‘I didn’t get involved,’ Sindri said. ‘Was there something strange about this suicide? The one in Grafarvogur?’
‘No, just a tragedy. The worst kind. The husband was at home in town when his wife killed herself at their holiday cottage.’
‘And he didn’t have a clue?’
‘No.’
Shortly after Sindri left, the rock music upstairs ceased its pounding. Erlendur looked up at the ceiling. Then he went and opened the front door. He called out to Sindri Snaer but Sindri had gone.
A few days later Erlendur received the pathologist’s report on the body from Thingvellir. It showed nothing unnatural apart from death by hanging: no physical injuries or foreign bodies in the blood. María had been healthy and free from disease. There were no biological explanations for why she had chosen to put an end to her own life.
Erlendur went back to see the husband, Baldvin, to inform him of the findings. He drove up to Grafarvogur after lunch and knocked at the door. Elínborg had come along for moral support. She almost couldn’t be bothered, claiming that she had enough on her plate. Sigurdur Óli was on sick leave, at home in bed with flu. Erlendur glanced at his watch.
Baldvin invited them into the sitting room. He had taken leave from work for an unspecified period. His mother had stayed with him for a couple of days but had now left. Colleagues and friends had come round or sent messages of condolence. He had arranged the funeral and was aware that some people were planning to write obituaries. He told Erlendur and Elínborg all this as he was making coffee. He was subdued and went about everything slowly but seemed to have himself well under control. Erlendur explained the results of the post-mortem. His wife’s death had been registered as suicide. He reiterated his condolences. Elínborg hardly spoke.
‘It can be a good idea to have somebody with you,’ Erlendur said. ‘In circumstances like these.’
‘My sister and mother are taking good care of me,’ Baldvin said. ‘But it’s good to be alone sometimes, too.’
‘God, yes,’ Erlendur said. ‘For some people that’s the best therapy.’
Elínborg darted a glance at him. Erlendur prized solitude above anything else in life. She wondered what she was doing with him at this house. All he had said was that he had to deliver the pathologist’s report. It would take no time. Yet now he was chatting to the man as if they were old friends.
‘You blame yourself,’ Baldvin said. ‘I feel as if I should have done something. As if I could have done something better.’
‘That’s a natural reaction,’ Erlendur said. ‘We come across it a lot in our line of work. The family have usually already done everything or nearly everything in their power by the time something like this happens.’
‘I didn’t see it coming,’ the man said, ‘I can assure you. I’ve never been so shocked in my life as when I heard what she’d done. You can’t imagine how I felt. I’m used to all sorts of things as a doctor, but when… when something like this happens… I don’t believe anyone could be prepared for it.’
Baldvin seemed to feel the need to talk and informed them that he and his wife had met at the university. María had read history and French. He had dabbled in acting in the sixth form and had attended the drama school for a while before deciding to change tack and take up medicine.
‘Was María a professional academic?’ Elínborg asked. She herself had a degree in geology but had never worked in the field.
‘Yes, she was,’ Baldvin said. ‘She worked from home. We have a study in the basement. She taught a bit and undertook history projects for institutions and businesses. She did her own research and wrote articles.’
‘When did you move to Grafarvogur?’ Erlendur asked.
‘We’ve always lived in this house,’ Baldvin said, looking round the sitting room. ‘I moved in with her and Leonóra while I was still a student. María was an only child and inherited the house when her mother died. It was built before plans were drawn up for the area and they started building here on a large scale. You’ll have noticed that the house is set back a little from the others.’
‘It looks older than the rest,’ Elínborg remarked.
‘Leonóra died here,’ Baldvin continued. ‘In one of the bedrooms. It took three years from when she was diagnosed with cancer until she died. She really didn’t want to go into hospital. She wanted to die at home. María nursed her throughout.’
‘That must have been tough on your wife,’ Erlendur said. ‘You told me that she was religious.’
He caught Elínborg sneaking a glance at the clock.
‘Yes, she was. She held on to her childhood beliefs. She and her mother used to talk a lot about religion after Leonóra fell ill. Leonóra was like that. Open. She wasn’t shy about discussing her illness and death. I think it must have helped a lot with the grief. I think she was resigned to dying in the end. Or as resigned as anyone can be in the circumstances. I’m familiar with it from my job. Of course, no one’s truly reconciled to having to die like that, but it is possible to die feeling reconciled to yourself and your family.’
‘Are you saying that her daughter was reconciled to dying as well?’ Erlendur asked.
Baldvin thought.
‘I don’t know,’ he said eventually. ‘I doubt whether anyone who does what she did can be truly reconciled.’
‘But she thought about death a lot.’
‘All the time, I think,’ Baldvin said.
‘What about her father?’
‘He died a long time ago.’
‘Yes, you told me.’
‘I never met him. She was only a little girl when it happened.’
‘How did he die?’
‘He drowned at their summer cottage. At Thingvellir. He fell out of a small boat. Apparently it was very cold and he was a heavy smoker and led a sedentary lifestyle and… he drowned.’
‘Tragic to lose a parent that young,’ Elínborg said.
‘María was there,’ Baldvin said.
‘Your wife was?’ Erlendur asked.
‘She was only ten. It had an enormous impact on her. I don’t think she ever really got over it. So when her mother developed cancer and died, it hit her doubly hard.’
‘She had a lot to bear, then,’ Elínborg said.
‘Yes, she had a lot to bear,’ Baldvin agreed, bowing his head.
5
Several days later Erlendur was sitting in his office with a cup of coffee, going over an old missing-person file, when he was informed that someone was asking for him at the front desk: a woman called Karen. Recalling that this was the name of the friend who had found María’s body at Thingvellir, Erlendur went down to reception where a woman wearing a brown leather jacket and jeans was waiting. Under her jacket she wore a thick white roll-neck jumper.
‘I wanted to talk to you about María,’ she said after they had exchanged greetings. ‘You are the one handling the case, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, but it’s hardly a case as such, it’s been-’
‘Could I have a quick word with you?’
‘How did you know each other, again?’
‘We were childhood friends,’ Karen said.
‘Oh yes, of course.’
Erlendur showed her into his office where she took a seat opposite him. She did not remove her leather jacket despite the heat in the room.
‘We didn’t find anything out of the ordinary,’ he said, ‘if you’re after information of that sort.’
‘I can’t get her out of my head,’ Karen said. ‘I keep seeing her in front of me the whole time. You can’t imagine what a shock it was that she should do this. That I should find her like that. She used to tell me everything but she never talked about anything like this. We confided in each other. If anyone knew María, it was me.’
‘And what? You don’t think she could have committed suicide?’