Hypothermia

by Arnaldur Indridason

  ‘It’s been a long time,’ Erlendur said, without answering her directly.

  ‘I just can’t imagine what could have happened,’ Beta said. ‘One day she drives away and – poof ! – she vanishes. Her car’s never found, nor any trace of her. She doesn’t seem to have stopped off at any shops or villages, either on the way north or in the Reykjavík area.’

  ‘People have mentioned suicide,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘She just wasn’t the type,’ Beta said immediately.

  ‘What is the type?’ Erlendur asked.

  ‘No, I mean, she wasn’t like that.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone who is,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Beta said. ‘And what happened to her car? It can hardly have committed suicide!’

  Erlendur smiled.

  ‘We dragged the harbours all round the country. Sent divers to search along the docks in case she’d lost control of the car. We didn’t find anything.’

  ‘She was incredibly fond of her little yellow Mini,’ Beta said. ‘I’ve never been able to picture her driving it off some jetty. I’ve always found the idea absurd. Ludicrous.’

  ‘She didn’t reveal anything about her plans in your last conversation?’

  ‘Nothing. If I’d known what was going to happen it would have been different. She rang to ask me about a hairdresser’s on Laugavegur I’d recommended to her. She was intending to go there. That’s why I’ve never believed in suicide. There was nothing to point to it.’

  ‘Was there some reason, some special occasion?’

  ‘For the hairdresser’s appointment? No, it was just time for a haircut, I think.’

  ‘And you didn’t discuss anything else?’

  ‘No, not really. I didn’t hear from her again. I assumed she’d gone up north; I called a couple of times but she was never in, or at least that’s what I thought. By then, of course, she had gone missing. I find it so hard to imagine what could have happened. Why should a girl like her, in the prime of life, vanish like that without any reason or warning? What does it tell you? How can you ever be expected to understand?’

  ‘She’d never been in a relationship, lived with a boyfriend or . . .?’

  ‘No, never – she had all that to look forward to.’

  ‘Where did she go when she used to take trips in the car? I know it’s in the files but one can never ask too often.’

  ‘Up north, of course. She missed Akureyri at times and used to go there whenever she could. Then there was the area around Reykjavík. The Reykjanes peninsula. Over the mountains to the east. An outing to Hveragerdi for an ice cream. The usual. You know about her passion for lakes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lake Thingvallavatn was a great favourite.’

  ‘Thingvallavatn?’

  ‘She knew it like the back of her hand. Was forever going there and had her favourite spots by the lake. Our uncle down here in Reykjavík had a holiday cottage in Lundarreykjadalur in the Borgarfjördur area, which we used a lot, and she often took the mountain road over Uxahryggir and down to Thingvellir on her way back to town. She’d drive round the eastern shore of the lake and then home. She used to camp at Thingvellir sometimes with her girlfriends. And sometimes alone. She’d drive out of town and stay alone by the lake. She quite liked being alone – she was self-sufficient in so many ways.’

  ‘There was no sign that she’d visited your uncle’s holiday cottage?’ Erlendur asked, trying to recall the files on Gudrún’s disappearance.

  ‘No, she hadn’t been there,’ Beta said.

  ‘Where did this fascination with lakes come from?’

  ‘No one knew, not even her. Dúna had always been like that, ever since we were small. She once told me that lakes had a strange power, a wonderful tranquillity. That you could commune best with nature beside lakes, with all the birds and the life of the shore. Of course she was studying biology. It wasn’t a coincidence.’

  ‘Did she ever go out on the lake? Did she own a boat?’

  ‘No, that was the strange thing about Dúna. She was afraid of water when she was a girl. It was difficult to get her to take swimming lessons and she never much enjoyed trips to the pool. She had no interest in being in the water, only in being near lakes. That was the nature lover in her.’

  ‘There aren’t many places as beautiful as Lake Thingvallavatn,’ Erlendur commented.

  ‘That’s true.’

  24

  Two days later Erlendur was sitting in the home of an ageing drama teacher called Jóhannes while the man poured him a fruit tea. It was not the sort of thing that Erlendur usually drank, but the man had been rather uncooperative, failing to understand what the police wanted with him and extremely unwilling to let him in. However, when he heard that the matter involved gossip about other people rather than him personally he calmed down and opened the door. He said he had just made himself some fruit tea and asked if Erlendur would like to join him.

  Orri Fjeldsted had suggested the teacher when Erlendur asked him who would be the best person to ask about old students at the Drama School. Orri didn’t even stop to think. He said that Jóhannes had taught him in his time and was a great guy, though a terrible old gossip with a nose for information, and anything he said about Orri himself, should he crop up in conversation, was a lie.

  Jóhannes lived alone in a terraced house in the east of town. He was quite tall, with a booming voice, a bald head, a twinkle in his eye and unusually large ears. Orri said he was divorced; his wife had left him years ago. They had no children. Jóhannes had been a hell of an actor himself in his youth but as he grew older the roles had begun to dry up and he had started teaching at the drama school in between taking the odd part in professional and amateur productions. Occasional cameos in films had also kept his face in the public eye and he sometimes took part in radio and TV chat shows, reminiscing about the old days.

  ‘I remember Baldvin well,’ Jóhannes said once he was seated in his study with two cups of fruit tea. Erlendur sipped his and thought it tasted vile. He had explained his business to Jóhannes and asked him not to mention to anyone that he was asking questions about one of his old students. From what Orri had said, there was little point in insisting on confidentiality but Erlendur hoped for the best.

  ‘He wasn’t good actor material; quit in his second year, from what I recall,’ Jóhannes continued. ‘Though he had a reasonable talent for comedy. That was it, though. He quit in the middle of the course – mid-performance, you might say. Seemed to think he’d discovered a vocation for medicine. I’ve hardly seen him since.’

  ‘Were they a good group, his year?’

  ‘Yes, they were,’ Jóhannes said, sipping his tea. ‘They were indeed. Well, there was Orri Fjeldsted, a decent actor, though he can be a bit one-note. I saw that appalling production of Othello. He was a disaster in that. Svala was in the group as well, and Sigrídur who was a real actress, born to play the Scandinavian giants, Ibsen and Strindberg. And of course Heimir, who I personally have always felt deserved bigger roles. He became rather bitter and disillusioned with age. Took to the bottle. I got him to play Jimmy in my production of Look Back in Anger and thought he did it very well, though not everyone agreed. I don’t actually know where he is today, though I did catch him in a small role in a radio play the other day. They’re all middle-aged now – Lilja, Saebjörn, Einar. Then there was Karólína. She was never much of an actress, poor dear.’

  ‘Do you remember anything about the time when Baldvin dropped out?’ Erlendur asked, realising that he wouldn’t exactly have to resort to torture to extract information from the old thespian.

  ‘Baldvin? Well, he just quit. He didn’t give any particular reason, didn’t need to. Though it was very difficult to get into drama school in those days and places were highly sought after, so people didn’t usually drop out in mid-performance, let me tell you. In mid-performance.’

  ‘You don’t mean literally?’

  ‘No, it’s jus
t a figure of speech, you know; I just mean that he did it, he dropped out. Very suddenly, I thought, given what those kids went through to get into the school. Young people used to dream of becoming actors in those days. That was the dream. To make the big time, be famous and admired. Acting can give you that if that’s what you’re after. But it gives so much more to serious actors. It gave me culture, literature and theatre, opened the door to life itself.’

  The old actor broke off and smiled.

  ‘Excuse me if I’m getting pompous. We actors have a tendency to be bombastic. Especially when we’re on stage.’

  He laughed loudly at himself.

  ‘I gather Baldvin met the woman he later married shortly after he quit,’ Erlendur said, with a smile.

  ‘Yes, she was a historian, wasn’t she? I heard she died the other day. Killed herself. Perhaps that’s why you’re here, or . . .’

  ‘No,’ Erlendur said. ‘Did you know her at all?’

  ‘Not in the slightest. Was there something suspicious about it? About how she died?’

  ‘No,’ Erlendur said. ‘Was he completely resigned to giving up acting? Baldvin, I mean. Do you remember?’

  ‘I always thought Baldvin did just as he pleased,’ Jóhannes said. ‘That’s the impression he made on me. As if he wouldn’t let anyone push him around: a headstrong boy who did his own thing. But then the kids said that this girl had got such a strong hold over him that he completely changed gear. And anyway, he was no good as an actor. He must have realised that himself, thought better of it.’

  ‘Did they get involved with each other at all?’ Erlendur asked, putting down his fruit tea. ‘The drama students?’

  ‘Well, you know how it is,’ Jóhannes said. ‘A bit of that sort of thing is inevitable, but it doesn’t always last. Some of them have got married since, people from the same year. It’s always happening.’

  ‘What about Baldvin?’

  ‘You mean before he met his wife? I can’t really help you much with that. Though I did hear something about him falling for Karólína who was in his year. She was pretty enough but had no real talent as an actress and never played any major roles. In fact, I have no idea on what grounds we let her into the school. I never did know.’

  ‘Did she ever become an actress?’ Erlendur asked, regretting his ignorance of the theatre.

  ‘Oh, her career didn’t last long; it was a complete non-event. I don’t think she’s acted for years. She generally played very minor roles. Her biggest part got such bad reviews that it must have utterly destroyed her.’

  ‘What role was that?’ Erlendur asked.

  ‘It was a Swedish problem play that used to do all right in the old days. Not great but not a stinker either. It was known as Flame of Hope in Icelandic. I don’t know why they put it on; kitchen-sink drama was going out of fashion by then.’

  ‘Mm,’ Erlendur said, in complete ignorance of Swedish theatre.

  ‘The author was quite popular in those days.’

  Erlendur nodded, still none the wiser.

  ‘There was one thing that was a bit unusual about Karólína. No one wanted fame more than her: to be the star, the diva. I think it was the only reason she went to the school, whereas the other students were probably more interested in the actual drama and what it can teach you. Karólína was a bit daft in that way. But then, she didn’t have what it takes, didn’t have the talent. No matter what we tried at the school, it just didn’t work.’

  ‘But she got the role anyway?’

  ‘The role in Flame of Hope wasn’t that bad,’ Jóhannes said, finishing his fruit tea. ‘But she was a disaster in it. Utterly wooden, poor darling. After that I think she more or less retired. Anyway, she and Baldvin were seeing each other before he married and had . . . no, they never did have children, did they?’

  ‘No,’ Erlendur said, surprised at how well informed the drama teacher was. Apparently there wasn’t much that those big ears missed.

  ‘Perhaps it affected the woman that way,’ he said. ‘Being childless.’

  Erlendur shrugged.

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Hanged herself, didn’t she?’

  Erlendur nodded.

  ‘And Baldvin? How did he take it?’

  ‘How anyone would, I imagine.’

  ‘Yes, how do people cope with something like that? I don’t know. I met Baldvin a few years ago. He was standing in for my GP at the local surgery. A very dear boy, Baldvin. Always had money troubles, from what I remember. Left a trail of debts everywhere. He used to cadge loans from me until I stopped lending him money. He spent way beyond his income, but doesn’t everyone these days?’

  ‘Yes,’ Erlendur said, getting to his feet.

  ‘It’s as if it’s in fashion to run up as large a debt as possible,’ Jóhannes said, accompanying him to the door.

  Erlendur shook him by the hand.

  ‘She actually made rather a lovely Magdalena,’ the actor said. ‘A pretty girl.’

  Erlendur stopped in the doorway.

  ‘Magdalena?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, a lovely Magdalena. Karólína, I mean. Hang on, am I talking rubbish? It’s all getting mixed up in my head, actors and roles and all that.’

  ‘Who was Magdalena?’ Erlendur asked.

  ‘Karólína’s part in the Swedish play. She played a young woman called Magdalena.’

  ‘Magdalena?’

  ‘Does that help you at all?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Erlendur said. ‘Possibly.’

  Erlendur sat in his car, still brooding on coincidences. He had smoked four cigarettes and was aware of a touch of heartburn. He hadn’t eaten properly since that morning and had been assuaging his hunger pangs by smoking. Most of the smoke escaped via a narrow gap at the top of the driver’s window. It was evening. He had watched the autumn sun disappear behind a bank of cloud. The car was parked at a discreet distance from an old detached house in the west of Kópavogur, the town immediately to the south of Reykjavík, and he had been keeping an intermittent eye on the house while watching the sunset. He knew the woman lived there alone and presumably didn’t have much money or else some of it would surely have been spent on maintenance. The place was in a pretty bad state of repair; hadn’t been painted for a long time and brown streaks of rust ran down beside the windows. He hadn’t seen anyone coming or going. A battered little Japanese car was parked in the road in front. The people who lived in the surrounding houses had trickled home from work or school or shopping trips or whatever people did in their daily grind, and, feeling rather ashamed of himself, Erlendur spied on the typical family life going on behind the two kitchen windows that were visible from his car.

  He was there because of a coincidence in a case which he had no idea why he was investigating so assiduously. There was no indication of anything other than the tragic death of a woman who had been on the brink. This was indicated by her past, certainly by the loss of her mother, her obsession with the afterlife. He had found no evidence of foul play until recently when he had heard a name that had come up before. The name sparked off odd ideas about connections, both known and unknown, between the people that the unhappy woman at Thingvellir had known or not known. Magdalena was the name of the medium that María had visited. Erlendur knew that coincidences were rarely anything other than life itself playing nasty tricks on people or giving them a nice surprise. They were like the rain that fell on both the just and the unjust. They could be good and they could be bad. They shaped people’s so-called fate to a greater or lesser degree. They originated from nowhere: unexpected, odd and inexplicable.

  Erlendur was careful to avoid confusing coincidences with something else. But from his job he knew better than anyone that they could sometimes be manipulated. They could be skilfully planted in the lives of unsuspecting individuals. In that case the incidents could no longer be described as coincidence. It varied as to how one referred to them but in Erlendur’s line of work there was only one name: crime.
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  He was going over and over these thoughts when a light came on by the entrance to the house, the door opened and a woman stepped out. She closed the door behind her, went over to the car that was parked in front, got in and drove away. She had to try the ignition three times before the engine coughed into life, and the car disappeared down the road with a considerable racket. Erlendur thought that part of the exhaust must have gone.

  He watched the car drive away, then started his old Ford and followed at a slight distance. He knew little about the woman he was spying on. After his visit to the drama teacher he had given himself a quick briefing on the career of Karólína Franklín. Her patronymic was Franklínsdóttir but she used the Franklín part as a surname, a show of pretension which her old teacher found very telling: ‘Utterly superficial, that girl,’ he said, adding, ‘nothing up here,’ and tapped his forehead with his finger. Erlendur discovered that Karólína worked as a secretary at a large finance company in the city. She was single, childless and had not acted in public for years. The part of Magdalena in Flame of Hope had been her last role. In it she had played a working-class Swedish girl, according to Jóhannes, who discovered that her husband was committing adultery and plotted her revenge on him.

  He followed Karólína to a kiosk and video-rental shop in the neighbourhood, and watched her choose a film and buy some snacks before driving back home.

  Erlendur sat in his car outside her house for an hour or so, smoked two more cigarettes, then drove away down the street and towards home.

  25

  The bank manager did not keep Erlendur waiting. He came out and greeted him with a firm handshake before inviting him into his office. He was in his forties, smartly dressed in a pinstriped suit with a tastefully chosen tie and gleaming patent-leather shoes. The same height as Erlendur, he was a smiling, friendly man who said he had just been to London with a select group of clients to watch a major football match. Erlendur recognised the names of the teams but that was about it. The bank manager was accustomed to dealing with rich customers whose primary requirement was swift, efficient service. Erlendur knew he had worked his way up to his position through diligence, tenacity and an innate desire to please. Their paths had often crossed, ever since the manager had been a humble cashier at the bank. They had always got on well, especially after Erlendur had discovered that the cashier was not a native of Reykjavík but had grown up on a small farm in the remote south-eastern district of Öraefasveit until his family abandoned the attempt to scratch a living from the land and moved to the city.