‘Who do you think you’re waiting for?’

‘I don’t know. You think I’m mad. People think I’m weird.’

‘I’ve met weirder people,’ Erlendur said.

Tryggvi continued to watch the Keflavík bus.

‘Aren’t you cold?’ he asked again.

‘No,’ Erlendur said.

‘It’s a strange feeling, watching people leave,’ Tryggvi continued after a lengthy silence. ‘Watching them climb on to the buses and the buses driving away. People leaving, all day long.’

‘Do you never want to take a trip on them?’

‘No, I’d never go anywhere,’ Tryggvi said. ‘Not in a million years. I’d never go anywhere. I wouldn’t let myself be taken anywhere by bus. Where are those people going? Tell me that. Where are all those people going?’

Afraid that Tryggvi was losing the plot, Erlendur tried to keep him on track a little longer. He looked at the dirty hands and elongated face and it occurred to him that this was probably the closest he would ever come to meeting a ghost.

‘So it was your cousin who now lives in America, a girl called Dagmar and another bloke you called Baddi. Who was he?’

‘I didn’t know him,’ Tryggvi said. ‘He was a friend of my cousin’s. I don’t even remember his proper name. He studied drama before he took up medicine. He was known as Baddi.’

‘Might his name have been Baldvin?’

‘Yes, that was it,’ Tryggvi said. ‘That was the name.’

‘Are you sure?’

Tryggvi nodded, an unlit cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth.

‘And he’d been at drama school before?’

Tryggvi nodded again.

‘He was a friend of my cousin’s,’ he said. ‘He was a real actor type. I trusted him least of the lot.’

The woman looked surprised when she opened the door to Erlendur. A gale had blown up, blasting cold, dry air from the north. Erlendur hugged his coat more tightly around him as he stood on the doorstep. He had not called ahead and the woman, whose name was Kristín, stood blocking the doorway, wearing an obstinate expression as if she had no intention of accepting this unannounced visit. Erlendur explained that he was trying to find some information about what had happened when María’s father had died. Kristín said she couldn’t help at all in that case.

‘Why are the police digging this up now?’ she asked.

‘Because of the suicide,’ Erlendur said. ‘We’re taking part in a joint Nordic study on the causes of suicide.’

The woman stood in the doorway without speaking further. María’s father Magnús had been her brother. His friend Ingvar had suggested that Erlendur talk to her, since he thought it not unlikely that Leonóra might have told her something about Magnús’s fatal accident on Lake Thingvallavatn. Kristín lived alone. Ingvar said she had never married, had always lived alone and probably wasn’t that keen on visitors.

‘If I could just come in for a moment,’ Erlendur said, stamping his feet. He was cold. ‘It won’t take long,’ he added.

After an awkward pause Kristín finally gave in. She closed the door behind them, with a shiver.

‘It’s unusually cold today,’ she remarked.

‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ Erlendur replied.

‘I don’t know why you’re digging it up after all this time,’ she said again, seeming far from happy as she took a seat with him in the sitting room.

‘I’ve been talking to people who knew María well and some information has emerged that I wanted to run past you.’

‘Why are the police investigating María? Is it usual in cases like this?’

‘We’re not investigating her,’ Erlendur said. ‘We’re merely processing the information we’ve received. The incident at Lake Thingvallavatn was investigated at the time and the series of events is perfectly clear. I’m not going to look into that any further. The verdict of accidental death will stand unchanged.’

‘What are you after, then?’

‘Let me emphasise what I said: the verdict will not be changed.’

Kristín still did not cotton on. She was in her sixties, pretty and rather fragile, with short, wavy hair. She stared at Erlendur with a suspicious gaze that indicated she was on her guard.

‘Then what do you want from me?’ she asked.

‘Nothing you say to me now or later will change the verdict that your brother’s death was accidental. I hope you understand that.’

Kristín took a deep breath. Perhaps she had begun to grasp what Erlendur was hinting at, but she didn’t show it.

‘I don’t know what you’re insinuating,’ she said.

‘I’m not insinuating anything,’ Erlendur said. ‘I have no interest in reopening a case that has been dormant all this time. If Leonóra told you something we don’t know, it won’t change anything. You got on well, I gather.’

‘We did,’ Kristín said.

‘Did she ever talk to you about what happened?’

Erlendur knew he was taking a risk. All he had to go on was a faint suspicion, a tiny inconsistency between what Ingvar had said and a badly written report, and a bond between mother and daughter that was deeper and more powerful than any he had ever encountered before. Kristín might conceivably know more if she had been Leonóra’s confidante. In the unlikely event that she had been keeping quiet about something all these years, she might, under certain circumstances, reveal it. She came across as an honest and scrupulous woman, a witness who might have done the only right thing in a difficult situation.

A silence fell in the room.

‘What do you want to know?’ Kristín asked at last.

‘Anything you can tell me,’ Erlendur said.

Kristín stared at him.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, but her voice did not carry the same conviction.

‘I was told that your brother Magnús had never gone near an engine in his life and didn’t have the first clue about them. But the police report states that he had been tinkering with the motor the day before the accident. Is that correct?’

Kristín did not answer.

‘His friend Ingvar – actually, he was the one who suggested I talk to you – said Magnús didn’t know a thing about engines and had never touched one in his life.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Leonóra told the police he had been repairing the outboard motor.’

Kristín shrugged.

‘I know nothing about that.’

‘I spoke to an old friend of María’s who says she always had the feeling that something happened up at the lake that never came out, that Magnús’s death was not just a simple accident,’ Erlendur said. ‘She doesn’t have much to base her hunch on, only María’s comment that perhaps he was meant to die.’

‘Meant to die?’

‘Yes. That’s what María said. About her own father.’

‘What did she mean by that?’ Kristín asked.

‘Her friend didn’t know but perhaps she meant it was his fate to die that day. Though there’s another possible interpretation.’

‘Which is what?’

‘Perhaps he deserved to die.’

Erlendur studied Kristín. She closed her eyes and her shoulders drooped.

‘Can you tell me something we don’t know about what happened at the lake?’ he asked carefully.

‘When you say that the verdict won’t be changed now…’

‘You can tell me whatever you like, it won’t change the original verdict.’

‘I’ve never spoken of this,’ Kristín said, so quietly that Erlendur could barely hear her. ‘Except when Leonóra was on her deathbed.’

Erlendur could tell that she was finding this very difficult. She thought for a long time and he tried to put himself in her shoes. She hadn’t been expecting this visit, let alone the offer with which Erlendur had confronted her. But apparently she didn’t see any reason to distrust him.

‘I think I’ve got a little Aalborg left in the cupboard,’ she said at last, rising to her feet. ‘Would you like some?’

Erlendur accepted the offer. She fetched two shot glasses, placed them on the table and filled them to the brim with the aquavit. She downed the first shot in one while Erlendur was still raising his to his mouth. Then she refilled her glass and promptly downed half of it.