Hypothermia (9 page)
Authors: Arnaldur Indridason
Ingvar listened attentively as Erlendur churned out his spiel. Ingvar was in his sixties, an old family friend and companion of María’s father Magnús. He came across as rather a passive, sedate sort of man. Naturally he had been shattered by the news and had attended María’s funeral, which he described as beautiful. He found it incomprehensible that the girl should have resorted to such a desperate measure.
‘Though I knew she was under a lot of strain.’
Erlendur sipped the coffee that the man had offered him.
‘I gather she was badly affected by her father’s death,’ he said, putting down his cup.
‘Dreadfully,’ Ingvar replied. ‘Dreadfully badly. No child should have to go through an ordeal like that. She witnessed the whole thing, you know.’
Erlendur nodded.
‘Magnús and Leonóra bought the holiday cottage shortly after they married,’ Ingvar continued. ‘They often invited me and my dear late wife Jóna to stay with them at weekends and so forth. Magnús spent a lot of time out in his boat. He was mad about fishing, could carry on for days at a time. I used to go along sometimes. He tried to get little María interested but she didn’t want to go with him. It was the same with Leonóra. She never went on Magnús’s fishing trips.’
‘So they weren’t with him on the boat?’
‘No, certainly not. Magnús was alone; anyway, you’ll be able to read that in your reports. In those days people didn’t bother so much about wearing or carrying life jackets. Magnús had nothing of the sort with him when he went out on the lake. From what I can remember the boat came equipped with two life jackets, but Magnús always said he didn’t need them and kept them in the boat shed. He only went a short way out as a rule; hardly left the shore.’
‘But he went a bit further out that last time?’
‘He did, yes, from what I’ve heard. It was unusually cold that day. It was about this time of year, autumn.’
Ingvar fell silent.
‘I lost one of my best friends in him,’ he added, momentarily distracted.
‘That’s tough,’ Erlendur said.
‘His boat had an outboard motor and we gathered from the police afterwards that the propeller fell off and the boat lost its steering and stopped. Magnús had no oars and fell overboard while fiddling with the engine. He was overweight and a heavy smoker and didn’t take any exercise, so I don’t suppose that helped. Leonóra said the wind had picked up; a cold blast from Mount Skjaldbreid had whipped up the waves, and Magnús drowned in a matter of minutes. Lake Thingvallavatn is freezing cold at this time of year. No one can survive in it for more than a few minutes.’
‘No, of course,’ Erlendur said.
‘Leonóra told me the boat couldn’t have been more than a hundred and fifty metres or so from shore. They didn’t see what happened. Just caught sight of Magnús in the water and heard his shouts, which were soon cut off.’
Erlendur glanced out of the living-room window. The city lights glittered in the rain. The traffic was building up. He could hear its rumble from inside the house.
‘Naturally his death came as a crushing blow to his wife and daughter,’ Ingvar continued. ‘Leonóra never remarried. She and María lived together for the rest of her life, even after the girl married. Her husband, the doctor, simply moved in with them.’
‘Were they religious, the mother and daughter, that you were aware?’
‘I know that Leonóra derived a certain comfort from religion after what happened at Thingvellir. It helped her and no doubt the girl too. María was a little angel, I have to say. Leonóra never had the slightest trouble with her. Then she met that doctor – who seems a very decent chap to me. I don’t actually know him very well but I had a word with him after María died and of course he was distraught, just as we all are, all of us who knew her.’
‘María had a degree in history,’ Erlendur remarked.
‘Yes, she was interested in the past; she was a great reader. She got that from her mother.’
‘Do you know what her particular field was?’
‘No, I don’t, actually,’ Ingvar said.
‘Could it have been religious history?’
‘Well, I understand that her interest in the afterlife intensified after her mother died. She immersed herself in spiritualism, in ideas about life after death and that sort of thing.’
‘Do you know if María ever visited mediums or psychics?’
‘No, I know nothing about that. If so, she never told me. Have you asked her husband?’
‘No,’ Erlendur said. ‘It’s just something that occurred to me. Did she seem very depressed to you? Could you have imagined that she would do something like that?’
‘No, I couldn’t. I met her several times and talked to her on the phone but she didn’t give the impression that this would . . . in fact, quite the opposite. I thought she was beginning to pick up. The last conversation I had with her was a few days before she . . . before she did it. She seemed more decisive than often before, more optimistic, if anything. I thought I sensed signs of an improvement. But I gather that’s sometimes the case.’
‘What?’
‘That people in her position rally once they’ve taken the decision.’
‘Can you imagine what effect it might have had on her as a young girl to witness the accident at Thingvellir?’
‘Well, naturally one can’t put oneself in her shoes. In María’s case she clung to her mother and drew all her strength and comfort from her after the accident. Leonóra hardly dared take her eyes off the child in those first months and years. Of course, an event like that would have a profound impact and remain with you for the rest of your life.’
‘Yes,’ Erlendur said. ‘So they mourned him together.’
Ingvar was silent.
‘Do you know why the motor packed up?’ Erlendur asked.
‘No. They said the propeller came off. That’s all we knew.’
‘Had he been fiddling with it, then?’
‘Magnús? No. He didn’t have a clue about that sort of thing. Never touched an engine in his life as far as I’m aware. If you want to know more about Magnús you could talk to his sister, Kristín. She might be able to help you. Have a chat to her.’
Later that day Erlendur went to see an old schoolfriend of María’s. His name was Jónas and he was finance manager of a pharmaceuticals company. He sat in his spacious office, impeccably dressed in a tailor-made suit and wearing a loud yellow tie. He himself was tall and slim with a three-day beard shadow, not unlike Sigurdur Óli. When Erlendur called beforehand, Jónas expressed himself a little surprised by the inquiry into his schoolfriend’s suicide and puzzled as to how it concerned him, but he asked no awkward questions.
Erlendur waited for Jónas to finish a phone call that he explained he had to take; some urgent outside matter, from what Erlendur could gather. He noticed a photo of a woman and three children on a shelf and assumed they were the finance manager’s family.
‘Yes, about María – is it true what I’ve heard?’ Jónas asked when he finally put down the receiver. ‘Did she commit suicide?’
‘That’s correct,’ Erlendur said.
‘I could hardly believe it,’ Jónas said.
‘You met her at college, didn’t you?’
‘We went out for three years, two at sixth-form college and one at university. She read history, as you probably know. She was into that kind of research.’
‘Did you live together or . . .?’
‘For the last year. Until I’d had enough.’
Jónas broke off. Erlendur waited.
‘No, her mother was . . . to put it bluntly, she was extremely interfering,’ Jónas elaborated. ‘And the strange thing was that María never seemed to see anything odd about it. I moved into her place in Grafarvogur but quickly gave up on the whole thing. Leonóra was all-important and I never felt I had María to myself. I discussed it with her but María didn’t get it; she wanted her mother to live with her and that was that. We quarrelled a bit and in the end I simply couldn’t be bothered any more and walked out. I don’t know if María ever missed me. I’ve barely seen her since.’
‘She got married later on,’ Erlendur said.
‘Yes – to some doctor, wasn’t it?’
‘So you didn’t lose touch completely?’
‘Well, I just happened to hear and can’t say I was surprised.’
‘Did you ever see her after you broke up?’
‘Maybe two or three times by chance, at parties and that sort of thing. It was all right. María was a great girl. It’s absolutely terrible that she should have chosen to end her life like that.’
The mobile phone in Erlendur’s pocket began to ring. He apologised and answered it.
‘She’s prepared to do it,’ he heard Eva Lind say at the other end.
‘What?’
‘Meet you.’
‘Who?’
‘Mum. She’s prepared to do it. She’s agreed to meet you.’
‘I’m in a meeting,’ Erlendur said, glancing at Jónas, who was patiently stroking his yellow tie.
‘Aren’t you up for it, then?’ Eva Lind asked.
‘Can I talk to you later?’ Erlendur asked. ‘I’m in a meeting.’
‘Just say yes or no.’
‘I’ll talk to you later,’ Erlendur said.
He ended the call.
‘Did death have any particular meaning for María?’ Erlendur asked. ‘Was it something she gave much thought to, from what you can remember?’
‘Not particularly, I don’t think. We didn’t discuss it – we were only kids, after all. But she was always very scared of the dark. That’s the main thing I remember about our relationship, her absolute terror of the dark. She could hardly be alone in the house after nightfall. That was another reason why she wanted to live with Leonóra, I think. And yet . . .’
‘What?’
‘In spite of her fear of the dark, or perhaps because she of it, she was forever reading ghost stories, all that sort of stuff, Jón Árnason’s Icelandic folk tales and so on. Her favourite films were horror movies about ghosts and all that crap. She lapped it up, then would hardly dare go to sleep in the evenings. She was incapable of being alone. Always had to have somebody with her.’
‘What was she so afraid of?’
‘I never really knew because I couldn’t give a toss about that sort of thing. I’ve never been scared of the dark. I don’t suppose I listened to her properly.’
‘But she actively indulged her fear?’
‘It certainly seemed like that.’
‘Was she sensitive to her surroundings – did she see or hear things? Was her fear of the dark rooted in something she had experienced or knew?’
‘I don’t think so. Though I remember that she used to wake up sometimes and stare fixedly at the bedroom door as if she could see something. Then it would pass. I think it was something left over from her dreams. She couldn’t explain it. Sometimes she thought she saw human figures. Always when she was waking up. It was all in her mind.’
‘Did they speak to her?’
‘No, it was nothing – just dreams, like I say.’
‘Might it be relevant to ask about her father in this context?’
‘Yes, of course. He was one of them.’
‘One of those that she saw?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did she attend any seances when you were with her?’
‘No.’
‘You’d have known?’
‘Yes. She never did anything like that.’
‘Her fear of the dark – what form did it take?’
‘Oh, the usual, I expect. She didn’t dare go down to the washing machine in the basement on her own. She would hardly go into the kitchen alone. She always had to have all the lights on. She needed to be able to hear me if she was moving around the house in the evenings, especially if it was very late at night. She didn’t like it if I went out, if I couldn’t spend the night with her.’
‘Did she try to get any help for it?’
‘Help? No. Isn’t it just something that . . . Can you get help for fear of the dark?’
Erlendur didn’t know. ‘Maybe. From a psychologist or someone like that,’ he said.
‘No, nothing like that, at least not while I was with her. Maybe you should ask her husband.’
Erlendur nodded.
‘Thanks for your help,’ he said, standing up.
‘No problem,’ Jónas said, again running a small hand down his yellow tie.
10
The old man’s visit to the police station to ask for news of his missing son continued to prey on Erlendur’s mind. Despite wishing passionately that there was something he could do for him, he knew that there was precious little he could achieve in practice. The case had been shelved long ago. An unsolved missing-person case. The most likely explanation was that the young man had killed himself. Erlendur had tried to discuss this possibility with the old couple but they wouldn’t hear of it. Their son had never entertained such an idea in his life and had never attempted anything of the kind. He was a happy, lively soul and would never have dreamed of taking his own life.
Other books
The Endless Knot by Stephen Lawhead
[Southern Arcana 1] Crux by Moira Rogers
More Adventures Of The Great Brain by Fitzgerald, John D.
Christmas for Joshua - A Novel by Azrieli, Avraham
Number One Kid by Patricia Reilly Giff
Henry Wood: Time and Again: by Meeks, Brian
Always Time To Die by Elizabeth Lowell
The Chimera Sequence by Elliott Garber
Family Reunion by Caroline B. Cooney
Filthy Gorgeous Lies: Book 1 by Sophie Night
