Hypothermia

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Copyright

  Also by James Patterson

  Dedication

  Hypothermia

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781409086222

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Harvill Secker 2009

  First published in Iceland as Harđskafi by Forlagiđ in 2007

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Copyright © Arnaldur Indriđason 2007

  English translation © Victoria Cribb 2009

  Arnaldur Indriđason has asserted his right under the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in Great Britain in 2009 by

  HARVILL SECKER

  Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,

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  ISBN 9781846552625

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  ALSO BY

  Arnaldur Indriđason in English translation

  Fiction

  Tainted Blood

  (first published with the title Jar City)

  Silence of the Grave

  Voices

  The Draining Lake

  Arctic Chill

  ‘The elder brother recovered from his frostbite but

  was said to be left gloomy and withdrawn by his ordeal.’

  Tragedy on Eskifjördur Moor

  María hardly registered what was happening during the funeral. She sat numbly in the front pew, holding Baldvin’s hand, barely conscious of her surroundings or the service. The vicar’s address, the presence of the mourners and the singing of the little church choir all blurred into a single refrain of grief. The vicar had come round to see them beforehand to make notes, so María already knew the contents of her address. It focused for the most part on María’s mother Leonóra’s academic career, the courage she had shown in fighting the dreaded illness, the wide circle of friends she had collected during her life, and María herself, her only daughter, who had to some extent followed in her mother’s footsteps. The vicar touched on Leonóra’s eminence in her field and the care she took to cultivate her friendships, as witnessed by the attendance on that miserable autumn day. Most of the mourners were fellow academics. Leonóra had sometimes mentioned to María how rewarding it was to belong to the intelligentsia. There was an arrogance implicit in her words that María had chosen to ignore.

  She remembered the autumn colours in the cemetery and the frozen puddles on the gravel path leading to the grave, the crackling sound as the thin film of ice broke under the feet of the pall-bearers. She remembered the chilly breeze and making the sign of the cross over her mother’s coffin. María had pictured herself in this situation countless times before, ever since it became clear that the disease would kill her mother, and now here she was. She stared at the coffin in the grave and recited a brief mental prayer before making the sign of the cross with her outstretched hand. Then she lingered motionless at the graveside until Baldvin led her away.

  She remembered people coming up to her at the reception afterwards to pay their respects. Some offered their assistance, asking if there was anything they could do for her.

  María’s mind did not return to the lake until all was quiet again and she was left alone with her thoughts, late that night. It did not occur to her until then, when it was all over and she was thinking back over that gruelling day, that no one from her father’s family had turned up to the funeral.

  1

  The emergency line received a call from a mobile phone shortly after midnight. An agitated female voice cried:

  ‘She’s . . . María’s killed herself . . . I . . . it’s horrible . . . horrible!’

  ‘What’s your name, please?’

  ‘Ka – Karen.’

  ‘Where are you calling from?’ the emergency operator asked.

  ‘I’m at . . . it’s . . . her holiday cottage . . .’

  ‘Where? Where is it?’

  ‘. . . At Lake Thingvallavatn. At . . . at her holiday cottage. Please hurry . . . I . . . I’ll be here . . .’

  Karen thought she would never find the cottage. It had been a long time, nearly four years, since her last visit. María had given her detailed directions just to be on the safe side, but they had more or less gone in one ear and out the other because Karen had assumed she would remember the way.

  It was past eight in the evening and pitch dark by the time she left Reykjavík. She drove over Mosfellsheidi moor where there was little traffic, just the odd pair of headlights passing by on their way to town. Only one other car was travelling east and she hung on its red rear lights, grateful for the company. She didn’t like driving alone in the dark and would have set off earlier if she hadn’t been held up. She worked in the public-relations department of a large bank and it had seemed as if the meetings and phone calls would never let up.

  Karen was aware of the mountain Grímannsfell to her right, although she couldn’t see it, and Skálafell to her left. Next she drove past the turning to Vindáshlíd where she had once spent a two-week summer holiday as a child. She followed the red tail lights at a comfortable speed until they drove down through the Kerlingarhraun lava field, and there their ways parted. The red lights accelerated and disappeared into the darkness. S
he wondered if they were heading for the pass at Uxahryggir and north over the Kaldidalur mountain road. She had often taken that route herself. It was a beautiful drive down the Lundarreykjadalur valley to Borgarfjördur fjord. The memory of a lovely summer’s day once spent at Lake Sandkluftavatn came back to her.

  Karen herself turned right and drove on into the blackness of the Thingvellir national park. She had difficulty identifying the landmarks in the gloom. Should she have turned off sooner? Was this the right turning down to the lake? Or was it the next? Had she come too far?

  Twice she went wrong and had to turn round. It was a Thursday evening and most of the cottages were empty. She had brought along a supply of food and reading material, and María had told her that they had recently installed a television in the cottage. But Karen’s main intention was to try to sleep, to get some rest. The bank was like a madhouse after the recent abortive takeover. She had reached the point where she could no longer make any sense of the infighting between the different factions among the major shareholders. Press releases were issued at two-hourly intervals and, to make matters worse, it transpired that a severance payment of a hundred million krónur had been promised to one of the bank’s partners, someone whom a particular faction wanted to fire. The board had succeeded in stirring up public outrage, and it was Karen’s job to smooth things over. It had been like this for weeks now and she was at the end of her tether by the time it occurred to her to escape from town. María had often offered to lend her the cottage for a few days, so Karen decided to give her a call. ‘Of course,’ María had said at once.

  Karen made her way slowly along a primitive track through low-growing scrub until her headlights lit up the cottage down by the water. María had given her a key and told her where they kept a spare. It was sometimes useful to have an extra key hidden at the cottage.

  She was looking forward to waking up tomorrow morning amidst the autumn colours of Thingvellir. For as long as she could remember people had flocked to the national park in the autumn, since few places in the country could boast such a brilliant display of colour as here by the lake where the rust-red and orange shades of the dying leaves extended as far as the eye could see.

  She started to ferry her luggage from the car to the sun deck beside the door. Then, putting the key in the lock, she opened the door and groped for the light switch. The light came on in the hallway leading to the kitchen and she took her little suitcase inside and placed it in the master bedroom. To her surprise, the bed was unmade. That was not like María. A towel was lying on the floor of the lavatory. When she turned on the light in the kitchen she became aware of a strange presence. Although she was not afraid of the dark, she felt a sudden sensation of physical unease. The living room was in darkness. By daylight there was a superb view of the lake from its windows.

  Karen turned on the living-room light.

  Four solid beams extended across the ceiling, and from one of them a body was hanging, its back turned to her.

  Shock sent her crashing back against the wall and her head slammed into the wood panelling. Everything went black. The body hung from the beam by a thin blue cord, mirrored in the dark living-room window. She didn’t know how long it was before she dared to inch closer. The tranquil surroundings of the lake had in an instant been converted into the setting for a horror story that she would never forget. Every detail was etched on her memory. The kitchen stool, out of place in the minimalist living room, lying on its side under the body; the blue of the rope; the reflection in the window; the darkness of Thingvellir; the motionless human body suspended from the beam.

  Karen approached cautiously and caught sight of the swollen blue face. Her ghastly suspicion proved correct. It was her friend María.

  2

  An extraordinarily short space of time seemed to pass between Karen’s phone call and the arrival on the scene of the paramedics, accompanied by a doctor and some police officers from the neighbouring town of Selfoss. The Selfoss CID, who had been assigned the case, knew only that the woman who had committed suicide was from Reykjavík, lived in the suburb of Grafarvogur and was married but childless.

  The cottage was full of people conversing in low voices. They stood around like awkward strangers.

  ‘Was it you who called?’ a young detective asked.

  The woman who had found the body had been pointed out to him where she sat in the kitchen, staring dejectedly at the floor.

  ‘Yes. My name’s Karen.’

  ‘We can get you a trauma counsellor if you—’

  ‘No, I think . . . it’sall right.’

  ‘Did you know her well?’

  ‘I’ve known María ever since we were children. She lent me the cottage. I was going to spend the weekend here.’

  ‘You didn’t see her car behind the cottage?’ the detective asked.

  ‘No. I didn’t think there was anyone here. Then I noticed that the bed hadn’t been made and when I went into the living room . . . I’ve never seen anything like it before. Oh God, poor María! Poor thing!’

  ‘When did you last speak to her?’

  ‘Only a few days ago. When she lent me the cottage.’

  ‘Did she say that she intended to be here herself?’

  ‘No. She didn’t mention it. She said of course she’d lend me the place for a few days. No problem.’

  ‘And was she . . . on good form?’

  ‘Yes, I thought so. She seemed her usual self when I went round to pick up the key.’

  ‘She’d have known you were coming here?’

  ‘Yes. What do you mean?’

  ‘She knew that you’d find her,’ the detective said.

  He had pulled up a stool when he’d started talking to Karen. She grabbed his arm, staring at him.

  ‘Do you mean . . .?’

  ‘Maybe you were meant to find her,’ the detective said. ‘Not that I know anything about it.’

  ‘Why would she have wanted that?’

  ‘It’s only a guess.’

  ‘But it’s true; she knew I’d be here over the weekend. She knew I was coming here. When . . . when did she do it?’

  ‘We haven’t been given an exact time of death yet but the doctor thinks it can’t have been much later than yesterday evening. So probably about twenty-four hours ago.’

  Karen hid her face in her hands.

  ‘God, it’s so . . . it’s so unreal. I should never have asked to borrow the cottage. Have you spoken to her husband?’

  ‘The police are on their way to see him now. They live in Grafarvogur, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes. How could she do this? How could anyone do a thing like this?’

  ‘From sheer despair,’ the detective said, beckoning the doctor over. ‘Mental torment. You weren’t aware of anything like that in her case?’

  ‘Maria lost her mother two years ago – to cancer,’ Karen said. ‘It was a terrible blow to her.’

  ‘I see,’ the detective said.

  Karen’s lips trembled. The detective asked if the doctor could do anything to help her. She shook her head, saying she was all right but would like to go home if that was allowed. It was not a problem. They would talk to her later if necessary.

  The detective escorted her out to the drive in front of the cottage and opened the car door for her.

  ‘Will you be all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ Karen answered. ‘Thank you.’

  The detective watched her turn the car and drive away. By the time he went back into the cottage they had cut down the body and laid it on the floor. He knelt down beside it. The dead woman was dressed in a white T-shirt and blue jeans but was wearing no socks. She was slim and had a thin face and short dark hair. He could see no signs of a struggle, either on her body or in the house; only the overturned kitchen stool on which the woman must have stood to tie the noose round the beam. The blue rope could have been bought from any DIY shop. It had cut deep into her slender neck.

  ‘Lack of oxygen,�
� announced the district medical officer, who had been talking to the paramedics. ‘Unfortunately for her, her neck’s not broken. That would have been quicker. She suffocated when the noose tightened round her neck. It would have taken some time. They’re asking when they can take her away.’

  ‘How long would it have taken?’ the detective asked.

  ‘Two minutes – maybe less – before she lost consciousness.’

  The detective stood up and looked around the cottage. From what he could see it was a very ordinary Icelandic holiday home with its leather three-piece suite, handsome dining table and newly fitted kitchen. The walls of the living room were lined with books. He walked over to the shelving unit and noticed the brown leather spines of five volumes of Jón Árnason’s Collected Folk Tales. Ghost stories, he thought to himself. Other shelves contained French literature titles and Icelandic novels, interspersed with china or ceramic ornaments and framed photos, including three of the same woman at different ages as far as he could tell. The walls were hung with graphic prints, a small oil painting and watercolours.

  The detective went through to what he assumed was the master bedroom. There was a body-shaped indentation in the bedclothes, on one side. There was a pile of books on the bedside table, with a volume of poetry by Davíd Stefánsson from Fagriskógur on top. Beside them was a small bottle of perfume.

  His tour of the cottage was not motivated by mere curiosity. He was searching for signs of a struggle, any clue that the woman had not gone voluntarily into the kitchen, fetched the stool, positioned it under the beam, climbed on to it and put the rope round her own neck. All he found were the signs of a terribly quiet – almost polite – death.