was someone in his immediate family. Whether that’s true or not I don’t know, as all the documents are classified and held by the Ministry of Justice,” Beta said and put the piece of biscuit in her mouth.

Hildur felt a quiver down her back. As if a little mouse had scuttled from her neck down to her spine.

“I know I am not meant to ask this, but I have to. The victim’s name was redacted in the court documents. Who was it?”

Hildur could sense the tension in the air. Beta frowned. “I can’t remember the name, but she had blonde hair, and she was a talented violinist.”

Hildur remembered something. She thanked Beta and rushed to her office to get her coat.

“You again,” Lilja said and let out a deep sigh. Hildur introduced Jakob, whom she had invited along from the station. She closed the door behind them and suggested they go inside and talk. Before Lilja had had a chance to respond, Hildur had already taken off her shoes. Jakob did the same.

Lilja threw up her hands and admitted defeat.

“Whatever. As long as it doesn’t take long. My shift starts at four.”

Lilja marched through the hallway towards the living room. Hildur knew that Lilja’s shift at the restaurant started at four every day, and that she worked six days a week. Lilja’s boss had confirmed that she had also been working the night Markús died. Lilja pointed Hildur and Jakob towards the sofa and reluctantly went to sit down on the opposite armchair. She sat cross-legged and looked at the pair with an icy stare.

“You lived in Sweden for quite some time?” Hildur asked.

“I moved back to Iceland last summer. I’m sure you’ve seen that in my records.”

“Why Ísafjörður?” Hildur asked, though she already knew the answer.

Lilja laid her palms on her knees and kept drumming them with her fingers.

“Great running trails,” she replied sardonically.

“Last Thursday, the night your father died, were you working then?”

“I’m sure you’ve already checked that,” Lilja said dryly.

“Your father lived alone. He often ordered dinner from your restaurant,” Hildur continued.

“It’s the only restaurant in the village,” Lilja pointed out.

“Your father was severely allergic to shellfish. His cause of death was most likely a life-threatening allergic reaction. You were on shift that night when he ordered the fish soup. It would’ve been easy to add in a bit of lobster stock. Someone had locked the storage door from the outside, so he had no chance to survive.”

Lilja’s face didn’t even flinch.

“Pretty tragic. I was at work all night, but there are at least four other people in the kitchen during each shift.”

Hildur looked around the small living room. Aside from the sofa and chair, there was just enough space for a square coffee table and a bookcase. You could see through to the entryway at the end of the hallway.

“Were you musical as a child?”

Lilja’s left eyebrow rose slightly.

“I used to sing. What about it?”

Hildur looked at the framed picture on the wall near the entrance.

“Who is your friend in the picture, with the violin?”

The picture was taken in Reykjavik in the summer, in front of the big church. A young blond girl in a short-sleeved dress with a violin in her hand. Next to her was a bushy-browed girl, just like Lilja, holding a music stand.

“María. We used to perform together. She played the violin, I sang.”

“Did she stop playing after...it happened?” Hildur asked calmly and looked at Lilja.

“You are not going to get me blamed for this,” Lilja replied in a low voice.

Hildur knew. She had told Jakob earlier about her suspicions that Lilja hadn’t acted alone.

“When are you going to return to Sweden to your boyfriend?”

Hildur’s question stirred Lilja’s icy exterior a little, but she gathered herself almost immediately.

“Beginning of June. As soon as Per’s research exchange in Denmark is finished. We’re moving in together in Stockholm. As I’m sure you’re aware, I’m the sole heir of my father’s estate and he had a lot of savings. It’ll be enough to buy a two-bedroom apartment in Södermalm.”

Hildur had finally realised what had bothered her that evening she and Patrick the wildlife photographer had parted ways. She had not heard the sound of an airplane flying over. Hildur had looked into it and found out that on the night of Patrick’s departure, the village airport had been closed due to strong crosswinds.

Patrick had been a little surprised to receive a call from Hildur, but had still kindly replied to all her questions. He said he had got back to Reykjavik by car; his friend had driven him. Patrick hadn’t been in Ísafjörður alone. The whole trip had been his good friend Per Ek’s idea. Per had wanted to visit a local fishing technology business, as their technology was closely related to his PhD research. As Patrick was an avid cross-country skier, Per had suggested the skiing trip to him. In this way they could travel to Iceland together.

The old wall clock chimed once to mark a half hour. It was 3.30 pm. Lilja cleared her throat. She lifted her feet onto the chair and pulled her knees close to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.

“I hadn’t been with anyone before, when it started.”

Lilja pulled her knees in even tighter against her chest.

“I was waitressing at a family friend’s confirmation party. I was in the back room, setting up biscuits for the guests, when Uncle Ingi came in. That was the first time. It went on for years. And I told my father, but he didn’t believe me. He thought I had made up the whole thing. I used to party a lot at the time, and he was certain I’d come up with a story to cover up for my own partying.”

Lilja stretched out her legs and placed her feet on the floor neatly next to each other. A large truck drove past the house, the noise of it making the windows rattle.

“Ingi was convicted. I’ve read the court documents; they were a harrowing read,” Hildur said.

Lilja scoffed.

“Yeah, for that one time when he raped my friend María. María’s parents believed her and helped her sue Ingi. His conviction didn’t save my friend though. María became depressed and in the final year of high school she took her own life.”

Lilja paused. She picked off a loose thread from the seam of her trousers.

“After María died, I was sure I would go crazy if I didn’t leave Iceland. So, I moved to Sweden.”

Lilja gazed past Hildur through the living room window. She said she was certain that Ingi had more victims than herself and María.

“Why did you return to Iceland then?” Hildur asked.

“I guess as we age we become more interested in our roots. I wanted to reacquaint myself with Iceland, and my father. When Ingi died, I was able to come back. I came to Ísafjörður because my father was here.”

Lilja turned back to Hildur and sneered.

“Completely pointless. My father turned out to be a piece of shit, just like his brother.”

Lilja said she had visited her father at home soon after moving back to Iceland. While he had been making them a pot of coffee, she was exploring his bookcase. She had seen an old letter addressed to the Ministry of Justice, in which Markús was praising his brother for being a model citizen who had changed his ways and now set a great example for others in the community. He had advocated for Ingi’s restored honour.

“My father kept a copy of that damn letter in his bookcase. After seeing it, I left the house without saying goodbye. I haven’t seen my father since. And his painful death doesn’t make me sad one bit. ‘I care never a whit whether thou holdest out a long while or a short’.”

Hildur recognised the quote from the Saga of Burnt Njáll. Hallgerður murdered her third husband to avenge for the violence he had inflicted on her.

Hildur understood the double trauma Lilja had endured. Lilja also had to live with the fact that society had decided to clear Ingi’s tarnished reputation and allow him to start with a clean slate.

Hildur stood up and gestured to Jakob to do the same, Lilja followed them to the door.

Hildur pulled on her shoes.

“My father died. Per was in Ísafjörður. I was at work. So what? You can’t prove anything,” Lilja said sharply.

The sunlight pushed through the small window in the hallway. “No, probably not.”

“And you wouldn’t even want to. I can tell.” Lilja said and opened the door to Hildur. She nodded Lilja goodbye.

Jakob pulled the door and shut it behind him. “What are you going to do?” Jakob asked as they walked to the car.

Hildur looked out to the mountains and noticed that the snow had started to melt. You could see the grey lava rock appearing from under the white sheet that had consumed the southern mountainside. Hildur wasn’t sure how Per had managed to steal Markús’s EpiPen, but everything else was clear.

“Nothing,” Hildur replied.

“Or did you find something on those security cameras by the harbour?”

Jakob hesitated for a second, and shook his head. “Nothing.”

Hildur and Jakob got in the car and put on their seatbelts. Some cases were impossible to solve. Cases where the heaviest burden was carried by those who had already endured enough. And this was one of those cases, Hildur decided. She steered the car back on the road towards the station. Hildur would wrap up all the necessary paperwork and go surfing. There had been a big storm off the coast of Greenland a few days ago. The waves would reach Iceland before dawn.