Later that day Erlendur went to see an old schoolfriend of María’s. His name was Jónas and he was finance manager of a pharmaceuticals company. He sat in his spacious office, impeccably dressed in a tailor-made suit and wearing a loud yellow tie. He himself was tall and slim with a three-day beard shadow, not unlike Sigurdur Óli. When Erlendur called beforehand, Jónas expressed himself a little surprised by the inquiry into his schoolfriend’s suicide and puzzled as to how it concerned him, but he asked no awkward questions.

Erlendur waited for Jónas to finish a phone call that he explained he had to take; some urgent outside matter, from what Erlendur could gather. He noticed a photo of a woman and three children on a shelf and assumed they were the finance manager’s family.

‘Yes, about María – is it true what I’ve heard?’ Jónas asked when he finally put down the receiver. ‘Did she commit suicide?’

‘That’s correct,’ Erlendur said.

‘I could hardly believe it,’ Jónas said.

‘You met her at college, didn’t you?’

‘We went out for three years, two at sixth-form college and one at university. She read history, as you probably know. She was into that kind of research.’

‘Did you live together or…?’

‘For the last year. Until I’d had enough.’

Jónas broke off. Erlendur waited.

‘No, her mother was… to put it bluntly, she was extremely interfering,’ Jónas elaborated. ‘And the strange thing was that María never seemed to see anything odd about it. I moved into her place in Grafarvogur but quickly gave up on the whole thing. Leonóra was all-important and I never felt I had María to myself. I discussed it with her but María didn’t get it; she wanted her mother to live with her and that was that. We quarrelled a bit and in the end I simply couldn’t be bothered any more and walked out. I don’t know if María ever missed me. I’ve barely seen her since.’

‘She got married later on,’ Erlendur said.

‘Yes – to some doctor, wasn’t it?’

‘So you didn’t lose touch completely?’

‘Well, I just happened to hear and can’t say I was surprised.’

‘Did you ever see her after you broke up?’

‘Maybe two or three times by chance, at parties and that sort of thing. It was all right. María was a great girl. It’s absolutely terrible that she should have chosen to end her life like that.’

The mobile phone in Erlendur’s pocket began to ring. He apologised and answered it.

‘She’s prepared to do it,’ he heard Eva Lind say at the other end.

‘What?’

‘Meet you.’

‘Who?’

‘Mum. She’s prepared to do it. She’s agreed to meet you.’

‘I’m in a meeting,’ Erlendur said, glancing at Jónas, who was patiently stroking his yellow tie.

‘Aren’t you up for it, then?’ Eva Lind asked.

‘Can I talk to you later?’ Erlendur asked. ‘I’m in a meeting.’

‘Just say yes or no.’

‘I’ll talk to you later,’ Erlendur said.

He ended the call.

‘Did death have any particular meaning for María?’ Erlendur asked. ‘Was it something she gave much thought to, from what you can remember?’

‘Not particularly, I don’t think. We didn’t discuss it – we were only kids, after all. But she was always very scared of the dark. That’s the main thing I remember about our relationship, her absolute terror of the dark. She could hardly be alone in the house after nightfall. That was another reason why she wanted to live with Leonóra, I think. And yet…’

‘What?’

‘In spite of her fear of the dark, or perhaps because she of it, she was forever reading ghost stories, all that sort of stuff, Jón Árnason’s Icelandic folk tales and so on. Her favourite films were horror movies about ghosts and all that crap. She lapped it up, then would hardly dare go to sleep in the evenings. She was incapable of being alone. Always had to have somebody with her.’

‘What was she so afraid of?’

‘I never really knew because I couldn’t give a toss about that sort of thing. I’ve never been scared of the dark. I don’t suppose I listened to her properly.’

‘But she actively indulged her fear?’

‘It certainly seemed like that.’

‘Was she sensitive to her surroundings – did she see or hear things? Was her fear of the dark rooted in something she had experienced or knew?’

‘I don’t think so. Though I remember that she used to wake up sometimes and stare fixedly at the bedroom door as if she could see something. Then it would pass. I think it was something left over from her dreams. She couldn’t explain it. Sometimes she thought she saw human figures. Always when she was waking up. It was all in her mind.’

‘Did they speak to her?’

‘No, it was nothing – just dreams, like I say.’

‘Might it be relevant to ask about her father in this context?’

‘Yes, of course. He was one of them.’

‘One of those that she saw?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did she attend any seances when you were with her?’

‘No.’

‘You’d have known?’

‘Yes. She never did anything like that.’

‘Her fear of the dark – what form did it take?’

‘Oh, the usual, I expect. She didn’t dare go down to the washing machine in the basement on her own. She would hardly go into the kitchen alone. She always had to have all the lights on. She needed to be able to hear me if she was moving around the house in the evenings, especially if it was very late at night. She didn’t like it if I went out, if I couldn’t spend the night with her.’

‘Did she try to get any help for it?’

‘Help? No. Isn’t it just something that… Can you get help for fear of the dark?’

Erlendur didn’t know. ‘Maybe. From a psychologist or someone like that,’ he said.

‘No, nothing like that, at least not while I was with her. Maybe you should ask her husband.’

Erlendur nodded.

‘Thanks for your help,’ he said, standing up.

‘No problem,’ Jónas said, again running a small hand down his yellow tie.

10

The old man’s visit to the police station to ask for news of his missing son continued to prey on Erlendur’s mind. Despite wishing passionately that there was something he could do for him, he knew that there was precious little he could achieve in practice. The case had been shelved long ago. An unsolved missing-person case. The most likely explanation was that the young man had killed himself. Erlendur had tried to discuss this possibility with the old couple but they wouldn’t hear of it. Their son had never entertained such an idea in his life and had never attempted anything of the kind. He was a happy, lively soul and would never have dreamed of taking his own life.

Their opinion was seconded by his friends whom Erlendur had interviewed at the time. They utterly rejected the idea that Davíd could have killed himself, dismissing it as ridiculous, but could provide little enlightenment otherwise. He had not mixed with any types who might conceivably do him harm; he was simply a very ordinary youth who was finishing sixth-form college and planning to start a law course at university with his two best friends the following autumn.

At the present moment, Erlendur was sitting in the office of Thorsteinn, one of those two friends. It was decades since they had last spoken about the young man’s disappearance. Thorsteinn had taken a law degree, been appointed Supreme Court advocate and now ran a large legal practice with two partners. He had thickened out considerably since his early twenties, lost most of his hair and now had bags under his eyes from fatigue. Erlendur remembered the youth he had met some thirty years before, a young, slim, muscular figure about to embark on the life that had now set its mark on him, transforming him into a worn-out middle-aged man.

‘Why are you back here asking questions about Davíd? Has there been some news?’ the lawyer asked. Then he buzzed his secretary and instructed that he was not to be disturbed. Erlendur had encountered the secretary, a smiling middle-aged woman, in the corridor.