Strange Shores

9

Erlendur sat in his car until evening fell, lighting one cigarette after another and keeping the driver’s window open a crack to prevent the interior from filling with smoke. Ezra’s dried fish lay on the passenger seat but he had no appetite. He had driven down to the shore and, as daylight merged into dusk, he watched a giant container ship glide up the fjord and pondered how heavy industry was transforming people’s lives. Houses and shops were springing up all over the place, served by a network of new roads, and the local economy was booming. The few villagers who had passed the time of day with him — shopkeepers, dockworkers, the boys at the petrol station, all East Fjords born and bred — shared none of Bóas’s and Hrund’s misgivings. They were pleased with the developments. They saw the situation changing so fast it took their breath away.

‘The place was dying on its feet,’ he was told. ‘Now times have changed for the better.’

‘They’ve certainly changed,’ he replied.

His thoughts wandered back to Matthildur, and to the British servicemen who had been fighting for their lives on the moors that night. The pass at Hraevarskörd had been blocked. It was there that their journey had taken a turn for the worse and the soldiers’ death march had begun. Unfamiliar with the climate and terrain, they had ploughed on instead of turning back, climbing ever higher, unwilling to surrender to this remote, alien land to which war had brought them. But in the end they had been forced to admit defeat.

Matthildur had been better prepared, although she should never really have set out. There were countless stories of people who embarked on journeys against their instincts, ignoring all advice and common sense. Was that what Matthildur had done? Such trips often began well, with no hint of imminent danger: the weather pleasant, the going underfoot good and the prospect of a reasonable day’s journey. They would head off full of confidence, only to find themselves halfway along and abruptly confronted with death. Perhaps that was what had happened to Matthildur.

She had been a robust woman, according to Ezra, and would have equipped herself well. She had food and intended to stop at least once. After saying goodbye to her husband early that morning, she had marched off with a high heart. At much the same time the British had been readying themselves to leave. No doubt they had sought local advice and been directed to take the shortest route over the pass. When the storm struck, with a ferocity that stunned them, the group was scattered and each man was forced to fend for himself. Matthildur would have found herself in the same predicament. Perhaps she had tried to retrace her steps down from the moors, only to fall in a river and be washed out to sea, which would explain why her body was never found.

But it was also possible that she had never left home in the first place.

The idea was hardly novel. Bóas and Hrund had both hinted as much, going on no more than fickle rumour. But their words had not fallen on deaf ears. Erlendur had an old theory that among the many and various incidents of people going missing in the Icelandic interior, more than one crime had gone undetected. He knew of an example from the Second World War, which bore out his belief. Several years ago he had investigated the discovery of human bones in the Reykjavík suburb of Grafarholt which was then being built. A family man had been murdered and buried in a shallow grave not far from his own front door. His wife, the victim of years of domestic abuse, had stated that he had gone missing in bad weather — she had not heard from him since he set out on foot to cross Hellisheidi, the mountain road between Reykjavík and Selfoss. The matter had not been investigated at the time; he had simply been presumed dead. Then decades later his grave had been uncovered close to where the couple’s house had stood, and the truth had come to light.

Erlendur stubbed out his umpteenth cigarette, delved in his jacket pocket for the broken hunk of metal that had once been a toy car and balanced it on the dashboard. He had postponed a closer inspection, uncertain whether it would be of any use, but now he sat and contemplated the almost unrecognisable object.

He distinctly remembered a toy car of the same make, which had once been a bright red, with windows through which a child’s eye could make out a front seat and a minute steering wheel. The tyres had been white. The car had belonged to Bergur. Erlendur recalled the day it had come to Bakkasel. Their father had been playing the violin at a dance in Seydisfjördur and bought them each a gift. Erlendur had been given a lead soldier holding a rifle with a bayonet on the end. The soldier was painted green, apart from his boots which were black and a pale pink splash where his features could be discerned. It was not the best figure he owned. The colour of the soldier’s face had leaked onto his helmet, his hands were green like his uniform and it was hard to make him stand up. Bergur was presented with the car and immediately fell in love with its small, shiny perfection and miniature steering wheel. Although Erlendur was pleased with his soldier and propped it up in the vanguard of his toy army, Beggi’s car left him feeling oddly resentful.

Lighting up again, he sat and drew on his cigarette, contemplating the piece of metal on his dashboard, dwelling on those long-ago events. The massive freighter had sailed past through the autumn darkness, lights ablaze like a Christmas tree, bringing new prosperity to this remote spot.

He had tried to persuade Beggi to swap his car for the lead soldier but his brother had refused point-blank. He had offered him three soldiers for it, but Beggi just shook his head and carried on playing with the little red car, from which he would not be separated. On one occasion Erlendur had picked it up, looked it over and started playing with it tentatively, but Beggi had immediately demanded its return. They never used to quarrel: this was the only time any rivalry ever reared its head. Erlendur had deliberately flung the car at Beggi so hard that he couldn’t catch it, and it fell on the floor with a clatter. It had startled them both and they had checked it together for any damage. So Beggi had kept his car, in spite of the generous offer, and Erlendur had had no choice but to accept the fact.

He ground out his cigarette. He had not left the engine running, and the car was now cold and dank. Condensation had formed on the windows, obscuring his view. He coughed from the sour reek of smoke and wiped his mouth. He couldn’t say for sure whether this toy had once been Beggi’s. These things were impossible to prove, as he knew better than anyone. But if this battered scrap of metal that Ezra had found by a fox’s lair on Hardskafi had once been Bergur’s shiny red car, it would be the first ever clue to his fate on the moors.

Their quarrel had taken place only two weeks before the disaster. At the time he had still been feeling envious of Bergur’s car.