Hypothermia (10 page)
Authors: Arnaldur Indridason
Their opinion was seconded by his friends whom Erlendur had interviewed at the time. They utterly rejected the idea that Davíd could have killed himself, dismissing it as ridiculous, but could provide little enlightenment otherwise. He had not mixed with any types who might conceivably do him harm; he was simply a very ordinary youth who was finishing sixth-form college and planning to start a law course at university with his two best friends the following autumn.
At the present moment, Erlendur was sitting in the office of Thorsteinn, one of those two friends. It was decades since they had last spoken about the young man’s disappearance. Thorsteinn had taken a law degree, been appointed Supreme Court advocate and now ran a large legal practice with two partners. He had thickened out considerably since his early twenties, lost most of his hair and now had bags under his eyes from fatigue. Erlendur remembered the youth he had met some thirty years before, a young, slim, muscular figure about to embark on the life that had now set its mark on him, transforming him into a worn-out middle-aged man.
‘Why are you back here asking questions about Davíd? Has there been some news?’ the lawyer asked. Then he buzzed his secretary and instructed that he was not to be disturbed. Erlendur had encountered the secretary, a smiling middle-aged woman, in the corridor.
It was two days since he had spoken to María’s ex-boyfriend. Elínborg complained that he did nothing at work these days except waste his time on old missing-person files. Erlendur told her not to worry her head about him. ‘I’m not worried about you,’ Elínborg retorted, ‘I’m worried about the taxpayers’ money.’
‘No, no news,’ Erlendur said in reply to Thorsteinn. ‘I believe his father’s dying. It’s the last chance to do something before he passes away.’
‘I think of him from time to time,’ the lawyer said. ‘Davíd and I were great mates and it’s sad not knowing what happened to him. Very sad.’
‘I believe we did everything we could,’ Erlendur said.
‘I don’t doubt it. I remember how dedicated you were. There was another officer with you . . .?’
‘Marion Briem,’ Erlendur said. ‘We handled the case together. Marion has since died. I’ve been going through the old files. Were you away in the countryside when he vanished?’
‘Yes, my parents are from Kirkjubaejarklaustur. I went there on a visit with them. We were away for a week or so. I only heard about Davíd when I came back to town.’
‘You mentioned a telephone conversation that you had with him, your last conversation. While you were in Kirkjubaejarklaustur. He called you there.’
‘Yes. He was asking when I was coming back to town.’
‘He wanted to tell you something.’
‘Yes.’
‘But he wouldn’t say what it was.’
‘No. He was very secretive, but he seemed elated. It was good news that he wanted to tell me, not bad. I asked him specifically. He giggled. Told me not to worry, that it would all become clear.’
‘And he was elated about his news?’
‘Yes.’
‘I know we asked you all this at the time.’
‘You did. I couldn’t help you. Any more than I can now.’
‘And there’s nothing else apart from what you said then: that he had some news to tell you, which he was happy about.’
‘That’s right.’
‘His parents didn’t know what it could be.’
‘No, he doesn’t seem to have told them.’
‘Do you have any idea what it could have been?’
‘Only guesses. Sometime much later it occurred to me that it might have been a girl, that he’d fallen for some girl, but I’m just guessing. I don’t suppose the idea crossed my mind until I met Gilbert again.’
‘Davíd didn’t have a girlfriend at the time he vanished?’
‘No, none of us did,’ the lawyer said, with a smile. ‘Somehow I have the feeling that he would have been the last of us lads to get a girlfriend. He was terribly shy about that sort of thing. Did you ever talk to Gilbert?’
‘Gilbert?’
‘He moved to Denmark around the time when Davíd disappeared. He’s back in Iceland now. I imagine he’s probably the only person you never interviewed.’
‘Oh yes, I vaguely remember,’ Erlendur said. ‘I don’t think we ever managed to get hold of him.’
‘He was going to work at a hotel in Copenhagen for a year but liked it so much that he stayed on. Married a Danish woman. It’s about ten years since he came home. I hear from him occasionally. I got the impression once, from what he said, that Davíd had met a girl. At least, that’s what Gilbert thought, but it was all very hazy.’
‘Hazy?’
‘Yes. Very.’
That evening, after Erlendur had eaten and settled down in his chair to read, his girlfriend Valgerdur phoned. She was trying to drag him out to the theatre. The National was staging a popular comedy that she wanted to see and she was keen for Erlendur to come with her. His reaction was unenthusiastic as the theatre bored him. Valgerdur had had no more luck in trying to persuade him to go to the cinema. The only cultural activity he was not entirely averse to was concerts: choral music, solo performances and concerts by the Symphony Orchestra. The last event he had attended with her had been an evening’s entertainment by a mixed choir from Svarfadardalur in the countryside. Valgerdur had a cousin in the choir. Erlendur had thoroughly enjoyed the occasion. The programme had featured the poems of Davíd Stefánsson set to music.
‘The play’s supposed to be hilarious,’ Valgerdur told him over the phone. ‘A light farce. It would do you good.’
Erlendur grimaced.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘When is it?’
‘Tomorrow evening. I’ll pick you up.’
He heard a knock at his door and said goodbye to Valgerdur. Eva Lind was standing on the landing with Sindri. They greeted their father, then entered and sat down in the living room. Both took out cigarettes.
‘What did you say to that lot upstairs? I haven’t heard a peep from them since you had a word with them.’
Sindri grinned. Erlendur had been astonished not to hear the heavy rock blasting out from upstairs any longer and had been wondering what on earth Sindri could have said to make the couple belatedly show their neighbours some consideration.
‘Oh, they were pretty harmless: a girl with a ring in her nose and a bloke with a bit of an attitude. I told them you were a debt collector. That you did regular spells inside for GBH and were getting pissed off with the noise.’
‘I thought maybe they’d moved,’ Erlendur said.
‘You dickhead,’ Eva Lind said, her gaze fixed on her brother. ‘Have you started telling lies for him now?’
‘It was a hell of a racket,’ Sindri said apologetically.
‘Have you thought about it?’ Eva Lind asked Erlendur. ‘About Mum. You
are
going to meet her, aren’t you?’
are
going to meet her, aren’t you?’
Erlendur didn’t answer immediately. He’d had little time to give any thought to what Eva was trying to arrange. He had no desire to see his ex-wife, the mother of his children. But, then again, he didn’t want to appear dismissive of Eva’s initiative now that she seemed to have developed a new interest.
‘What are you trying to achieve?’ he asked.
His gaze swung back and forth between brother and sister as they sat on the sofa facing him. Their visits had gradually become more frequent: first Sindri, after he’d moved back to Reykjavík from the east where he had been working in a fish factory, then Eva Lind, after she had cut back on her drug intake. Their visits meant a great deal to Erlendur, especially when they came together. He liked to observe their relationship. As far as he could tell it was good. Eva Lind was the bossy big sister and sometimes adopted the parental role. She would give Sindri an earful if she was displeased. Erlendur suspected that she had been put in charge of her brother at times when they were younger. And although Sindri gave back as good as he got, he displayed no ill feeling or impatience.
‘I just think it would be good for you both,’ Eva Lind said. ‘I don’t understand why you can’t even talk to each other.’
‘Why do you want to interfere?’
‘Because I’m your daughter.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Oh, you know, that she’d do it. She’d meet you.’
‘Did you have to apply much pressure?
‘Yes. You’re as bad as each other. I don’t know why you ever broke up.’
‘Why is this so important to you?’
‘You ought to be able to talk to each other,’ Eva Lind said. ‘I don’t want things to go on like this any more. I’ve . . . Sindri too, we’ve never seen you two together. Not once. Don’t you find that weird? Do you think it’s normal? That your children have never even seen the pair of you together? Their own parents?’
‘Is that anything unusual these days?’ Erlendur asked. Then he directed his words to Sindri. ‘Are you just as set on this?’
‘I really couldn’t give a toss,’ Sindri said. ‘Eva’s trying to drag me into it but I really—’
‘You don’t have a fucking clue,’ Eva Lind interrupted.
‘No, right. There’s no point trying to tell her this is a load of crap. If you and Mum had the slightest interest in talking, you’d have done it by now. Eva’s just sticking her nose in, like always. She can’t stop. Sticks her nose in everywhere, especially when it has sod-all to do with her.’
Eva Lind looked daggers at her brother.
‘You’re a twat,’ she said.
‘I think maybe you should leave it, Eva,’ Erlendur said. ‘It’s . . .’
‘She’s up for it,’ Eva Lind said. ‘It’s taken me two months to talk her round. You have no idea what shit I’ve had to go through.’
‘Look, I understand what you’re trying to do but in all seriousness I don’t think I can bring myself to.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s . . . It was over between your mother and me a long time ago and it won’t help anyone to rake the whole thing up now. It’s past. Finished. Over. I think maybe it would be better to think of it like that and try to concentrate on the future instead.’
‘I told you,’ Sindri said, with a look at his sister.
‘Concentrate on the future! Bollocks!’
‘Have you thought it through, Eva?’ Erlendur asked. ‘Is she planning to come here? Am I supposed to visit her? Or are we to meet on neutral territory?’
He looked at her, reflecting on the fact that he had started to use Cold War terminology when talking about his ex-wife.
‘Neutral territory!’ Eva Lind snorted. ‘What do you think it’s like trying to deal with you two? You’re off your trolleys, both of you.’
She stood up.
‘We’re nothing but a sodding joke to you. Me and Mum and Sindri – we’re nothing but a joke!’
‘That’s not true at all, Eva,’ Erlendur said. ‘I really didn’t—’
‘You’ve never taken the slightest notice of us!’ Eva Lind said. ‘Never listened to a word we had to say!’
Before Erlendur and Sindri knew it, she had stormed out of the door, slamming it so hard that the entire building echoed.
‘What . . .? What happened?’ Erlendur asked, looking at his son.
Sindri shrugged.
‘She’s been like this ever since she quit using; incredibly touchy. You can’t say a word without her going mental.’
‘When did she start this business about wanting your mother and me to meet?’
‘She’s always talked that way,’ Sindri said. ‘Ever since I can remember. She thinks . . . oh, I don’t know, Eva’s so full of crap.’
‘I’ve never heard her talk crap,’ Erlendur said. ‘What does she think?’
‘She said it might help her.’
‘What? What might help her?’
‘If you and Mum . . . If things didn’t have to be so bad between you and Mum.’
Erlendur stared at his son.
‘She said that?’
‘Yes.’
‘It might help her to get a grip on her life?’
‘Something like that.’
‘If your mother and I tried to make up?’
‘She just wants you to talk to each other,’ Sindri said, stubbing out the cigarette he had smoked down to the end. ‘Why’s that so complicated?’
Erlendur lay awake after their visit, thinking about a house in the east of the country that had once been reputed to be haunted. It was a two-storey wooden house, built by a Danish merchant towards the end of the nineteenth century. In the 1930s a family from Reykjavík had moved in and shortly afterwards stories began to circulate about the woman of the house, who kept hearing the sound of a child crying behind the panelling in the sitting room. No one had mentioned anything of the kind before and no one could hear the crying except the housewife when she was alone at home. Her husband talked dismissively of local cats but his wife obstinately insisted it was nothing of the sort. She became fearful of the dark and of ghosts, suffered from nightmares and generally felt ill at ease in the house. In the end she could no longer bear it and persuaded her husband to move away from the district. They returned to Reykjavík after only three years in the east. The house was sold to some locals who never noticed anything unusual.
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