Andersen offered him a seat at a small round table and sat down opposite him.

‘Do you live here alone?’ Erlendur asked, surveying his surroundings. It looked like a perfectly ordinary Icelandic home. There was a large television, a collection of films on video and DVD, three stands full of CDs, parquet on the floor, family photos on the walls. No veils or crystal balls, he noted.

No ectoplasm.

‘Do you need to know that for your investigation?’ the medium asked.

‘No,’ Erlendur admitted. ‘I’m… What can you tell me about María? The woman I asked you about on the phone. The one who committed suicide.’

‘Can I ask why you’re investigating her?’

Erlendur began his speech about the Swedish survey on suicide and its causes but was not sure if he could lie convincingly to a man who made his living from being clairvoyant; wouldn’t Andersen see straight through him? He gave a hasty explanation and hoped for the best.

‘I really don’t know how I can help you,’ Andersen said. ‘A strong bond of confidentiality often forms between me and the people who seek me out, and I find it hard to break that.’

He smiled apologetically. Erlendur smiled back. Andersen was a tall man of about sixty, greying at the temples, with a bright countenance, a pure expression and an unusually serene manner.

‘Are you kept busy?’ Erlendur asked, trying to lighten the atmosphere a little.

‘I can’t complain. Icelanders are very interested in matters of the soul.’

‘You mean in life after death?’

Andersen nodded.

‘Isn’t it just the old peasant superstition?’ Erlendur asked. ‘It’s not so long since we emerged from our turf huts and the Dark Ages.’

‘The life of the soul has nothing to do with turf huts,’ Andersen retorted. ‘That sort of prejudice may help some people but I’ve always found it ridiculous myself. Though I understand when someone is sceptical about people like me. I would be sceptical myself, of course, if I hadn’t been born with this power – or insight, as I prefer to call it.’

‘How often did you see María?’

‘She came to see me twice after her mother died.’

‘She tried to make contact with her, did she?’

‘Yes. That was her aim.’

‘And… how did it go?’

‘I think she went away satisfied.’

‘I needn’t ask whether you believe in the afterlife,’ Erlendur said.

‘It’s the basic tenet of my life.’

‘And she did too?’

‘Without a shadow of doubt. Quite without doubt.’

‘Did she talk to you about her fear of the dark?’

‘Only a little. We discussed the fact that fear of the dark is a psychological fear like any other and that it is possible to overcome it with cognitive therapy and self-discipline.’

‘She didn’t tell you what caused her fear?’

‘No. But then, I’m not a psychologist. Judging from our conversations, I could well believe it was connected somehow to her father’s death in an accident. It’s not hard to imagine that it must have had a huge impact on her as a child.’

‘Has she… what do you say… appeared to you – María, I mean – since she took her life?’

‘No,’ Andersen said, smiling. ‘It’s not that simple. I think you have some rather odd notions about psychics. Do you know anything about our work?’

Erlendur shook his head.

‘I gather María had a special fascination with life after death,’ he said.

‘That’s self-evident; she wouldn’t have come to me otherwise,’ Andersen replied.

‘Yes, but more of a fascination than is quite normal, more like a mania. I understand she was completely obsessed with curiosity about death. About what comes afterwards.’

Erlendur wanted, if possible, to avoid having to refer to the recording that Karen had lent him and hoped the medium would oblige him. Andersen gave him a long look as if weighing up what he could or should say.

‘She was a seeker,’ he said. ‘Like so many of us. I’m sure you are, too.’

‘What was María searching for?’

‘Her mother. She missed her. Her mother was going to provide her with an answer to the question of whether there is life after death. María thought she’d received that answer and came to me. We talked. I think it did her some good.’

‘Did her mother ever make contact during your meetings?’

‘No, she didn’t. Though that’s not necessarily significant.’

‘What did María think about that?’

‘She went away satisfied.’

‘I gather she suffered from delusions,’ Erlendur said.

‘Call them what you like.’

‘That she had seen her mother.’

‘Yes, she told me about that.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing. She was unusually receptive.’

‘Do you know if she went to see anyone else, talked to any other mediums?’

‘Naturally she wouldn’t tell me something that was none of my business. But she did phone me one day to ask about another medium, a woman I didn’t know and had never heard of. She must be new. One tends to know most people in this business.’

‘You don’t know who this woman was?’

‘No. Except her name. As I said, I don’t know of any psychic by that name.’

‘And what was her name?’

‘María didn’t give any second name – she just referred to her as Magdalena.’

‘Magdalena?’

‘I’ve never heard of her.’

‘What does that mean? That you haven’t heard of her?’

‘Nothing. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. But I called a few places and no one knows this Magdalena.’

‘Mightn’t she just be new, as you say?’

Andersen shrugged.

‘I assume that must be it.’

‘Are there many of you in this business?’

‘No, not so many. I can’t give an exact number.’

‘How did María find out about her, this Magdalena?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Isn’t what you said about fear of the dark rather a strange attitude for someone who makes a living from making contact with ghosts?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That fear of the dark is a psychological fear, not caused by a belief in ghosts.’

‘There’s nothing malign about the spirit world,’ Andersen said. ‘We all have our ghosts. You not least.’

‘Me?’ Erlendur said.

Andersen nodded.

‘A whole crowd,’ he said. ‘But don’t worry. Keep looking. You’ll find them.’

‘You mean him,’ Erlendur said.

‘No,’ Andersen said, contradicting him and standing up. ‘I mean them.’

Erlendur had once developed a condition known as cardiac arrhythmia. At times it was as if his heart took an extra beat, which was very uncomfortable; at others as if his heart rate was slowing down. When, instead of improving, the condition grew worse, he leafed through the Yellow Pages, stopping at a name that caught his fancy in the ‘Heart Specialists’ column: Dagóbert. Erlendur took an immediate liking to the name and decided to make him his doctor. He had hardly been in the doctor’s surgery five minutes before his curiosity got the better of him and he enquired about his moniker.

‘I’m from the West Fjords,’ the cardiologist said, apparently used to the question. ‘I’m fairly resigned to it. My cousin envies me. He got landed with Dósótheus.’

The waiting room in the medical centre was packed with people suffering from a whole range of ailments. A variety of specialists worked there, including ear, nose and throat doctors, a vascular surgeon, three cardiologists, two nephrologists and one eye specialist. Erlendur stood by the entrance to the waiting room, thinking that each of these specialists should be able to find something to suit them in there. He was worried about barging in on his doctor without having made an appointment months in advance. He knew the cardiologist was extremely busy and was presumably booked up far into next year, and that his visit would increase the waiting time of some of the people in here by at least a quarter of an hour, depending when the doctor could fit him in. He had already been standing here for around twenty minutes.