Kristín took a deep breath. Perhaps she had begun to grasp what Erlendur was hinting at, but she didn’t show it.
‘I don’t know what you’re insinuating,’ she said.
‘I’m not insinuating anything,’ Erlendur said. ‘I have no interest in reopening a case that has been dormant all this time. If Leonóra told you something we don’t know, it won’t change anything. You got on well, I gather.’
‘We did,’ Kristín said.
‘Did she ever talk to you about what happened?’
Erlendur knew he was taking a risk. All he had to go on was a faint suspicion, a tiny inconsistency between what Ingvar had said and a badly written report, and a bond between mother and daughter that was deeper and more powerful than any he had ever encountered before. Kristín might conceivably know more if she had been Leonóra’s confidante. In the unlikely event that she had been keeping quiet about something all these years, she might, under certain circumstances, reveal it. She came across as an honest and scrupulous woman, a witness who might have done the only right thing in a difficult situation.
A silence fell in the room.
‘What do you want to know?’ Kristín asked at last.
‘Anything you can tell me,’ Erlendur said.
Kristín stared at him.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said, but her voice did not carry the same conviction.
‘I was told that your brother Magnús had never gone near an engine in his life and didn’t have the first clue about them. But the police report states that he had been tinkering with the motor the day before the accident. Is that correct?’
Kristín did not answer.
‘His friend Ingvar – actually, he was the one who suggested I talk to you – said Magnús didn’t know a thing about engines and had never touched one in his life.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Leonóra told the police he had been repairing the outboard motor.’
Kristín shrugged.
‘I know nothing about that.’
‘I spoke to an old friend of María’s who says she always had the feeling that something happened up at the lake that never came out, that Magnús’s death was not just a simple accident,’ Erlendur said. ‘She doesn’t have much to base her hunch on, only María’s comment that perhaps he was meant to die.’
‘Meant to die?’
‘Yes. That’s what María said. About her own father.’
‘What did she mean by that?’ Kristín asked.
‘Her friend didn’t know but perhaps she meant it was his fate to die that day. Though there’s another possible interpretation.’
‘Which is what?’
‘Perhaps he deserved to die.’
Erlendur studied Kristín. She closed her eyes and her shoulders drooped.
‘Can you tell me something we don’t know about what happened at the lake?’ he asked carefully.
‘When you say that the verdict won’t be changed now…’
‘You can tell me whatever you like, it won’t change the original verdict.’
‘I’ve never spoken of this,’ Kristín said, so quietly that Erlendur could barely hear her. ‘Except when Leonóra was on her deathbed.’
Erlendur could tell that she was finding this very difficult. She thought for a long time and he tried to put himself in her shoes. She hadn’t been expecting this visit, let alone the offer with which Erlendur had confronted her. But apparently she didn’t see any reason to distrust him.
‘I think I’ve got a little Aalborg left in the cupboard,’ she said at last, rising to her feet. ‘Would you like some?’
Erlendur accepted the offer. She fetched two shot glasses, placed them on the table and filled them to the brim with the aquavit. She downed the first shot in one while Erlendur was still raising his to his mouth. Then she refilled her glass and promptly downed half of it.
‘Of course they’re both dead now,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘So perhaps it won’t change anything.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘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?’