Strange Shores

by Arnaldur Indridason

  ‘I hope we can keep this between us,’ said Erlendur. ‘So it doesn’t go any further.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Ezra’s convinced Jakob killed Matthildur.’

  Hrund regarded him impassively.

  ‘He has no proof,’ said Erlendur. ‘But he told me that Jakob had confessed to the killing in his hearing. Jakob acted out of jealousy and a desire for revenge. Some would call it a crime of passion. Matthildur was going to leave Jakob for Ezra, but he began to suspect they were up to no good and followed her to Ezra’s house one night. He saw everything and couldn’t take it – couldn’t take the betrayal.’

  Hrund’s expression was still unreadable.

  ‘Jakob invented the story about Matthildur going to your mother’s house in Reydarfjördur and getting caught in the storm. As it was, she never left home.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ whispered Hrund at last.

  ‘I have no reason to disbelieve Ezra,’ said Erlendur.

  ‘The evil bastard.’

  Erlendur described how he had gradually coaxed Ezra into telling him what he knew, how he and Matthildur had been in love, how time had stopped for Ezra when she went missing. He told her about Ezra’s encounters with Jakob after she vanished, first in the graveyard, then at Jakob’s house, where he had confessed to killing her.

  ‘How did you get him to talk?’ Hrund asked.

  Erlendur shrugged. ‘He seemed ready to unburden himself,’ he said, hoping this was not too great a lie.

  He wouldn’t dream of admitting the pressure he had put on Ezra to make him cooperate. Indeed, he rather regretted it, especially given the cost. Erlendur was not proud of the lengths he had gone to. He was worried about digging up Jakob’s grave but even more about how he had treated Ezra. He had bludgeoned the old man into confessing and now he could only pity him. He might himself be driven by an insatiable compulsion, an obsession with uncovering the truth, but why couldn’t Ezra have been left in peace with his secrets? He was no hardened criminal, no danger to his community. When they parted, Ezra had said it didn’t matter to him what Erlendur chose to do with his discoveries, but Erlendur knew better.

  Hard on the heels of revelation came anger.

  ‘It’s hardly possible to imagine a worse end,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Ezra snarled back. ‘Do you think it hasn’t preyed on my mind every day? You needn’t start preaching to me on that score.’

  He turned to glare at Erlendur.

  ‘You can leave now,’ he said. ‘Bugger off and leave me alone. I never want to set eyes on you again. I don’t have long left and I don’t want to have to see you.’

  ‘I can understand –’ Erlendur was not permitted to finish.

  ‘Out!’ said Ezra, raising his voice. ‘Get out, I say! For once in your life do as I ask. Get out!’

  Erlendur stood up and went to the kitchen door.

  ‘I don’t want us to part in anger,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t give a damn what you want,’ said Ezra. ‘Just bugger off!’

  So they parted. Erlendur retreated, though he was unhappy leaving him in such a fragile state. There was nothing he could do for Ezra right now, yet in spite of the old man’s pleas he intended to come back the following day to check if he had recovered.

  It had taken Hrund some time to grasp the full implications of what Erlendur had said.

  ‘You mean Jakob admitted this to Ezra?’ she said, aghast. ‘That he’d killed her?’

  Erlendur nodded.

  ‘How?’

  ‘With his bare hands,’ said Erlendur. ‘Apparently he strangled her.’

  Hrund inadvertently clasped her hands over her mouth, as if to stifle the cry that rose to her lips when she pictured her sister’s end.

  ‘But why didn’t Ezra tell anyone? Why didn’t he go to the police?’

  ‘It was more complicated than that,’ said Erlendur. ‘Jakob had a hold over Ezra. He fixed it, or at least claimed to have fixed it, so that Ezra would be framed for the murder if he ever told anyone what he had heard. Ezra chose not to take that risk. It wouldn’t have restored Matthildur to him and he was convinced anyway that Jakob would never reveal how he’d disposed of the body. As indeed it turned out.’

  ‘What did he do? What did Jakob do with her body?’ asked Hrund.

  ‘He always refused to tell.’

  ‘So nobody knows?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even Ezra?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you haven’t found out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So she’ll never be found?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  Hrund reflected on what Erlendur had said. She was profoundly shaken. All the wind seemed to have been knocked out of her.

  ‘The poor man,’ she said at last.

  ‘Ezra’s life has been pretty wretched ever since,’ said Erlendur.

  ‘He’s had to live with this uncertainty all these years.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who would do that – what kind of man?’ she said, rising to her feet in her anguish. ‘What kind of monster was Jakob?’

  ‘You said he had a bad reputation.’

  ‘Yes, but this! Who could do such a thing?’

  ‘He got his just deserts.’

  ‘Not just enough in my opinion,’ snapped Hrund.

  ‘Perhaps he had an opportunity to reflect on the suffering he had caused others before he died,’ said Erlendur.

  Her gaze sharpened. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That would have been punishment enough,’ said Erlendur.

  53

  AT THE END of that long day Erlendur drove up to a small, wooden house, clad in corrugated iron, situated in the town of Seydisfjördur. After leaving Hrund, he had driven straight along the Fagridalur Valley, pausing briefly in Egilsstadir to replenish his supplies of petrol, cigarettes and coffee, before taking the road east over the high mountain pass to Seydisfjördur which lay at the head of the fjord of the same name. He had one remaining call to make and wanted to get it out of the way that evening. He had found the address in the phone book. The man he was on his way to visit was called Daníel Kristmundsson and his name had cropped up in conversation with Bóas’s nemesis, Lúdvík. Daníel used to work as a guide for hunters from Reykjavík. ‘An old rascal,’ Lúdvík had called him.

  There was a faint gleam of light in one window of the house, which stood on a secluded, badly lit street at the eastern end of the little town. After vainly fumbling for a bell, Erlendur knocked on the door. Nothing happened. He knocked again. After a long interval he finally heard movement within. He waited patiently until the door opened and a man in his early fifties, unshaven and tousled, squinted at him dubiously.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  He could hardly be described as an old rascal, so assuming he was the wrong man, Erlendur asked if this was Daníel Kristmundsson’s house.

  ‘That Daníel’s dead,’ said the man.

  ‘Oh?’ said Erlendur. ‘Has he been dead long?’

  ‘Six months.’

  ‘I see,’ said Erlendur. ‘Well, that’s that then. He’s still listed at this address in the phone book.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I should give them a call.’

  The man inspected him. A glint of curiosity appeared in his eyes. ‘Why did you want to see him? Are you selling something?’

  ‘No,’ said Erlendur. ‘I’m not a salesman. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

  He said goodbye and was about to return to his car when the man came out onto the step.

  ‘What did you want with Daníel?’ he asked.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Erlendur. ‘I’m too late. Did you know him?’

  ‘Quite well,’ the man replied. ‘He was my father.’

  Erlendur smiled. ‘I wanted to talk to him about fox-hunting – in the old days. Specifically about fox behaviour, and about their earths. That was all. I was told he was a
n expert.’

  ‘What did you want to know?’

  The dim light spilled out into the darkness where they stood. Erlendur felt awkward and unsure about his errand now it transpired that the man he had come to see was dead. But his son’s interest had been piqued by the visitor who had disturbed his nap.

  ‘Nothing important,’ replied Erlendur. ‘Just whether he’d ever found any unusual objects on the moors to the south of here. In the mountains above Reydarfjördur or Eskifjördur – on Andri or Hardskafi, for example. I don’t suppose you’d know?’

  ‘Are you working on the dam?’ asked the man.

  ‘No.’

  ‘The smelter, then?’

  ‘No, I’m just passing through,’ explained Erlendur. ‘I’m not working out here.’

  ‘He found all sorts of stuff, my dad,’ said the man. ‘All kinds of rubbish. Kept some of it too.’

  ‘Objects found in nests or foxholes, you mean?’

  ‘That’s right. And from the shore. He used to beach-comb for shells, pebbles and animal bones. I expect you’d have enjoyed meeting him.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear he’s passed away.’

  ‘Ah, well, he’d had a good innings. Bedbound towards the end. It didn’t suit him. He was glad to go. Maybe you’d like to see the junk he collected? The garage is bursting with it. I haven’t got round to throwing any of it away yet though I’ve sometimes thought of setting light to the lot.’

  Erlendur paused. It had been a gruelling day.

  ‘Well, it’s up to you,’ the man said, waiting for an answer.

  ‘It wouldn’t hurt to have a look,’ said Erlendur. The man was so eager to help that he didn’t want to appear ungrateful.

  ‘My name’s Daníel too,’ said the man, offering him his hand. ‘Daníel Daníelsson. There aren’t many of us around.’

  Unsure how to take this, Erlendur followed him in silence round the back of the house, where the darkness was even more impenetrable, to a concrete building that might once have been intended as a garage. Daníel opened the door, felt for the light switch and turned on the naked bulb that hung from the ceiling.

  Unfortunately, no one could have claimed that the old rascal had been tidy or arranged his collection in any sort of order. The garage was crammed with objects, some useful, others worthless, that old Daníel had evidently picked up and then put down wherever he happened to be standing. Erlendur hung back in the doorway: there was no point going any further.

  ‘See what I mean?’ said Daníel. ‘Wouldn’t it be simplest to torch the lot?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t think there’s anything here for me,’ said Erlendur politely. ‘I shouldn’t take up any more of your time. I’d better be going.’

  ‘You mentioned foxholes,’ said Daníel.

  ‘Yes, but it’s all right. I’m a bit pressed for time actually.’

  ‘I know there are some crates in here somewhere – three of them, I think – full of smaller boxes and envelopes that he kept his bones in. He often used to show them to me in the old days, tell me where he’d found them and so on. He had quite a collection. Foxes’ bones too. A fair number. Is that the kind of thing you had in mind?’

  The man forced a path through the piles of junk, pushing aside the spare parts of cars, tyres, a broken bicycle frame. A collection of plumbing materials, including pipes and joints, hung from the ceiling. Erlendur spotted two ancient shotguns that must have been defunct: one was missing the trigger; the barrel and stock were facing in opposite directions on the other. A stuffed raven and the hide of an animal he didn’t recognise graced one corner. Daníel bored further into the garage and Erlendur regretted ever having dragged him out of bed. He was about to succumb to the urge to tiptoe away without saying goodbye when Daníel uttered an exclamation. ‘Here’s one.’

  Erlendur saw him straighten up with a large cardboard box in his arms.

  ‘Take a look in here, if you want,’ Daníel said, bringing it over. ‘I’m going to check if the rest are over there.’

  ‘Really, there’s no need,’ protested Erlendur, but the man either didn’t hear or didn’t want to listen.

  Accepting the box, Erlendur placed it on a heap of carpet offcuts. It turned out to be full of turnip-coloured bones that he found hard to identify, though they might have included the skulls of birds and cats, a fox’s jawbone with needle-sharp teeth, and assorted leg bones and ribs. Among them were what appeared to be the skeletons of mice. None were labelled in any way, either with the name of the species or the site of discovery. Erlendur glanced up from the box to see Daníel cradling an old wooden crate which had once contained bottles of some long-discontinued Icelandic fizzy drink called ‘Spur’. Erlendur had never tasted it.

  The contents of this one were better organised. Some of the bones were in brown paper envelopes, with the name of the animal and the find site written on the front. Erlendur guessed that Daníel had started out with a system but eventually abandoned it. Perhaps he had amassed the bones quicker than he could catalogue them.

  ‘He knew a whole lot about bones,’ Daníel’s son remarked from the other end of the garage. He sounded proud. ‘Specially of birds. He trained as a taxidermist when he was young, though he never practised. It was just a kind of hobby. I’ve got a white fox indoors that he stuffed. Did a good job too. And a falcon, if you’re interested.’

  ‘Would I be right in thinking he did the raven?’ asked Erlendur, gesturing at the black bird stowed up among the rafters.

  ‘That’s right,’ said the younger Daníel. ‘Are you from Reykjavík, by any chance?’

  ‘Yes, I live there,’ said Erlendur, going through the envelopes in the crate. He was engrossed now. One was marked ‘Arctic tern, Lodmundarfjördur’. He opened it, tipping a near intact skeleton into his palm.

  ‘He used to talk about putting these bones in a display case with proper labels and donating the collection to the local college. He had a case built ages ago, with a glass front, but I can’t find it anywhere. I spotted it in here once, so I can’t understand what’s become of it.’

  Erlendur replaced the skeleton in the envelope. Daníel was holding yet another crate which he now passed to him. Inside were numerous smaller containers which were clearly labelled. Old Daníel had been very systematic about organising this part of his collection.

  Erlendur picked up one of the smaller boxes. The white label glued to its lid read ‘Foot of Mount Snaefell, Golden plover’.

  Erlendur took out several more and examined them. One had a question mark scribbled on the lid. He read the label: ‘Hardskafi, North flank’.

  The words were written in pencil. The question mark gave him pause.

  Opening the lid, he saw immediately that the small bones it contained were human. He had after all once dug up the skeleton of a four-year-old girl. A shiver ran like cold water down his spine.

  ‘What have you got there?’ called Daníel from the back of the garage. He had noticed that his visitor was standing as if turned to stone, with one of his father’s boxes in his hands.

  ‘Did your father ever mention someone going missing on the moors around here?’ asked Erlendur, not taking his eyes off the bones.

  ‘Missing? No.’

  ‘A child from Eskifjördur, lost on the moors forty years ago?’

  ‘No, he never mentioned it,’ said Daníel. ‘At least not in my hearing.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’d remember that. But I don’t.’

  Erlendur stared at the question mark on the lid. Old Daníel hadn’t known what it was that he had found on the northern slopes of Mount Hardskafi, but he had shoved the bones in his pocket anyway because of his collecting mania. Perhaps he had intended to find out what they were, maybe even send them to an expert, but never got round to it. If he had, he would without a doubt have discovered what he had in his possession. Then someone would have heard about his find and made the connection with the boy who went missing.

  He se
arched for a date on the box but there was none.

  There were two bones. He didn’t dare touch them but was convinced he was right. One was part of a chinbone, the other a cheekbone.

  They were not fully grown.

  They belonged to a child.

  54

  ERLENDUR WALKS IN silence behind his father as they slog up the hill to the moor. He pays little heed to where they are going. Bergur, lagging behind, breaks into a jog to catch up. Soon the distance between them opens once more and Bergur is forced into a trot again. Erlendur himself is walking hard on his father’s heels, trying to tread in his footprints, though this is tricky because they are too far apart. At times he has to quicken his pace to avoid being left behind like Beggi.

  They continue like this for a good while, until their father decides it is time for a rest. Not for him; for the boys. The higher they climb, the deeper and more of a hindrance the snow becomes, especially for short legs. Raising a pair of binoculars to his eyes, their father scans the landscape for the lost sheep.

  ‘Wait for me, Lendi,’ Beggi calls. He pretends not to hear.

  Beggi calls him ‘Lendi’, ‘big brother Lendi’. His mother occasionally addresses him as ‘Lillabob’, which infuriates him, though she only uses it nowadays to tease him. But his father only ever calls him by his given name. ‘Erlendur,’ he will say, ‘pass me that book, will you?’ Or, ‘Time you were in bed, Erlendur.’

  Beggi catches up. He notices that Beggi is struggling with his gloves and discovers that he has brought along his toy car. He has freed his hands so he can extract the car from his pocket to check if it’s all right. Then he pushes it inside one of the gloves and tries to put his hand in after it, so that he can hold the toy.

  ‘I can’t see them,’ their father announces. ‘We’ll climb a bit higher and see if we can find their tracks.’