Hypothermia (21 page)

Read Hypothermia Online

Authors: Arnaldur Indridason

BOOK: Hypothermia
7.99Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Why her? Erlendur had asked himself as he stood over the woman’s body one summer’s evening twenty years ago.
He knew that the two men who had attacked her were walking time bombs; in his view it had been inevitable that they would commit a serious crime one day, but it was by complete coincidence that their paths had crossed that of the woman. It could have been someone else that evening, or a week, a month, a year later. Why her, in that place, at that time? And why did she react as she did when she encountered them? When did the sequence of events begin that was to end with this murder? he asked himself. He was not for a moment trying to absolve the criminals of blame, only to examine the life that had ended in a pool of blood on a Reykjavík pavement.
He discovered that the woman was from the countryside and had lived in the city for more than seven years. Because of redundancies in the fisheries she had moved there with her two daughters and her husband from the fishing village where she’d been born. The trawler that their community relied on had been sold to another district, the prawn catch failed. Perhaps her final journey really began there. The family settled in the suburbs. She had wanted to move closer to the town centre but the same kind of flat would have been considerably more expensive there. That was another nail in her coffin.
Her husband found work in the construction business and she became a service rep for a phone company. The company moved their headquarters, making it harder for her to travel to work by public transport, so she handed in her notice. She was taken on as a caretaker at the local elementary school and liked the job; she got on well with the children. She went to work on foot every day and became a keen walker, dragging her husband out every evening, walking around the neighbourhood and only missing her breather if the weather was really bad. Their daughters were growing up. The eldest was nearing her twentieth birthday.
Her time was running out. That fateful evening the family were all at home and the elder daughter asked her mother for home-made ice cream. With that she set the chain of events in motion. They were out of cream and one or two other minor ingredients. The mother went out to the shop.
The younger daughter offered to run over for her but her mother said no, thanks. She fancied an evening stroll and caught her husband’s eye. He said he didn’t feel like it. There was a repeat on television of an Icelandic documentary featuring interviews with people from the countryside, some of them real oddballs, and he didn’t want to miss it. Perhaps that was one of the coincidences. If the programme hadn’t been on, he would have gone with her.
The mother went out and never came back.
The man who inflicted her death blow said that she wouldn’t let go of her handbag, no matter what they did. It turned out that the woman had withdrawn a large amount of cash earlier that day for the birthday present she planned to buy her daughter, and was carrying it in her bag. That was why she held on to it so tightly. She never normally carried so much money around.
That too was a coincidence.
She lost her life that summer’s evening with her daughter’s birthday present on her mind; all she had done wrong was to live her ordinary life and take loving care of her family.
Erlendur stubbed out his cigarette and stepped out of the car. He looked up at the church, a cold, grey lump of concrete, and thought to himself that the architect must have been an atheist. At any rate, he couldn’t see how the building could have been raised to the glory of God; if anything, it would have been to the glory of the company that supplied the concrete.
The vicar Eyvör was sitting in her office, talking on the phone. She gestured at a chair. He waited for her to finish her conversation. There was a cupboard containing a cassock, ruff and other vestments standing half-open in the office.
‘Back again?’ Eyvör said, having finished her conversation. ‘Is it still about María?’
‘I read somewhere that cremations are becoming increasingly popular,’ he said, hoping to avoid giving her a direct answer.
‘There are always people who choose that course and leave strict instructions to that effect. People who don’t want their body to rot in the ground.’
‘It has nothing to do with the Christian faith, then?’
‘No, not really.’
‘I understand Baldvin had María cremated,’ Erlendur said.
‘Yes.’
‘That it was her wish.’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘She never discussed it with you?’
‘No.’
‘Did Baldvin discuss her wishes with you?’
‘No. He didn’t. He simply told me that it was what she would have wanted. We don’t require any proof of that sort of thing.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Her death seems to be preying on you,’ Eyvör commented.
‘Maybe,’ Erlendur said.
‘What do you think happened?’
‘I think she must have been suffering very badly,’ he said. ‘Very badly, for a long time.’
‘I think so too. Perhaps that’s why I wasn’t as surprised as many other people about what happened.’
‘Did she talk to you at all about her visions, hallucinations or anything like that?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing about believing she had seen her mother?’
‘No.’
‘Visits to mediums?’
‘No, she didn’t.’
‘What did you talk about, if I may ask?’
‘Naturally it’s confidential,’ Eyvör said. ‘I can’t tell you in any detail, and anyway I don’t think it had any direct bearing on the way she chose to leave this world. We generally discussed religion.’
‘Any aspect in particular?’
‘Yes. Sometimes.’
‘What?’
‘Forgiveness. Absolution. Truth. How it sets people free.’
‘Did she ever talk to you about what happened at Lake Thingvallavatn when she was a child?’
‘No,’ Eyvör said. ‘Not that I remember.’
‘About her father’s death?’
‘No. I’m sorry I can’t help you at all.’
‘That’s all right,’ Erlendur said, standing up.
‘Though I can perhaps tell you one thing. We often discussed life after death, as I think I mentioned to you when we last talked. She was . . . what can I say . . . she became increasingly fascinated by the subject as the years went by, especially, of course, after her mother died. What she really wanted was proof of something of the kind and I had the feeling she was prepared to go quite a long way if necessary to obtain that proof.’
‘What do you mean?’
Eyvör leant forward over the desk. Out of the corner of his eye Erlendur glimpsed her vicar’s ruff in the cupboard.
‘I think she was ready to go all the way. But that’s just my opinion and I wouldn’t want you to spread it any further. Let’s keep it between ourselves.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘I just got that impression.’
‘So her suicide was . . .?’
‘Her search for answers. I think. I know I shouldn’t talk like this but from my knowledge of her over the last few years I could well believe that she was quite simply searching for answers.’
When Erlendur was back in his car, driving away from the church, his mobile phone rang. It was Sigurdur Óli. Erlendur had asked him to run a check on María’s mobile phone and Baldvin had willingly given his consent. In the days leading up to her death she had been in contact with people about her academic work, with Karen about the holiday cottage and with her husband, both at the hospital and on his mobile.
‘Her last call from the mobile was made the evening she hanged herself,’ Sigurdur Óli said, without beating about the bush.
‘What time was that?’
‘At twenty to nine.’
‘So she must have been alive then?’
‘Apparently. The call lasted ten minutes.’
‘Her husband said she called him from the cottage that evening.’
‘What are you thinking?’ Sigurdur Óli asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What is it with this case? The woman killed herself; is there any more to it than that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you realise you’re investigating it as if it was murder?’
‘No, I’m not,’ Erlendur said. ‘I don’t think she was murdered. I want to know why she committed suicide, that’s all there is to it.’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Nothing,’ Erlendur said. ‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘I thought you were only interested in missing-person cases.’
‘Suicide is a missing-person case too,’ Erlendur said and hung up on him.
The medium greeted María at the door and invited her in, They had a lengthy chat before the seance proper began, Magdalena made a good impression on María, She was warm and understanding and solicitous, just as Andersen had been, but María found it different talking to a woman, She wasn’t as shy with Magdalena, And it seemed that Magdalena’s psychic powers were stronger, She was more receptive, knew more, could see more and further than Andersen.
They sat down in the living room and Magdalena gradually eased them into the seance proper, María took in little of the flat or its furnishings, Baldvin had obtained the number from his colleague at the hospital and she had immediately called Magdalena who said she could meet her straight away, María received the impression that the psychic lived alone
.
‘I sense a strong presence,’ Magdalena said, She closed her eyes and opened them again, ‘A woman has made contact,’ she continued, ‘Ingibjörg, Does that sound familiar?
’
‘My grandmother’s name was Ingibjörg,
’
María said, ‘She died a long time ago.
’
‘She’s very distant. You weren’t close.’
‘No, I hardly knew her, She was my father’s mother.’
‘She’s terribly sad.’
‘Yes.’
‘She says it wasn’t your fault what happened.’
‘No.’
‘She’s talking about an accident,’ Magdalena said.
‘Yes.’
‘There’s water, Someone who drowned.
’
‘Yes.’
‘A tragic accident, the old woman says.’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you familiar with
 . . .
There’s a painting, is it a painting of water
?
It’s a picture of Lake Thingvallavatn, Does that sound familiar?
’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you, There’s
 . . .
there’s a man who
 . . .
It’s unclear
, a
picture or painting
 . . .
There’s a woman who calls herself Lovísa, does that ring any bells?
’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s related to you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you, She’s young
 . . . I . . .
hardly more than twenty.
’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s smiling. There’s so much light around her. There’s a radiance around her. She’s smiling. She says that Leonóra’s with her and is content.’
‘Yes.’
‘She says you’re not to worry
. . . .
She says Leonóra’s feeling wonderful, She says
 . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘She says she’s looking forward to seeing you again.’
‘Yes.’
‘She wants you to know that she’s happy, It’ll be wonderful when you come, Wonderful.
’
‘Yes?’
‘She says you mustn’t be afraid, She says you’re not to worry, Everything will be fine, Whatever you do, She says that whatever you decide to do
 . . .
it’ll
 . . .
she says it’ll turn out well, You mustn’t worry, Everything will turn out fine.
’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a beautiful aura around this woman, She
 . . .
There’s a radiance coming from her
. . . .
She’s telling you
 . . .
are you familiar with
 . . .
there’s a writer?
’
‘Yes.’
‘A French writer?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s smiling, It’s
 . . .
the woman with her
 . . .
she’s
 . . .
she says she’s feeling better now, All the
 . . .
all the pain
 . . .’

Other books

Flying the Storm by Arnot, C. S.
Nick Reding by Methland: The Death, Life of an American Small Town
Night Swimming by Robin Schwarz
Golden Paradise (Vincente 1) by Constance O'Banyon
The City Trap by John Dalton
Less Than Human by Maxine McArthur
The Istanbul Decision by Nick Carter