Hypothermia (2 page)
Authors: Arnaldur Indridason
Karen turned on the living-room light.
Four solid beams extended across the ceiling, and from one of them a body was hanging, its back turned to her.
Shock sent her crashing back against the wall and her head slammed into the wood panelling. Everything went black. The body hung from the beam by a thin blue cord, mirrored in the dark living-room window. She didn’t know how long it was before she dared to inch closer. The tranquil surroundings of the lake had in an instant been converted into the setting for a horror story that she would never forget. Every detail was etched on her memory. The kitchen stool, out of place in the minimalist living room, lying on its side under the body; the blue of the rope; the reflection in the window; the darkness of Thingvellir; the motionless human body suspended from the beam.
Karen approached cautiously and caught sight of the swollen blue face. Her ghastly suspicion proved correct. It was her friend María.
2
An extraordinarily short space of time seemed to pass between Karen’s phone call and the arrival on the scene of the paramedics, accompanied by a doctor and some police officers from the neighbouring town of Selfoss. The Selfoss CID, who had been assigned the case, knew only that the woman who had committed suicide was from Reykjavík, lived in the suburb of Grafarvogur and was married but childless.
The cottage was full of people conversing in low voices. They stood around like awkward strangers.
‘Was it you who called?’ a young detective asked.
The woman who had found the body had been pointed out to him where she sat in the kitchen, staring dejectedly at the floor.
‘Yes. My name’s Karen.’
‘We can get you a trauma counsellor if you—’
‘No, I think . . . it’sall right.’
‘Did you know her well?’
‘I’ve known María ever since we were children. She lent me the cottage. I was going to spend the weekend here.’
‘You didn’t see her car behind the cottage?’ the detective asked.
‘No. I didn’t think there was anyone here. Then I noticed that the bed hadn’t been made and when I went into the living room . . . I’ve never seen anything like it before. Oh God, poor María! Poor thing!’
‘When did you last speak to her?’
‘Only a few days ago. When she lent me the cottage.’
‘Did she say that she intended to be here herself?’
‘No. She didn’t mention it. She said of course she’d lend me the place for a few days. No problem.’
‘And was she . . . on good form?’
‘Yes, I thought so. She seemed her usual self when I went round to pick up the key.’
‘She’d have known you were coming here?’
‘Yes. What do you mean?’
‘She knew that you’d find her,’ the detective said.
He had pulled up a stool when he’d started talking to Karen. She grabbed his arm, staring at him.
‘Do you mean . . .?’
‘Maybe you were meant to find her,’ the detective said. ‘Not that I know anything about it.’
‘Why would she have wanted that?’
‘It’s only a guess.’
‘But it’s true; she knew I’d be here over the weekend. She knew I was coming here. When . . . when did she do it?’
‘We haven’t been given an exact time of death yet but the doctor thinks it can’t have been much later than yesterday evening. So probably about twenty-four hours ago.’
Karen hid her face in her hands.
‘God, it’s so . . . it’s so unreal. I should never have asked to borrow the cottage. Have you spoken to her husband?’
‘The police are on their way to see him now. They live in Grafarvogur, don’t they?’
‘Yes. How could she do this? How could anyone do a thing like this?’
‘From sheer despair,’ the detective said, beckoning the doctor over. ‘Mental torment. You weren’t aware of anything like that in her case?’
‘Maria lost her mother two years ago – to cancer,’ Karen said. ‘It was a terrible blow to her.’
‘I see,’ the detective said.
Karen’s lips trembled. The detective asked if the doctor could do anything to help her. She shook her head, saying she was all right but would like to go home if that was allowed. It was not a problem. They would talk to her later if necessary.
The detective escorted her out to the drive in front of the cottage and opened the car door for her.
‘Will you be all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I think so,’ Karen answered. ‘Thank you.’
The detective watched her turn the car and drive away. By the time he went back into the cottage they had cut down the body and laid it on the floor. He knelt down beside it. The dead woman was dressed in a white T-shirt and blue jeans but was wearing no socks. She was slim and had a thin face and short dark hair. He could see no signs of a struggle, either on her body or in the house; only the overturned kitchen stool on which the woman must have stood to tie the noose round the beam. The blue rope could have been bought from any DIY shop. It had cut deep into her slender neck.
‘Lack of oxygen,’ announced the district medical officer, who had been talking to the paramedics. ‘Unfortunately for her, her neck’s not broken. That would have been quicker. She suffocated when the noose tightened round her neck. It would have taken some time. They’re asking when they can take her away.’
‘How long would it have taken?’ the detective asked.
‘Two minutes – maybe less – before she lost consciousness.’
The detective stood up and looked around the cottage. From what he could see it was a very ordinary Icelandic holiday home with its leather three-piece suite, handsome dining table and newly fitted kitchen. The walls of the living room were lined with books. He walked over to the shelving unit and noticed the brown leather spines of five volumes of Jón Árnason’s
Collected Folk Tales
. Ghost stories, he thought to himself. Other shelves contained French literature titles and Icelandic novels, interspersed with china or ceramic ornaments and framed photos, including three of the same woman at different ages as far as he could tell. The walls were hung with graphic prints, a small oil painting and watercolours.
Collected Folk Tales
. Ghost stories, he thought to himself. Other shelves contained French literature titles and Icelandic novels, interspersed with china or ceramic ornaments and framed photos, including three of the same woman at different ages as far as he could tell. The walls were hung with graphic prints, a small oil painting and watercolours.
The detective went through to what he assumed was the master bedroom. There was a body-shaped indentation in the bedclothes, on one side. There was a pile of books on the bedside table, with a volume of poetry by Davíd Stefánsson from Fagriskógur on top. Beside them was a small bottle of perfume.
His tour of the cottage was not motivated by mere curiosity. He was searching for signs of a struggle, any clue that the woman had not gone voluntarily into the kitchen, fetched the stool, positioned it under the beam, climbed on to it and put the rope round her own neck. All he found were the signs of a terribly quiet – almost polite – death.
He was interrupted by a colleague from the Selfoss CID.
‘Found anything?’ the man asked.
‘Nothing. It’s suicide. Pure and simple. There’s no indication of anything else. She must have killed herself.’
‘It certainly looks that way.’
‘Hadn’t I better cut down the rope before we leave? She’s got a husband, hasn’t she?’
‘Yes, please take it down. He’ll have to come here at some point.’
The detective picked up the noose from the floor and turned it over in his fingers. It was not a very professional effort: the knot had been tied inexpertly and the rope did not slide smoothly through the loop. It occurred to him that he could have done a better job himself, but perhaps it was unreasonable to expect a superior noose from an ordinary housewife from Grafarvogur. It was not as if she would have made a special study of the method and prepared for her suicide in detail. It had probably been the result of a moment of madness rather than a carefully premeditated act.
He opened the door on to the decking. It was only two steps down and a couple more yards to the edge of the lake. There had been a freeze over the past few days and a thin film of ice covered the water nearest the shore. In some places it had frozen to the rocks, like a paper-thin sheet of glass beneath which the water swirled.
3
Erlendur drove up to an unassuming detached house in the suburb of Grafarvogur. It stood on its own at the end of a cul-de-sac in a street of handsome villas. Most of them were identical, painted white, blue or red, with a garage and two cars per house. The street was well lit and clean, the gardens were neatly tended, the lawns mown, and the trees and bushes tidily pruned. There were box-trimmed hedges wherever you looked. The house in question appeared older than the other buildings in the street; it was built in a different style, with no bay windows or conservatory and with no pretentious columns flanking the front door. It was a white building with a flat roof and a large picture window in the sitting room that faced on to Kollafjördur fjord and Mount Esja. Around the house there was an extensive, beautifully lit garden that was clearly well tended. The shrubby potentilla and alpine cinquefoil, as well as the Hansa roses and pansies had all died back with the autumn.
It had been unusually cold recently, with a northerly wind and bitter temperatures. A dry gust blew the leaves along the road to the end of the cul-de-sac. Erlendur parked his car and looked up at the house. He took a deep breath before going inside. This was the second suicide in a week. Perhaps it was due to the onset of autumn and the thought of the long dark winter ahead.
It had fallen to him to contact the man on behalf of the Reykjavík police, as was the custom. The Selfoss force had already decided to transfer the case to Reykjavík for ‘appropriate handling’, as they called it. A priest had been sent to see the man. They were sitting in the kitchen when Erlendur arrived. The priest opened the door to him and showed him into the kitchen, explaining that he was the vicar of Grafarvogur. María had attended a different church but they had been unable to contact her vicar.
The husband, a lean, strongly built man wearing a white shirt and jeans, was sitting very still at the kitchen table. Erlendur introduced himself and they shook hands. The man’s name was Baldvin. The vicar stood by the kitchen door.
‘I must go to the cottage,’ Baldvin said.
‘Yes, the body has been—’ Erlendur started, but got no further.
‘I was told that . . .’ Baldvin began.
‘We’ll go with you if you like. Though the body has in fact been transferred to Reykjavík. To the morgue on Barónsstígur. We thought you would prefer that to the hospital in Selfoss.’
‘Thank you.’
‘We’ll need you to identify her.’
‘Naturally. Of course.’
‘Was she alone at Thingvellir?’
‘Yes, she went there two days ago to do some work and was due back in town this evening. She said she’d be late. She’d lent the cottage to a friend for the weekend. Or that’s what she told me. Said she might hang around and wait for her.’
‘It was her friend Karen who found her. Do you know her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you here at home?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did you last speak to your wife?’
‘Yesterday evening. Before she went to bed. She had her mobile phone at the cottage.’
‘So you hadn’t heard from her at all today?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘She wasn’t expecting you at Thingvellir?’
‘No. We were going to spend the weekend in town.’
‘But she was expecting her friend this evening?’
‘Yes, so I gathered. The vicar told me that María probably . . . did it . . . yesterday evening?’
‘The pathologist hasn’t given us a more accurate time of death yet.’
Baldvin was silent.
‘Had she tried to do this before?’ Erlendur asked.
‘This? Suicide? No, never.’
‘Did you know she was in a bad way?’
‘She’s been a bit depressed and down,’ Baldvin said. ‘But not so . . . this is . . .’
He broke down in tears.
The vicar met Erlendur’s eye and signalled that that was enough for the moment.
‘I’m sorry,’ Erlendur said and rose from the kitchen table. ‘We’ll talk more another time. Do you want to call someone to come and be with you? Or a grief counsellor? We can . . .’
‘No, it’s . . . Thank you.’
On his way out Erlendur walked through the sitting room, which was lined with large bookcases. He had noticed a smart SUV in front of the garage when he parked in the drive.
Why die and leave a home like this? he wondered. Is there really nothing here to live for?
He knew that such thoughts were futile. Experience showed that motives for suicide could be unpredictable and unrelated to a person’s financial situation. The act itself frequently came as a total shock and could be committed by people of all ages: adolescents, the middle-aged and elderly, people who decided one day to end it all. Sometimes there was a long history of depression and failed attempts. In other cases the act took friends and family completely by surprise. ‘We hadn’t a clue he was feeling like that.’ ‘She never said anything.’ ‘How were we to know?’ The family were left devastated, their eyes full of questions, their voices full of disbelief and horror: ‘Why? Should I have seen it coming? Is there something I could have done better?’
Other books
The Icing on the Corpse by Liz Mugavero
Back to Battle by Max Hennessy
Spellsinger (Avalon: Web of Magic #5) by Rachel Roberts
In Bed with the Enemy by Janet Woods
Scaderstone Pit (The Darkeningstone Series Book 3) by Mikey Campling
The Stranger You Seek by Amanda Kyle Williams
The Ugly Truth by Hutton, Cheryel
The Teacher's Mail Order Bride by Cindy Caldwell
Somebody Loves Us All by Damien Wilkins
Finding the Worm by Mark Goldblatt
