Hypothermia

by Arnaldur Indridason

  Eva Lind reflected on his words.

  ‘Of course, you’re bloody past it now.’

  Erlendur smiled.

  ‘Have you given up, then?’ Eva Lind asked.

  ‘The last thing your grandmother asked was whether I had found my brother. That was the last thing that passed through her mind before she died. I’ve sometimes wondered if she found him . . . if she found him in the next life. Not that I myself believe in the afterlife at all – I don’t believe in God or hell – but your grandmother believed in all that. It was part of her upbringing. She was convinced that the life of toil here on Earth was neither the beginning nor the end. In that sense she was reconciled to dying and she talked of Bergur’s being in good hands. With his people.’

  ‘Old people talk like that,’ Eva Lind said.

  ‘She wasn’t old. She died in her prime.’

  ‘Don’t they say that those whom the gods love die young?’

  Erlendur looked at his daughter.

  ‘I don’t think the gods have ever loved me,’ she continued. ‘Or at least I can’t imagine it. I don’t know why they should, either.’

  ‘I’m not sure that people should place their fates in the hands of the gods, whoever they are,’ Erlendur said. ‘You make your own fate.’

  ‘You can talk. Who made your fate? Didn’t your father take you into the mountains in crazy weather? What was he doing taking his children up there? Have you never asked yourself that? Don’t you ever get angry when you think about it?’

  ‘He didn’t know any better. He didn’t arrange for us to be caught in the storm.’

  ‘But he could have acted differently. If he’d thought about his kids.’

  ‘He always took great care of us boys.’

  Neither of them spoke. Erlendur watched a car head east over Uxahryggir and turn off towards Thingvellir.

  ‘I always hated myself,’ Eva Lind said at last. ‘And I was angry. Sometimes so angry I could have burst. Angry with Mum and with you and with school and with the scum who bullied me. I wanted to be free of myself. I didn’t want to be me. I loathed myself. I abused myself and let other people abuse me too.’

  ‘Eva . . .’

  Eva Lind stared up at the cloudless sky.

  ‘No, that’s how it was,’ she said. ‘Anger and self-loathing. Not a good combination. I’ve thought about it a lot since I discovered that what I did was only the natural consequence of something that had begun before I was born. Something I had absolutely no control over. Most of all I was angry with you and Mum. Why did you ever have me? What were you thinking of? What did I bring into the world? What was my inheritance? Nothing but the mistakes of people who never knew each other and never wanted to get to know each other.’

  Erlendur grimaced.

  ‘That wasn’t your only inheritance, Eva,’ he said.

  ‘No, maybe not.’

  They were silent.

  ‘Isn’t this turning out to be a great Sunday drive?’ Eva Lind said at last, with a glance at her father.

  Another car drove at a leisurely pace along the road over Biskupsbrekka and turned off towards Lundarreykjadalur. It contained a couple with two children; a little dark-haired girl waved at them from the child seat in the back. Neither of them waved back and the little girl watched them, crestfallen, until she vanished from sight.

  ‘Do you think you can ever forgive me?’ Erlendur asked, looking at his daughter.

  She didn’t answer him but stared up at the sky with her arms behind her head and her legs crossed.

  ‘I know people are responsible for their own fates,’ she said at last. ‘Someone stronger and cleverer than me would have made a different fate for herself. Wouldn’t have given a shit about you two – which is the only answer, I think, instead of ending up hating oneself.’

  ‘I never intended you to hate yourself. I didn’t know.’

  ‘Your dad probably didn’t mean to lose his son.’

  ‘No. He didn’t.’

  By the time they left Uxahryggir and drove down Lundarreykjadalur to Borgarfjördur it was growing dark. They didn’t stop to picnic by any more lakes and sat largely without talking on their drive home through the Hvalfjördur tunnel and around the Kjalarnes peninsula. Erlendur drove his daughter to her door. It was dark by the time they said their goodbyes.

  It had been a good day by the lakes and he told her so. She nodded and said they should do it more often.

  ‘If they disappeared in one of the lakes around here you’ve got as much chance of finding them as you have of winning the lottery.’

  ‘I expect you’re right,’ Erlendur said.

  Neither of them spoke for a while. Erlendur ran his hand over the steering wheel of the Ford.

  ‘We’re so alike, Eva,’ he said, listening to the quiet hum of the engine. ‘You and me. We’re chips off the same block.’

  ‘You reckon?’ Eva Lind said, getting out of the car.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ Erlendur said.

  With that he drove off down the street and towards home, reflecting on all the unresolved issues between his daughter and himself. He fell asleep with the thought that she had not answered his question about whether she would forgive him. It had remained unspoken between them all day as they drove among the lakes, in search of lost souls.

  28

  The following afternoon Erlendur drove once more to the house in Kópavogur and parked at a discreet distance. Since there were no lights in the windows and he could see no sign of Karólína’s car, he assumed that she hadn’t come home from work yet. He lit a cigarette and settled in patiently to wait. He wasn’t sure how he was going to question the woman. He assumed that Karólína and Baldvin would have talked after his last visit to Grafarvogur; they must be involved in some way, though he wasn’t sure exactly how. Perhaps they had picked up where they’d left off when they were both at drama school and she’d still had dreams of stardom. After a lengthy wait, the little Japanese car pulled up in front of the house and Karólína stepped out. She hurried into the house without looking to right or left, carrying an overflowing bag of groceries. Erlendur allowed half an hour to pass before going up to the house and knocking at the door.

  When Karólína came to open it she had changed out of her working clothes into a comfortable outfit of fleece, grey tracksuit bottoms and slippers.

  ‘Are you Karólína?’ Erlendur asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said brusquely, as if he were a salesman who was inconveniencing her.

  Erlendur introduced himself as a police officer investigating a recent death at Lake Thingvallavatn.

  ‘A death?’

  ‘A woman who killed herself at Thingvellir,’ Erlendur said. ‘Might I come in for a moment?’

  ‘What’s it got to do with me?’ Karólína asked.

  She was as tall as Erlendur, with short dark hair above a high domed forehead and finely arched brows over dark blue eyes. As far as he could tell through the fleece and baggy tracksuit bottoms, she was slender, with a long neck and good figure. Her expression was determined, however, and there was a stubbornness or hardness about her face that was not encouraging. He thought he could recognise what Baldvin saw in her but he did not have time to dwell on the thought. Karólína’s question hung in the air.

  ‘You’ll have known her husband,’ Erlendur said. ‘The woman’s name was María. She was married to a man called Baldvin. I gather that you two went out together when you were both at drama school.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘I just wanted to have a little chat with you about it.’

  Karólína shot a glance down the road at her neighbours’ house. Then, looking back at Erlendur, she said that they might be more comfortable indoors. Erlendur stepped into the hall and she closed the door behind them. The house consisted of a single storey, with a sitting room, dining room with adjoining kitchen, a lavatory and two rooms on the left as one entered from the hall. It was furnished with handsome furniture, had pictures on the w
alls and smelled of a combination of Icelandic cooking and the sweet scent of cosmetics and perfumed bath salts, which was most concentrated around the lavatory and the other two rooms. One seemed to be a junk room, the other was Karólína’s bedroom. Through the open door Erlendur glimpsed a large bed against one wall, a dressing table with a good-sized mirror, a sizeable wardrobe and a chest of drawers.

  Karólína darted into the kitchen and removed a saucepan from the stove. Erlendur had disturbed her in the middle of cooking. The house was pervaded by the rich smell from the kitchen; roast lamb, he thought.

  ‘I was just making coffee,’ Karólína said when she came back from the kitchen. ‘Can I offer you a cup?’

  Erlendur accepted. The rule was always to accept coffee if it was offered. Elínborg had been quick to learn this. Sigurdur Óli still hadn’t grasped the concept.

  Karólína came out with two cups of steaming hot coffee. She drank it black, as did Erlendur.

  ‘Baldvin and I met at drama school in old Jóhannes’s class. God, he could be a swine. Jóhannes, I mean. And a rotten actor. Anyway, Baldvin and I split up when he quit acting and went to study medicine. May I ask why you’re investigating him?’

  ‘I’m hardly investigating him,’ Erlendur said. ‘But I heard – you know how people gossip – that you two had known each other before and maybe even renewed your acquaintance recently.’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘I’ve forgotten – I’d have to look it up.’

  Karólína smiled.

  ‘Is it any of your business?’

  ‘I really don’t know yet,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘He told me you might drop by,’ she said.

  ‘Baldvin?’

  ‘We did pick up the thread again, you’re right. It’s not as if there’s any need to hide the fact. I told him so and he agreed with me. It began again about five years ago. We met at a drama school graduation reunion. Baldvin turned up even though he didn’t graduate with us. He said he was fed up with the old bag – Leonóra, that is, María’s mother. She was living with them.’

  ‘Why didn’t he end his marriage and move in with you then? It seems as if few things could be easier these days.’

  ‘He was going to,’ Karólína said. ‘I was so pissed off with the situation that I gave him an ultimatum. But then that bitch Leonóra fell ill and he couldn’t bring himself to do that to María. He wanted to stand by her through her ordeal and he did. My main fear was that their relationship would improve after the old bitch died and in fact he did stop coming to see me. Didn’t have eyes for anyone but María. But he soon got over it.’

  ‘Is that how Baldvin described Leonóra? As a bitch?’

  ‘He couldn’t stand her any longer. It got worse over the years. Maybe I should be grateful to her, if I’m mean. He wanted her out of the house but for some reason María had a problem with that.’

  ‘María and Baldvin didn’t have any children?’

  ‘Baldvin can’t and María wasn’t interested,’ Karólína said bluntly.

  ‘When are you two thinking of making your relationship official?’ Erlendur asked.

  ‘You sound like a country vicar.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to . . .’

  ‘Baldvin’s a considerate person,’ Karólína said. ‘He wants to wait a whole year. I told him that might be overdoing it a bit. But he won’t budge. Not until after a year at the earliest, he says.’

  ‘But you’re not happy with that?’

  ‘Oh, I understand him all right. It’s such a tragedy and all that. We needn’t be in any hurry.’

  ‘Did María know about your relationship?’

  ‘Can I ask what you’re investigating? What you’re looking for? Do you think Baldvin did something to her?’

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘No way. He wouldn’t be capable of it. He’s a doctor, for Christ’s sake! What makes you think it wasn’t suicide?’

  ‘I don’t think that,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘Is this some Swedish survey or . . .?’

  ‘You’ve heard about that?’

  ‘Baldvin heard something. We’ve no idea what’s going on.’

  ‘I’m just gathering information so that we can close the case,’ Erlendur said. ‘Did you know that he’s inherited three hundred million from his wife?’

  ‘I only found out recently. He told me the other day. Wasn’t it from some land speculation of her father’s?’

  ‘Yes – he owned a small plot in Kópavogur that shot up in value. Baldvin’s the sole beneficiary.’

  ‘Yes, he mentioned something about that. I don’t think he knew anything about it until a short time ago. Or at least that’s what he told me.’

  ‘I heard that the money came in the nick of time,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He’s pretty seriously in debt.’

  ‘Baldvin’s been a bit unlucky with some shares he bought, that’s all I know. Some unlucky investment in a construction company that went bust, on top of the debts still outstanding from the surgery that didn’t work out. We don’t talk much about that sort of stuff. At least, we haven’t up to now.’

  ‘You’ve given up acting, haven’t you?’ Erlendur asked.

  ‘Yes, more or less.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘I was in a few plays. Not very big, but . . .’

  ‘Unfortunately, I go to the theatre far too rarely.’

  ‘I just felt I wasn’t getting good enough roles. At the big theatres, that is. And of course the competition’s really tough. It’s a pretty ruthless world. You find that out straight away at drama school. And age doesn’t help. A middle-aged actress like me isn’t as sought after. I got a good job at a finance company but the odd small part still comes my way if the director happens to remember me.’

  ‘I gather your biggest role was as Magdalena in that Swedish play, whatever it was called . . .’ Erlendur said, pretending not to remember the title.

  ‘Who told you that? Someone who remembered me?’

  ‘Yes, it was, actually. A woman I know called Valgerdur. She’s a regular theatre-goer.’

  ‘And she remembered me?’

  Erlendur nodded, realising that he needn’t worry about having to answer any awkward questions about why he had been discussing Karólína with other people. She seemed to take it as recognition, regardless of the circumstances. He remembered what the drama teacher had said about Karólína’s ambition, the fame she had dreamed of achieving. What was it he’d said? She’d wanted to be a diva.

  ‘Flame of Hope,’ Karólína said. ‘It was a really good play and you’re right, it was my biggest role – when I hit the heights, as they say.’

  She smiled.

  ‘Not that the critics were particularly impressed; they dismissed it as old-fashioned kitchen-sink drama. They can be such bastards. They don’t even know what they’re talking about half the time.’

  ‘My friend thought maybe she was mixing it up with another role, another character called Magdalena.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘A clairvoyant or medium,’ Erlendur said.

  He looked for a reaction from Karólína but she didn’t seem to notice anything. He thought that either he was barking up the wrong tree or else she was a better actress than people gave her credit for.

  ‘I’m not familiar with it,’ Karólína said.

  ‘I don’t remember what she said the play was called,’ Erlendur said, permitting himself to go a step further. ‘It might have been The Fake or something like that.’

  Karólína hesitated.

  ‘I’ve never heard of it,’ she said. ‘Was it on at the National?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Erlendur replied. ‘Anyway, this Magdalena believed in the spirit world; she believed it was as real as the two of us here in this room.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘María believed something similar, as Baldvin will no doubt have told you
.’

  ‘I don’t remember him mentioning it,’ Karólína said. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’

  ‘No, neither do I,’ Erlendur said. ‘He didn’t tell you that she sought help from psychics, from mediums?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know. I don’t know much about María, to tell the truth. Baldvin and I didn’t waste our time talking about her when we met. We had other fish to fry.’

  ‘I bet you did,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘No, thanks. That’s it for the moment.’

  29

  Erlendur had no problem tracking down the woman who had been having an affair with Magnús at the time of his death. Kristín had told him her name and he found her address in the telephone directory. He tried talking to her on the phone but the moment she heard what he wanted she refused to continue the conversation, so he let the matter lie. Later he resumed his attack by announcing that new information about the incident at Lake Thingvallavatn in which Magnús had lost his life had possibly come to light.

  ‘Who have you been talking to?’ she asked over the phone.

  ‘I got your name from Kristín, Magnús’s sister,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘What did she say about me?’

  ‘Actually, it was about you and Magnús,’ Erlendur replied.

  A long pause followed his words.

  ‘I suppose you’d better come round,’ the woman said at last. Her name was Sólveig and she was married with two grown-up children. ‘I’m home during the day all this week,’ she added.

  When he visited her, Erlendur found Sólveig extremely wary and eager to get the matter out of the way as quickly as possible. She seemed in something of a state. They stood in her entrance hall; she did not invite him in.

  ‘I don’t know what I can tell you,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why you’ve come here. What new information are you talking about?’

  ‘It concerns you and Magnús.’

  ‘Yes, you told me that on the phone.’

  ‘And your affair.’

  ‘Did Kristín tell you about that?’