Magdalena squeezed her eyes shut.
‘They’re fading . . . ’
She opened her eyes but it took her a while to recover her bearings
.
‘Was
. . .
was that all right?
’
she asked
.
María nodded.
‘Yes,
’
she said quietly, ‘Thank you.
’
When María got home she told Baldvin what had happened at the seance, She was in an emotional state, declaring that she had not expected such unequivocal messages and was surprised at who had made contact during the seance, She hadn’t thought about her maternal grandmother since she was a little girl and she had only ever heard people talk about her great-aunt Lovísa, She was her maternal grandmother’s sister, who had died young of typhoid fever
.
María had difficulty getting to sleep that night, She was alone in the house because Baldvin had had to pop down to the hospital and the autumn wind was howling outside
.
Finally she managed to drop off.
She started awake a moment later at the sound of the garden gate banging against the fence, It was pouring with rain, She listened to the banging of the gate and knew it would keep her awake
.
Getting out of bed, she put on her dressing gown and slippers and went into the kitchen, There was a back door to the garden that opened on to the sun deck they’d added on a few years ago, She tied the belt of her dressing gown tightly around her and opened the door, As she did so she smelled a strong smell of cigar smoke in the air
.
She stepped cautiously on to the sun deck, feeling the cold rain stinging her face
.
Has Baldvin been smoking
?
she wondered
.
She saw the gate banging but instead of hurrying to close it and running back inside she stood as if frozen to the spot, staring into the darkness of the garden, She saw a man standing there, drenched from head to foot
: a
heavily built figure with a paunch and a deathly white face, The water was pouring off him and he opened his mouth and closed it several times as if trying to gasp for air before shouting at her
:
‘Be careful
! . . .
You don’t know what you’re doing!
’
The medium Andersen was suspicious and unwilling to disclose any information over the phone, refusing even to believe that Erlendur was from the police. Erlendur recognised his voice immediately from the recording. The man said that if Erlendur wanted to talk to him he would have to make an appointment like anyone else. Erlendur objected that his business wouldn’t take long and wasn’t anything very important, but the man would not budge.
‘Are you going to charge me?’ Erlendur asked at the end of the phone call.
‘We’ll see,’ the man said.
One evening not long afterwards Erlendur rang a bell on the entryphone panel of a block of flats in the Vogar neighbourhood and asked to speak to Andersen.
The medium buzzed him in and Erlendur climbed slowly up to the second-floor landing where Andersen was waiting. They shook hands and the man showed him into the sitting room. As he entered the flat Erlendur was met by the faint aroma of incense and by soothing music flowing from invisible speakers.
Erlendur had postponed this visit until he felt it could no longer be avoided. He had no particular interest in the work of psychics or their ability to make contact with the dead, and was afraid this might lead to unpleasantness. He was determined to behave himself, however, and hoped that the medium Andersen would do the same.
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.
The doctors’ surgeries were on a long corridor off the waiting room, and after forty-five minutes had passed since Erlendur had announced his presence a door opened and Dagóbert came out into the waiting area and beckoned to him. Erlendur followed him into his surgery and the doctor closed the door behind them.
‘Has the problem come back?’ Dagóbert asked, inviting Erlendur to lie down on the bed. His file was open on the desk.
‘No,’ Erlendur said. ‘I’m fine. I’m sort of here on official business.’
‘Really?’ the doctor said. He was a fat, humorous man, dressed in a white shirt, a tie and jeans. He might not have worn a white coat but he did have a stethoscope slung round his neck. ‘Won’t you lie down anyway and let me listen to your chest?’