Hypothermia (12 page)
Authors: Arnaldur Indridason
Erlendur introduced himself, shaking Gilbert by the hand. Gilbert didn’t know what to make of it. Erlendur asked if they could sit down somewhere quiet, out of this din. Gilbert studied him, then nodded towards a green hut. It was the contractors’ cafeteria.
Inside the suffocating heat of the cafeteria, Gilbert half-unzipped his blue overalls.
‘I can’t believe you’re asking about Davíd after all this time,’ he said. ‘Has there been some new development?’
‘No, nothing,’ Erlendur said. ‘It’s a case I handled back in the day and for some reason . . .’
‘It won’t go away. Is that it?’ Gilbert finished for him.
He was a tall, lanky man of around fifty who looked older; a little hunched as if he had grown used to avoiding door lintels and low ceilings. His arms were long like his body; his eyes sunken in his gaunt face. He hadn’t bothered to shave for several days and his stubble rasped when he scratched it.
Erlendur nodded.
‘I’d just moved to Denmark when he went missing,’ Gilbert said. ‘I didn’t hear about it till later and was totally shocked. It’s sad that he’s never been found.’
‘It is,’ Erlendur said. ‘An attempt was made to track you down at the time but with no success.’
‘Are his parents still alive?’
‘His father is, but he’s old and in poor health.’
‘Are you doing this for him?’
‘No, not for anyone in particular,’ Erlendur said. ‘It emerged the other day that you’re the only one of his friends we never talked to because you’d moved abroad.’
‘I meant to spend a year in Denmark,’ Gilbert said, fishing a new cigarette from inside his overalls. His movements were slow and methodical. He found a lighter in another pocket and tapped the cigarette on the table. ‘But ended up staying for twenty. It was never the intention but . . . that’s life.’
‘I gather you spoke to Davíd shortly before you left the country.’
‘Yes, we were always in contact. Have you been talking to Steini – Thorsteinn, I mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘I met him at one of those reunions. Apart from that I’ve lost all contact with the gang I knew in the old days.’
‘You told Thorsteinn it was conceivable that Davíd had met a girl. That information never emerged during the original investigation. I wanted to find out if you know who it was and if I can get hold of her.’
‘Steini didn’t have a clue. I assumed he knew more than I did,’ Gilbert said, lighting the cigarette. ‘I don’t know who the girl was. I don’t even know if there was a girl. Did nobody come forward when Davíd went missing?’
‘No,’ Erlendur said.
His mobile phone began to ring. He asked Gilbert to excuse him and took out his phone.
‘Yes, hello.’
‘Are you questioning people about María?’
Erlendur was taken aback. The voice was grave and severe, and contained a note of cold accusation.
‘Who is this?’ Erlendur asked.
‘Her husband,’ the voice on the phone said. ‘What the hell are you up to?’
A number of answers flashed through Erlendur’s mind, all of them lies.
‘What’s going on?’ Baldvin asked.
‘Perhaps we should meet,’ Erlendur said.
‘What are you investigating? What are you doing?’
‘If you’re home later today I could—’
Baldvin hung up. Erlendur smiled awkwardly at Gilbert.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘We were talking about the girl. Do you know anything about her, anything you could tell me?’
‘Next to nothing,’ Gilbert said. ‘Davíd called me the day before I flew to Denmark to say goodbye and told me it was probably okay to tell me a secret since I was going abroad. He wasn’t going to let the cat out of the bag, though, not until I grilled him and asked him straight out. Then he told me there might be some news about his love life when I came home again.’
‘Was that all he said, that there might be some news about his love life later?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he’d never been in a relationship with a girl before that?’
‘No, not really.’
‘And you got the impression he’d met a girl?’
‘That’s what I thought. But, you know, it was only a feeling I got from what he said.’
‘You didn’t get the sense that he was in a suicidal mood at all?’
‘No, quite the opposite; he was very cheerful and in high spirits. Unusually cheerful, because he could sometimes be a bit on the quiet side – thoughtful and serious.’
‘And you can’t think of anyone who would have wanted to do him harm?’
‘No way.’
‘But you don’t know who the girl was?’
‘No idea, I’m afraid.’
12
Erlendur drove up to the house in Grafarvogur. It was getting dark, a reminder that winter would soon be here after the short, wet summer. Erlendur felt no dread at the thought. He had never dreaded the winter as so many did, not like those who counted the hours until the days would start to lengthen again. He had never regarded winter as his enemy. Time seemed to slow down in the cold and darkness, enfolding him in peaceful gloom.
Baldvin met him at the door and Erlendur wondered as he followed him into the sitting room whether he would carry on living in the house now that both Leonóra and María were gone. He did not get a chance to ask him. Baldvin wanted an explanation for why Erlendur was going around town interrogating people about him and María; why he had to learn about it from his friends and what on earth it was all about; were the police launching an investigation?
‘No,’ Erlendur said, ‘it’s nothing like that.’
He told Baldvin that the police had received a tip-off, as sometimes happened in connection with suicides, suggesting that something suspicious might have happened. Due to pressure from one of María’s friends, whom he would prefer not to name, he had taken it upon himself to speak personally to several individuals, but this in no way changed the fact that María had taken her own life. Baldvin had no need to worry. There was no question of a formal inquiry, nor was there any need for one.
Erlendur talked along these lines for some time, slowly and deliberately, in an apologetic tone that generally worked well with people when it was employed by the police. He noticed that Baldvin was growing somewhat calmer. He had been standing angrily by the bookcase but sat down in a chair once most of his tension had evaporated.
‘What’s the status of the case, then?’
‘It has no status,’ Erlendur said. ‘There is no case.’
‘It’s an uncomfortable feeling, knowing that people are talking,’ Baldvin said.
‘Of course,’ Erlendur agreed.
‘It’s hard enough as it is,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Erlendur said. ‘I heard it was a beautiful funeral.’
‘She gave a very good address, the vicar. They knew each other well. A lot of people turned up. María was very popular everywhere she went.’
‘You had her cremated?’
Baldvin had been staring down at the floor but now he raised his gaze to Erlendur.
‘It was what she wanted,’ he said. ‘We discussed it. She didn’t want to lie in the ground and . . . you know . . . she felt it was a better solution. I agreed; I’m going to be cremated too.’
‘Do you know if your wife was interested in the supernatural, attended seances or anything of that sort?’
‘No more than anyone else,’ Baldvin said. ‘She was terribly afraid of the dark. You’ve probably heard about that.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve asked me about this before,’ Baldvin said. ‘About the afterlife and psychics. What are you driving at? What do you know?’
Erlendur gave him a long look.
‘What do you know?’ Baldvin repeated.
‘I know she went to a medium,’ Erlendur said.
‘She did?’
Erlendur took the tape from his coat pocket and handed it to Baldvin.
‘This is the recording of a seance that María attended,’ he said. ‘I suppose it’s one reason why I wanted to find out more about her.’
‘The recording of a seance?’ Baldvin said. ‘How . . . how come you’ve got it?’
‘I was given the tape after María died. She’d lent it to a friend.’
‘A friend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘I’ll ask her to get in touch with you if she wants to.’
‘Have you listened to it? Isn’t that a violation of her privacy?’
‘What the recording tells
you
is probably more the issue. Are you sure you didn’t know about the seance?’
you
is probably more the issue. Are you sure you didn’t know about the seance?’
‘She never told me about any seance and I’m not prepared to discuss it under the circumstances. I don’t know what’s on the tape and I find the whole thing highly irregular.’
‘Then I apologise,’ Erlendur said, standing up. ‘Perhaps you’ll have a word with me when you’ve listened to it. If not, it doesn’t matter. It may be that the whole thing hinges on Marcel Proust.’
‘Marcel Proust?’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I gather María preferred not to be alone,’ Erlendur said. ‘Because she was afraid of the dark.’
‘I . . .’
‘Yet she was alone on a dark autumn night at Thingvellir.’
‘What is this? What are you implying? I expect she didn’t want anyone with her when she killed herself !’
‘No, probably not. Perhaps you’ll get in touch,’ Erlendur said and left Baldvin with the recording of the seance in his hands.
The old man had been moved to a geriatric ward. Erlendur had not called beforehand and had to ask the nursing staff for directions before he eventually found him. The old man was struggling ineffectually to put on a dressing gown. Erlendur hastened to help him.
‘Oh, thank you. It’s you, is it?’ the old man said when he recognised Erlendur.
‘How are you?’ Erlendur asked.
‘Bearing up,’ the old man answered. Then he asked, ‘What are you doing here?’ and Erlendur heard the growing excitement in his voice. ‘It’s not about Davíd, is it? You haven’t found out something?’
‘No,’ Erlendur said hastily. ‘Nothing like that. I was just passing and thought I’d look in.’
‘I’m not really supposed to get up but I can’t simply hang about in bed all day. You wouldn’t come along to the lounge with me, would you?’
The old man gripped Erlendur’s arm as he helped him into the corridor and together they went in the direction he indicated. They sat down in the lounge where the radio was on and a familiar voice was reading a serial.
‘Do you happen to remember a friend of your son’s called Gilbert who moved to Denmark around the time Davíd went missing?’ Erlendur asked, deciding to come straight to the point.
‘Gilbert?’ the old man whispered thoughtfully. ‘I can barely remember him.’
‘They were at sixth-form college together. He lived in Copenhagen for years. He spoke to Davíd just before he vanished.’
‘And could he tell you anything?’
‘No, nothing concrete,’ Erlendur said. ‘Your son hinted to Gilbert that he had formed a relationship with a girl. I remember that you didn’t think this was likely; we discussed it specifically. What Gilbert says may indicate something different.’
‘Davíd wasn’t in any relationship,’ the old man said. ‘He would have told us.’
‘It hadn’t necessarily got very far; it might only have been in the early stages. Your son hinted as much to Gilbert. Did no girl ever get in touch with you after he vanished? Did no one who you didn’t know call and ask after him? It need only have been a voice on the phone.’
The old man stared at Erlendur, trying to remember all that had happened during the days and weeks after it became clear that his son had vanished. The family gathered, the police took statements, friends offered their help, the press needed pictures. Davíd’s parents hardly had time to come to terms with what had happened before they collapsed exhausted into bed each night and tried to catch up on some sleep. Not that they got any rest. At night their minds would present them with vivid images of their son and they were filled with dread at the thought of never seeing him again.
The old man continued to gaze at Erlendur, trying to recollect anything unfamiliar or unexpected, a visitor or a phone call, a voice he didn’t recognise, an odd question:
‘Is Davíd home?’
‘Is Davíd home?’
‘Did he chase after girls at all?’ Erlendur asked.
‘Very little. He was so young.’
‘Did no one who you didn’t know very well ask after him – a girl of his own age, for instance?’ Erlendur rephrased his earlier question.
‘No, not that I can remember, not that I can remember at all,’ the old man said. ‘I, we, would have known if he’d met a girl. Anything else is out of the question. Although . . . I’m so old now that I may have missed something. Gunnthórunn would have been able to help you.’
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