Erlendur shook the old man’s hand and showed him to his office. On the way he asked him how he was doing. The old man said he had moved into a nursing home some time ago but was not happy there. ‘It’s full of nothing but old people,’ he said. He had come down to the station by taxi and asked if Erlendur could call a car to pick him up when their meeting was over.
‘I’ll get someone to give you a lift home,’ Erlendur said, opening the door of his office for him. ‘So the nursing home’s not very lively, then?’
‘Not very, no,’ the old man said as he took a seat.
He had come to enquire after news of his son, although he knew, and had long known, that no news would be forthcoming. Erlendur understood this extraordinary persistence and had always received the couple civilly and shown them the consideration of listening to them. He knew that they had always followed the news – read the papers, listened to the radio and watched the television – in the faint hope that someone had somewhere found a clue relating to their son’s disappearance. But in all these years there had not been a single lead.
‘He would have been forty-nine today,’ the old man said. ‘The last birthday he celebrated was his twentieth. He invited all his college friends over, and Gunnthórunn and I had to leave the house for the duration. The party went on till the early hours. He never got to celebrate his twenty-first.’
Erlendur nodded. The police had never found any clues relating to their son’s disappearance. It had been reported thirty-six hours after Davíd had left home. He sometimes studied at a friend’s house till late at night and went in to school with him in the morning, and had mentioned to his parents that he was going round to see him that evening and might stay over. They were revising for their final exams and were due to finish sixth-form college that spring. He had also mentioned that he needed to go to a bookshop. When he didn’t come home from school the following day, his parents began to ring around and ask after him. It transpired that he had not turned up to classes that morning. They called his friend who said that Davíd had not visited him, nor had he mentioned his plans for that evening. The friend had asked Davíd if he felt like going to the cinema, but Davíd had said that he had other fish to fry, without stating what. Other friends and acquaintances proved ignorant of Davíd’s whereabouts. He had been lightly dressed when he had left home.
Notices were placed in the papers and appeals were made on television but to no avail and as time wore on his parents’ and brother’s hopes faded. They refused point-blank to listen to any suggestion of suicide, adamant that the very idea would have been alien to Davíd. But after weeks and months had elapsed with no explanation of Davíd’s disappearance, Erlendur said that they should not rule it out. He himself could not see many other possibilities in this case, given that the young man had not been planning to go climbing or to travel into the interior. Another possible explanation was that he had accidentally fallen foul of someone in the criminal fraternity who had disposed of him, for reasons that were obscure, and had hidden the body. His parents and friends had flatly denied that he’d had a quarrel with anyone or could have been involved in any criminal activity that might explain his disappearance. Police checks confirmed that he had not left the country by plane, nor was his name present on the passenger lists of any ships. And no staff at any of the country’s bookshops had noticed him in their stores on the day he had vanished.
The old man took a mug from Erlendur and slurped his coffee noisily, though it was not particularly hot. Erlendur had attended his wife’s funeral. They did not seem to have many friends or a large family. Their other son was divorced and had no children. A small women’s choir had stood at the organ, singing: ‘Hark, Heavenly Creator . . .’
‘Is there any news of our case?’ the old man asked, having half-emptied his cup. ‘Has anything new emerged?’
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Erlendur said, for the umpteenth time. He did not find the old man’s visits a trial. For him, the worst part was that there was little he could do for him except listen to his repeated protestations of what a dreadful thing it was about their dear boy and how could something like that happen and how could there be no news of him?
‘Of course, the police have enough on their plates,’ the old man said.
‘It comes in waves,’ Erlendur said.
‘Yes, well, no, anyway, best be making tracks,’ the old man said, without moving, as if there were something more to be said. Yet they had gone over everything that mattered.
‘I’ll be in touch if anything comes up,’ Erlendur promised, sensing the old man’s hesitation.
‘Yes . . . erm . . . the thing is, Erlendur, I may not be bothering you again,’ the old man said at last. ‘It’s probably time to let sleeping dogs lie. You see, they’ve found something . . .’ He coughed. ‘They’ve found some muck in my lungs. I’ve always smoked like an idiot and apparently it’s all coming home to roost, so I don’t know what . . . And all that cement dust can’t have helped, either. So I wanted to say goodbye, Erlendur, and to thank you for everything, everything you’ve done for us ever since you first came to see us that terrible day. We knew you would help us and you have done, although we’re no nearer. He’s dead, of course, and has been all these years. I think we’ve known that for a long time. But one . . . we . . . where there’s life there’s hope, isn’t there?’
The old man stood up. Erlendur rose too and opened the door.
‘There’s always hope,’ he agreed. ‘How do you feel with that stuff in your lungs?’
‘I’m an old crock these days, anyway,’ the old man said. ‘Worn out all the time. Utterly worn out. And since I was given the diagnosis, breathing seems to have become more of an effort too.’
Erlendur helped him down to reception and found a squad car to take him back to the nursing home. They said their goodbyes on the steps in front of the police station.
‘So long, Erlendur,’ the old man said. He was thin and stooped from hard physical labour, with a mop of thick grey hair. He had been a mason and his face was now as grey as cement dust.
‘Look after yourself,’ Erlendur said.
He watched as the old man climbed into the police car, then followed the vehicle with his eyes until it disappeared round the corner.
The vicar with whom María had had the most dealings was called Eyvör. She served not in Grafarvogur but in a neighbouring parish. She was shocked and saddened by María’s fate and by the fact that she should have felt she had no choice but to take her own life.
‘It goes without saying that it’s heartbreaking,’ she told Erlendur who was sitting in her office in the church at the end of the day. ‘To think that someone in the prime of life should kill herself as if she had no other option. Experience has shown that it’s possible to help people who suffer mental distress and hardship if one intervenes early enough in the process.’
‘You didn’t have any inkling of what sort of state María was in?’ Erlendur asked. ‘I gather that she was a believer and attended this church.’
‘I knew she was in a bad way after losing her mother,’ Eyvör said. ‘But there was nothing to suggest that she would resort to a desperate measure like this.’
The vicar was around forty, well dressed in a purple suit and wearing masses of jewellery: three rings, a gold chain round her neck and large earrings. She had been surprised to receive a visit from the police to ask about a parishioner who had committed suicide. She asked immediately if it was a police matter.
‘No, of course not,’ Erlendur said and invented an excuse on the spot about wrapping up his report on the case. He had heard that María had been in touch with the vicar and wanted to see if he could have a chat with her, take advantage of the opportunity in case it could help with future incidents. Unfortunately, suicide was one aspect of life that landed on a policeman’s desk, not the most pleasant, and Erlendur wished to learn more about the causes and effects in case it could help him in his job. Eyvör took a liking to this gloomy poli
ceman, immediately sensing that there was something trustworthy about him.
‘Did she talk to you about death?’ Erlendur asked.
‘Yes, she did,’ Eyvör replied. ‘About her mother and also about an incident from her childhood that I don’t know if you’re aware of.’
‘You mean when her father drowned?’ Erlendur asked.
‘That’s right. María was in a dreadful state after losing her mother. I officiated at that funeral too, in fact. I got to know mother and daughter quite well, especially after Leonóra fell ill. She was a brave woman, a remarkable woman – nothing ever daunted her.’
‘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 w
hat 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.’
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