Cases where people revived after being certified dead could often be put down to negligence. But it was not from any suspicion of neglect that Erlendur had developed his hunch about Jakob and felt compelled to disinter him. Ezra’s words had played a part, along with Ármann’s tale of the noise he had heard during the funeral. Added to this was Erlendur’s own experience and knowledge of hypothermia. The fact that Ezra had direct access to the ice house had only served to fuel his suspicions. Then there was Thórdur’s story of the three men in the west of Iceland who were written off as dead but had risen from their biers and tried in vain to raise the alarm. Finally, Erlendur’s conviction had been so strong that he had felt compelled to act. Whatever the cost. He wasn’t trying to excuse his action but to find an explanation for what he had done.
And what had he uncovered? What had all his toiling in the cemetery achieved?
He had found an answer to the question that had troubled him most: Jakob had indeed been buried alive. A shudder had run down Erlendur’s spine when he realised what he was seeing, recognised the evidence of desperation, the terrible suffering in the skeleton’s attitude – the raised hands, head arched back, mouth gaping. Even though he must have been more dead than alive after his immersion in the icy sea and night in the freezing warehouse, Jakob had found the strength to score splinters from the wood of his coffin lid. His hold on life must have been phenomenal; his death an indescribable ordeal.
But what Erlendur could not read from the coffin, and would have to seek an explanation for elsewhere, was why Jakob had been buried alive. Had it been accidental or deliberate?
Although it was never possible to know a person completely, Erlendur reckoned he was pretty well acquainted with men of Ezra’s type. He was confident that the old man had nothing in common with the many criminals who had crossed his path. Ezra was neither amoral nor violent. He was like the vast majority of ordinary citizens Erlendur had encountered, people who had never so much as incurred a parking fine. Was it possible, though, that somewhere inside him lurked the will to commit an atrocity like the one Erlendur had just exposed?
If all Ezra had said was true – if Jakob had killed Matthildur and consistently refused to reveal where he had hidden her body – then he’d certainly had a grievance to avenge. Seven years later Jakob’s fate had been sealed, quite literally. But what role had Ezra played? Had he known Jakob was alive? Had they exchanged any words? Had Jakob told Ezra what he did with Matthildur’s remains?
Only one man could lay these questions to rest and Erlendur had every intention of speaking to him at the earliest possible opportunity.
WHY ARE YOU
lying here?
Relentlessly, at intervals, the question is repeated. But then he forgets it until it is asked again, becoming so insistent he can no longer ignore it. He has formed an image of his persecutor, based on the idea that he must be a traveller who has lost his way and by an odd coincidence stumbled onto the strange shores where he himself has washed up. Like Bóas by the crags at Urdarklettur.
Yet this is not Bóas but a stranger. He has no answers that will satisfy the traveller and is angered by his prying. Moreover, he senses once again the presence of another figure standing in the man’s shadow, hanging back. He feels the presence ever more strongly, without being able to work out who can be lurking there.
All he knows is that he fears the presence.
‘Should you be lying here?’ asks the voice.
‘Why not?’
‘Do you really think you should be lying here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’ asks the man.
‘Because . . .’
‘What?’
‘Who’s that with you?’ Erlendur asks.
‘Do you want to meet him?’
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s up to you. If you want to meet him, then of course you can.’
‘Who is it? Why’s he hiding?’
‘He’s not hiding. It’s you who’s keeping him away.’
The traveller is fading, receding, and only then does he remember where he has seen him before.
‘Is it you?’ he asks warily.
‘So you remember me?’
‘Don’t go,’ he says, though the man frightens him. ‘Don’t go!’
‘I’m not going far.’
‘Please stay! Tell me who’s with you. Where does he come from? Who is he?’
Little by little he surfaces into consciousness and becomes aware of the iron grip of the cold. The faint echo of his own silent cries still rings in his ears. It takes him a long time to remember where he is. Not only is his whole body numb but the cold has affected his brain; his thoughts are wandering and irrational. This causes him no particular concern, however. He has ceased to feel concern.
The cold drives him to seek out warming thoughts. He calls to mind old methods of restoring heat to one’s body, methods he has read about in his books. The most common and effective means, when no other was available, was to use one’s own body heat to warm the victims of hypothermia, whether they were sailors rescued from the sea or people lost in snowstorms. The rescuers would take off every scrap of clothing and lie down beside the victims, sometimes one on either side, using their body heat to revive them.
His mind goes in search of heat.
He thinks about balmy sunshine.
His mother’s smile.
Her warm touch.
Hot summer days by the river.
He turns his face to the sky and basks in the midsummer sun.
Suddenly he remembers the traveller and recalls where he has seen him before. A memory returns of the day at Bakkasel when they received an unexpected visitor, a passer-by who broke his journey with them before continuing on his way. That spring it was so cold that the hay harvest was almost ruined and the snowdrifts lay far down the slopes well into summer. He recalls the peculiar thing the man said to his mother about Bergur. Recalls her startled reaction.
He never knew where the man came from or where he was going, though doubtless he had told his parents. After his brief stop, he had vanished from sight over the moor. Perhaps he was heading for Reydarfjördur over the Hraevarskörd Pass, or taking the old path that skirted the glacier, ran northwards under the foot of Mount Hardskafi and from there over to Seydisfjördur. Unexpected guests would turn up at Bakkasel every now and then, passers-by who looked as if they had come a long way. They were always invited to rest and enjoy his parents’ hospitality. Some were alone, like this man; others travelled in twos or threes or larger groups, often in high spirits, bringing an atmosphere of good cheer. Occasionally people would request a night’s lodging and they would be offered a bed in the boys’ room. They even had foreigners turn up, trying to make themselves understood with sign language, asking for a drink of water or permission to camp on their land.
From his manner and outfit, Erlendur had gathered that this man was an experienced hiker, an impression reinforced by the handsome walking stick he left propped outside the house. He wore thick-soled boots, laced up to the calf, plus fours and a leather jacket buttoned up to his neck. His hands were clad in fingerless gloves and he stroked his beard with his strong fingers as he spoke.
He seemed curiously at home as he took a seat in Erlendur’s parents’ kitchen and accepted coffee and a bite to eat. He chatted about the weather, especially the bad spring they were having, about the district and the scenery, and enquired after the names of various places as if he had never been there before. Perhaps he came from down south, perhaps even all the way from Reykjavík, the big city that felt as remote as any of the world’s great metropolises. Erlendur didn’t dare speak to the visitor but loitered by the kitchen table, eavesdropping on the conversation. Bergur stood at his side, hanging on the guest’s words and gazing at him as he drank his coffee and ate the sandwich their mother had prepared.
Every now and then the man would send a glance and a smile in the boys’ direction. Bergur, unabashed, met his eye, whereas Erlendur was shy and looked away each time, before finally leaving the kitchen to take refuge in the bedroom. He could remember the man’s kindly expression, his sincere eyes, the wisdom in his broad brow. He was as amiable as could be, and yet there was some quality that frightened Erlendur, that meant he could not be comfortable in the same room as the stranger and that eventually drove him from the kitchen. He wanted him to leave. He couldn’t fathom why but he found the man menacing.
By the time Erlendur emerged the traveller was getting ready to leave. He had thanked them for their hospitality and was now out in the yard, walking stick in hand. He had been talking briefly with Bergur, who was standing with his parents in the crisp air, and in parting the man let fall those peculiar words, addressing them to their mother; smiling at her even as he pronounced Bergur’s fate.
‘Your boy has a beautiful soul. I don’t know how long you’ll be allowed to keep him.’
They never saw the man again.
He is convinced that the traveller who visits him intermittently in the cold is the same man who came to Bakkasel and delivered that incomprehensible verdict about Bergur, so true and yet so cruel. As his consciousness gradually fades, he begins to have his suspicions about the presence accompanying the man, about who it is that follows him like a shadow but will not come forward into the light.
ERLENDUR COULD HEAR
hammer blows coming from the shed below Ezra’s house. He had slept unusually well, until past two that afternoon, then made his routine trip to the swimming pool and afterwards enjoyed a late lunch of fresh poached haddock, potatoes and dark rye bread at the cafeteria. He had slathered the fish and potatoes with generous knobs of butter and spread a thick layer on the bread, as if piling on calories would banish the chill that still lingered in his bones after his night’s work.
He sauntered down to the shed. The door stood wide open and Ezra was sitting inside with his mallet, beating
hardfiskur
with the same unvarying rhythm. He didn’t notice Erlendur, who was at leisure to watch him for a minute or two. There was no sign of the shotgun. The old man appeared serene, yet his movements betrayed a certain firmness of purpose – unless it was simply force of habit.
‘You again?’ he said, without looking up. Although he had sensed Erlendur’s presence, he didn’t seem put out. ‘I have nothing else to tell you,’ he said. ‘You tricked the whole story out of me. I should never have told you any of it. I can’t understand why I did – you’ve no claim on me.’
‘No, neither can I,’ said Erlendur. ‘But the fact remains that you did.’
Ezra looked up. ‘Do you take me for a fool?’
‘No,’ said Erlendur. ‘If anyone’s a fool around here, it’s me.’
Ezra had raised his mallet to flatten a new fillet of fish that he had hooked out of the plastic bucket, but now he paused, lowered his hand and studied Erlendur.
‘How do you mean?’
‘I’m talking about your friend Jakob.’
‘What about him?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Erlendur. ‘Is there any further detail you’d like to add to your story?’
‘No.’
‘Positive?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t do.’
Ezra put down the mallet, dropped the fish back into the bucket and stood up.
‘I have nothing to add,’ he said. ‘And I’ll thank you to leave me alone.’
He pushed past Erlendur out of the door and trudged up to the house with heavy steps, his shoulders bowed in his scruffy anorak, the ear flaps on his hat hanging loose. Erlendur hesitated, unsure if he wanted to open any more old wounds, doubtful that it was his place to do so. Ever since he had left Djúpivogur last night, he had been wondering whether he or anyone else would be the better for knowing what secrets Ezra was concealing about his dealings with Jakob. Erlendur had satisfied his own curiosity but this was none of his affair, even if he was a policeman. If Ezra was to be believed, the only crime that had been committed was Matthildur’s murder. What had been done with her body was a mystery that would probably never be solved. The case was not subject to a criminal investigation, nor was it likely to become so. It was up to Ezra whether he informed anyone or not. Erlendur would not insist that he did. Anyway, who would benefit if the truth came to light so many years after the event? Why rake up what was better left undisturbed? Best let sleeping dogs lie.
Erlendur had often wrestled with such questions over the years, but seldom reached a conclusion. Each case had to be considered on its own merits. He almost wished he had never started to pry into Ezra’s affairs, but it was too late now. He was in possession of knowledge that he could never forget, and it was natural that he should at least look for an explanation. It was not his aim to punish or to fill the prisons with unfortunate souls. His sole intention was to uncover the truth in every case, to track down what was lost and forgotten.
It was this goal that impelled him now to follow Ezra, with leaden feet, into the house. Ezra had not locked the door, and this ignited a spark of hope in Erlendur. He knew he could never provide the old man with absolution, but he could listen and try to understand. Unburdening himself about Matthildur appeared to have done him good. Ezra had allowed himself to talk, perhaps because Erlendur was a complete stranger, or because he sensed that he wouldn’t judge him.
‘Why did you follow me?’ Ezra asked. He was standing by the kitchen sink. ‘I asked you to leave me alone.’
His tone lacked conviction. Ezra turned his back on Erlendur and leaned over the sink to stare out of the window that overlooked the shed.
‘I wanted to talk some more about Jakob,’ said Erlendur.
‘Well, I have nothing more to say about him.’
‘Let me repeat my question: is there any further detail you’d like to add to your story?’
Ezra turned and met Erlendur’s eye.
‘Would you please leave?’ he said. ‘I beg you. Go away. I have nothing more to say to you. I’ve told you everything I’m prepared to say.’
‘Did Jakob have buck teeth?’
‘What?’