Hypothermia

9

Sigurdur Óli returned to work, coughing and fastidiously blowing his nose into a paper tissue. He said he couldn’t face hanging around at home any longer, though he hadn’t completely shaken off the bloody flu yet. He was wearing a new, light-coloured summer coat in spite of the autumnal chill and had already been to the gym and barber’s at the crack of dawn that morning. When he bumped into Erlendur he looked as fit as ever, despite his lingering virus.

‘Everything hunky-dory?’ he asked.

‘How are you?’ Erlendur asked in return, ignoring the irritating phrase that Sigurdur knew always got on his nerves.

‘Oh, you know. Anything happening?’

‘The usual. Are you going to move back in with her?’

It was the same question that Erlendur had asked Sigurdur Óli before Sigurdur came down with flu. He liked Sigurdur’s wife Bergthóra and was saddened by the failure of their marriage. They had once briefly discussed the reasons for the separation and Erlendur had got the impression from his colleague that all hope was not yet lost. But Sigurdur Óli had not answered him then and nor did he do so now. He couldn’t stand Erlendur’s interfering.

‘Still obsessed with missing-person cases, I hear,’ he said and disappeared round the corner.

There was less to do than usual, so Erlendur had dug out the files on the three missing-person cases that had occurred in quick succession nearly thirty years ago and had arranged them on the desk in front of him. He clearly remembered the girl’s parents. He had gone to visit them two months after their daughter had been reported missing, when the search had yielded no results. They had travelled down from Akureyri and were staying in Reykjavík at the house of some friends who were away. Erlendur could see that they had been going through sheer hell since their daughter’s disappearance; the woman looked haggard and the man was unshaven, with black shadows under his eyes. They were holding hands. He knew they had been to see a therapist because they blamed themselves for what had happened; for going on that long trip and only keeping in intermittent contact with their daughter. The trip had been the fulfilment of an old dream of theirs to visit the Far East. They had travelled to China and Japan and even deep into Mongolia. The last contact they’d had with their daughter was via a poor telephone line from a hotel in Beijing. They’d had to book the phone call a long time in advance and the connection was bad. But their daughter had said that things were going very well at her end and that she was looking forward to hearing all about their adventures.

‘That was the last time we heard from her,’ the woman said in a low voice when Erlendur came to see them. ‘We didn’t come home until two weeks later and by then she had vanished. We called again when we got to Copenhagen and when we landed at Keflavík, but she didn’t answer. When we reached her flat, she had disappeared.’

‘We couldn’t really make proper telephone contact until we got back to Europe,’ her husband added. ‘We tried to call her then but she didn’t answer.’

Erlendur nodded. A comprehensive search had been organised for their daughter, who was called Gudrún, nicknamed Dúna, but with no success. The police had interviewed her friends, fellow students and relatives but no one could explain her disappearance or begin to imagine what could have become of her. They combed the beaches in Reykjavík and the surrounding area. Crews in inflatable lifeboats scoured the coastline and divers dragged the sea. No one seemed to have noticed the movements of her Austin Mini; an aerial search of the entire Reykjavík area, the route north to Akureyri and all the main roads had failed to produce any results.

‘It was just an old banger, really, that she bought herself up north,’ her father said. ‘You could only get in through the driver’s door; the passenger door was stuck, the handles for winding the windows were broken and the boot didn’t open, but she was very fond of it all the same and drove it everywhere.’

The parents talked about their daughter’s hobbies, one of which was studying lakes. She was reading biology and had a special interest in lakes and aquatic life. The search for her had taken account of this and encompassed the lakes near Reykjavík and Akureyri and on the road north, but to no avail.

Erlendur looked up from the file. He didn’t know where the couple were living these days. They were probably still based in Akureyri, both in their seventies by now and hopefully enjoying their retirement. They had got in touch with him every so often for the first few years but he had not heard from them for a long while.

He picked up another file. The disappearance of the young man from Njardvík seemed to have a more obvious explanation. He had been underdressed for the walk between the villages and although the distance was short, a violent blizzard had been raging and seemed likely to have caused his death. In all probability he had stumbled into the sea and been dragged away from shore by the waves. The amount he’d had to drink, which by all accounts had been excessive, must have hampered his ability to save himself, blunting his judgement, energy and willpower. Local rescue teams and the young man’s family and friends had combed the entire coastline from the Gardskagi lighthouse to Álftanes in the following days. The young man had left no trail and the search had to be postponed again and again due to extreme weather conditions. All efforts to find him proved in vain.

Erlendur got in touch with María’s friend Karen to tell her that he had listened to the tape she’d left in his office. They had quite a long conversation during which Karen gave him the names of several people connected to María. She didn’t ask Erlendur why he wanted to examine the case further but seemed pleased with his reaction.

One of the people Karen mentioned was a man named Ingvar. Erlendur decided to pay him a visit. He was friendly and did not query Erlendur’s explanation of why he was asking questions about María. They met late one afternoon as freezing showers lashed the city. Erlendur claimed that the police were taking part in a comprehensive study of suicide in collaboration with the other Nordic countries. It was not a complete lie. A study of the kind was being carried out by the Nordic ministries of social affairs and the police had contributed information to it. The aim was to try to uncover the root of the problem, as a Swedish report put it: to examine the causes of suicide, the distribution according to age, gender and social class, and to try to identify any common factors.

Ingvar listened attentively as Erlendur churned out his spiel. Ingvar was in his sixties, an old family friend and companion of María’s father Magnús. He came across as rather a passive, sedate sort of man. Naturally he had been shattered by the news and had attended María’s funeral, which he described as beautiful. He found it incomprehensible that the girl should have resorted to such a desperate measure.

‘Though I knew she was under a lot of strain.’

Erlendur sipped the coffee that the man had offered him.

‘I gather she was badly affected by her father’s death,’ he said, putting down his cup.

‘Dreadfully,’ Ingvar replied. ‘Dreadfully badly. No child should have to go through an ordeal like that. She witnessed the whole thing, you know.’

Erlendur nodded.

‘Magnús and Leonóra bought the holiday cottage shortly after they married,’ Ingvar continued. ‘They often invited me and my dear late wife Jóna to stay with them at weekends and so forth. Magnús spent a lot of time out in his boat. He was mad about fishing, could carry on for days at a time. I used to go along sometimes. He tried to get little María interested but she didn’t want to go with him. It was the same with Leonóra. She never went on Magnús’s fishing trips.’

‘So they weren’t with him on the boat?’

‘No, certainly not. Magnús was alone; anyway, you’ll be able to read that in your reports. In those days people didn’t bother so much about wearing or carrying life jackets. Magnús had nothing of the sort with him when he went out on the lake. From what I can remember the boat came equipped with two life jackets, but Magnús always said he didn’t need them and kept them in the boat shed. He only went a short way out as a rule; hardly left the shore.’

‘But he went a bit further out that last time?’

‘He did, yes, from what I’ve heard. It was unusually cold that day. It was about this time of year, autumn.’

Ingvar fell silent.

‘I lost one of my best friends in him,’ he added, momentarily distracted.

‘That’s tough,’ Erlendur said.

‘His boat had an outboard motor and we gathered from the police afterwards that the propeller fell off and the boat lost its steering and stopped. Magnús had no oars and fell overboard while fiddling with the engine. He was overweight and a heavy smoker and didn’t take any exercise, so I don’t suppose that helped. Leonóra said the wind had picked up; a cold blast from Mount Skjaldbreid had whipped up the waves, and Magnús drowned in a matter of minutes. Lake Thingvallavatn is freezing cold at this time of year. No one can survive in it for more than a few minutes.’

‘No, of course,’ Erlendur said.

‘Leonóra told me the boat couldn’t have been more than a hundred and fifty metres or so from shore. They didn’t see what happened. Just caught sight of Magnús in the water and heard his shouts, which were soon cut off.’

Erlendur glanced out of the living-room window. The city lights glittered in the rain. The traffic was building up. He could hear its rumble from inside the house.

‘Naturally his death came as a crushing blow to his wife and daughter,’ Ingvar continued. ‘Leonóra never remarried. She and María lived together for the rest of her life, even after the girl married. Her husband, the doctor, simply moved in with them.’

‘Were they religious, the mother and daughter, that you were aware?’

‘I know that Leonóra derived a certain comfort from religion after what happened at Thingvellir. It helped her and no doubt the girl too. María was a little angel, I have to say. Leonóra never had the slightest trouble with her. Then she met that doctor – who seems a very decent chap to me. I don’t actually know him very well but I had a word with him after María died and of course he was distraught, just as we all are, all of us who knew her.’

‘María had a degree in history,’ Erlendur remarked.

‘Yes, she was interested in the past; she was a great reader. She got that from her mother.’

‘Do you know what her particular field was?’

‘No, I don’t, actually,’ Ingvar said.

‘Could it have been religious history?’

‘Well, I understand that her interest in the afterlife intensified after her mother died. She immersed herself in spiritualism, in ideas about life after death and that sort of thing.’

‘Do you know if María ever visited mediums or psychics?’

‘No, I know nothing about that. If so, she never told me. Have you asked her husband?’

‘No,’ Erlendur said. ‘It’s just something that occurred to me. Did she seem very depressed to you? Could you have imagined that she would do something like that?’

‘No, I couldn’t. I met her several times and talked to her on the phone but she didn’t give the impression that this would… in fact, quite the opposite. I thought she was beginning to pick up. The last conversation I had with her was a few days before she… before she did it. She seemed more decisive than often before, more optimistic, if anything. I thought I sensed signs of an improvement. But I gather that’s sometimes the case.’

‘What?’

‘That people in her position rally once they’ve taken the decision.’

‘Can you imagine what effect it might have had on her as a young girl to witness the accident at Thingvellir?’

‘Well, naturally one can’t put oneself in her shoes. In María’s case she clung to her mother and drew all her strength and comfort from her after the accident. Leonóra hardly dared take her eyes off the child in those first months and years. Of course, an event like that would have a profound impact and remain with you for the rest of your life.’

‘Yes,’ Erlendur said. ‘So they mourned him together.’

Ingvar was silent.

‘Do you know why the motor packed up?’ Erlendur asked.

‘No. They said the propeller came off. That’s all we knew.’

‘Had he been fiddling with it, then?’

‘Magnús? No. He didn’t have a clue about that sort of thing. Never touched an engine in his life as far as I’m aware. If you want to know more about Magnús you could talk to his sister, Kristín. She might be able to help you. Have a chat to her.’

Later that day Erlendur went to see an old schoolfriend of María’s. His name was Jónas and he was finance manager of a pharmaceuticals company. He sat in his spacious office, impeccably dressed in a tailor-made suit and wearing a loud yellow tie. He himself was tall and slim with a three-day beard shadow, not unlike Sigurdur Óli. When Erlendur called beforehand, Jónas expressed himself a little surprised by the inquiry into his schoolfriend’s suicide and puzzled as to how it concerned him, but he asked no awkward questions.

Erlendur waited for Jónas to finish a phone call that he explained he had to take; some urgent outside matter, from what Erlendur could gather. He noticed a photo of a woman and three children on a shelf and assumed they were the finance manager’s family.

‘Yes, about María – is it true what I’ve heard?’ Jónas asked when he finally put down the receiver. ‘Did she commit suicide?’

‘That’s correct,’ Erlendur said.

‘I could hardly believe it,’ Jónas said.

‘You met her at college, didn’t you?’

‘We went out for three years, two at sixth-form college and one at university. She read history, as you probably know. She was into that kind of research.’

‘Did you live together or…?’

‘For the last year. Until I’d had enough.’

Jónas broke off. Erlendur waited.

‘No, her mother was… to put it bluntly, she was extremely interfering,’ Jónas elaborated. ‘And the strange thing was that María never seemed to see anything odd about it. I moved into her place in Grafarvogur but quickly gave up on the whole thing. Leonóra was all-important and I never felt I had María to myself. I discussed it with her but María didn’t get it; she wanted her mother to live with her and that was that. We quarrelled a bit and in the end I simply couldn’t be bothered any more and walked out. I don’t know if María ever missed me. I’ve barely seen her since.’

‘She got married later on,’ Erlendur said.

‘Yes – to some doctor, wasn’t it?’

‘So you didn’t lose touch completely?’

‘Well, I just happened to hear and can’t say I was surprised.’

‘Did you ever see her after you broke up?’

‘Maybe two or three times by chance, at parties and that sort of thing. It was all right. María was a great girl. It’s absolutely terrible that she should have chosen to end her life like that.’

The mobile phone in Erlendur’s pocket began to ring. He apologised and answered it.

‘She’s prepared to do it,’ he heard Eva Lind say at the other end.

‘What?’

‘Meet you.’

‘Who?’

‘Mum. She’s prepared to do it. She’s agreed to meet you.’

‘I’m in a meeting,’ Erlendur said, glancing at Jónas, who was patiently stroking his yellow tie.

‘Aren’t you up for it, then?’ Eva Lind asked.

‘Can I talk to you later?’ Erlendur asked. ‘I’m in a meeting.’

‘Just say yes or no.’

‘I’ll talk to you later,’ Erlendur said.

He ended the call.

‘Did death have any particular meaning for María?’ Erlendur asked. ‘Was it something she gave much thought to, from what you can remember?’

‘Not particularly, I don’t think. We didn’t discuss it – we were only kids, after all. But she was always very scared of the dark. That’s the main thing I remember about our relationship, her absolute terror of the dark. She could hardly be alone in the house after nightfall. That was another reason why she wanted to live with Leonóra, I think. And yet…’

‘What?’

‘In spite of her fear of the dark, or perhaps because she of it, she was forever reading ghost stories, all that sort of stuff, Jón Árnason’s Icelandic folk tales and so on. Her favourite films were horror movies about ghosts and all that crap. She lapped it up, then would hardly dare go to sleep in the evenings. She was incapable of being alone. Always had to have somebody with her.’

‘What was she so afraid of?’

‘I never really knew because I couldn’t give a toss about that sort of thing. I’ve never been scared of the dark. I don’t suppose I listened to her properly.’

‘But she actively indulged her fear?’

‘It certainly seemed like that.’

‘Was she sensitive to her surroundings – did she see or hear things? Was her fear of the dark rooted in something she had experienced or knew?’

‘I don’t think so. Though I remember that she used to wake up sometimes and stare fixedly at the bedroom door as if she could see something. Then it would pass. I think it was something left over from her dreams. She couldn’t explain it. Sometimes she thought she saw human figures. Always when she was waking up. It was all in her mind.’

‘Did they speak to her?’

‘No, it was nothing – just dreams, like I say.’

‘Might it be relevant to ask about her father in this context?’

‘Yes, of course. He was one of them.’

‘One of those that she saw?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did she attend any seances when you were with her?’

‘No.’

‘You’d have known?’

‘Yes. She never did anything like that.’

‘Her fear of the dark – what form did it take?’

‘Oh, the usual, I expect. She didn’t dare go down to the washing machine in the basement on her own. She would hardly go into the kitchen alone. She always had to have all the lights on. She needed to be able to hear me if she was moving around the house in the evenings, especially if it was very late at night. She didn’t like it if I went out, if I couldn’t spend the night with her.’

‘Did she try to get any help for it?’

‘Help? No. Isn’t it just something that… Can you get help for fear of the dark?’

Erlendur didn’t know. ‘Maybe. From a psychologist or someone like that,’ he said.

‘No, nothing like that, at least not while I was with her. Maybe you should ask her husband.’

Erlendur nodded.

‘Thanks for your help,’ he said, standing up.

‘No problem,’ Jónas said, again running a small hand down his yellow tie.