Hypothermia

by Arnaldur Indridason

  María had difficulty getting to sleep that night, She was alone in the house because Baldvin had had to pop down to the hospital and the autumn wind was howling outside.

  Finally she managed to drop off.

  She started awake a moment later at the sound of the garden gate banging against the fence, It was pouring with rain, She listened to the banging of the gate and knew it would keep her awake.

  Getting out of bed, she put on her dressing gown and slippers and went into the kitchen, There was a back door to the garden that opened on to the sun deck they’d added on a few years ago, She tied the belt of her dressing gown tightly around her and opened the door, As she did so she smelled a strong smell of cigar smoke in the air.

  She stepped cautiously on to the sun deck, feeling the cold rain stinging her face.

  Has Baldvin been smoking? she wondered.

  She saw the gate banging but instead of hurrying to close it and running back inside she stood as if frozen to the spot, staring into the darkness of the garden, She saw a man standing there, drenched from head to foot: a heavily built figure with a paunch and a deathly white face, The water was pouring off him and he opened his mouth and closed it several times as if trying to gasp for air before shouting at her:

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

  22

  The medium Andersen was suspicious and unwilling to disclose any information over the phone, refusing even to believe that Erlendur was from the police. Erlendur recognised his voice immediately from the recording. The man said that if Erlendur wanted to talk to him he would have to make an appointment like anyone else. Erlendur objected that his business wouldn’t take long and wasn’t anything very important, but the man would not budge.

  ‘Are you going to charge me?’ Erlendur asked at the end of the phone call.

  ‘We’ll see,’ the man said.

  One evening not long afterwards Erlendur rang a bell on the entryphone panel of a block of flats in the Vogar neighbourhood and asked to speak to Andersen.

  The medium buzzed him in and Erlendur climbed slowly up to the second-floor landing where Andersen was waiting. They shook hands and the man showed him into the sitting room. As he entered the flat Erlendur was met by the faint aroma of incense and by soothing music flowing from invisible speakers.

  Erlendur had postponed this visit until he felt it could no longer be avoided. He had no particular interest in the work of psychics or their ability to make contact with the dead, and was afraid this might lead to unpleasantness. He was determined to behave himself, however, and hoped that the medium Andersen would do the same.

  Andersen offered him a seat at a small round table and sat down opposite him.

  ‘Do you live here alone?’ Erlendur asked, surveying his surroundings. It looked like a perfectly ordinary Icelandic home. There was a large television, a collection of films on video and DVD, three stands full of CDs, parquet on the floor, family photos on the walls. No veils or crystal balls, he noted.

  No ectoplasm.

  ‘Do you need to know that for your investigation?’ the medium asked.

  ‘No,’ Erlendur admitted. ‘I’m . . . What can you tell me about María? The woman I asked you about on the phone. The one who committed suicide.’

  ‘Can I ask why you’re investigating her?’

  Erlendur began his speech about the Swedish survey on suicide and its causes but was not sure if he could lie convincingly to a man who made his living from being clairvoyant; wouldn’t Andersen see straight through him? He gave a hasty explanation and hoped for the best.

  ‘I really don’t know how I can help you,’ Andersen said. ‘A strong bond of confidentiality often forms between me and the people who seek me out, and I find it hard to break that.’

  He smiled apologetically. Erlendur smiled back. Andersen was a tall man of about sixty, greying at the temples, with a bright countenance, a pure expression and an unusually serene manner.

  ‘Are you kept busy?’ Erlendur asked, trying to lighten the atmosphere a little.

  ‘I can’t complain. Icelanders are very interested in matters of the soul.’

  ‘You mean in life after death?’

  Andersen nodded.

  ‘Isn’t it just the old peasant superstition?’ Erlendur asked. ‘It’s not so long since we emerged from our turf huts and the Dark Ages.’

  ‘The life of the soul has nothing to do with turf huts,’ Andersen retorted. ‘That sort of prejudice may help some people but I’ve always found it ridiculous myself. Though I understand when someone is sceptical about people like me. I would be sceptical myself, of course, if I hadn’t been born with this power – or insight, as I prefer to call it.’

  ‘How often did you see María?’

  ‘She came to see me twice after her mother died.’

  ‘She tried to make contact with her, did she?’

  ‘Yes. That was her aim.’

  ‘And . . . how did it go?’

  ‘I think she went away satisfied.’

  ‘I needn’t ask whether you believe in the afterlife,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘It’s the basic tenet of my life.’

  ‘And she did too?’

  ‘Without a shadow of doubt. Quite without doubt.’

  ‘Did she talk to you about her fear of the dark?’

  ‘Only a little. We discussed the fact that fear of the dark is a psychological fear like any other and that it is possible to overcome it with cognitive therapy and self-discipline.’

  ‘She didn’t tell you what caused her fear?’

  ‘No. But then, I’m not a psychologist. Judging from our conversations, I could well believe it was connected somehow to her father’s death in an accident. It’s not hard to imagine that it must have had a huge impact on her as a child.’

  ‘Has she . . . what do you say . . . appeared to you – María, I mean – since she took her life?’

  ‘No,’ Andersen said, smiling. ‘It’s not that simple. I think you have some rather odd notions about psychics. Do you know anything about our work?’

  Erlendur shook his head.

  ‘I gather María had a special fascination with life after death,’ he said.

  ‘That’s self-evident; she wouldn’t have come to me otherwise,’ Andersen replied.

  ‘Yes, but more of a fascination than is quite normal, more like a mania. I understand she was completely obsessed with curiosity about death. About what comes afterwards.’

  Erlendur wanted, if possible, to avoid having to refer to the recording that Karen had lent him and hoped the medium would oblige him. Andersen gave him a long look as if weighing up what he could or should say.

  ‘She was a seeker,’ he said. ‘Like so many of us. I’m sure you are, too.’

  ‘What was María searching for?’

  ‘Her mother. She missed her. Her mother was going to provide her with an answer to the question of whether there is life after death. María thought she’d received that answer and came to me. We talked. I think it did her some good.’

  ‘Did her mother ever make contact during your meetings?’

  ‘No, she didn’t. Though that’s not necessarily significant.’

  ‘What did María think about that?’

  ‘She went away satisfied.’

  ‘I gather she suffered from delusions,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘Call them what you like.’

  ‘That she had seen her mother.’

  ‘Yes, she told me about that.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. She was unusually receptive.’

  ‘Do you know if she went to see anyone else, talked to any other mediums?’

  ‘Naturally she wouldn’t tell me something that was none of my business. But she did phone me one day to ask about another medium, a woman I didn’t know and had never heard of. She must be new. One tends to know most people in this business.’

  ‘You don’t know who this woman was?’

/>   ‘No. Except her name. As I said, I don’t know of any psychic by that name.’

  ‘And what was her name?’

  ‘María didn’t give any second name – she just referred to her as Magdalena.’

  ‘Magdalena?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of her.’

  ‘What does that mean? That you haven’t heard of her?’

  ‘Nothing. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. But I called a few places and no one knows this Magdalena.’

  ‘Mightn’t she just be new, as you say?’

  Andersen shrugged.

  ‘I assume that must be it.’

  ‘Are there many of you in this business?’

  ‘No, not so many. I can’t give an exact number.’

  ‘How did María find out about her, this Magdalena?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Isn’t what you said about fear of the dark rather a strange attitude for someone who makes a living from making contact with ghosts?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That fear of the dark is a psychological fear, not caused by a belief in ghosts.’

  ‘There’s nothing malign about the spirit world,’ Andersen said. ‘We all have our ghosts. You not least.’

  ‘Me?’ Erlendur said.

  Andersen nodded.

  ‘A whole crowd,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry. Keep looking. You’ll find them.’

  ‘You mean him,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘No,’ Andersen said, contradicting him and standing up. ‘I mean them.’

  23

  Erlendur had once developed a condition known as cardiac arrhythmia. At times it was as if his heart took an extra beat, which was very uncomfortable; at others as if his heart rate was slowing down. When, instead of improving, the condition grew worse, he leafed through the Yellow Pages, stopping at a name that caught his fancy in the ‘Heart Specialists’ column: Dagóbert. Erlendur took an immediate liking to the name and decided to make him his doctor. He had hardly been in the doctor’s surgery five minutes before his curiosity got the better of him and he enquired about his moniker.

  ‘I’m from the West Fjords,’ the cardiologist said, apparently used to the question. ‘I’m fairly resigned to it. My cousin envies me. He got landed with Dósótheus.’

  The waiting room in the medical centre was packed with people suffering from a whole range of ailments. A variety of specialists worked there, including ear, nose and throat doctors, a vascular surgeon, three cardiologists, two nephrologists and one eye specialist. Erlendur stood by the entrance to the waiting room, thinking that each of these specialists should be able to find something to suit them in there. He was worried about barging in on his doctor without having made an appointment months in advance. He knew the cardiologist was extremely busy and was presumably booked up far into next year, and that his visit would increase the waiting time of some of the people in here by at least a quarter of an hour, depending when the doctor could fit him in. He had already been standing here for around twenty minutes.

  The doctors’ surgeries were on a long corridor off the waiting room, and after forty-five minutes had passed since Erlendur had announced his presence a door opened and Dagóbert came out into the waiting area and beckoned to him. Erlendur followed him into his surgery and the doctor closed the door behind them.

  ‘Has the problem come back?’ Dagóbert asked, inviting Erlendur to lie down on the bed. His file was open on the desk.

  ‘No,’ Erlendur said. ‘I’m fine. I’m sort of here on official business.’

  ‘Really?’ the doctor said. He was a fat, humorous man, dressed in a white shirt, a tie and jeans. He might not have worn a white coat but he did have a stethoscope slung round his neck. ‘Won’t you lie down anyway and let me listen to your chest?’

  ‘No need,’ Erlendur said, taking a chair in front of the desk. Dagóbert sat down on the bed. Erlendur remembered their previous meetings when the doctor had explained how the electrical impulses that controlled his heartbeat had been disrupted. The problem was generally caused by stress. Erlendur understood little of what he had said beyond the fact that the condition was not life-threatening and would get better in time.

  ‘Then what can I . . .?’ Dagóbert asked.

  ‘It’s a medical matter,’ Erlendur said.

  He had been struggling with the wording ever since it had first occurred to him to consult the cardiologist. He didn’t want to talk to anyone involved with the police, such as a pathologist, because he didn’t want to have to explain anything.

  ‘Well, fire away.’

  ‘If one wanted to kill a person, but only for a couple of minutes, how would one go about it?’ Erlendur asked. ‘If one wanted to revive him immediately so that nobody could see any sign of what had happened?’

  The doctor gave him a long look.

  ‘Do you know of such a case?’ he asked.

  ‘Actually, I was going to ask you that,’ Erlendur said. ‘I don’t know of any myself.’

  ‘I’m not aware of anyone having done it deliberately, if that’s what you mean,’ Dagóbert replied.

  ‘How would one go about it?’

  ‘That depends on a number of factors. What are the circumstances?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Let’s say, for example, that it was done at home.’

  Dagóbert looked at Erlendur gravely.

  ‘Has someone you know been messing around with that sort of thing?’ he asked. Dagóbert knew that Erlendur worked for the CID and thought it obvious that his irregular heartbeat was occupational, as he put it. Otherwise he didn’t often slip into jargon, much to Erlendur’s relief.

  ‘No,’ Erlendur said. ‘And it’s not a police matter. I’m just curious because of an old report I came across.’

  ‘You’re talking about how to achieve cardiac arrest without its being discovered and in such a way that the victim would survive?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘Why on earth would anybody want to do something like that?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Erlendur replied.

  ‘I assume you have some further criteria.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I don’t quite follow. As I said: why would anyone want to bring about cardiac arrest?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Erlendur said. ‘I was hoping you’d be able to tell me.’

  ‘The first consideration would be the prevention of damage to the organs,’ Dagóbert said. ‘As soon as the heart stops beating, decomposition begins, immediately endangering the tissues and organs. I expect there are a number of drugs that would do the trick by inducing a coma but, from the way you describe it, this might be a case of hypothermia. Otherwise I’m not really sure.’

  ‘Hypothermia?’

  ‘Extreme cold,’ the doctor said. ‘It achieves two goals. The heart stops beating when the body temperature drops below a certain level and you experience clinical death, while at the same time the cold has the effect of preserving the body and organs. Cold slows down all metabolic processes.’

  ‘How would the person be resuscitated?’

  ‘Probably with a defibrillator, followed by rapid rewarming.’

  ‘And you’d need specialist knowledge to do that?’

  ‘Unquestionably. I can’t imagine any other scenario. There would have to be a doctor present, even a cardiologist. And it goes without saying that no one should meddle with this sort of thing.’

  ‘How long is it possible to keep someone in a state like that before it becomes irreversible?’

  ‘Well, I’m no expert when it comes to inducing clinical death by hypothermia,’ Dagóbert said, with a smile. ‘But it’s a question of a few short minutes after cardiac arrest – four to five, tops. I don’t know. You’d have to factor in the facilities available to you. If you’re in hospital with access to all the best technology, it might be possible to go even further. Hypothermia has been used in recent years to keep people in a coma while their wounds are healing
. It’s also a good method of protecting the organs of people who have experienced cardiac arrest, for example. In that case the body temperature is held at thirty-one degrees Celsius or thereabouts.’

  ‘If it was done at home, what equipment would you need?’

  The doctor stopped and thought.

  ‘I can’t . . .’ he began, before breaking off again.

  ‘What’s the first thing that comes to mind?’

  ‘A good-sized bathtub. Ice. A defibrillator and easy access to electricity. A blanket.’

  ‘Would it leave any trace? If the person in question was successfully resuscitated?’

  ‘Signs that it had taken place? I don’t think so,’ Dagóbert said. ‘I should think it’s like getting caught in a blizzard. The cold gradually slows the metabolic processes; the person would become drowsy initially, then fall into a stupor and finally experience cardiac arrest and death.’

  ‘Isn’t that exactly what happens when people die of exposure?’ Erlendur asked.

  ‘Exactly the same.’

  The woman who had last spoken to the student Gudrún, as far as could be established with any certainty, now worked as a departmental manager at the National Museum of Iceland. They had been cousins and Gudrún’s parents had asked her to keep an eye on their daughter while they were on their extended trip through Asia. She was three years older than Gudrún, short, with thick blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. Her name was Elísabet and she called herself Beta.

  ‘I find it very uncomfortable raking this up,’ she said once she and Erlendur had taken a seat in the museum café. ‘I was sort of responsible for Dúna, or at least I felt I was, though of course, you know, I couldn’t have prevented anything. She just vanished. It was absolutely unbelievable. Why are you investigating this now?’

  ‘We’re closing the file,’ Erlendur said, hoping it would do as an explanation.

  ‘So you’re sure she’ll never be found now?’ Beta said.