‘I know nothing about any propeller,’ Kristín said. She sat in silence for a moment, then asked:
‘Why did María do it?’
‘I don’t know,’ Erlendur said.
‘Poor girl,’ Kristín said with a sigh. ‘I remember her so well before Magnús died. She was their little ray of sunshine. They didn’t have any more children and she grew up with boundless parental love. Then when my brother died on Lake Thingvallavatn it was as if the ground had been snatched from under her feet. From under both of them, both María and Leonóra. Leonóra was terribly in love with Magnús; he meant the world to her. And the girl was very attached to him too. That’s why I can’t understand it. I can’t understand what he was thinking of.’
‘He? You mean Magnús?’
‘After the accident they were inseparable. Leonóra was so protective of María that I felt she went too far. I felt she became overprotective. Hardly anyone else was allowed near María, least of all us, Magnús’s family. Our relationship with them gradually dwindled to nothing. In fact, Leonóra broke off all contact with us, the girl’s father’s family, after what happened at Thingvellir. I always found it very strange. But then I didn’t learn the truth until shortly before Leonóra died. She summoned me to meet her before she passed away; she was in the last stages by then, bed-bound and very weak, and knew that she had only a few days left to live. We hadn’t been in touch for . . . for quite a long time. She was in her room and asked me to shut the door and sit down beside her. She said she had something to tell me before she died. I didn’t know what to think. Then she started talking about Magnús.’
‘Did she tell you what happened at the lake?’
‘No, but she was angry with Magnús.’
Kristín charged her glass with another shot of aquavit. Erlendur declined. She tipped the drink down her throat, before replacing the glass calmly on the table.
‘Now they’ve both gone, mother and daughter,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Erlendur replied.
‘They were almost like one person.’
‘What did Leonóra tell you?’
‘She told me that Magnús was going to leave her. He’d met another woman. I knew already. Magnús had told me at the time. That was why Leonóra summoned me. It was as if I had taken part in a conspiracy against her. She didn’t say it straight out but she made sure I felt it.’
Erlendur hesitated.
‘So he was having an affair?’
Kristín nodded.
‘It started a few months before he died. He confided in me. I don’t think he told anyone else and I haven’t told anyone either. It’s nobody else’s business. Magnús told Leonóra that he wanted to end the marriage. It came as a terrible shock to her, from what she told me. She’d had absolutely no idea. She had loved my brother and given him everything . . .’
‘So he told her about it, at Thingvellir?’
‘Yes. Magnús died and I never mentioned the affair. To Leonóra or anyone else. Magnús was dead and I didn’t think it was anyone else’s business.’
Kristín took a deep breath.
‘Leonóra blamed me for not having told her about the affair as soon as I found out. Magnús must have told her that I knew. But I thought it was right for her to hear it from him. She was very stubborn and prone to holding grudges. It was as if she felt I had betrayed her, even after all these years. When she died . . . I simply couldn’t bring myself to go to the funeral. I regret it now. For María’s sake.’
‘Did you ever talk to María about the accident?’
‘No.’
‘Can you tell me the identity of the woman that Magnús was involved with?’
Kristín took a sip of aquavit.
‘Does it matter?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Erlendur said.
‘I think that was one reason why Magnús was so hesitant. Because of who she was.’
‘Why?’
‘The woman Magnús was involved with was a good friend of Leonóra’s.’
‘I see.’
‘They never spoke again after that.’
‘Have you ever connected this with the accident?’
Kristín looked at Erlendur gravely.
‘No. What do you mean?’
‘I . . .’
‘Why are you investigating the accident now?’
‘I heard about the incident at—’
‘Did any of this come out in connection with María’s death?’
‘No,’ Erlendur said.
‘But María told some friend of hers that maybe Magnús was meant to die?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve always considered what happened at the lake as a ghastly accident. It never occurred to me that it could have been anything else.’
‘But . . .?’
‘No, no buts. It’s too late to change it now.’
The taxi company was located downtown in a low-rise building that had seen better days. It had once been a community centre, in the days when young men wore their hair in Brylcreemed quiffs and their girlfriends sported perms and they used to go crazy on the dance floor to the new American rock ’n’ roll, before they eventually vanished into oblivion. One half of the building had been converted into the premises of a taxi company where peace and quiet now reigned. Two older men were playing rummy. The yellow lino on the floor was full of holes, the shiny white paint on the walls had long ago succumbed to the grime, and the air freshener had not yet been invented that could overcome the stench of mould rising from the floor and wooden walls. It was like stepping back fifty years in time. Erlendur savoured the sensation. He stood for a moment in the middle of the room, breathing in its history.
The woman operating the radio looked up and, when she saw that the rummy players weren’t about to stir, asked if he needed a cab. Erlendur went over and enquired about a driver with the company who was called Elmar.
‘Elmar on 32?’ the woman said. She had been in her prime at about the same time as the building.
‘Yes, probably,’ Erlendur replied.
‘He’s on his way in. Would you like to wait for him? He won’t be long. He always eats here in the evenings.’
‘Yes, so I gather,’ Erlendur said.
He thanked her and sat down at a table. One of the rummy players glanced up in his direction. Erlendur nodded but received no response. It was as if the pair’s existence was completely defined by the card game.
Erlendur was leafing through an old magazine when a taxi driver appeared at the door.
‘He was asking for you,’ the woman operating the radio called, pointing at Erlendur who stood up and greeted him. The man shook his hand, introducing himself as Elmar. He was the brother of Davíd, the young man who had gone missing. He was in his fifties, plump, with a round face, thinning hair and no arse as a result of a lifetime spent sitting behind the wheel. Erlendur explained his business in a lowered voice. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that the rummy players had pricked up their ears.
‘You’re not still picking over that?’ Elmar asked.
‘We’re wrapping up the case,’ Erlendur said, without elaborating.
‘Do you mind if I get stuck in while we’re talking?’ Elmar asked, sitting down at the table furthest from the rummy players. He had his supper in a plastic container: sausage and onion hash from the supermarket hot-food counter. Erlendur sat down with him.
‘There wasn’t much of an age gap between you brothers,’ Erlendur began.
‘Two years,’ Elmar said. ‘I’m two years older. Have you discovered anything new?’
‘No,’ Erlendur said.
‘Davíd and I weren’t really that close. You could say I wasn’t very interested in my younger brother; I thought of him as just a kid. I tended to hang out more with my friends, people my own age.’
‘Have you come to any conclusion about what might have happened?’
‘Only that he might have topped himself,’ Elmar said. ‘He didn’t mix with the sort of people – wasn’t involved in anything, you know – where someone might have wanted to hurt him. Davíd was a good kid. Shame he had to go like that.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘The last? I asked him to lend me some money for the pictures. I never had any cash in those days. Any more than I do now. Davíd sometimes worked alongside his studies and scraped a bit of money together. I’ve already told the police all this.’
‘And . . .?’
‘And nothing: he lent it to me. I didn’t know he was going to disappear that evening, you know, so there weren’t any fond farewells, just the usual “Thanks, see you.” ’
‘So you were never close?’
‘No, you couldn’t really say that.’
‘You didn’t confide in each other at all?’
‘No. I mean, he was my brother and all that, but we were very different and . . . you know . . .’
Elmar wolfed down his food. He added that he generally only took half an hour for supper.
‘Do you know if your brother had got himself a girlfriend before he went missing?’ Erlendur asked.
‘No,’ Elmar said. ‘I don’t know of any girlfriend.’
‘His friend says he had met a girl but it’s all very vague.’
‘Davíd never had any girlfriend,’ Elmar said, taking out a packet of Camel cigarettes. He offered it to Erlendur who declined. ‘Or at least not that I was aware of,’ he added, glancing over at the rummy table.
‘No, that’s the thing,’ Erlendur said. ‘Your parents clung for a long time to the hope that he’d come back.’
‘Yes, they . . . they thought about nothing but Davíd. He was all they ever thought about.’
Erlendur detected a note of bitterness in the man’s voice.
‘Are we done, then?’ Elmar asked. ‘I’d quite like to join them for a hand.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ Erlendur said, standing up. ‘I didn’t mean to ruin your supper.’
Eva Lind came round that evening. She had seen her mother and heard about the encounter with Erlendur. He said it had been a mistake to try to bring them together. Eva shook her head.
‘You’re not going to meet again?’ she asked.
‘You’ve done everything possible,’ Erlendur said. ‘We simply don’t get on. There’s too much awkwardness between your mother and me that we just can’t overcome.’
‘Awkwardness?’
‘It was a very acrimonious meeting.’
‘She said she stormed out.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you still met up.’
Erlendur was sitting in his chair with a book in his hand. Eva Lind had taken a seat on the sofa facing him. They had often sat there opposite one another. Sometimes they quarrelled bitterly and Eva Lind rushed out, hurling abuse at her father. At other times they managed to talk and show each other affection. Eva Lind would sometimes fall asleep on the sofa while he read her the story of an ordeal in the wilderness or else some Icelandic folklore. She used to visit him in a variety of states, either so high that Erlendur couldn’t make any sense of what she was saying or so low that he was afraid she would do something stupid.
He hesitated to ask if Halldóra had relayed their conversation to her in detail but Eva spared him the trouble.
‘Mum told me you never loved her,’ she began warily.
Erlendur turned the pages of his book.
‘But she was crazy about you.’
Erlendur didn’t say anything.
‘Maybe it goes some way to explaining your weird relationship,’ Eva Lind said.
Still Erlendur did not speak, he merely gazed down at the book he was holding.
‘She said there was no point talking to you,’ Eva Lind continued.
‘I don’t know what we can do for you, Eva. We can’t agree on anything. I’ve already told you that.’
‘Mum said the same.’
‘I know what you’re trying to do but . . . We’re difficult parents, Eva.’
‘She says that you two should never have met.’
‘It would probably have been better,’ Erlendur said.
‘So it’s completely hopeless?’
‘I think so.’
‘It was worth trying.’
‘Of course.’
Eva stared at her father.
‘Is that all you’re going to say?’ she demanded.
‘Can’t we just try and forget it?’ he said, looking up from the book. ‘I tried. So did she. It didn’t work. Not this time.’
‘But maybe another time, you mean?’
‘I don’t know, Eva.’
Eva Lind sighed heavily. She took out a cigarette and lit it.
‘Bloody ridiculous. I thought maybe . . . I thought it was possible to make things a bit better between you. It’s probably pointless. You’re both completely hopeless cases.’
‘Yes, I suppose we are.’