Arnaldur Indriðason: Hypothermia

Karen approached cautiously and caught sight of the swollen blue face. Her ghastly suspicion proved correct. It was her friend María.

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.

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.

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.