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!’



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