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Hypothermia

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‘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.

Their opinion was seconded by his friends whom Erlendur had interviewed at the time. They utterly rejected the idea that Davíd could have killed himself, dismissing it as ridiculous, but could provide little enlightenment otherwise. He had not mixed with any types who might conceivably do him harm; he was simply a very ordinary youth who was finishing sixth-form college and planning to start a law course at university with his two best friends the following autumn.

At the present moment, Erlendur was sitting in the office of Thorsteinn, one of those two friends. It was decades since they had last spoken about the young man’s disappearance. Thorsteinn had taken a law degree, been appointed Supreme Court advocate and now ran a large legal practice with two partners. He had thickened out considerably since his early twenties, lost most of his hair and now had bags under his eyes from fatigue. Erlendur remembered the youth he had met some thirty years before, a young, slim, muscular figure about to embark on the life that had now set its mark on him, transforming him into a worn-out middle-aged man.

‘Why are you back here asking questions about Davíd? Has there been some news?’ the lawyer asked. Then he buzzed his secretary and instructed that he was not to be disturbed. Erlendur had encountered the secretary, a smiling middle-aged woman, in the corridor.

It was two days since he had spoken to María’s ex-boyfriend. Elínborg complained that he did nothing at work these days except waste his time on old missing-person files. Erlendur told her not to worry her head about him. ‘I’m not worried about you,’ Elínborg retorted, ‘I’m worried about the taxpayers’ money.’

‘No, no news,’ Erlendur said in reply to Thorsteinn. ‘I believe his father’s dying. It’s the last chance to do something before he passes away.’

‘I think of him from time to time,’ the lawyer said. ‘Davíd and I were great mates and it’s sad not knowing what happened to him. Very sad.’

‘I believe we did everything we could,’ Erlendur said.

‘I don’t doubt it. I remember how dedicated you were. There was another officer with you…?’

‘Marion Briem,’ Erlendur said. ‘We handled the case together. Marion has since died. I’ve been going through the old files. Were you away in the countryside when he vanished?’

‘Yes, my parents are from Kirkjubaejarklaustur. I went there on a visit with them. We were away for a week or so. I only heard about Davíd when I came back to town.’

‘You mentioned a telephone conversation that you had with him, your last conversation. While you were in Kirkjubaejarklaustur. He called you there.’

‘Yes. He was asking when I was coming back to town.’

‘He wanted to tell you something.’

‘Yes.’

‘But he wouldn’t say what it was.’

‘No. He was very secretive, but he seemed elated. It was good news that he wanted to tell me, not bad. I asked him specifically. He giggled. Told me not to worry, that it would all become clear.’

‘And he was elated about his news?’

‘Yes.’

‘I know we asked you all this at the time.’

‘You did. I couldn’t help you. Any more than I can now.’

‘And there’s nothing else apart from what you said then: that he had some news to tell you, which he was happy about.’

‘That’s right.’

‘His parents didn’t know what it could be.’

‘No, he doesn’t seem to have told them.’

‘Do you have any idea what it could have been?’

‘Only guesses. Sometime much later it occurred to me that it might have been a girl, that he’d fallen for some girl, but I’m just guessing. I don’t suppose the idea crossed my mind until I met Gilbert again.’

‘Davíd didn’t have a girlfriend at the time he vanished?’

‘No, none of us did,’ the lawyer said, with a smile. ‘Somehow I have the feeling that he would have been the last of us lads to get a girlfriend. He was terribly shy about that sort of thing. Did you ever talk to Gilbert?’

‘Gilbert?’

‘He moved to Denmark around the time when Davíd disappeared. He’s back in Iceland now. I imagine he’s probably the only person you never interviewed.’

‘Oh yes, I vaguely remember,’ Erlendur said. ‘I don’t think we ever managed to get hold of him.’

‘He was going to work at a hotel in Copenhagen for a year but liked it so much that he stayed on. Married a Danish woman. It’s about ten years since he came home. I hear from him occasionally. I got the impression once, from what he said, that Davíd had met a girl. At least, that’s what Gilbert thought, but it was all very hazy.’

‘Hazy?’

‘Yes. Very.’

That evening, after Erlendur had eaten and settled down in his chair to read, his girlfriend Valgerdur phoned. She was trying to drag him out to the theatre. The National was staging a popular comedy that she wanted to see and she was keen for Erlendur to come with her. His reaction was unenthusiastic as the theatre bored him. Valgerdur had had no more luck in trying to persuade him to go to the cinema. The only cultural activity he was not entirely averse to was concerts: choral music, solo performances and concerts by the Symphony Orchestra. The last event he had attended with her had been an evening’s entertainment by a mixed choir from Svarfadardalur in the countryside. Valgerdur had a cousin in the choir. Erlendur had thoroughly enjoyed the occasion. The programme had featured the poems of Davíd Stefánsson set to music.

‘The play’s supposed to be hilarious,’ Valgerdur told him over the phone. ‘A light farce. It would do you good.’

Erlendur grimaced.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘When is it?’

‘Tomorrow evening. I’ll pick you up.’

He heard a knock at his door and said goodbye to Valgerdur. Eva Lind was standing on the landing with Sindri. They greeted their father, then entered and sat down in the living room. Both took out cigarettes.

‘What did you say to that lot upstairs? I haven’t heard a peep from them since you had a word with them.’

Sindri grinned. Erlendur had been astonished not to hear the heavy rock blasting out from upstairs any longer and had been wondering what on earth Sindri could have said to make the couple belatedly show their neighbours some consideration.

‘Oh, they were pretty harmless: a girl with a ring in her nose and a bloke with a bit of an attitude. I told them you were a debt collector. That you did regular spells inside for GBH and were getting pissed off with the noise.’