‘Was there some reason, some special occasion?’

‘For the hairdresser’s appointment? No, it was just time for a haircut, I think.’

‘And you didn’t discuss anything else?’

‘No, not really. I didn’t hear from her again. I assumed she’d gone up north; I called a couple of times but she was never in, or at least that’s what I thought. By then, of course, she had gone missing. I find it so hard to imagine what could have happened. Why should a girl like her, in the prime of life, vanish like that without any reason or warning? What does it tell you? How can you ever be expected to understand?’

‘She’d never been in a relationship, lived with a boyfriend or…?’

‘No, never – she had all that to look forward to.’

‘Where did she go when she used to take trips in the car? I know it’s in the files but one can never ask too often.’

‘Up north, of course. She missed Akureyri at times and used to go there whenever she could. Then there was the area around Reykjavík. The Reykjanes peninsula. Over the mountains to the east. An outing to Hveragerdi for an ice cream. The usual. You know about her passion for lakes.’

‘Yes.’

‘Lake Thingvallavatn was a great favourite.’

‘Thingvallavatn?’

‘She knew it like the back of her hand. Was forever going there and had her favourite spots by the lake. Our uncle down here in Reykjavík had a holiday cottage in Lundarreykjadalur in the Borgarfjördur area, which we used a lot, and she often took the mountain road over Uxahryggir and down to Thingvellir on her way back to town. She’d drive round the eastern shore of the lake and then home. She used to camp at Thingvellir sometimes with her girlfriends. And sometimes alone. She’d drive out of town and stay alone by the lake. She quite liked being alone – she was self-sufficient in so many ways.’

‘There was no sign that she’d visited your uncle’s holiday cottage?’ Erlendur asked, trying to recall the files on Gudrún’s disappearance.

‘No, she hadn’t been there,’ Beta said.

‘Where did this fascination with lakes come from?’

‘No one knew, not even her. Dúna had always been like that, ever since we were small. She once told me that lakes had a strange power, a wonderful tranquillity. That you could commune best with nature beside lakes, with all the birds and the life of the shore. Of course she was studying biology. It wasn’t a coincidence.’

‘Did she ever go out on the lake? Did she own a boat?’

‘No, that was the strange thing about Dúna. She was afraid of water when she was a girl. It was difficult to get her to take swimming lessons and she never much enjoyed trips to the pool. She had no interest in being in the water, only in being near lakes. That was the nature lover in her.’

‘There aren’t many places as beautiful as Lake Thingvallavatn,’ Erlendur commented.

‘That’s true.’

24

Two days later Erlendur was sitting in the home of an ageing drama teacher called Jóhannes while the man poured him a fruit tea. It was not the sort of thing that Erlendur usually drank, but the man had been rather uncooperative, failing to understand what the police wanted with him and extremely unwilling to let him in. However, when he heard that the matter involved gossip about other people rather than him personally he calmed down and opened the door. He said he had just made himself some fruit tea and asked if Erlendur would like to join him.

Orri Fjeldsted had suggested the teacher when Erlendur asked him who would be the best person to ask about old students at the Drama School. Orri didn’t even stop to think. He said that Jóhannes had taught him in his time and was a great guy, though a terrible old gossip with a nose for information, and anything he said about Orri himself, should he crop up in conversation, was a lie.

Jóhannes lived alone in a terraced house in the east of town. He was quite tall, with a booming voice, a bald head, a twinkle in his eye and unusually large ears. Orri said he was divorced; his wife had left him years ago. They had no children. Jóhannes had been a hell of an actor himself in his youth but as he grew older the roles had begun to dry up and he had started teaching at the drama school in between taking the odd part in professional and amateur productions. Occasional cameos in films had also kept his face in the public eye and he sometimes took part in radio and TV chat shows, reminiscing about the old days.

‘I remember Baldvin well,’ Jóhannes said once he was seated in his study with two cups of fruit tea. Erlendur sipped his and thought it tasted vile. He had explained his business to Jóhannes and asked him not to mention to anyone that he was asking questions about one of his old students. From what Orri had said, there was little point in insisting on confidentiality but Erlendur hoped for the best.

‘He wasn’t good actor material; quit in his second year, from what I recall,’ Jóhannes continued. ‘Though he had a reasonable talent for comedy. That was it, though. He quit in the middle of the course – mid-performance, you might say. Seemed to think he’d discovered a vocation for medicine. I’ve hardly seen him since.’

‘Were they a good group, his year?’

‘Yes, they were,’ Jóhannes said, sipping his tea. ‘They were indeed. Well, there was Orri Fjeldsted, a decent actor, though he can be a bit one-note. I saw that appalling production of Othello. He was a disaster in that. Svala was in the group as well, and Sigrídur who was a real actress, born to play the Scandinavian giants, Ibsen and Strindberg. And of course Heimir, who I personally have always felt deserved bigger roles. He became rather bitter and disillusioned with age. Took to the bottle. I got him to play Jimmy in my production of Look Back in Anger and thought he did it very well, though not everyone agreed. I don’t actually know where he is today, though I did catch him in a small role in a radio play the other day. They’re all middle-aged now – Lilja, Saebjörn, Einar. Then there was Karólína. She was never much of an actress, poor dear.’

‘Do you remember anything about the time when Baldvin dropped out?’ Erlendur asked, realising that he wouldn’t exactly have to resort to torture to extract information from the old thespian.

‘Baldvin? Well, he just quit. He didn’t give any particular reason, didn’t need to. Though it was very difficult to get into drama school in those days and places were highly sought after, so people didn’t usually drop out in mid-performance, let me tell you. In mid-performance.’

‘You don’t mean literally?’

‘No, it’s just a figure of speech, you know; I just mean that he did it, he dropped out. Very suddenly, I thought, given what those kids went through to get into the school. Young people used to dream of becoming actors in those days. That was the dream. To make the big time, be famous and admired. Acting can give you that if that’s what you’re after. But it gives so much more to serious actors. It gave me culture, literature and theatre, opened the door to life itself.’

The old actor broke off and smiled.

‘Excuse me if I’m getting pompous. We actors have a tendency to be bombastic. Especially when we’re on stage.’

He laughed loudly at himself.

‘I gather Baldvin met the woman he later married shortly after he quit,’ Erlendur said, with a smile.

‘Yes, she was a historian, wasn’t she? I heard she died the other day. Killed herself. Perhaps that’s why you’re here, or…’

‘No,’ Erlendur said. ‘Did you know her at all?’

‘Not in the slightest. Was there something suspicious about it? About how she died?’

‘No,’ Erlendur said. ‘Was he completely resigned to giving up acting? Baldvin, I mean. Do you remember?’

‘I always thought Baldvin did just as he pleased,’ Jóhannes said. ‘That’s the impression he made on me. As if he wouldn’t let anyone push him around: a headstrong boy who did his own thing. But then the kids said that this girl had got such a strong hold over him that he completely changed gear. And anyway, he was no good as an actor. He must have realised that himself, thought better of it.’