Strange Shores

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 an 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 searched 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.