Hypothermia (6 page)
Authors: Arnaldur Indridason
‘What did she do?’
‘Do you mean her job? She was a professor at the university, a professor of French.’
‘And her daughter was a historian,’ Erlendur said. ‘That explains the large number of books in the house. Was María depressed?’
‘Let’s just say she was very low. I do hope you won’t repeat this. I really shouldn’t be discussing it with you. She didn’t exactly turn to me in her grief, but I got the impression that she was under a great deal of strain. She used to come to church but never opened up to me. I tried to console her but it was actually quite difficult. She was very angry – angry that her mother should have had to die like that. Angry with the powers that be. I think she might have lost a little of her faith, the childlike faith she’d always had, after watching her mother waste away and die.’
‘But God moves in mysterious ways, doesn’t he?’ Erlendur said. ‘He alone knows the point of all this suffering?’
‘I wouldn’t be doing this job if I didn’t believe that faith can help us. If we didn’t have faith, where would we be?’
‘Were you aware at all of her interest in the supernatural?’
‘No, I can’t say that I was. But, as I say, she was quite reticent and guarded when it came to her private life. Or certain aspects of it.’
‘Such as?’
‘She believed in dreams, that they could give her an insight into things we can’t see in our waking life. Her belief grew stronger over time until I got the impression that she believed dreams were some kind of door into another world.’
‘The afterlife?’
‘I don’t know exactly what she meant.’
‘And what did you say to her?’
‘What we preach in church. We believe in the resurrection on the Day of Judgement and in eternal life. The reunion of loved ones is the essence of the Easter message.’
‘Did she believe in that sort of reunion?’
‘I felt that she derived a certain consolation from the idea, yes.’
Elínborg was again in tow when Erlendur paid another short visit to María’s husband, Baldvin. It was the day after he had spoken to the vicar. He invented some pretext involving a notebook that he had mislaid. Elínborg stood at his side in the sitting room of the house in Grafarvogur, watching him explain his visit. Erlendur had never in his life owned a notebook.
‘I haven’t seen anything of the kind here,’ Baldvin said, after a cursory glance round the room. ‘I’ll let you know if I find it.’
‘Thank you,’ Erlendur said, ‘I’m sorry to bother you.’
Elínborg smiled awkwardly.
‘Tell me: I know it’s none of my business, but did María regard death as the end of it all?’ Erlendur asked.
‘The end of it all?’ Baldvin repeated, surprised.
‘I mean, did she believe in life after death?’ Erlendur asked.
Elínborg stared at him. She had never heard him ask such questions before.
‘I think so,’ Baldvin said. ‘I think she believed in the resurrection, like other Christians.’
‘When people are having a hard time or experience the loss of a loved one, they often search for answers, sometimes even from mediums or psychics.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Baldvin said. ‘Why are you asking?’
Erlendur was on the verge of telling him about the recording that Karen had given him but changed his mind. Another time. He suddenly felt it would be unwise to drag Karen into this and mention her concerns. He ought to keep faith with her.
‘Just thinking aloud,’ he said. ‘We’ve inconvenienced you enough, I’m sorry for the intrusion.’
Smiling, Elínborg took the man’s hand and said goodbye with a few words of condolence.
‘What was that all about?’ she asked angrily once they were seated in the car and Erlendur was driving away slowly. ‘The woman committed suicide and you start talking some crap about life after death! Have you no sense of decency?’
‘She went to see a medium,’ Erlendur said.
‘How do you know?’
Erlendur took out Karen’s tape and handed it to her. ‘It’s the recording of a seance that his wife attended.’
‘A seance?’ Elínborg said in astonishment. ‘She went to a seance?’
‘I haven’t listened to the whole tape. I was going to let him hear what’s on it, but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘I want to track down the medium,’ Erlendur said. ‘I suddenly wanted to know what game the medium was playing and whether he might have done something to trigger this tragedy.’
‘You think he was playing with her?’
‘I do. He pretended to see a boat on a lake, to smell cigar smoke. That sort of rubbish.’
‘Was he alluding to her father’s drowning?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t believe in mediums?’ Elínborg asked.
‘No more than I believe in fairies,’ Erlendur said, turning out of the cul-de-sac.
7
When Erlendur got home that evening he buttered himself a flat-cake and topped it with smoked lamb, turned on the coffee-maker, then put Karen’s cassette back in the machine.
He thought about María’s suicide, about the despair required to precipitate such an act and the sheer mental torment that must have lain behind it. Erlendur had read notes from people who had taken their own lives, some consisting of only a few lines, maybe only a sentence, a single word; others longer, with a detailed enumeration of the reasons for the act, an apology of sorts. Sometimes the letter would be left on the pillow in the bedroom. Sometimes on the floor of the garage. Fathers, mothers, adolescents, pensioners, people who were alone in the world.
He was about to press ‘play’ when he heard a knock at the door. He went and opened it. Eva Lind slipped past him and came inside.
‘Is it a bad moment?’ she asked, taking off her knee-length black leather coat. Under it she was wearing jeans and a thick jumper. ‘It’s bloody cold outside,’ she said. ‘Isn’t this gale ever going to let up?’
‘I doubt it,’ Erlendur replied. ‘It’s forecast to last the week.’
‘Did Sindri come round?’ Eva Lind asked.
‘Yes. Do you want some coffee?’
‘Yes, please. What did he say?’
Erlendur went into the kitchen and fetched the coffee. He had tried to cut down on his caffeine intake in the evenings because he sometimes had trouble sleeping if he drank more than two cups. Not that he minded wakeful nights; they were the best time for grappling with problems.
‘He didn’t really say much, though he did mention that you’d had a row with your mother,’ Erlendur said when he returned. ‘He thought it was something to do with me.’
Eva Lind fished a packet of cigarettes from her leather coat, plucked one out with her nails and lit up. She blew the smoke in a long cloud across the living room.
‘The old bag went mental.’
‘Why?’
‘I told her you two should meet up.’
‘Your mother and I?’ Erlendur said in surprise. ‘Whatever for?’
‘That’s exactly what Mum said. “Whatever for?” To meet. To talk. To stop this bollocks of never talking. Why can’t you two do that?’
‘What did she say?’
‘She told me to forget it. End of story.’
‘Was that what the row was about?’
‘Yes. What about you? What do you say?’
‘Me? Nothing. If she doesn’t want to, that’s that.’
‘That’s that? Can’t you even talk to each other?’
Erlendur thought for a moment.
‘What are you trying to achieve, Eva?’ he asked. ‘You know it was all over a long time ago. We’ve hardly spoken for decades.’
‘That’s the point – you haven’t really talked since Sindri and me were born.’
‘I bumped into her when you were in hospital,’ Erlendur said. ‘It wasn’t pleasant. I think you should forget it, Eva. Neither of us wants this.’
Eva Lind had had a miscarriage a few years back and it had taken her a long time to get over the grief. She had been a drug addict for years but Sindri had told Erlendur that she had recently, on her own initiative, started to sort herself out and was doing well.
‘You’re quite sure?’ Eva asked, looking at her father.
‘Yes, quite sure,’ Erlendur said. ‘Tell me, how are you? You look somehow different, more grown up.’
‘More grown up? Getting old, am I?’
‘No, that’s not what I meant. More mature, maybe. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Sindri said you were sorting yourself out.’
‘He’s talking crap.’
‘Is he right?’
Eva Lind didn’t answer immediately. She inhaled the smoke of her cigarette and held it in her lungs for a long time before finally expelling it through her nose.
‘My friend died,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if you remember her.’
‘Who?’
‘Her name was Hanna. Your lot found her behind the rubbish bins at Mjódd.’
‘Hanna?’ Erlendur whispered, thinking back.
‘She overdosed,’ Eva Lind said.
‘I remember. It wasn’t long ago, was it? She was on heroin. We don’t see much of that here, at least not yet.’
‘She was a good mate.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Do you ever?’ Eva Lind said. ‘It was either do what she did or . . .’
‘Or?’
‘Try to do something different, try to drag myself out of the pit. Do it for real for once.’
‘What do you mean by doing what she did? Do you think she did it deliberately? Took an overdose?’
‘I don’t know,’ Eva Lind said. ‘She didn’t care. About anything.’
‘Didn’t care?’
‘Couldn’t give a shit about anything.’
‘What was her history again?’ Erlendur asked. He remembered a wretched-looking girl of about twenty who had been found with a syringe in her arm outside the shopping centre at Mjódd the previous winter. The binmen had found her early in the morning, lying frozen with her back to the wall.
‘Why do you always have to talk like a professor?’ Eva Lind said. ‘What the fuck does it matter? She died. Isn’t that enough? What does her “history” matter? What does it matter that there was no one there for her? Anyway, she wouldn’t have wanted help because she hated herself. So why should anyone have bothered to help her?’
‘She seems to have mattered to you,’ Erlendur commented warily.
‘She was my mate,’ Eva Lind replied. ‘Anyway, I didn’t mean to talk about her. Will you agree to meet Mum?’
‘You feel that I wasn’t there for you?’ Erlendur asked.
‘You’ve done more than enough,’ Eva Lind said.
‘I never manage to deal with you – I can never help you in any way.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll cope.’
‘She hated herself?’
‘Who?’
‘Your friend. You said she hated herself. Was that why she took an overdose? Are you saying she despised herself?’
Eva Lind slowly stubbed out her cigarette.
‘I don’t know. I think she’d lost all self-respect. It didn’t matter to her any more what became of her. She hated a lot of things but most of all I think she hated herself.’
‘Have you ever been in that situation?’
‘Only about a thousand times,’ Eva Lind replied. ‘Are you going to meet Mum?’
‘I really don’t think it would achieve anything,’ Erlendur said. ‘I’ve no idea what to say to her and last time we talked she bit my head off.’
‘Couldn’t you do it for me?’
‘What do you expect to get out of it? After all these years?’
‘I just want you two to talk,’ Eva Lind said. ‘To see you together. Is that so bloody hard? You have two children, Sindri and me.’
‘Surely you’re not hoping we’ll get back together?’
Eva Lind contemplated her father for a long moment.
‘I’m not an idiot,’ she said. ‘Don’t think I’m some kind of idiot.’
Then she stood up, collected her belongings and said goodbye.
Erlendur sat there remembering how Eva Lind would sometimes flare up abruptly like this. He thought he would never get the hang of talking to her without putting her back up. To him, the idea that he should meet up with Halldóra, his ex-wife and the mother of his children, was absurd. That chapter of his life was long finished, in spite of what Eva Lind might say or let herself dream. He and Halldóra had nothing to say to one another. She was a total stranger to him.
Remembering the tape, he went over to the machine and turned it on. He rewound a little to refresh his memory of what he had listened to before. He heard the medium’s voice become deep and gruff as he almost growled ‘You don’t know what you’re doing!’ Then it changed in the next breath and the medium talked of feeling cold.
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