Free Hypothermia by Arnaldur Indridason

anyway, you’ll be able to read that in your reports. In those days people didn’t bother so much about wearing or carrying life jackets. Magnús had nothing of the sort with him when he went out on the lake. From what I can remember the boat came equipped with two life jackets, but Magnús always said he didn’t need them and kept them in the boat shed. He only went a short way out as a rule; hardly left the shore.’
    ‘But he went a bit further out that last time?’
    ‘He did, yes, from what I’ve heard. It was unusually cold that day. It was about this time of year, autumn.’
    Ingvar fell silent.
    ‘I lost one of my best friends in him,’ he added, momentarily distracted.
    ‘That’s tough,’ Erlendur said.
    ‘His boat had an outboard motor and we gathered from the police afterwards that the propeller fell off and the boat lost its steering and stopped. Magnús had no oars and fell overboard while fiddling with the engine. He was overweight and a heavy smoker and didn’t take any exercise, so I don’t suppose that helped. Leonóra said the wind had picked up; a cold blast from Mount Skjaldbreid had whipped up the waves, and Magnús drowned in a matter of minutes. Lake Thingvallavatn is freezing cold at this time of year. No one can survive in it for more than a few minutes.’
    ‘No, of course,’ Erlendur said.
    ‘Leonóra told me the boat couldn’t have been more than a hundred and fifty metres or so from shore. They didn’t see what happened. Just caught sight of Magnús in the water and heard his shouts, which were soon cut off.’
    Erlendur glanced out of the living-room window. The city lights glittered in the rain. The traffic was building up. He could hear its rumble from inside the house.
    ‘Naturally his death came as a crushing blow to his wife and daughter,’ Ingvar continued. ‘Leonóra never remarried. She and María lived together for the rest of her life, even after the girl married. Her husband, the doctor, simply moved in with them.’
    ‘Were they religious, the mother and daughter, that you were aware?’
    ‘I know that Leonóra derived a certain comfort from religion after what happened at Thingvellir. It helped her and no doubt the girl too. María was a little angel, I have to say. Leonóra never had the slightest trouble with her. Then she met that doctor – who seems a very decent chap to me. I don’t actually know him very well but I had a word with him after María died and of course he was distraught, just as we all are, all of us who knew her.’
    ‘María had a degree in history,’ Erlendur remarked.
    ‘Yes, she was interested in the past; she was a great reader. She got that from her mother.’
    ‘Do you know what her particular field was?’
    ‘No, I don’t, actually,’ Ingvar said.
    ‘Could it have been religious history?’
    ‘Well, I understand that her interest in the afterlife intensified after her mother died. She immersed herself in spiritualism, in ideas about life after death and that sort of thing.’
    ‘Do you know if María ever visited mediums or psychics?’
    ‘No, I know nothing about that. If so, she never told me. Have you asked her husband?’
    ‘No,’ Erlendur said. ‘It’s just something that occurred to me. Did she seem very depressed to you? Could you have imagined that she would do something like that?’
    ‘No, I couldn’t. I met her several times and talked to her on the phone but she didn’t give the impression that this would . . . in fact, quite the opposite. I thought she was beginning to pick up. The last conversation I had with her was a few days before she . . . before she did it. She seemed more decisive than often before, more optimistic, if anything. I thought I sensed signs of an improvement. But I gather that’s sometimes the case.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘That people in her position rally once they’ve taken the decision.’
    ‘Can you imagine what effect it might have had on her as a young girl to witness