Hypothermia

by Arnaldur Indridason

Erlendur nodded.

  ‘Magnús’s daughter recently committed suicide,’ he said.

  ‘So I heard.’

  Sólveig fell silent. She was kind-looking, with a pretty face and tasteful clothes, and she lived in a small terraced house in the suburb of Fossvogur. She worked as a nurse and was on the evening shift this week.

  ‘Perhaps you ought to come in for a moment,’ she said at last and led the way into the sitting room. Erlendur sat down on the sofa without removing his coat.

  ‘I don’t know what I can tell you,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘In all these years no one’s ever asked what happened. Then the poor child resorts to this and you start asking questions that no one has ever asked before and no one ever should have asked.’

  ‘Perhaps that was the problem,’ Erlendur said. ‘María’s problem. Has that ever occurred to you?’

  ‘Has it occurred to me? What do you think? Leonóra took care of María. No one else was allowed near her.’

  ‘They went out in the boat together: Magnús, Leonóra and María.’

  ‘You’ve found out, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All three of them were in the boat,’ Sólveig confirmed.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’ve spent so much time thinking about the whole thing. My relationship with Magnús. We were going to tell Leonóra about it at Thingvellir. We were going to break it to her as gently as we could. Magnús wanted me to come along. But Leonóra and I were close friends and I couldn’t bring myself to. Maybe things would have turned out differently if I’d been there.’

  Sólveig looked at Erlendur.

  ‘Of course, you think I’m completely despicable,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think anything.’

  ‘Leonóra was always very bossy. Really overbearing. She completely dominated Magnús. Gave him hell if things didn’t go her way, even when other people were listening. Magnús turned to me. He was a good man. We started meeting in secret. I don’t know what happened but we fell in love. Maybe I felt sorry for him at first. We wanted to move in together, so we had to make Leonóra understand. I didn’t want to be involved in a clandestine affair, go behind her back, take part in some sort of conspiracy against her. I wanted things out in the open. I couldn’t stand . . . couldn’t stand the furtiveness. He wanted to delay telling her but I put pressure on him. We agreed that he would tell her the truth that weekend at Thingvellir.’

  ‘Didn’t Leonóra suspect anything?’

  ‘No. She was completely unsuspecting. Leonóra was like that. Trusting. She trusted people. I betrayed that trust. So did Magnús.’

  ‘Did you ever meet Leonóra after the accident?’

  Sólveig closed her eyes.

  ‘Will you be any the better for knowing?’ she asked. ‘The case was investigated at the time. It was perfectly straightforward. No one has asked any questions since. If anyone should have done so it was me but I never did.’

  ‘Did you meet Leonóra?’

  ‘I did. Once. It was awful. Horrible. It was some time after Magnús’s funeral. I didn’t know if he had told her about us before he died and at the funeral I tried to pretend that nothing had happened. But I noticed immediately that Leonóra wouldn’t look at me. Wouldn’t speak to me. Pretended I didn’t exist. I knew then that Magnús had told her.’

  ‘Did she want to see you or . . .?’

  ‘Yes – she called and asked me to come and see her in Grafarvogur. She greeted me very coldly.’

  Sólveig broke off. Erlendur waited patiently. He sensed her discomfort at reopening these old wounds.

  ‘Leonóra told me that María was at school and that she wanted me to know exactly what had happened at the lake. I told her I didn’t need to know anything but she laughed and said I wouldn’t escape so lightly. I didn’t know what she meant.’

  ‘Magnús told me about the two of you,’ Leonóra said. ‘He told me you were going to move in together and that he wanted to leave me.’

  ‘Leonóra,’ Sólveig said, ‘I—’

  ‘Shut up,’ Leonóra said, without raising her voice. ‘I’m going to tell you what happened. But there are two things you must understand. You must understand that I had to protect the girl and you must understand that it was your fault as well. Yours and Magnús’s. You brought this on us.’

  Sólveig did not speak.

  ‘What were you thinking of?’ Leonóra asked.

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ Sólveig said.

  ‘Hurt me? You have no idea what you’ve done.’

  ‘Magnús was unhappy,’ Sólveig said. ‘That’s why he turned to me. He was unhappy.’

  ‘That’s a lie. He wasn’t unhappy. You stole him from me – you lured him away.’

  Sólveig was silent.

  ‘I don’t want to quarrel with you,’ she said at last, quietly.

  ‘No, what’s done is done,’ Leonóra said. ‘No one can change it now. But I don’t want to bear the burden alone. You’re responsible too. And so was Magnús. You both were.’

  ‘No one’s responsible for an accident like that. He fell overboard. It was an accident.’

  Leonóra smiled a thin, unreadable smile. She looked to be in a strange state. The house was dark and cold and Leonóra didn’t seem herself. Sólveig wondered if she had been drinking or was on strong medication.

  ‘He didn’t fall in,’ Leonóra said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He didn’t fall.’

  ‘But . . . I read it in the papers . . .’

  ‘Yes, that’s what it said in the papers. But it was a lie.’

  ‘A lie?’

  ‘For María’s sake.’

  ‘I don’t understand you.’

  ‘Why did you have to take him away from me? Why couldn’t you leave us alone?’

  ‘He came to me, Leonóra. What lie did you have to tell for María’s sake?’

  ‘Don’t you understand? We were with Magnús in the boat. María was with us.’

  ‘With you . . .? But . . .’

  Sólveig stared at Leonóra.

  ‘Magnús was alone in the boat,’ she said. ‘It said so in all the news reports.’

  ‘It was a lie,’ Leonóra said. ‘My lie. I was with him and so was María.’

  ‘Why . . . why did you need to lie . . .? Why . . .?’

  ‘I’m telling you. Magnús didn’t fall off the boat.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘I pushed him,’ Leonóra said. ‘I pushed him and he lost his balance.’

  A long time passed before Sólveig spoke again. Erlendur listened to her story in silence, sensing her distress at what had happened.

  ‘It was Leonóra who pushed Magnús so he fell in,’ she said. ‘They watched him drown. Magnús had told Leonóra about me. They’d quarrelled bitterly that morning. María didn’t know and asked them to come out in the boat with her. Magnús was really angry. They started quarrelling again. Then the engine suddenly broke down. They quarrelled even more violently. Then Magnús stood up to check on the engine. Leonóra shoved him away from her and it all happened in a flash . . . he went overboard.’

  Leonóra regarded Sólveig in silence.

  ‘Couldn’t you have saved him?’ Sólveig asked.

  ‘There was nothing we could do. The boat was rocking uncontrollably and it was all we could do to stop ourselves falling in. The boat drifted away from Magnús and by the time we had got it back under control he had vanished.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Sólveig gasped.

  ‘See what you’ve done?’ Leonóra said.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘The girl is inconsolable. She blames herself for what happened to her father. For the quarrel. All of it. She’s internalised the whole thing. She imagines that she’s somehow responsible for her father’s death. How do you think that makes her feel? How do you think she feels? How do you think I feel?’

  ‘You must talk to a doctor, a specialist. She needs help.’

 
‘I’ll look after María. And if you take this any further I’ll deny the whole thing.’

  ‘Why are you telling me, then?’

  ‘You’re not going to get off scot-free. I want you to know that. You’re as responsible as I am!’

  Erlendur stared at Sólveig for a long time without speaking after she had finished her story.

  ‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’ he asked finally. ‘What stopped you?’

  ‘I felt . . . I felt as if I bore some of the responsibility myself, as Leonóra said. For what happened. She was quick to point it out to me. “It’s your fault,” she hissed at me. “It’s your fault. All of it. You’re to blame.” All her anger was directed at me. I was out of my mind with fear and grief and a strange kind of concern for Leonóra. The whole thing was just too much for me, much too much. It was such a shock. I was completely unprepared. And then there was poor little María. I couldn’t bring myself to tell the truth about her mother. I couldn’t do it.She . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was so unreal that I could hardly believe it, could hardly believe it had happened.’

  ‘You wanted to protect the girl?’ Erlendur said.

  ‘I hope you understand my position. I didn’t want to punish anyone. It was an accident, however you look at it. It didn’t occur to me to doubt what Leonóra said. She told me she never let María leave her side except when she was at school.’

  ‘It can’t have been pleasant living with this knowledge,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘No, you’re right, it hasn’t been pleasant. So imagine how it must have been for them, especially for María. When I heard that she’d committed suicide . . . somehow it didn’t come as a surprise. I’ve . . . I’ve blamed myself for letting it happen. For letting Leonóra get away with what she did. Get away with not telling anyone about this.’

  ‘What were they quarrelling about on the boat?’

  ‘Magnús said he was going to leave her no matter what she said. It was what he’d told me. He’d had enough of the way she rode roughshod over him, couldn’t stand her any longer, said all that remained was for them to agree on custody of María. Leonóra said she’d see he never got access to the girl. He could forget it. They fought over María right in front of her. No wonder she thought it was all her fault.’

  ‘Did you ever meet Leonóra or María again after that?’

  ‘No. Never. Neither of them.’

  ‘Were there no witnesses?’

  ‘No. They were completely alone at the lake.’

  ‘No visitors?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or tourists?’

  ‘No. No tourists. That was the week before, when Magnús and I were alone at the holiday cottage. We used it twice, as far as I can remember, to meet in secret. That time he bumped into a woman and told me about her afterwards because she was studying the lakes around the city; she was fascinated by lakes. This was right by the cottage. She was looking at a map and was on her way up to Lake Sandkluftavatn. It stuck in my mind because I’d never heard the name before.’

  ‘Was she in a car?’ Erlendur asked.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘What kind of car?’

  ‘It was yellow.’

  ‘Yellow? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. They’re called Mini-somethings, aren’t they? I saw it driving away through the birch scrub.’

  ‘And you think the person driving this car was the woman that Magnús had met?’ Erlendur asked, on the edge of his seat now.

  ‘I think so. It was right by the cottage.’

  ‘A Mini? Do you mean an Austin Mini?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it, isn’t it? Tiny little cars.’

  ‘A yellow Austin Mini?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  Erlendur was on his feet.

  ‘On its way to Sandkluftavatn?’

  ‘Yes. Goodness, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Was there anyone with her?’

  ‘I don’t know. What’s the matter? What have I said?’

  ‘Could there have been a young man with her?’

  ‘I don’t know. Who are these people? Do you know them? Do you know who these people are?’

  ‘No,’ Erlendur said. ‘Possibly. No, hardly. Did you say Lake Sandkluftavatn?’

  ‘Yes, Sandkluftavatn.’

  30

  What did he know about Lake Sandkluftavatn? He had driven past it with Eva Lind without paying it any particular attention. It was about an hour’s drive from Reykjavík, beside the road just north of Thingvellir, between the mountains Ármannsfell and Lágafell, before the ascent to Bláskógaheidi Moor. It was overlooked by the unmistakable bulk of Mount Skjaldbreidur to the north-east.

  The diver, whose name was Thorbergur, was familiar with the lakes of south-west Iceland, having explored many of them. He had once worked for the fire brigade and had assisted the police with smuggling cases, as well as diving from the country’s docks in search of missing people. He had been available when a person was reported missing and search parties were organised to comb the beaches and drag the sea and lakes. But eventually he retired from diving for a living and became a mechanic instead, starting up his own garage, which was now his main occupation. Erlendur had sometimes taken the Ford to him for servicing. Thorbergur was six foot five and had always reminded Erlendur of a giant, with his red hair and beard, long swimmer’s arms and strong teeth that often used to gleam through his beard as he was a humorous man and was quick to smile.

  ‘You have divers working for you,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you go to one of them? I’ve given up. You know that.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Erlendur said. ‘I just thought of talking to you because . . . you still have the equipment, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the inflatable?’

  ‘Yes. The little one.’

  ‘And you still go diving sometimes, even though you’ve stopped working for us?’

  ‘Very occasionally.’

  ‘This is not, how shall I put it, an official investigation,’ Erlendur explained. ‘More like a spot of private dabbling. I’d pay you out of my own pocket if you could be bothered to do this.’

  ‘Erlendur, I can’t go taking your money.’

  Thorbergur sighed. Erlendur knew why he had stopped working for the police. The final straw had come one day when he had dived for the body of a woman who’d been found in Reykjavík harbour. She had been missing for three weeks and her body was badly decomposed when Thorbergur found it. He didn’t want to run the risk of seeing such horrors again. He didn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night gasping because the woman, or some nightmarish figure like her, wouldn’t stop invading his dreams.

  ‘It’s an old missing-person case,’ Erlendur said. ‘From way back. Involving youngsters. Possibly two of them. There was a breakthrough yesterday after decades of impasse. Admittedly, it’s based on very slight evidence but I felt I should at least talk to you. For the sake of my conscience.’

  ‘In other words, you want to shift the guilt on to me,’ Thorbergur said.

  ‘I couldn’t think of anyone else. I don’t know any better man for the job.’

  ‘You know I’ve quit, like I just told you. The only thing I investigate now is engines.’

  ‘I understand perfectly,’ Erlendur said. ‘I would have quit myself if I was trained for anything else.’

  ‘What was the breakthrough?’ Thorbergur asked.

  ‘In the case?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ve always treated it as two unrelated missing-person cases but there’s a possibility that they were together when they disappeared: a boy in his last year of sixth-form college and a girl, slightly older, who was studying biology at the university. There’s really nothing to link them but we haven’t had any luck finding them separately either. The case had gone completely cold until recently and had been that way for decades. Then yesterday I learnt that the girl, whose name was Gudrún or Dúna, might have bee
n seen at Thingvellir on her way to Lake Sandkluftavatn. I checked the dates this morning. Of course they don’t tally. The girl might have been spotted at Thingvellir in late autumn. She was probably alone that time. The young couple didn’t vanish until several months later. The boy’s disappearance was reported at the end of February 1976. The report about the girl’s disappearance reached us in the middle of March that year. Since then nothing has been heard of either of them, which is unusual in itself; that two incidents occurring a short time apart should leave absolutely no trace. Generally there’s a trail somewhere. But there was none to be found in either of these cases.’

  ‘It’s unusual for kids in their twenties to get together with teenagers,’ Thorbergur commented. ‘Especially when the girl’s older.’

  Erlendur nodded. He could tell that the diver was becoming interested in spite of himself.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘There was nothing to link them.’

  They were sitting in Thorbergur’s office at the garage. Three other employees were hard at work repairing cars and occasionally darted glances into the office. It was little more than a glass cage and was easily visible from the workshop floor. The phone rang at regular intervals, interrupting their conversation, but Erlendur didn’t let this put him off his stride.

  ‘I checked the weather that day too,’ he said. ‘It was unusually cold. Most lakes would have iced over.’

  ‘I can tell that you’ve already formed a theory.’

  ‘I have, but it’s incredibly tenuous.’

  ‘Is no one allowed to know about this?’

  ‘There’s no point complicating matters,’ Erlendur said. ‘If you find something, give me a call. If not, the case is as dead as ever.’

  ‘I’ve never actually dived in Sandkluftavatn,’ Thorbergur said. ‘It’s too shallow in summer and doesn’t get much deeper, except in the spring thaw. There are other lakes out there. Litla-Brunnavatn, Reydarvatn, Uxavatn.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘What were their names? The couple?’

  ‘Davíd and Gudrún. Or Dúna.’

  Thorbergur looked out at the workshop floor. A new customer had arrived and was looking in their direction. He was a regular and Thorbergur nodded to him.

  ‘Would you be prepared to do this for me?’ Erlendur asked, standing up. ‘I’m rather up against it, timewise. There’s an old man lying at death’s door who’s been waiting for an answer ever since his boy disappeared. It would be good to be able to bring him news of his son before he goes. I know the chances are pretty slim but it’s the only thing I’ve got to go on and I want to give it a stab.’