Strange Shores (20 page)

‘Choir practice!’ snorted the man. ‘I’m not going to any bloody choir practice!’

Erlendur had no answer to this and couldn’t tell if the man expected him to report his intentions to his wife. Lúdvík embarked on a tirade against choirs in general, but especially male-voice choirs, with their ridiculous demands on one’s time for rehearsals and tours. It was all very well for the rest of their members who were old sods with nothing better to do than organise endless meetings, but he had a farm to run.

‘Sing in a choir yourself?’ he asked Erlendur. ‘You look the right age.’

‘No, never have,’ said Erlendur.

‘Here for the fishing?’ Lúdvík asked next, changing the subject seamlessly.

‘God, no,’ said Erlendur. ‘I . . . As a matter of fact, I wanted to pick your brains about foxes. I gather you’re an experienced hunter.’

‘Foxes? You’d do better to talk to a man called Bóas. Have you come across him?’

‘I’ve already spoken to him actually.’

‘Barking, isn’t he?’

‘You could put it like that,’ Erlendur said diplomatically, ‘though he’s been very helpful to me.’ He didn’t want the man to bad-mouth Bóas any further in his hearing.

‘Bóas is a prat,’ said Lúdvík contemptuously.

‘Well, that’s not how he struck me.’

‘So what do you want to know about foxes?’ asked Lúdvík, putting down the part that he had detached from the baler and wiping his hands on an oily rag. ‘You’re not from round here, are you? Reykjavík?’

Erlendur nodded. He had been wondering in vain how to phrase his request without either sounding completely ignorant or revealing too much.

‘Not many foxes there,’ commented Lúdvík.

‘No, and I know next to nothing about them myself, so Ezra suggested I have a word with you.’

‘Ezra?’ Lúdvík seized on the name. ‘Know him, do you?’

‘Pretty well,’ said Erlendur, feeling this was no exaggeration. He probably knew more about Ezra than anyone else in the world.

‘Oh, right, so
he
directed you to me?’ said Lúdvík, in a mollified tone. ‘How is the old boy?’

‘All right, I believe.’

‘Salt of the earth, Ezra. Always willing to help out, however big or small the problem. So, what do you want to know?’

‘I wanted to ask if you’d ever found any interesting objects in a fox’s earth or heard stories about other people finding things . . . things the animals might have dragged home with them. You know, the kind of stuff they might pick up around farms and villages or up on the moors.’

Lúdvík gave him a quizzical look.

‘Of course, you can find all sorts in earths,’ he said. ‘You know the old saying: “The fox lurks in its hole, gnawing the whitened bone.”’

Erlendur nodded.

‘Are you after anything in particular?’

‘I’m interested in objects with a connection to humans – remnants of clothing, shoes or boots, maybe; the kind of rubbish we leave lying around.’

‘It happens,’ said Lúdvík, ‘though the fox isn’t as big a thief as the raven.’

‘Have you ever found a boot or anything like that in a fox’s earth?’

‘A boot? What kind of boot?’

‘Well, not necessarily a boot,’ said Erlendur. ‘But that sort of thing.’

‘A specific type of object?’

‘No, nothing specific. Anything a person might drop and a fox pick up. I just wanted to ask on the off chance, in case you’d heard of any unusual bits and pieces from other hunters. I’ve recently developed an interest in foxes, you see. If you remember any examples, it might be useful. Even unusual bones.’

‘Can’t think of any in recent years,’ said Lúdvík.

‘What about in the past?’

‘Nothing springs to mind. But you could try talking to Daníel Kristmundsson. He lives in Seydisfjördur – an old rascal who used to do a lot of guiding for hunters in the area.’

‘Daníel?’

‘Yes, he might be able to help. Assuming the old bastard hasn’t croaked yet.’

‘Well, that was all,’ said Erlendur. He thanked Lúdvík for his help and said he wouldn’t bother him any longer. Feeling relieved to have got the conversation out of the way, he edged towards the door. He felt uncomfortable discussing the subject with a stranger.

‘There’s one fact not everybody knows about foxes,’ said Lúdvík, becoming suddenly preoccupied. ‘I don’t know if you’re thinking along the same lines.’

‘What?’ asked Erlendur, pausing.

‘The fox is a scavenger.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s not fussy when it comes to carrion and can drag bits back to its earth, if that’s what you’re getting at. It can carry pretty heavy loads – I’ve seen a fox running along with the forequarters of a lamb in its mouth.’

‘You mean lambs or ewes or . . .?’

‘Whatever. Birds too. But the fox isn’t a true scavenger. It doesn’t leave all the hunting and killing to other animals – it’s an incredibly skilled predator in its own right. But it’ll eat carrion. We often find the bones of lambs, even of fully grown sheep, that it’s brought back to its hole. Though I’m not quite sure what you’re driving at when you say unusual bones,’ said Lúdvík. ‘Do you mean the bones of animals – or humans?’

Erlendur shook his head. ‘That was all,’ he repeated, making for the door. He had heard enough and the visit had lasted too long already. He didn’t want to hear another word: the thought of scavengers was too gruesome.

‘I haven’t found any arms or legs, if that’s what you’re asking,’ continued Lúdvík, ‘though it’s not out of the question that a fox would go for that sort of food – if a person had died of exposure in the mountains, which used to happen a lot around here in the old days. I’ve even heard tales –’

Erlendur fled, leaving Lúdvík with a puzzled expression. He hurried back to his car. With those few, brief words the farmer had summoned up a picture so horrible that Erlendur would have given anything to be able to expunge it from his mind.

THAT EVENING HE
sat in the derelict farmhouse, warming himself at the gaslight, slurping at a mug of hot coffee and taking half-hearted bites at a smoked-lamb sandwich from the convenience store. He had little appetite and soon abandoned the sandwich and lit a cigarette instead. He pushed the meeting with Lúdvík to the back of his mind, telling himself it would do no good to obsess about the habits of foxes.

Meanwhile, Ezra’s story would not leave him alone. Erlendur felt inclined to believe the old man’s account: one only had to listen to Ezra for a minute to feel his torment, the terrible uncertainty he had lived with so long, the deep guilt that had plagued him for most of his life. It seemed certain that Jakob had killed Matthildur and taken the knowledge of her body’s whereabouts to his grave. For Ezra, there had never been any sort of closure and it was only too apparent that his wounds were still raw, even after the passing of more than sixty years. He was old now and, judging by his constant references to his imminent death, no longer expected to live to hear the end of the story – should Matthildur ever be found. Ezra admitted he had given up searching for her decades ago.

Erlendur refilled his mug and drank slowly. Jakob had got away with murder, there was little doubt. What’s more, he had arranged it so that he could confess it to Ezra, torture him with the knowledge, accuse him and tie his hands at the same time. He had taken advantage of the lucky circumstances – the storm and the disaster that had befallen the British servicemen. He had shown incredible audacity in the way he lied about Matthildur’s movements. And he had known just how to apply pressure to Ezra’s vulnerable point: his affair with Matthildur and the betrayal of his friend.

The most obvious flaw in Ezra’s testimony was that he could not call on anyone to confirm it. There were no witnesses; he had never shared what happened with anyone and he was now the only living person who knew the facts. His statement would stand or fall by his own credibility. Erlendur considered calling a halt at this point: he supposed he had been fairly successful in his inquiry, though, strictly speaking, he was not really investigating Matthildur’s disappearance; rather, he was satisfying his own curiosity, aware that no one could be held to account at this late stage. The case had been subject to a conspiracy of silence for a lifetime.

Yet Matthildur’s story had touched a nerve with Erlendur; he felt he could relate to her fate and this feeling had given him a sense of connection to the case – though he didn’t really know what was driving him on. Perhaps it was the thought of Ezra’s dismal plight: doomed to live on in the wreckage of his lost love. If what he said was true, he had only ever learned half the story. And Erlendur knew how unbearable life could be on those terms.

He thought about Jakob’s revenge; how he had trapped Ezra and made him an accessory to his deed, though Ezra had done little to deserve it. Jakob had committed a crime of passion, probably performed without premeditation. These crimes were generally committed in a fog of madness. But what had followed had been a calculated act of vengeance: Jakob had arranged it so that the person he believed bore all the blame would never experience another day of happiness.

Or perhaps it was the love story that had caught Erlendur’s imagination. The love between Matthildur and Ezra denied a chance to blossom, cut short with such brutality.

During the afternoon the wind had picked up and was now making a low keening in the eaves. Erlendur reviewed all that he had uncovered by tracking people down and asking questions about Matthildur, Ezra and Jakob. His thoughts did not follow any coherent path: the individuals he had met, their stories and circumstances became mingled with the East Fjords fog and the blizzard, with his sojourn in the ruined farm, his journeys on foot and by car, the freighters sailing into Reydarfjördur and the astonishing, ever-present signs of industrial development. All these elements coalesced in his mind until, abruptly, he was brought up short by three minor details to which he had paid scant attention at the time. One was the reference to Ezra’s former workplace. The second was a comment, uttered during a conversation, which Erlendur had hardly taken in. But for the wind moaning in the roof he would have forgotten it completely. After he had been listening to the noise for a while, puzzled as to what it reminded him of, a memory suddenly surfaced: someone had heard a noise coming from Jakob’s coffin. The third detail was a remark that Ezra had let fall when they were talking about Jakob’s death and how his body had been stored overnight in the ice house where Ezra worked. It was an innocent statement about Matthildur’s whereabouts that held no significance at the time:
I couldn’t get it out of him
.

‘Is it possible?’ Erlendur whispered into the gloom.

He rose from his camp chair in sudden agitation.

‘Was he talking about the ice house?’ he asked aloud.

Oblivious to the passing hours, Erlendur wrestled with these three ostensibly trivial threads, trying to find a link between them and growing ever more perplexed until finally he stubbed out his last cigarette and decided that he would have no choice but to impose on Hrund one more time.

IN THE MIDDLE
of the night he wakes with a jolt from a dream and blinks at his surroundings. He sees only darkness beyond the lantern’s ring of light but can still sense the presence of the boy in his dream. At first he isn’t sure whether he has been asleep and dreaming, or whether it was something else. A sudden dread seizes him, followed by a flood of relief when he realises it was only a nightmare. Curiously, it had felt like the re-echo or revisiting of a dream he’d had in the most wretched period of his youth, which he has never forgotten.

In the dream, which shocks him so violently awake, he is lying on his side, alone in the house in his sleeping bag, covered by a blanket. The house is open to the elements. It is dark and eerie. All at once he feels a presence behind him. Turning deliberately, he peers blindly into the blackness, until a vision materialises of a dejected-looking boy whose eyes meet his.

The vision vanishes.

Erlendur lies in the darkness, meditating on the dream that had woken him once long ago with such a terrible start. He recognised the boy in the vision: it was himself.

WHEN HE ARRIVED
at lunchtime to see Hrund in the hospital at Neskaupstadur, she was asleep. Unwilling to disturb her, he took a seat by her bed and waited for her to stir. He couldn’t entirely shake off the chill that had gripped him when he woke early that morning and drank the dregs of the cold coffee in his Thermos. He had resorted to hurrying to the car and using the heater to thaw out before driving into the village to visit the swimming pool. It had been his morning routine for most of his stay, but he only used the showers, never set foot in the pool itself. The staff respected his privacy, wishing him good morning but never displaying any curiosity or trying to strike up a conversation. This time he stood for longer than usual under the jet of hot water, trying to restore the circulation to his body. Then, having dressed again, he went and ate breakfast at the petrol station and refilled his Thermos before heading off to Neskaupstadur.

Through it all he had been wrestling with the theory that had taken shape during the night. He had been quite excited when it first occurred to him, but the more he thought about it, the more implausible it felt. If it were true, it would mean abandoning several of his preconceptions, including his instinct about Ezra. On the other hand, he knew enough about cold and its impact on the bodily functions, particularly the heart and circulation, to appreciate that they could slow down almost to a standstill without resulting in death or damage, so long as intervention was made in sufficient time.

Hrund opened her eyes and saw that she had a visitor. She pulled herself up a little in bed.

‘You again?’ she said.

‘I won’t bother you for long,’ Erlendur assured her.

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘People aren’t exactly queuing up to see me.’

‘My visit isn’t entirely altruistic,’ he admitted.

‘I guessed as much. I haven’t lost my marbles yet. What is it now?’

‘Various ideas I’ve been mulling over.’