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was sent to the hospital here in Keflavík where they decided it was some kind of neural tumour. It turned out to be a brain tumour. The whole thing took about six months."
    Elín fell silent. "As I said, Kolbrún was never the same after that," she sighed. "I don't expect anyone could get over such a tragedy."
    "Was an autopsy performed on Audur?" Erlendur asked, imagining the little body lit up by fluorescent lights on a cold steel table with a Y-cut across the chest.
    "Kolbrun wouldn't entertain the idea," Elín said, "but she had no say in the matter. She went crazy when she found out they'd opened her up. Went mad with grief, of course, after her child died, and she wouldn't listen to anyone. She couldn't bear to think of her little girl being cut open. She was dead and nothing could change that. The autopsy con-firmed the diagnosis. They found a malignant tumour in her brain."
    "And your sister?"
    "Kolbrún committed suicide three years later. She fell into an uncontrollable depression and needed medical care. Spent a while at a psychiatric ward in Reykjavik, then came back home to Keflavík. I tried to look after her as best I could but it was like she'd been switched off. She had no will to live. Audur had brought happiness into her life in spite of those terrible circumstances. But now she was gone."
    Elín looked at Erlendur. "You're probably wondering how she went about it."
    Erlendur didn't reply.
    "She got into the bath and slashed both her wrists. Bought razor blades to do it with."
    Elín stopped talking and the gloom in the sitting room enveloped them. "Do you know what comes into my mind when I think about that suicide? It's not the blood in the bath. Not my sister lying in the red water. Not the cuts. It's Kolbrún in the shop, buying the razor blades. Handing over the money for the razor blades. Counting out the coins."
    Elín stopped talking.
    "Don't you think it's funny the way your mind works?" she asked, as if she were talking to herself.
    Erlendur didn't know how to answer her.
    "I found her," Elín continued. "She set it up like that. Phoned me and asked me to come round that evening. We had a short chat. I was always on my guard because of her depression but she seemed to be improving towards the end. As if the fog was lifting. As if she was capable of tackling life again. There was no sign in her voice that evening that she was planning to kill herself. Far from it. We talked about the future. We were going to travel together. When I found her there she was at peace in a way I hadn't seen for ages. Peace and acceptance. But I know she didn't accept it in the slightest and she found no peace in her soul."
    "I have to ask you one thing and then I'll leave you alone," Erlendur said. "I have to hear your answer."
    "What's that."
    "Do you have any knowledge about Holberg's murder?"
    "No, I don't."
    "And you had no part in it, directly or indirectly?"
    "No."
    They remained silent for a short while.
    "The epitaph she chose for her daughter was about the enemy," Erlendur said.
    "'Preserve my life from fear of the enemy.' She chose it herself, even though it didn't go on her own gravestone," Elín said. She stood up, walked over to a beautiful glass-fronted cabinet, opened a drawer in it and took out a little black box. She opened it with a key, lifted up some envelopes and took out a little piece of paper. "I found this on the kitchen table the night she died, but I'm not sure if she wanted me to have it inscribed on her gravestone. I doubt it. I don't think I realised how much she'd suffered until I saw this."
    She handed Erlendur the piece of paper and he read the first five words from the Psalm he'd looked up in the Bible earlier: "Hear my voice, O God."

12
    When Erlendur got home that evening his daughter, Eva Lind, was sitting up against the door to the flat, apparently asleep. He spoke to her and tried to wake her. She showed no response, so he put his hands under her arms, lifted her up and carried