Stooping, he fumbles for it, then knocks it on the floor three times until the bulb comes on, lighting up the room with an instant of brilliance before finally dying for good. He looks around frantically but the man has vanished.
‘What do you want from me?’ he murmurs into the night.
He is lying in the cold, eyes half open, unsure how long it is since the involuntary shivering ceased. He can’t feel his hands or feet, is no longer aware of being frozen. He knows he will soon fall asleep but struggles against the drowsiness. It is vital to stay awake as long as possible but his strength is dwindling. He remembers seeing the stars as he lay in the snow.
Through the brain-numbing cold it occurs to him that he is no longer in his right mind.
AS ERLENDUR BUMPED
slowly up the track to the farm, he saw Bóas emerge into the yard to greet him. He had not called on him before because they were to all intents and purposes strangers, in spite of the hunting trip. But now he felt he had personal business with this man who had tried to extract milk from a dead vixen.
Bóas had seen him coming and hurried out in slippers and shirtsleeves, with a stump of pipe in his mouth. He had recognised the blue four-wheel drive from seeing it parked outside the old place at Bakkasel over the last few days. Erlendur got out and they shook hands.
‘I don’t understand how you can rough it in that ruin,’ the farmer remarked as he invited him indoors. ‘The nights are getting damned chilly.’
‘Oh, I can’t complain,’ said Erlendur.
‘I’m not used to entertaining guests, so I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with coffee.’ Bóas explained that his wife was visiting relatives in Egilsstadir. His tone revealed that he was not sorry to miss them.
They sat down together in the spotless kitchen. Bóas put two cups on the table, filled them with coffee and added such a generous splash of milk to each that they turned pale brown and tepid. Then he puffed on his pipe and started grumbling about the industrial developments and those bloody capitalists making fools of the politicians.
‘Discovered any more about Matthildur?’ The question came from out of the blue. It made it sound as if Erlendur was conducting an official inquiry into her disappearance more than sixty years ago.
‘No,’ said Erlendur, lighting a cigarette to keep Bóas company. ‘There’s nothing new to report. She must have died in the storm. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened.’
‘No, I’m afraid you’re right there.’ Bóas slurped his milky coffee. ‘Not the first time by a long chalk.’
‘Do you know any more about her sisters? Two of them moved to Reykjavík. And there’s the one who lives in Reydarfjördur.’
‘I know Hrund quite well,’ said Bóas. ‘A fine woman. Have you spoken to her?’
Erlendur nodded.
‘Oh, so you
are
interested, then.’
‘Did you ever hear any gossip about Matthildur and Jakob’s marriage? About her sisters’ attitude to him, for example?’
‘What have you discovered?’ Bóas demanded, with unabashed curiosity.
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re lying, of course,’ said Bóas. ‘I don’t remember hearing that. Did they disapprove? Which ones? Why?’
‘I’m asking because I don’t know,’ said Erlendur. ‘Are you familiar with the name Pétur Alfredsson? I imagine he’d be dead by now.’
‘Yes, I remember him. He was a fisherman. Died years ago. What about him?’
‘Pétur wrote an obituary for Jakob in the farmers’ paper. It was the only one printed. I checked at the library in Egilsstadir. He described him as an all-round good bloke and mentioned that he’d lost his wife several years before.’
‘Did he now?’
‘Did this Pétur have any children?’
‘Yes, three, I think. One of his daughters used to live in Fáskrúdsfjördur. Probably still does. She was involved in local politics. I assume his other kids must have moved to Reykjavík because I haven’t heard their names for years.’
‘What about a woman called Ninna? It’s not a nickname, by the way. She was Matthildur’s friend, mentioned in one of her letters. They went to a dance together and Jakob was there.’
‘I don’t recall any Ninna,’ Bóas said. ‘Is she supposed to have lived in Eskifjördur?’
‘I don’t know. She’s probably not important – just a name in a letter. But she may have been present the evening Matthildur and Jakob got together. I spoke to an old friend of Jakob’s too – Ezra.’
‘You’re obviously not at all interested,’ said Bóas, grinning. ‘I’d be better off asking who you haven’t talked to. Seems I really got you going.’ He sounded pleased with himself.
‘Do you know Ezra?’
‘Ezra’s getting on, and his health’s not what it was. You’d never guess to look at him now but in his day he was a titan: hardy, brave and good in a fight, as they used to say in the sagas. And never beholden to anyone.’
There was no mistaking Bóas’s admiration. Sitting up eagerly, he embarked on a long speech about how they didn’t make them like Ezra any more: the last of his breed, indomitable, a man of true grit. He was the best hunter and fisherman Bóas had ever known: fox, reindeer, ptarmigan and geese, cod and haddock – none of them stood a chance. Finally breaking off his eulogy, he asked: ‘What sort of welcome did he give you?’
‘Not bad,’ said Erlendur. ‘I bought some first-rate dried fish off him.’
‘No one makes better
hardfiskur
,’ said Bóas. ‘Did he mention the dam business at all?’
‘No.’
‘No, that’s just it. I don’t know where he stands on it. He’s not one for showing his hand, Ezra. Never has been.’
‘Did he ever go out fishing with Jakob?’ Erlendur asked.
‘I don’t know – I’d have to ask around. Ezra’s done so many jobs. He was foreman at the ice house in Eskifjördur for years. Started work there during the war, I believe.’
Erlendur vacillated for some time before changing the subject. Now that it came to it, he wasn’t sure he really wanted to find the answers he had been seeking for so long. Noticing his preoccupation, Bóas held his tongue for once. In the end, Erlendur took from his pocket the scrap of metal that Ezra had found by a fox’s earth on the slopes of Mount Hardskafi.
‘You said the oddest things turned up in foxholes.’
‘That’s right,’ said Bóas.
Erlendur showed him the toy.
‘Ezra came across this up on Hardskafi. I believe my brother may have owned one like it.’
‘I see.’
‘In view of what you said, and because you’re a fox-hunter and know the mountains like the back of your hand, it occurred to me to ask if you’ve ever come across any other objects like this? Or any tatters of clothing, that sort of thing?’
Bóas took the toy.
‘You think this belonged to your brother?’ he asked.
‘Not necessarily. I know he had a car like it that my father gave him. I wondered if you could keep your eyes open for me. I don’t mean right this minute, or today or tomorrow, just next time you’re staking out an earth. See if you notice any unusual bits and pieces.’
‘Like this, you mean?’
Erlendur nodded. ‘Or remains,’ he added.
‘Bones?’
Erlendur took the car back and returned it to his pocket. He had tried to banish the thought. Every time it entered his mind, he visualised the disembowelled corpse of a lamb that he had once found on the moors; the empty sockets in its skull where the ravens had pecked out its eyes.
‘Would you get in touch if you find anything of interest, however small?’
‘If that
is
your brother’s car, there are several possibilities,’ said Bóas. ‘He could have lost it earlier – dropped it outside your house, for example, where a raven snatched it and flew with it up the mountain. That’s one way it could have ended up by the fox’s earth. Or he could have been carrying it with him when he went missing and a fox found it and his body at the same time.’
‘I know he had it with him,’ said Erlendur.
‘How do you know?’
‘I just know. Will you get in touch?’
‘Of course I will, no question,’ said Bóas. ‘Though I’ve seen nothing of the sort so far, if that’s any comfort.’
They sat without speaking until Bóas eventually leaned forward and asked: ‘What are you expecting to find up there?’
‘Nothing,’ said Erlendur.
Back at the ruined farm, trying to warm himself over the lantern, Erlendur took out the newspaper obituary that he had appropriated from the trunk in Egilsstadir. He reread the piece carefully, pausing at the mention of the ice house in Eskifjördur. After Jakob drowned, his body and that of his companion had been stored there. He recalled what Bóas had said about Ezra, who might therefore have been working at the ice house at the time – who might even have taken in and kept vigil over the dead men.
AT NOON THE
following day, Erlendur reached the small village in Fáskrúdsfjördur, having driven the long way round via Reydarfjördur Fjord and the headland at the foot of Mount Reydarfjall. He could have taken the new road tunnel, opened that summer, which linked the two fjords, but preferred the old route. The mercury had dropped sharply in the night and the ground was white right down to the shore. It was the first snowfall of the autumn and brought with it the customary alien quietness, muffling the houses and landscape in a soft, white quilt. The flakes continued to fall all morning in the still air, clogging the roads and making for treacherous going.
He knew that if the wind picked up, causing the temperature to plummet still further and the snow to drift, it would no longer be feasible for him to stay in the abandoned farm. The old house would soon begin to fill with snow. He might as well be sleeping out in the yard for all the shelter it would provide. It crossed his mind to call it a day and go home to Reykjavík. Winter was closing in, after all. But he had a nagging sense of unfinished business, as if there were something he had yet to achieve here, though he wasn’t sure what.
He drove to a garage, filled the car with petrol and asked the assistant at the till if she knew Gréta Pétursdóttir. There were three girls working behind the counter and even so they could hardly keep up with demand. The shop and café were packed with lorry drivers and labourers, while two men in suits sat hunched over their laptops. Erlendur had read that the volume of traffic using the tunnel connecting Fáskrúdsfjördur to the smelter site in Reydarfjördur had exceeded even the most optimistic expectations. He wanted no part in it.
‘Sorry, no,’ said the girl. ‘But hang on a minute while I ask the others.’
She squeezed a thick line of mustard onto a hot dog laden with all the trimmings, handed it to a customer, did some rapid mental arithmetic, called out to ask another girl if she knew Gréta, received an answer, told the hot-dog customer how much he owed, then turned back to Erlendur.
‘Sorry, I was mixing her up with someone else. The Gréta you want works at the swimming pool.’
Erlendur nodded and thanked her. He drove round the village through the thick curtains of snow until he located the pool. Unusually for Iceland, it was an indoor one, and he was struck by the smell of chlorine as he entered the reception area. A fleshy woman with greying hair, probably in her early sixties, was sitting at the desk, looking at a news site on the Internet. The noise of children screaming carried from the pool. Erlendur was immediately transported back to school swimming lessons.
‘For one?’ asked the woman, looking up. She wore a small name badge which said ‘Gréta’.
‘What?’ said Erlendur.
‘Do you want a swim?’ asked the woman.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I’m here to see Gréta Pétursdóttir.’
‘That’s me.’
Erlendur introduced himself and explained that he had a special interest in stories of accidents in the interior and was currently researching the incident involving the British servicemen from Reydarfjördur. He had discovered that a young woman from Eskifjördur, called Matthildur, had also died on the moors the same night. She had been married to Jakob, a friend of Gréta’s father Pétur, who had later written his obituary.
The woman regarded him placidly as he repeated this rigmarole and Erlendur realised she was not following him.
‘Who did you say you were?’ she asked.
‘I’m researching examples of this kind of incident here in the East Fjords,’ he said, and started again on his explanation about the long-ago events until finally the woman seemed to twig. She served a couple of children who came in; others began to emerge in dribs and drabs from the changing rooms. When it had quietened down again, she asked Erlendur if he would like a coffee, and he accepted. They sat down at a small table in the reception area. A man wearing white trousers and clogs came over and she asked him to stand in for her, using strange words and a good deal of gesturing.
‘He’s Polish,’ she explained.
‘Oh,’ said Erlendur. ‘I suppose you get a lot of foreigners working out here.’
‘Not just here but all over. Reykjavík too. You can’t move for them. I think I know what you’re talking about,’ she went on, pausing to take a sip of watery coffee. ‘But it was before my time, so I don’t know if I can be much help. I’m amazed you were able to track me down.’
‘Do you have any memories of Jakob?’
‘Not really. He died around
1950,
didn’t he? I was just a little girl. But Dad used to talk about him a lot. They were good friends and often worked together – they were both fishermen. I think I’ve got a copy of that obituary you mentioned. Dad wrote several and kept them all. It appeared in the farmers’ paper, didn’t it?’
‘Yes. Were they roughly the same age?’
‘Yes, my father may have been slightly younger, but not much. He often told the story of Jakob’s shipwreck. There was a violent storm. People watched helplessly from land but in the end all they could do was bring the men’s bodies ashore.’
‘I gather they were stored in the ice house,’ Erlendur said. ‘In Eskifjördur.’
‘That sounds likely. They were buried only a day or two after they died, according to Dad. It all happened very quickly, but then I think Dad said neither of them had any dependants.’
‘Did your father ever mention Matthildur?’