Hypothermia

12

Erlendur drove up to the house in Grafarvogur. It was getting dark, a reminder that winter would soon be here after the short, wet summer. Erlendur felt no dread at the thought. He had never dreaded the winter as so many did, not like those who counted the hours until the days would start to lengthen again. He had never regarded winter as his enemy. Time seemed to slow down in the cold and darkness, enfolding him in peaceful gloom.

Baldvin met him at the door and Erlendur wondered as he followed him into the sitting room whether he would carry on living in the house now that both Leonóra and María were gone. He did not get a chance to ask him. Baldvin wanted an explanation for why Erlendur was going around town interrogating people about him and María; why he had to learn about it from his friends and what on earth it was all about; were the police launching an investigation?

‘No,’ Erlendur said, ‘it’s nothing like that.’

He told Baldvin that the police had received a tip-off, as sometimes happened in connection with suicides, suggesting that something suspicious might have happened. Due to pressure from one of María’s friends, whom he would prefer not to name, he had taken it upon himself to speak personally to several individuals, but this in no way changed the fact that María had taken her own life. Baldvin had no need to worry. There was no question of a formal inquiry, nor was there any need for one.

Erlendur talked along these lines for some time, slowly and deliberately, in an apologetic tone that generally worked well with people when it was employed by the police. He noticed that Baldvin was growing somewhat calmer. He had been standing angrily by the bookcase but sat down in a chair once most of his tension had evaporated.

‘What’s the status of the case, then?’

‘It has no status,’ Erlendur said. ‘There is no case.’

‘It’s an uncomfortable feeling, knowing that people are talking,’ Baldvin said.

‘Of course,’ Erlendur agreed.

‘It’s hard enough as it is,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Erlendur said. ‘I heard it was a beautiful funeral.’

‘She gave a very good address, the vicar. They knew each other well. A lot of people turned up. María was very popular everywhere she went.’

‘You had her cremated?’

Baldvin had been staring down at the floor but now he raised his gaze to Erlendur.

‘It was what she wanted,’ he said. ‘We discussed it. She didn’t want to lie in the ground and… you know… she felt it was a better solution. I agreed; I’m going to be cremated too.’

‘Do you know if your wife was interested in the supernatural, attended seances or anything of that sort?’

‘No more than anyone else,’ Baldvin said. ‘She was terribly afraid of the dark. You’ve probably heard about that.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve asked me about this before,’ Baldvin said. ‘About the afterlife and psychics. What are you driving at? What do you know?’

Erlendur gave him a long look.

‘What do you know?’ Baldvin repeated.

‘I know she went to a medium,’ Erlendur said.

‘She did?’

Erlendur took the tape from his coat pocket and handed it to Baldvin.

‘This is the recording of a seance that María attended,’ he said. ‘I suppose it’s one reason why I wanted to find out more about her.’

‘The recording of a seance?’ Baldvin said. ‘How… how come you’ve got it?’

‘I was given the tape after María died. She’d lent it to a friend.’

‘A friend?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who?’

‘I’ll ask her to get in touch with you if she wants to.’

‘Have you listened to it? Isn’t that a violation of her privacy?’

‘What the recording tells you is probably more the issue. Are you sure you didn’t know about the seance?’

‘She never told me about any seance and I’m not prepared to discuss it under the circumstances. I don’t know what’s on the tape and I find the whole thing highly irregular.’

‘Then I apologise,’ Erlendur said, standing up. ‘Perhaps you’ll have a word with me when you’ve listened to it. If not, it doesn’t matter. It may be that the whole thing hinges on Marcel Proust.’

‘Marcel Proust?’

‘You didn’t know?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I gather María preferred not to be alone,’ Erlendur said. ‘Because she was afraid of the dark.’

‘I…’

‘Yet she was alone on a dark autumn night at Thingvellir.’

‘What is this? What are you implying? I expect she didn’t want anyone with her when she killed herself!’

‘No, probably not. Perhaps you’ll get in touch,’ Erlendur said and left Baldvin with the recording of the seance in his hands.

The old man had been moved to a geriatric ward. Erlendur had not called beforehand and had to ask the nursing staff for directions before he eventually found him. The old man was struggling ineffectually to put on a dressing gown. Erlendur hastened to help him.

‘Oh, thank you. It’s you, is it?’ the old man said when he recognised Erlendur.

‘How are you?’ Erlendur asked.

‘Bearing up,’ the old man answered. Then he asked, ‘What are you doing here?’ and Erlendur heard the growing excitement in his voice. ‘It’s not about Davíd, is it? You haven’t found out something?’

‘No,’ Erlendur said hastily. ‘Nothing like that. I was just passing and thought I’d look in.’

‘I’m not really supposed to get up but I can’t simply hang about in bed all day. You wouldn’t come along to the lounge with me, would you?’

The old man gripped Erlendur’s arm as he helped him into the corridor and together they went in the direction he indicated. They sat down in the lounge where the radio was on and a familiar voice was reading a serial.

‘Do you happen to remember a friend of your son’s called Gilbert who moved to Denmark around the time Davíd went missing?’ Erlendur asked, deciding to come straight to the point.

‘Gilbert?’ the old man whispered thoughtfully. ‘I can barely remember him.’

‘They were at sixth-form college together. He lived in Copenhagen for years. He spoke to Davíd just before he vanished.’

‘And could he tell you anything?’

‘No, nothing concrete,’ Erlendur said. ‘Your son hinted to Gilbert that he had formed a relationship with a girl. I remember that you didn’t think this was likely; we discussed it specifically. What Gilbert says may indicate something different.’

‘Davíd wasn’t in any relationship,’ the old man said. ‘He would have told us.’

‘It hadn’t necessarily got very far; it might only have been in the early stages. Your son hinted as much to Gilbert. Did no girl ever get in touch with you after he vanished? Did no one who you didn’t know call and ask after him? It need only have been a voice on the phone.’

The old man stared at Erlendur, trying to remember all that had happened during the days and weeks after it became clear that his son had vanished. The family gathered, the police took statements, friends offered their help, the press needed pictures. Davíd’s parents hardly had time to come to terms with what had happened before they collapsed exhausted into bed each night and tried to catch up on some sleep. Not that they got any rest. At night their minds would present them with vivid images of their son and they were filled with dread at the thought of never seeing him again.

The old man continued to gaze at Erlendur, trying to recollect anything unfamiliar or unexpected, a visitor or a phone call, a voice he didn’t recognise, an odd question: ‘Is Davíd home?’

‘Did he chase after girls at all?’ Erlendur asked.

‘Very little. He was so young.’

‘Did no one who you didn’t know very well ask after him – a girl of his own age, for instance?’ Erlendur rephrased his earlier question.

‘No, not that I can remember, not that I can remember at all,’ the old man said. ‘I, we, would have known if he’d met a girl. Anything else is out of the question. Although… I’m so old now that I may have missed something. Gunnthórunn would have been able to help you.’

‘Kids are often shy when it comes to talking about that sort of thing.’

‘That may well be true; it must have been a very new relationship. I don’t remember him ever having a girlfriend. Not once.’

‘Do you think his brother would have known?’

‘Elmar? No. He would have told us. He wouldn’t have forgotten something important like that.’

The old man began to cough, an ugly, rattling noise that grew steadily worse until he couldn’t stop. Blood spurted from his nostrils and he collapsed on the sofa in the lounge. Erlendur rushed out and called for help, then tried to tend to him until it arrived.

‘I haven’t got as long as they thought,’ the old man groaned.

The nurses shooed Erlendur away and he watched them move the old man back to the ward. They closed the door and he walked away down the corridor, not knowing if he would ever see him again.

Erlendur lay awake that night, thinking about his mother. His thoughts often strayed to her at this time of year. He pictured her as she’d been when they had lived out east, standing in the yard, gazing at Mount Hardskafi, then looking back at him encouragingly. They would find him. All hope was not yet lost. He no longer knew whether the image of her in the yard was a memory or a dream. Perhaps it didn’t matter.

She died three days after being admitted to hospital. He sat at her bedside throughout. The staff offered him the chance to rest in an empty room if he wanted but he declined politely, unable to bring himself to leave his mother. The doctors said she could go at any minute. Although she regained consciousness from time to time, she was delirious and did not know him. He tried to talk to her but it was useless.

So the hours passed, one by one, as his mother slowly drew near the end. His mind was flooded with memories of his childhood when she had seemed to be everywhere in a strangely circumscribed world; a watchful protector, a gentle teacher and a good friend.

In the end she appeared to regain her senses slightly. She smiled at him.

‘Erlendur,’ she whispered.

He held her hand.

‘I’m here with you,’ he said.

‘Erlendur?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you found your brother?’