The Legacy Read online

  ‘Where’s he then?’ Margrét sat there poised like a ballerina, arms at her sides, back ramrod straight.

  ‘My brother?’ Freyja frantically racked her brain for a suitable reply. She couldn’t possibly tell the child the truth. ‘He’s living in the countryside at the moment but he’ll be moving back to town soon, and I need to find myself a flat before then. I don’t want to share with him.’

  Margrét moved her head for the first time. She nodded, with feeling. Then she lowered her feet to the floor and forced them into her shoes. ‘I’ll help you. Molly’s hungry.’ As soon as the dog heard her name she rose to her feet and stationed herself beside Margrét. The girl patted her head and scratched her behind the ears, and the animal closed her eyes like an overgrown cat. Freyja had never managed to elicit that kind of response, despite her frequent attempts to pet her. Molly would merely shake her head as if to get rid of an annoying pest. Who knows – maybe Margrét’s family could be persuaded to look after the dog? Absorbed in these thoughts she hardly noticed when Margrét sighed. A sad little sigh.

  ‘Are you all right, Margrét dear? Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘No.’ The girl’s voice was harsh and uncompromising. But she continued more mildly. ‘I feel bad inside. In my head.’ She stated this without emotion, as though it were her duty to report the fact. ‘Like everything’s broken down.’

  ‘Have you got a headache?’ Freyja had to ask, though she was well aware that what ailed the child could not be cured with painkillers.

  ‘It’s not like a headache. It’s more like I’ve hurt myself, but inside my head, so you can’t put a plaster on it.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘No, you don’t. Nobody does but me. It’s my head, not yours.’

  Freyja wasn’t offended by this; she knew the feeling only too well from her own childhood. She had felt the same when grown-ups talked to her with sympathetic faces and feigned understanding in their voices after her mother died. They hadn’t a clue what she was going through. Not a clue. ‘Shall I tell you a secret, Margrét?’

  The girl looked up. Secrets always held an allure, however difficult the situation.

  ‘My mummy died when I was only a tiny bit older than you. So I might not know exactly how you feel but I do have some idea.’

  Margrét scrutinised her face to satisfy herself that Freyja was telling the truth. ‘Was she killed?’

  ‘No. Not directly. She died because she didn’t look after herself properly.’ Freyja wanted more than anything to stroke the curly red head but didn’t dare for fear the girl would resent the caress. Like Molly. She made do with a wry smile. ‘You had a much better mummy than I did. But I still miss mine terribly. So I don’t know exactly how you’re feeling because you’re bound to feel much worse than me – but I almost know.’ She paused, sensing she was getting through to Margrét and unwilling to break the tenuous thread that now connected them. ‘Come on. We don’t want Molly to die of hunger.’

  The kitchen was small since the building dated back to the days when little importance had been placed on food and cooking. In spite of this, her brother had managed to fit in a table and two chairs by the window, as well as finding room for a set of huge bowls for the dog. It was quite a squeeze for the three of them.

  ‘I’d have to be absolutely starving before I’d eat that. How about you?’ Freyja watched the girl carefully pouring dried food into a bowl from a half-full bag.

  ‘Maybe I’d want it if I was a dog. But I’m not a dog.’ Margrét struggled to lift the heavy bag on to the table. Her voice was unnervingly devoid of emotion, though she had at least begun to respond to Freyja’s questions.

  It was only to be expected. Nothing Freyja said could drive out the pain. Only time could do that. Freyja forced a chuckle. ‘No, luckily. It’s more fun being a girl.’ She managed to grab the bag in the nick of time before it tipped over. ‘You know what they say about a dog’s life – it can be pretty miserable.’

  ‘I’d rather be a dog. At the moment, anyway.’ Margrét stared at the lino, avoiding Freyja’s eye. ‘Dogs don’t care about their mummies and daddies.’

  ‘Yes, I expect you’re right.’ Molly certainly gave no sign of missing her parents. Freyja handed Margrét the bowl she had filled. Molly’s eyes followed it and when the food was placed on the floor she began to wolf it down to the accompaniment of rattling as her collar banged against the dish. It was pointless trying to talk over the din, which was just as well, because Freyja had to be careful what they discussed. Not only was the girl desperately sensitive but Freyja didn’t want to inadvertently influence her statement.

  Silence fell once Molly had finished. Freyja feigned surprise. ‘Gosh, she must have been hungry. Shall I tell you something?’ Margrét didn’t answer but appeared to nod. ‘Molly’s always hungry. The instant we take the bowl away she’ll be hungry again.’ The dog gazed at them both in turn, licking her chops. She emitted a low whine as if she knew she wouldn’t be given any more but thought it worth a try.

  ‘Now we need to take her out for a little walk. Are you up for that?’

  ‘All right.’ It sounded as if a walk was no better or worse than anything else.

  Freyja pushed aside the incongruously frilly, old-fashioned kitchen curtain. Huge flakes of snow were falling outside. A police car drove slowly past; presumably one of the patrols they had promised. Although it crawled by at a snail’s pace, it was hard to see how this was supposed to deter any potential attacker. The deterrent would surely only work while the car was in the street. The thought unsettled her and Freyja hoped it didn’t show. ‘We’d better wrap up warm. It’s snowing.’

  Freyja had little experience of dressing children and wondered as they stood at the door whether she had overdone it. Nothing of Margrét could be seen apart from a glimpse of green eyes between her scarf and woolly hat. ‘Do you think you’ll be too hot?’

  ‘I don’t care.’ The voice emerged rather muffled through the scarf.

  Molly couldn’t contain her joy and slammed her tail noisily against the wall as they descended the stairs. She capered around them when Freyja opened the front door, tugging hard on the lead. Although she had meant to let Margrét take the dog, Freyja realised this was too risky. She didn’t want to return the child with injuries, though it was hard to see how she could hurt or graze herself through all those clothes. In spite of this, Freyja took care not to walk too fast on the slippery pavement, though Molly was in a tearing hurry and half dragged her along. There was no sign of the patrol car or of any other vehicles or pedestrians.

  The snowflakes floated slowly down to earth. They seemed to absorb all sound and the few words that Margrét and Freyja exchanged sounded oddly muted, as though wrapped in cotton wool.

  Down by the sea, Freyja let Molly off the lead. She hurtled away and vanished in the thick whiteness. For once Freyja wasn’t worried about the dog getting lost or throwing herself at strangers. People seemed to have agreed to stay indoors this evening. She and Margrét stood side by side, watching the swarming flakes that had swallowed Molly up.

  ‘Do you believe in God?’

  Freyja was glad the girl wasn’t looking at her face when she answered. She didn’t want to tell the child what she really thought in case a belief in heaven and life after death was the only thing keeping her going at the moment. But neither did she want to tell an outright lie. ‘Sometimes. Sometimes not.’ Feeling this was rather feeble, she added: ‘What about you?’

  ‘Sometimes. Sometimes not.’ They fell silent again and when the phone bleeped in Freyja’s coat pocket it seemed like an insult to the tranquillity. Out of habit she took out the phone, which glowed in the dark. The text had been sent from a number she didn’t recognise which at first she assumed belonged to the police – to Huldar. He had promised to be in touch but she had heard nothing. Typical. She had read his character right when he did a runner that morning. Underneath that handsome exterior was an empty shell.
r />   But the message could hardly be from him. ‘THINK I CANT DEAL WITH THE DOG?’ Freyja’s heart began to pound as she spun round, expecting to see someone standing behind them. She couldn’t hide her agitation. The child was bound to be frightened. But there was nothing there except the snow, falling ever more thickly. She seized Margrét’s hand. ‘Molly! Molly!’

  Margrét had noticed her panic. ‘What’s wrong?’ The small gloved fingers struggled in Freyja’s grasp.

  ‘Nothing. But we’d better get back before the snow’s up to our knees or Molly’s tummy will get cold.’ She was talking nonsense as she tended to when trying to conceal her dismay. ‘Molly! Here, girl!’ Freyja shifted the phone in her fingers, wondering whether to release Margrét’s hand and call the police. Before she could make up her mind they heard a bark, followed by a pathetic whine. ‘Molly! Molly!’

  The dog reappeared as suddenly as she had vanished and Freyja heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Molly! Come here!’ As the dog limped over to them Freyja saw that she was leaving a bright red trail on the white snow. By the time she reached them there was no question where the blood was coming from; there was an ugly gash on the back of her thigh. Since there was little they could do for the dog on this godforsaken footpath, Freyja clipped on her lead and set off walking as fast as she dared.

  It was a blessing in disguise that the dog was limping or Freyja would have raced home, pulling the little girl along with her and betraying the terror she was trying to hide.

  She thought she heard the echo of footsteps in the thick silence behind them.

  Chapter 21

  Molly opened her eyes drowsily but apparently didn’t like what she saw because she immediately closed them again. ‘You can leave her here if you like. She can sleep it off in the back room.’ The vet, a woman of about forty who didn’t look easily daunted, was watching Freyja, waiting for her answer. The pristine white coat she had put on to receive them was now decorated with a spray of fine red spots.

  Freyja avoided looking down at her own clothes, aware that she was in no better state. Tempting though the thought of a night without Molly was, she declined the offer. She knew herself well enough to realise she would be overcome by remorse before she was halfway home. Her brother doted on the dog like a child, and she would never have abandoned a child of his in hospital just to go home and rest. She was already dreading having to call him to explain what had happened, and only prayed he wouldn’t launch a series of crazy reprisals against the person who had injured his dog. The problem being that it was by no means certain he would take as much trouble over establishing the guilt of the suspected perpetrator as he would over organising a fitting punishment. ‘No, thanks. I’ll take her home. Though maybe you could give me a hand getting her out to the car.’ Fit though Freyja was, Molly was so heavy she wasn’t sure she could carry her unaided. Nor did she like to think what sort of state her clothes would be in afterwards. Molly’s coat on her wounded side was dull and sticky with half-congealed blood and other mysterious fluids that had poured out of her when the vet set to work with scalpel and needle.

  ‘Is there anyone at home who can help you carry her inside?’

  ‘No.’ Freyja felt the blood mottling her cheeks. What was wrong with her? There was nothing to be ashamed of about living alone at her age. Countless other women over thirty were divorced or unmarried. The vet had shown no curiosity about Freyja’s bloodstained trousers and wild hair, or the traumatised child she had in tow, so the woman was unlikely to raise her eyebrows over her marital status. Besides, since when had Freyja given a damn what strangers thought? It must be delayed shock. She was longing to relax in a hot bath but would have to make do with a shower since she had a child in her care – a child and an injured dog. For the first time since she had walked out on her ex, she missed him. He’d had his good moments. More than she cared to remember. ‘There’s no chance Molly’ll recover on the way?’

  ‘I recommend you wait a bit. Now she’s started opening her eyes it won’t be long before she wakes up. You don’t want to risk her coming round in the back seat of the car while you’re driving. I’ll find you a surgical collar, some painkillers and antibiotics, and sort out the bill. If the dog wakes up in the meantime, you can take her with you, otherwise she stays here tonight.’

  There was no alternative but to agree. Freyja wasn’t looking forward to the bill. On top of the normal cost there was bound to be an additional charge for the late call-out. When the vet had asked if the dog was insured, Freyja had almost burst out laughing, so unlikely was it that her brother would have arranged such a thing. The only reason he’d take out insurance was if he saw some way of cheating the system, but it was difficult to see how this could be achieved with pet insurance. No doubt she’d be saddled with a sky-high bill to pay. Still, no point worrying about that: the wound would never have healed on its own and she couldn’t have done the stitches herself. She had briefly considered asking the doctor at the Children’s House for help but decided against it. If there was anything she disliked more than extortionate bills, it was being beholden to people.

  Molly stirred, opened one eye and kicked her back leg. Then she seemed to doze off again, though her eyes were moving under their lids. There were ten gleaming sutures in the shaven patch at the top of her thigh. According to the vet she had been stabbed with a sharp knife, apparently deliberately. The wound wouldn’t have been as deep or clean if the dog had merely bumped into something. The vet had explained this while she was cleaning and stitching the gash. Freyja would have preferred to wait out front, but outside normal opening hours pet owners were required to assist with operations. Apparently most of the vet’s time was spent manipulating the owners into the recovery position after they had fainted mid-operation. Freyja had narrowly avoided this humiliation, chiefly by looking away whenever the world began to spin before her eyes. She found herself thinking about Margrét’s mother and wondering how her murderer could bring himself to kill another human being in such a barbaric fashion. This only made her dizziness worse and she had to step away from the operating table and lean against a cupboard until she recovered.

  She decided to take the chance that Molly wasn’t about to surface, and opened the door to the waiting room where Margrét was sitting looking at the pictures in a dog magazine. ‘Want to come and see? The operation’s over. Poor Molly’s still asleep but she’s about to wake up. I’m sure she’d rather see you than me when she opens her eyes. But you mustn’t be sick at the sight of the stitches.’

  Margrét laid the magazine carefully down. She smoothed it out as though to obliterate any sign that she had ever been sitting there. Freyja tried to read from her face whether she was suffering any ill effects from their adventure earlier that evening but she didn’t seem to be. Unless her stony expression meant that she was still in shock. They had made it home without anyone blocking their way or chasing them. While Molly lay on the floor with the blood pumping out of her thigh, Freyja had tried repeatedly to get hold of Huldar. There must have been a major incident because the police station refused to put her through or tell her where he was. She couldn’t help feeling annoyed, especially as she had been forbidden to speak directly to the regular police. She gathered this was to guarantee that as few people as possible knew of Margrét’s whereabouts.

  ‘Look at the poor thing.’ Freyja led Margrét into the surgery. ‘She’s had ten stitches.’ She watched as the girl gently stroked the dog and thought she saw her rigid jaw soften into a faint smile. ‘Hopefully she won’t be in any pain when she wakes up.’

  ‘Does the woman know what happened to her?’ Margrét moved her small fingers towards the wound. Freyja braced herself to grab her hands but this proved unnecessary. The girl stroked tenderly and warily all round the shaven area but didn’t touch the stitches. ‘Did she say anything about it?’

  ‘No, she couldn’t be sure. Molly may have caught herself on something sharp that was hidden by the snow, or been hit by a cyclist. It’s hard
to say.’

  ‘What would you do if someone could tell you who had hurt her?’

  Freyja took a deep breath. It was possible Margrét was sounding out her views, so it would be as well to answer with care. ‘That would depend on whether it was deliberate or an accident. If it was an accident I’d make the person who hurt her say they were sorry. That would do. But if it was deliberate, saying sorry wouldn’t be enough. It would be much more serious, so I’d talk to the police and leave it to them to deal with the guilty person so they’d get their comeuppance.’

  ‘What’s a comeuppance?’ The girl’s green eyes narrowed doubtfully, as if she suspected Freyja of inventing the word.

  ‘A comeuppance is when people get the punishment or telling-off that fits what they did wrong. It’s very important as a way of stopping them from doing wrong again and also of stopping others from copying them.’ Freyja hoped this short speech would impress on Margrét how vital it was that she tell them everything she had witnessed on the night of her mother’s murder. The next interview was due to take place tomorrow and it would save time and effort – and anguish for Margrét – if she could be persuaded to open up. Unless, that is, she didn’t have any more to tell.

  ‘If someone hurt Molly I think he deserves to be hurt back. Only worse.’

  ‘That’s how it used to be in the old days, Margrét. And still is in some places.’ Freyja stroked Molly’s ear, which had begun to twitch as if it were being tickled by a piece of grass on a summer’s day. ‘But it’s been shown that that kind of punishment is no good. Ordinary people slowly become bad inside if they start doing the same thing as those who hurt others deliberately.’

  ‘Not if you only do it once.’

  ‘No, maybe not. But there are better ways of punishing people who do bad things to other people.’

  ‘Like what?’