Hypothermia

by Arnaldur Indridason

Erlendur considered.

  ‘You can certainly try,’ he said. ‘I haven’t bothered to go up. What did you say they were fighting about, Eva and your mother?’

  ‘I didn’t get involved,’ Sindri said. ‘Was there something strange about this suicide? The one in Grafarvogur?’

  ‘No, just a tragedy. The worst kind. The husband was at home in town when his wife killed herself at their holiday cottage.’

  ‘And he didn’t have a clue?’

  ‘No.’

  Shortly after Sindri left, the rock music upstairs ceased its pounding. Erlendur looked up at the ceiling. Then he went and opened the front door. He called out to Sindri Snaer but Sindri had gone.

  A few days later Erlendur received the pathologist’s report on the body from Thingvellir. It showed nothing unnatural apart from death by hanging: no physical injuries or foreign bodies in the blood. María had been healthy and free from disease. There were no biological explanations for why she had chosen to put an end to her own life.

  Erlendur went back to see the husband, Baldvin, to inform him of the findings. He drove up to Grafarvogur after lunch and knocked at the door. Elínborg had come along for moral support. She almost couldn’t be bothered, claiming that she had enough on her plate. Sigurdur Óli was on sick leave, at home in bed with flu. Erlendur glanced at his watch.

  Baldvin invited them into the sitting room. He had taken leave from work for an unspecified period. His mother had stayed with him for a couple of days but had now left. Colleagues and friends had come round or sent messages of condolence. He had arranged the funeral and was aware that some people were planning to write obituaries. He told Erlendur and Elínborg all this as he was making coffee. He was subdued and went about everything slowly but seemed to have himself well under control. Erlendur explained the results of the post-mortem. His wife’s death had been registered as suicide. He reiterated his condolences. Elínborg hardly spoke.

  ‘It can be a good idea to have somebody with you,’ Erlendur said. ‘In circumstances like these.’

  ‘My sister and mother are taking good care of me,’ Baldvin said. ‘But it’s good to be alone sometimes, too.’

  ‘God, yes,’ Erlendur said. ‘For some people that’s the best therapy.’

  Elínborg darted a glance at him. Erlendur prized solitude above anything else in life. She wondered what she was doing with him at this house. All he had said was that he had to deliver the pathologist’s report. It would take no time. Yet now he was chatting to the man as if they were old friends.

  ‘You blame yourself,’ Baldvin said. ‘I feel as if I should have done something. As if I could have done something better.’

  ‘That’s a natural reaction,’ Erlendur said. ‘We come across it a lot in our line of work. The family have usually already done everything or nearly everything in their power by the time something like this happens.’

  ‘I didn’t see it coming,’ the man said, ‘I can assure you. I’ve never been so shocked in my life as when I heard what she’d done. You can’t imagine how I felt. I’m used to all sorts of things as a doctor, but when . . . when something like this happens . . . I don’t believe anyone could be prepared for it.’

  Baldvin seemed to feel the need to talk and informed them that he and his wife had met at the university. María had read history and French. He had dabbled in acting in the sixth form and had attended the drama school for a while before deciding to change tack and take up medicine.

  ‘Was María a professional academic?’ Elínborg asked. She herself had a degree in geology but had never worked in the field.

  ‘Yes, she was,’ Baldvin said. ‘She worked from home. We have a study in the basement. She taught a bit and undertook history projects for institutions and businesses. She did her own research and wrote articles.’

  ‘When did you move to Grafarvogur?’ Erlendur asked.

  ‘We’ve always lived in this house,’ Baldvin said, looking round the sitting room. ‘I moved in with her and Leonóra while I was still a student. María was an only child and inherited the house when her mother died. It was built before plans were drawn up for the area and they started building here on a large scale. You’ll have noticed that the house is set back a little from the others.’

  ‘It looks older than the rest,’ Elínborg remarked.

  ‘Leonóra died here,’ Baldvin continued. ‘In one of the bedrooms. It took three years from when she was diagnosed with cancer until she died. She really didn’t want to go into hospital. She wanted to die at home. María nursed her throughout.’

  ‘That must have been tough on your wife,’ Erlendur said. ‘You told me that she was religious.’

  He caught Elínborg sneaking a glance at the clock.

  ‘Yes, she was. She held on to her childhood beliefs. She and her mother used to talk a lot about religion after Leonóra fell ill. Leonóra was like that. Open. She wasn’t shy about discussing her illness and death. I think it must have helped a lot with the grief. I think she was resigned to dying in the end. Or as resigned as anyone can be in the circumstances. I’m familiar with it from my job. Of course, no one’s truly reconciled to having to die like that, but it is possible to die feeling reconciled to yourself and your family.’

  ‘Are you saying that her daughter was reconciled to dying as well?’ Erlendur asked.

  Baldvin thought.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said eventually. ‘I doubt whether anyone who does what she did can be truly reconciled.’

  ‘But she thought about death a lot.’

  ‘All the time, I think,’ Baldvin said.

  ‘What about her father?’

  ‘He died a long time ago.’

  ‘Yes, you told me.’

  ‘I never met him. She was only a little girl when it happened.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘He drowned at their summer cottage. At Thingvellir. He fell out of a small boat. Apparently it was very cold and he was a heavy smoker and led a sedentary lifestyle and . . . he drowned.’

  ‘Tragic to lose a parent that young,’ Elínborg said.

  ‘María was there,’ Baldvin said.

  ‘Your wife was?’ Erlendur asked.

  ‘She was only ten. It had an enormous impact on her. I don’t think she ever really got over it. So when her mother developed cancer and died, it hit her doubly hard.’

  ‘She had a lot to bear, then,’ Elínborg said.

  ‘Yes, she had a lot to bear,’ Baldvin agreed, bowing his head.

  5

  Several days later Erlendur was sitting in his office with a cup of coffee, going over an old missing-person file, when he was informed that someone was asking for him at the front desk: a woman called Karen. Recalling that this was the name of the friend who had found María’s body at Thingvellir, Erlendur went down to reception where a woman wearing a brown leather jacket and jeans was waiting. Under her jacket she wore a thick white roll-neck jumper.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about María,’ she said after they had exchanged greetings. ‘You are the one handling the case, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s hardly a case as such, it’s been—’

  ‘Could I have a quick word with you?’

  ‘How did you know each other, again?’

  ‘We were childhood friends,’ Karen said.

  ‘Oh yes, of course.’

  Erlendur showed her into his office where she took a seat opposite him. She did not remove her leather jacket despite the heat in the room.

  ‘We didn’t find anything out of the ordinary,’ he said, ‘if you’re after information of that sort.’

  ‘I can’t get her out of my head,’ Karen said. ‘I keep seeing her in front of me the whole time. You can’t imagine what a shock it was that she should do this. That I should find her like that. She used to tell me everything but she never talked about anything like this. We confided in each other. If anyone knew María, it was me.’

  ‘And what? You don’t think she cou
ld have committed suicide?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Karen said.

  ‘Then what did happen?’

  ‘I don’t know – but she could never have done that.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I’m just sure. I knew her and I’m certain she would never have committed suicide.’

  ‘Suicide generally takes people by surprise. The fact that she didn’t tell you anything doesn’t make it impossible that she could have killed herself. There’s no indication to the contrary.’

  ‘Also, I find it a bit strange that Baldvin should have had her cremated,’ Karen added.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Her funeral’s already been held. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No,’ Erlendur said, mentally counting the days since he had first visited the house in Grafarvogur.

  ‘I never heard her say that she wanted to be cremated,’ the woman said. ‘Never.’

  ‘Would she have told you?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Did you and María ever discuss your funerals – what you wanted done with your remains?’

  ‘No,’ Karen said stubbornly.

  ‘So you don’t really have any proof of whether she wanted to be cremated or not?’

  ‘No, but I just know. I knew María.’

  ‘You knew María. Have you come to this office to put it on record that you believe there’s something suspicious about her death?’

  Karen considered for a moment.

  ‘I find the whole thing very odd.’

  ‘But you have no actual evidence to back up your suspicion that something strange occurred.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then there’s very little we can do,’ Erlendur said. ‘Do you know anything about María’s relationship with her husband?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It was okay,’ Karen said reluctantly.

  ‘So you don’t think her husband had anything to do with what happened?’

  ‘No. Perhaps someone came to the door of the cottage at Thingvellir. There are all sorts wandering about there. Foreign tourists, for example. Have you checked up on that angle at all?’

  ‘There’s nothing to suggest it,’ Erlendur said. ‘Did María intend to be at the cottage when you arrived?’

  ‘No,’ Karen said. ‘Not that we discussed.’

  ‘She told Baldvin she was going to wait for you.’

  ‘Why should she have told him that?’

  ‘Perhaps to be left in peace,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘Did Baldvin tell you about Leonóra, her mother?’

  ‘Yes,’ Erlendur said. ‘He said her death had been a terrible loss to her daughter.’

  ‘Leonóra and María had a special bond,’ Karen said. ‘I’ve never known such a close relationship, ever. Do you believe dreams can tell the truth?’

  ‘I don’t know if that’s any of your business,’ Erlendur said. ‘With all due respect.’

  The woman’s vehemence had taken him by surprise. Yet he understood what drove her. A dear friend had committed an act that she found impossible to understand and accept. If María had been in such a bad way, Karen felt that she, Karen, ought to have known and done something about it. Now, even though it was too late, she still wanted to do something – if nothing else, then at least to have an opinion about the tragic event.

  ‘What about life after death?’ the woman asked.

  Erlendur shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know what you—’

  ‘María believed in it. She believed in dreams, that they could tell her something, guide her. And she believed in life after death.’

  Erlendur was silent.

  ‘Her mother was going to send her a message,’ Karen said. ‘You know, if there was an afterlife.’

  ‘No, I’m not quite sure I follow,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘María told me that Leonóra was going to let her know if what they talked about so much towards the end turned out to be true. If there was life after death. She was going to send her a sign from the next world.’

  Erlendur cleared his throat.

  ‘A sign from the next world?’

  ‘Yes. If there turned out to be an afterlife.’

  ‘Do you know what it was? What sort of sign she was going to give her?’

  Karen didn’t answer.

  ‘Did she do it?’ Erlendur asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did she send her daughter a message from the next world?’

  Karen gave Erlendur a long look.

  ‘You think I’m a fool, don’t you?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say,’ Erlendur said. ‘I don’t know you at all.’

  ‘You think I’m talking a load of gibberish!’

  ‘No, but I don’t know how all this concerns the police. Would you care to explain? A message from the afterlife! How are we supposed to investigate something like that?’

  ‘I think the least you could do is to listen to what I have to say.’

  ‘I am listening,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘No, you’re not.’ Karen opened her bag, took out a cassette and laid it on his desk. ‘Maybe this will help you,’ she said.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Listen to it and then talk to me. Listen to it and tell me what you think.’

  ‘I can’t . . .’

  ‘Don’t do it for me,’ Karen said. ‘Do it for María. Then you’ll know how she felt.’

  She stood up.

  ‘Do it for María,’ Karen said, and left.

  Erlendur took the tape home with him that evening. It was an ordinary, unmarked cassette tape. Erlendur had an old radio cassette player. He had never used it to play a tape and didn’t know if it worked. He stood for a long time with the tape in his hand, wondering if he should listen to it.

  He found the machine, pressed ‘open’, inserted the cassette, then pressed ‘play’. At first he heard nothing. Several more seconds passed and still nothing happened. Erlendur expected to hear the dead woman’s favourite music, probably church music, since María was religious. Then there was a tiny click and the tape began to hiss.

  ‘. . . After falling into a trance,’ he heard a deep masculine voice say.

  He turned up the volume.

  ‘After that I won’t be aware of myself,’ the man’s voice continued. ‘It’s the dead who choose either to speak through me or to reveal things to me. I am merely their channel for making contact with their loved ones. How long it lasts varies according to the nature of the contact.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ a high female voice replied.

  ‘Did you bring what I asked?’

  ‘I’ve got a jumper that she was very fond of and a ring Dad gave her that she always wore.’

  ‘Thank you. I’d better take that.’

  ‘Here you are.’

  ‘Remind me to give you the tape afterwards. You forgot to take it the other day. It’s easy to forget oneself.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right, let’s see what happens. You’re not afraid, are you? You told me at first that you were a little nervous. Some people are anxious about what might come out in these sessions.’

  ‘No, not any more. I wasn’t really afraid, just a little uncertain. I’ve never done anything like this before.’

  Long pause.

  ‘There’s a gleam of water.’

  Silence.

  ‘It’s summer and there are bushes and the gleam of water. Like sunlight on a lake.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s a boat by the lake – does that sound familiar?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a small boat.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s empty.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does that sound familiar? Do you know this boat?’

  ‘Dad had a small boat. We have a holiday cottage by Lake Thingvallavatn.’

  Erlendur turned off the cassette player. He realised that the recording was o
f a seance and he was certain that the high voice belonged to the woman who had killed herself. Not that he knew anything about it, beyond remembering her husband saying that her father had drowned in Lake Thingvallavatn. Hearing her voice felt peculiar somehow, as if he were prying into someone else’s private life. He stood by the cassette player for a long time without moving, until curiosity overcame his doubt and he pressed ‘play’ again.

  ‘I can smell cigar smoke,’ he heard the medium say. ‘Did he smoke?’

  ‘Yes. A lot.’

  ‘He wants you to take care.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  A long pause followed the woman’s words. Erlendur listened to the silence. The hissing of the tape was the only sound audible. Then suddenly the medium began to speak again but now in a completely different voice, deep, harsh and gruff.

  ‘Be careful! . . . You don’t know what you’re doing!’

  Erlendur was startled by the anger in the voice. But in the next breath it had changed.

  ‘Was that all right?’ the medium asked.

  ‘I think so,’ said the high-voiced woman. ‘What was . . . ?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘Did anyone you recognise make contact?’ the medium asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good, I . . . Why am I so cold . . . ? My teeth are chattering.’

  ‘There was a different voice . . .’

  ‘Different?’

  ‘Yes, not yours.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘It said I should be careful.’

  ‘I don’t know what it was,’ the medium said. ‘I don’t remember any—’

  ‘It reminded me . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It reminded me of my father.’

  ‘The cold . . . doesn’t come from there. The intense cold that I’m feeling. It’s directly connected to you. There’s something dangerous about it. Something you should beware of.’

  Erlendur reached out and turned off the tape. He couldn’t face listening to any more. It felt disrespectful. The recording contained material that touched his conscience. He felt as if he were listening at a door. He couldn’t bear to dishonour the woman’s memory by eavesdropping any further.

  6

  The old man was waiting for Erlendur at the front desk. He used to come to the police station with his wife but now that she had passed away he came to see Erlendur alone. The couple had dropped by his office regularly for nearly thirty years now, first every week, then every month, then several times a year, then once a year and finally at two- to three-yearly intervals on their son’s birthday. Over the years Erlendur had become well acquainted with them and with the sorrow that drove them to seek him out. Their younger son, Davíd, had walked out of their house in 1976 and had never been heard from again.