He picked up another file. The disappearance of the young man from Njardvík seemed to have a more obvious explanation. He had been underdressed for the walk between the villages and although the distance was short, a violent blizzard had been raging and seemed likely to have caused his death. In all probability he had stumbled into the sea and been dragged away from shore by the waves. The amount he’d had to drink, which by all accounts had been excessive, must have hampered his ability to save himself, blunting his judgement, energy and willpower. Local rescue teams and the young man’s family and friends had combed the entire coastline from the Gardskagi lighthouse to Álftanes in the following days. The young man had left no trail and the search had to be postponed again and again due to extreme weather conditions. All efforts to find him proved in vain.

Erlendur got in touch with María’s friend Karen to tell her that he had listened to the tape she’d left in his office. They had quite a long conversation during which Karen gave him the names of several people connected to María. She didn’t ask Erlendur why he wanted to examine the case further but seemed pleased with his reaction.

One of the people Karen mentioned was a man named Ingvar. Erlendur decided to pay him a visit. He was friendly and did not query Erlendur’s explanation of why he was asking questions about María. They met late one afternoon as freezing showers lashed the city. Erlendur claimed that the police were taking part in a comprehensive study of suicide in collaboration with the other Nordic countries. It was not a complete lie. A study of the kind was being carried out by the Nordic ministries of social affairs and the police had contributed information to it. The aim was to try to uncover the root of the problem, as a Swedish report put it: to examine the causes of suicide, the distribution according to age, gender and social class, and to try to identify any common factors.

Ingvar listened attentively as Erlendur churned out his spiel. Ingvar was in his sixties, an old family friend and companion of María’s father Magnús. He came across as rather a passive, sedate sort of man. Naturally he had been shattered by the news and had attended María’s funeral, which he described as beautiful. He found it incomprehensible that the girl should have resorted to such a desperate measure.

‘Though I knew she was under a lot of strain.’

Erlendur sipped the coffee that the man had offered him.

‘I gather she was badly affected by her father’s death,’ he said, putting down his cup.

‘Dreadfully,’ Ingvar replied. ‘Dreadfully badly. No child should have to go through an ordeal like that. She witnessed the whole thing, you know.’

Erlendur nodded.

‘Magnús and Leonóra bought the holiday cottage shortly after they married,’ Ingvar continued. ‘They often invited me and my dear late wife Jóna to stay with them at weekends and so forth. Magnús spent a lot of time out in his boat. He was mad about fishing, could carry on for days at a time. I used to go along sometimes. He tried to get little María interested but she didn’t want to go with him. It was the same with Leonóra. She never went on Magnús’s fishing trips.’

‘So they weren’t with him on the boat?’

‘No, certainly not. Magnús was alone; 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 the accident at Thingvellir?’

‘Well, naturally one can’t put oneself in her shoes. In María’s case she clung to her mother and drew all her strength and comfort from her after the accident. Leonóra hardly dared take her eyes off the child in those first months and years. Of course, an event like that would have a profound impact and remain with you for the rest of your life.’

‘Yes,’ Erlendur said. ‘So they mourned him together.’

Ingvar was silent.

‘Do you know why the motor packed up?’ Erlendur asked.

‘No. They said the propeller came off. That’s all we knew.’

‘Had he been fiddling with it, then?’

‘Magnús? No. He didn’t have a clue about that sort of thing. Never touched an engine in his life as far as I’m aware. If you want to know more about Magnús you could talk to his sister, Kristín. She might be able to help you. Have a chat to her.’