The Legacy Read online

  Contents

  Also by Yrsa Sigurdardóttir

  About the Author

  About the Translator

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Pronunciation guide for character names

  1987

  Prologue

  2015

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Also by Yrsa Sigurdardóttir

  The Thóra Gudmundsdóttir novels

  Last Rituals

  My Soul to Take

  Ashes to Dust

  The Day is Dark

  Someone to Watch Over Me

  The Silence of the Sea

  Standalones

  I Remember You

  The Undesired

  Why Did You Lie?

  About the Author

  Yrsa Sigurdardóttir works as a civil engineer in Reykjavík. She made her crime fiction debut in 2005 with Last Rituals, the first instalment in the Thóra Gudmundsdóttir series, and has been translated into more than 30 languages. The Silence of the Sea won the Petrona Award in 2015. The Legacy is her tenth adult novel and the first in the Children’s House series.

  About the Translator

  Victoria Cribb studied and worked in Iceland for many years. She has translated numerous novels from the Icelandic, including works by Arnaldur Indriðason and Sjón.

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2016 by an imprint of Hodder & Stoughton

  First published with the title DNA in 2014 by Verröld Publishing, Reykjavík

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Yrsa Sigurdardóttir 2014

  English translation © Victoria Cribb 2017

  The right of Yrsa Sigurdardóttir to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 473 62154 1

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.hodder.co.uk

  This book is dedicated to Palli

  I am indebted to the following people for their help with information for this book: Bragi Gudbrandsson on the Child Protection Agency and Children’s House, Thorleikur Jóhannesson on the world of radio amateurs and communications, and Hallgrímur Gunnar Sigurdsson on radio communications and their monitoring. I owe them all my sincere thanks. Any mistakes are entirely my own.

  Yrsa Sigurdardóttir

  Pronunciation guide for

  character names

  (Nicknames in brackets)

  Huldar – Hool-dar

  Freyja – Fray-a

  Karl – Kahdl

  Elísa – El-eesa

  Margrét – Mar-gryet

  Sigvaldi – Sik-valdi

  Ástrós – Owst-rohss

  Ríkhardur – Reek-harth-oor

  Erla – Edla

  Egill – Ay-idl

  Börkur – Berr-koor

  Haraldur (Halli) – Hahr-ald-oor (Hal-lee)

  Arnar – Ahd-nar

  Stefán (Stebbi) – Stef-own (Steb-bee)

  Bárdur – Bowr-thoor

  Silja – Sil-ya

  Karlotta – Kahr-lotta

  Védís – Vyeh-dees

  1987

  Prologue

  They sat on the bench as if arranged in order of size; the girl, who was the youngest, at one end, her two brothers next to her. One, three and four years old. Their thin legs dangled from the hard seat, but unlike normal children they didn’t swing them or wriggle about, and their new shoes hung motionless over the shiny linoleum. There was no curiosity, boredom or impatience in their faces. All three stared at the blank white wall in front of them as if watching a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Viewed through the glass, the scene resembled a photograph – a study of three children on a bench.

  They had been sitting there for nearly half an hour. Soon they would be allowed to get up but none of the adults watching them were particularly keen to reach that point. The recent upheaval in the children’s lives would seem insignificant compared to what lay ahead. Once they walked out of here nothing would ever be the same again. This time the change would probably be for the better but it had potential drawbacks, which might in the end outweigh the benefits. That was the dilemma confronting the group gathered around the table.

  ‘I’m afraid so. We’ve considered all the other options but this is what the experts recommend. The children need to be settled in permanent homes as soon as possible. The older they are, the smaller their chances of being adopted. Just look at how much harder it’s been to find a home for the boys than the girl. Prospective parents are well aware that the younger children are, the more successfully they adapt to a new life. In two years the girl will be as old as the younger brother is now, and then we’ll be facing the same problem with her.’ The man took a deep breath and brandished a sheaf of papers to lend weight to his words. These were reports and psychiatric assessments by the experts who had examined the children. The others nodded, their faces sombre; all, that is, except the youngest woman there, who had been the most vocal in her opposition to the proposal. She had the least experience of child-protection cases and still harboured a spark of hope that repeated disillusionment had long since extinguished in the rest of them.

  ‘Shouldn’t we hang on a little longer? You never know, we might still manage to find a couple prepared to take on all three.’ She glanced over at the children, who were sitting on the bench as if turned to stone. Her arms were clamped tight across her chest as if she were trying to prevent her kindly instincts and innate optimism from draining away. She could vividly recall the way the siblings had looked when their case first came to the attention of the authorities: their dirty, tangled dark hair, filthy clothes and emaciated bodies. Their eyes bright in their grimy faces; their cheeks streaked with tears. The young woman turned back to the other social workers, her expression full of sadness. ‘There has to be a chance.’

  ‘I’ve just been over this.’ The man with the reports sounded exasperated. He checked his watch for the third time; he’d promised to take his children to the cinema. ‘We’ve got couples fighting over the little girl, but very few are interested in the boys. We shou
ld be grateful to have found this solution; it would be futile to go on hunting for some hypothetical perfect couple. All prospective adopters come to us and we’ve been through the list with a fine-tooth comb. In the circumstances this is by far the most satisfactory outcome.’

  There wasn’t much that could be said to this and they nodded gravely, all except the young woman. Her eyes radiated desperation. ‘But they seem so close. I’m worried being separated could damage them for life.’

  This time the reports were shaken so vigorously that the resulting draught lifted the hair of those present. ‘Two different psychiatrists have stated in no uncertain terms that it would be in the best interests of the younger two to be parted. The boy has assumed the role of protector for his little sister. He’s smothering her with all the love and care he’s missed out on himself, even though he’s only a small child. He won’t leave her alone; he’s tormented with stress and anxiety on her account. The boy’s only three years old, for God’s sake.’ The man paused for breath. ‘It’s not a question of having to read between the lines – the reports are explicit. Being separated would be best for both of them. His relationship with her isn’t healthy. In fact, both boys have been worse affected than their sister. They’re older, after all.’

  There was a movement on the bench. The younger boy had shifted nearer to his sister. He put his arm round her shoulders and pulled her close. You would have thought he’d heard them through the glass.

  ‘I for one don’t think we can afford to cast doubt on their professional opinion.’ The woman who said this had also intimated that her time was limited. She spoke quickly, impatiently tapping her foot. ‘They’re the experts. We can’t begin to imagine what the children’s lives have been like. For what it’s worth, I think we should hurry up and get it over with. It would be naive to go on searching for a fairy-tale solution. It doesn’t exist.’

  ‘But what’ll happen when they’re older and realise that breaking them up was avoidable?’ The oldest member of the team now weighed in. ‘Most of us here are familiar with what happens when people are filled with bitterness against the system. It can take over their lives.’ He was fast approaching retirement and hoped against hope that this would be the last difficult case to land on his desk. Surely that wasn’t too much to ask? His hair had long since turned white, he was on medication for his blood pressure and his face was deeply scored with lines.

  ‘The adoptive parents will keep their background secret. It would be in all their interests, especially the younger two. It shouldn’t be too difficult either, since they’re unlikely to remember anything. The girl’s barely one. I suppose there’s a risk the eldest boy might retain some memories, but we can’t be sure. And even if he does, they’ll be muddled and fade over time. I mean, how much do you remember from when you were four?’

  ‘Plenty.’ It seemed the young woman was alone in retaining such early memories. The others could recall only vague, dreamlike fragments. But even she couldn’t remember anything from when she was one. The little girl, who was so much in demand, would come out of it best and not only because she was adorable. The boys had been harder hit by the events of the last couple of years and were already displaying the signs: the younger by his excessive love and solicitude for his sister; the elder by his indifference towards the world. The brief report from the police officers who had gone to the scene in response to the mother’s phone call had been so shocking that none of those present wished to recall the details.

  It would be a mercy if time obliterated all trace of the events from the children’s minds.

  Sadly, though, the young woman doubted this would happen. The trauma would have been too great. ‘My memories are generally associated with bad experiences, like when I shut my finger in the door of the bakery, aged three, or saw my friend hit by a car when I was five. But those are nothing compared to what these kids have been through. I’m worried the boys will be able to remember. Their sister too, though that’s unlikely.’

  ‘What about their relationship, has that been established?’ The woman who was strapped for time changed the subject before they could digress any further into childhood reminiscences. ‘Surely there’s a limit to how much effort we need to make trying to keep them together when they’re probably not even full siblings?’

  At this point the man with the reports finally went up in the estimation of the emotional young woman. ‘In my view the question of their paternity is irrelevant. They’re siblings as far as they’re concerned, though whether that’s only through their mother is anyone’s guess. The younger two have no known father. But the older boy’s different. In the opinion of the doctor who examined them, the younger boy and girl are probably full siblings and the eldest is only their half-brother. Though admittedly that’s based on the statement of the man alleged to be the elder boy’s father; he swears blind he had no further sexual relations with the mother after their son was born – after she was forced to move back in with her father.’ The man made a face and swallowed before continuing. ‘But it would require a DNA test to establish the children’s relationship and there’s no time or money for that. And, quite frankly, nobody wants to know the results. It’s preferable for all concerned to assume they have “normal” fathers. All three, not just the eldest.’

  Nobody spoke. They were all familiar with the story. About the children and their mother. About their grandfather and the unspeakable crime he was suspected of committing against his daughter. Now the fate of three little children with scars on their souls was in their hands. What were they to do?

  ‘What about the father, this Thorgeir?’ The younger woman broke the silence. ‘Isn’t there any chance he’ll have a change of heart?’

  ‘We’ve tried everything. He neither can nor will take on his son, let alone all three of them. He’s had no contact with the boy and isn’t even certain he’s the father. According to him, he agreed to give the boy his name because he’d had a brief fling with the mother, but he was never sure she hadn’t been sleeping around. If we put pressure on him to take responsibility for his son he’ll demand a paternity test. That’ll delay things and whatever the outcome, I don’t see him as a particularly desirable option. If he turns out not to be the father, there’s no point even discussing his adopting the boy. And if he is, he doesn’t want him. Would that be a happy situation for his son? I very much doubt it.’ The men present exchanged glances, showing more sympathy for the alleged father’s decision than the women, who kept their eyes lowered.

  ‘It’s the best solution.’ This time, instead of brandishing the reports, the man tapped them with his fingers. ‘Unfortunately, we don’t have a time machine to tell us how well they’ll turn out. All we’ve got to go on is the opinion of the experts. The prospective parents have all been vetted and received first-class references. I suggest we finalise things. The children’s records will be altered in the system and in time their horrendous background will be consigned to oblivion. It’s best they never find out their history, and being split up will help them forget. The sooner they start a new life, the better for everyone. Are we all agreed?’

  The young woman opened her mouth but thought better of it. The others murmured their assent as if to suppress any further objections from her side. Turning her head, she looked through the glass at the three children on the bench. The little girl was trying in vain to break free of her brother but he only clutched her tighter, seeming almost to hurt her. Perhaps the experts were right after all. Turning back to the group, she nodded despondently.

  With that it was decided.

  The group split up to take care of the formalities. The young woman lingered in the corridor, so she was the sole witness when the children embarked on their new lives. They didn’t give up their old one without a fight. The younger boy, especially, took it badly. He wept and screamed as he watched his sister disappear down the corridor in the arms of a paediatrician. The little girl gazed at him over the doctor’s shoulder, waving bye-bye, her fa
ce blank. Then all hell broke loose. A man in a white coat had to restrain the little boy by force. When he realised he was overpowered, his screams dissolved into sobs.

  The young woman couldn’t tear her eyes from the scene. Given that she was partly responsible, she felt she should have the guts to face up to the consequences. The elder boy made a marginally less harrowing sight. But although he didn’t struggle or cry, the terror in his eyes said it all. The children had probably never been parted before.

  The young woman didn’t shed any tears as she stood and watched the two little boys disappear the same way as their sister. When finally she made a move, she saw no sign of the children anywhere in the hospital corridors. They weren’t in the foyer or in the half-empty car park outside.

  Their new life had swallowed them up without a trace.

  2015

  Chapter 1

  Thursday

  It takes Elísa a moment or two to work out where she is. She’s lying on her side, the duvet tangled between her legs, the pillow creased under her cheek. It’s dark in the room but through the gap in the curtains a star winks at her from the vastness of space. On the other side of the bed the duvet is smooth and flat, the pillow undented. The silence is alien too; for all the times it has kept her lying irritably awake she misses the sound of snoring. And she misses the warmth that radiates from her permanently superheated husband, which requires her to sleep with one leg sticking out from under the covers.

  Out of habit she’s adopted that position now, and she’s cold.

  As she pulls the duvet over her again she can feel the gooseflesh on her legs. It reminds her of when Sigvaldi was on night shifts, only this time she’s not expecting him home in the morning, yawning, hollow-eyed, smelling of the hospital. He won’t be back from the conference for a week. When he kissed her goodbye at the central bus station yesterday he had been more impatient than her to get their farewells over with. If she knows him he’ll come back reeking of new aftershave from duty-free and she’ll have to sleep with her nose in her elbow until she gets used to the smell.