He had transported it here from Reykjavík in his own car, following the unmetalled roads all the way east. It had taken him two days, with an overnight stay in the northern town of Akureyri. As it had always been his intention to erect a joint memorial to both his parents, he had never put up a temporary cross over his mother’s grave. He had nothing but his own dilatoriness to blame for the shameful length of time that elapsed before guilt finally drove him to contact a stonemason. But there was a reason for his negligence. Deep down, he dreaded returning; the emotions his old home stirred up were too painful. When he did eventually brace himself to make the journey, however, it was as if he had broken a spell and since then he had visited at regular intervals, for shorter or longer periods. He had accepted now that he could never flee his past.
He had tried in vain for years to recall memories of their life before tragedy had struck. But after Bergur vanished the past had been obliterated, as if their life had not really begun until then. As the days turned into years, however, his recollections of the time before the disaster began to return with increasing frequency. Some were fleeting snapshots that he had difficulty pinning to a specific time or context. Others were clearer. Occasions like Christmas: his father wearing an Icelandic Yule hat; the tree they had decorated together; listening to a radio serial on a winter’s evening. The images glimmered before his mind’s eye like the dim flickering of a candle. An excursion to Akureyri. A boat trip to the island of Papey; his fear of the water. Summer days. Sitting on a horse; his mother’s hand on the leading rein. The hay harvest. Men drinking coffee and smoking outside the house. He and Bergur playing in the sweet-scented hay in the barn.
Some of these memories aroused a sensation of profound loss that would return again and again to haunt him. As he stood by his parents’ grave, he heard the far-off notes of a mournful refrain that he recognised as his father’s violin, and saw his mother standing in the sitting-room doorway, her eyes half closed. A long summer’s day behind them, their faces ruddy from the sun, the boys nodding off on the sofa. His father’s hands moving with such sensitivity over the instrument. She tilted her head as she listened, her eyes on her husband.
‘Play something cheerful now,’ she said.
‘The boys are falling asleep,’ he protested.
‘You can play quietly.’
Changing tempo, he embarked on a muted rendition of a spirited waltz. She listened smiling from the door, then went over and pulled him to his feet. He laid the violin aside and they danced together in the quiet room.
Bergur was dead to the world beside him, but Erlendur woke him so they could surreptitiously watch their parents treading the steps in silence, wrapped in each other’s arms. They were conversing in whispers so as not to disturb the boys and his mother smothered a giggle. She found it easy to laugh. Bergur took after her. They were alike in so many ways; the same features, the same generous smile. Bergur was invariably sunny-tempered, unlike his brother who was inclined to be irritable, overbearing and demanding. Smiling did not come easily to him either; he took after his father in looks and temperament.
The memory was accompanied by the summery scent of newly mown grass and a sultry Icelandic heatwave. Earlier that day he and Bergur had been playing down by the river, walking along its bank and dipping their hands in the water to splash its refreshing coolness on their faces.
It was the last summer the four of them spent together.
Erlendur caressed the weathered basalt. An icy breath of wind stole down the slope and pierced his padded jacket. He glanced up at the mountains, pulling his coat more tightly around him, then hurried back to the petrol station. The weather forecast had predicted a drop in temperature for the east of Iceland, and the bitter gust was confirmation that it had arrived, sweeping down from the mountains like an ill omen.
‘
WHY ARE YOU
lying here?’
Startled by the question, he peers towards the source of the traveller’s voice, lost in the gloom.
‘Are you still here?’ he asks.
‘I’m still here,’ comes the reply.
‘Why? What do you want from me?’
‘I’ll go when you do.’
‘Where do you come from?’ he asks.
‘From far away,’ says the traveller. ‘But I’m going back this evening.’
HE STARTED AWAKE
from a deep sleep, disturbed by the sound of a car. Day was breaking. He felt bleary and disorientated, having only managed to drop off shortly before dawn. A door slammed and he heard the snow creaking under approaching footsteps. The visitor was alone. Erlendur crawled from his sleeping bag. Snow had piled up in one corner of the room and the place looked miserably uninviting.
‘Anyone at home?’ called an instantly recognisable voice. Bóas’s face appeared outside the broken window.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ he asked.
‘Not at all.’
‘I brought you some coffee and a Danish,’ the farmer announced with a grin. ‘Thought you might welcome a bit of company.’
‘Come on in,’ said Erlendur.
‘You’re too kind,’ said Bóas, entering the doorless house and joining Erlendur in the remains of the sitting room. He was carrying a Thermos flask and a paper bag from which wafted a delicious smell. ‘I brought two mugs just to be on the safe side,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure how comfortably you live up here.’
‘I get by,’ said Erlendur, accepting a cup of coffee.
Bóas took in his sleeping arrangements – the blankets, sleeping bag and gas lantern. His camp was neat enough, if not exactly a suite at the Hilton. Erlendur had made a giant ashtray out of a milk churn that he had found on the property. It stood in one corner, the bottom filled with water, into which he chucked his stubs. Next to it was a folding chair and a few books piled on a dry patch of floor.
‘I see you’ve made it nice and homely,’ said Bóas. ‘Have a thing about tramps, do you? Thinking of becoming one yourself?’
Erlendur smiled and took a bite of freshly baked Danish pastry. The coffee was strong and scalding hot. He sipped gingerly to avoid burning his tongue.
‘It’s not so bad,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’
‘You’re welcome. Seen any ghosts?’
‘There are always a few around.’
‘The kids used to claim this place was haunted,’ said Bóas. ‘Back in the days when kids could be bothered to play outside and knew what a haunted house was. Though that’s many years ago now. They’d come up here, light fires and tell ghost stories. A bit of hanky-panky went on too, of course, and illicit drinking.’
‘They’ve scribbled graffiti on the walls,’ said Erlendur.
‘Yes, always the same old lovers’ marks. But nobody comes here any more, as far as I know. Apart from you, that is.’
‘And that’s not often,’ said Erlendur.
‘It’s a beautiful spot, though. Are you thinking of staying on?’
‘Not sure.’
‘Aren’t you cold?’
‘No, not really.’
‘Forgive an old busybody – I don’t mean to pry,’ said Bóas. ‘Anyway, I mentioned that matter you asked me about to some local hunters. You know, about whether foxholes and ravens’ nests might provide any clues about your brother. But nothing came of it, I’m sorry to say.’
‘No,’ said Erlendur. ‘I didn’t really expect it to. But thanks for looking into it.’
‘What about your case, how’s that going?’ asked Bóas.
‘My case? You mean Matthildur?’
Bóas nodded.
‘It’s hardly a case. I don’t know what to say, though it appears Ezra might be able to fill me in on a few things.’
‘How’s that?’ asked Bóas, inquisitive as ever.
‘I just got that impression after having another chat with Hrund,’ Erlendur said, unwilling to reveal more than was necessary. He had no intention of bringing up Ezra’s affair with Matthildur, though there was a chance that Bóas already knew. Still, it was a private matter and he had no wish to encourage rumours. ‘It’s just an idea,’ he added, hoping to put Bóas off the scent.
‘Do you think there was something fishy about it?’
‘It sounds to me as if you think so,’ said Erlendur, turning the tables. ‘Or you wouldn’t have reacted the way you did to my questions about Matthildur. After all, it was you who directed me to Hrund in the first place – when I said I was from the police.’
‘I don’t know any more than I’ve told you,’ said Bóas, backtracking. ‘I was just giving you the story from my perspective. I’ve no idea what did or didn’t happen.’
‘So – a puzzling incident and that’s all there is to it?’ said Erlendur.
‘That’s all there is to it as far as I’m concerned,’ said Bóas. ‘Will you be seeing Ezra again?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Erlendur, certain now that Bóas had not come bearing gifts purely out of the goodness of his heart. It amused him how the old farmer feigned a lack of interest in the case, while utterly failing to hide his avid curiosity.
‘I could go over there with you if you’d like,’ Bóas offered.
‘Thanks, but no. I wouldn’t want to take up your time.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Bóas said quickly. ‘It’s just that I know the old boy and I might have more luck persuading him to talk.’
‘Somehow I doubt that, now I’ve met him,’ said Erlendur. ‘With all due respect. Anyway, I’ve no idea if I’m going to see him again.’
‘Well, just let me know if I can help,’ said Bóas, preparing to leave. Plainly, he was not going to make any headway with Erlendur.
‘Thank you again for the coffee and pastry.’ Erlendur escorted him to the door, for all the world as if Bakkasel were his home again.
THIS TIME THERE
was no sound of hammering from the shed below Ezra’s house and nobody answered when he knocked. After rapping three times, he pressed his ear to the door. Ezra’s car was there and had clearly not been moved since his last visit, as the snow still lay in a thick layer over the bonnet and roof. There were footprints running from the house to the drive and down to the shed, but as far as Erlendur could work out they were not recent. He wandered down to the shed where he had found Ezra pounding
hardfiskur
. Loosening the small wooden toggle of the fastening, he pushed the door open and it swung inwards with a chilly creaking. Nothing had changed: there was the stone, the stool and a heap of unworked fish. The shed was crammed with a lifetime’s accumulated junk: tools and gardening equipment, old scythes, a tractor’s engine block, hubcaps and the rusty bumper of some ancient vehicle. A stack of logs stood in one corner, and two pairs of threadbare overalls hung from nails on the wall.
Erlendur went over to the dried fish, tore off a small piece, put it in his mouth and chewed it with cool deliberation as he inspected the shed. It appeared that Ezra had not left the house in the last twenty-four hours. When Erlendur arrived, he had seen no tyre tracks running up from the road. Picking up the mallet that Ezra used to beat the fish, he weighed it in his hand.
Still holding the mallet, he walked back up to the house and knocked on the door again. No response. It was locked when he tried it and he remembered that it had been open before. He shook the handle, convinced the old man was at home.
He tried calling Ezra’s name at the window, again with no result. All was quiet apart from the chattering of the birds that flocked around the house. He returned to the front door. The top half consisted of small, square panes of glass, covered inside by a curtain. Erlendur was about to raise the mallet to the pane nearest the lock when the door was wrenched open and Ezra appeared in the gap.
‘What the hell are you doing with that mallet?’ he demanded, glaring at Erlendur.
‘I . . .’ Erlendur did not get any further. This hostile reception was in stark contrast to his last visit.
‘What do you want?’ snapped the old man.
‘I wanted to talk to you.’
‘And what are you doing with that? You weren’t planning to break in, were you?’
‘I had a feeling you were at home and was worried you might have had an accident,’ replied Erlendur. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m much obliged to you,’ said Ezra. ‘But clearly I’m fine. Now bugger off and leave me alone!’
‘Why do you –’
Ezra slammed the door in Erlendur’s face, rattling the small panes. Erlendur stood there calmly, the mallet still in his hand. Then, turning away, he walked back down to the shed and replaced it on the workbench. He had not been lying to Ezra. His police experience and the recent incident with Hrund had taught him that the elderly could get into all sorts of difficulties without being able to raise the alarm.
Glancing around the shed again, he noticed a pair of battered wooden skis with leather straps and long bamboo poles. He had not seen their like for years and realised they must be very old. He ran an appreciative hand down them.
There was a crunching outside the door and Ezra appeared, an ugly expression on his face and a shotgun in his hand. Its barrel was pointing at the ground. Ezra was dressed as he had been at the front door, in slippers, vest and trousers held up by narrow braces.
‘Get the hell out of here,’ he said.
‘Don’t be an idiot.’
‘Get out,’ repeated Ezra, raising the gun.
‘What’s happened? What are you afraid of?’
‘I want you to get lost. You’re trespassing on my property.’
‘Who’ve you been talking to?’ asked Erlendur. ‘What’s changed? I thought we could have a chat.’
‘She rang me – Ninna did – and warned me about your snooping,’ said Ezra. ‘I don’t want you poking your nose into my affairs.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Erlendur. ‘I can understand that.’
‘Good. Then you can bugger off back to Reykjavík.’
‘Don’t you want to find her? Aren’t you even curious about her fate? About what really happened?’
‘Leave me alone,’ said Ezra furiously. ‘Stop prying and get lost!’
‘Tell me one thing first – did Jakob know about you two?’
‘For Christ’s sake!’ shouted Ezra. ‘Give over, will you? Give over and bugger off!’
Raising the gun again, he aimed it at Erlendur.
‘All right, keep your hair on,’ said Erlendur. ‘Don’t make things any worse for yourself. I’ll leave. But you know I’ll have to report this. You can’t go around waving guns at people. I’ll have to talk to the police in Eskifjördur. They’ll come down and confiscate it. They may even contact the firearms unit in Reykjavík and fly them out here. Next thing you know, the press will be having a field day. You’ll find yourself all over the seven o’clock news.’