Strange Shores

13

As before, Hrund was sitting at her window, gazing over to where the pylons would soon be rising. The glare from the floodlit building site brightened the sky behind the house but the smelter itself was hidden from view. She saw Erlendur arrive in his car and this time when he knocked, she rose from her chair, opened the door and invited him in. He followed her into the sitting room where she resumed her customary post.

‘The evenings are so lovely at this time of year,’ she said.

‘They certainly are,’ Erlendur agreed, taking a seat. There were no lights on. Hrund had been sitting in semi-darkness, wrapped in a blanket. The street lamps cast her shadow on the wall behind her and Erlendur found himself watching her silhouette in fascination. Hrund seemed uninterested in the reason for his visit, as if taking it for granted that they should be sitting there, two strangers, in companionable silence.

‘I went over to Egilsstadir today,’ Erlendur said eventually.

‘Oh?’ said Hrund. ‘Do you want to tell me about it? You’re welcome to help yourself to coffee, by the way. There’s some in the pot, and you’ll find a cup in the cupboard above the sink.’

Erlendur went into the kitchen. When he came back, Hrund had turned away from the window and was waiting expectantly.

‘I suppose you’re still after information about Matthildur.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Then you must have been to see my nephew. Did you go to the home?’

Erlendur nodded.

‘I’ve never really known him well. It just worked out that way.’

‘That’s common enough,’ said Erlendur, thinking about his own family. ‘He’s on good form. Well, having said that, he’s lost the sight in one eye. He let me have a poke around in a trunk that belonged to your sister Ingunn, and I found some old letters and stuff like that.’

‘Were they useful?’

‘No, not really.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t have any letters from Matthildur, if that’s what you’re after.’

‘No, you told me. Actually, I was wondering if any of Matthildur’s belongings, her personal effects, were still around. Or if you had a photograph.’

‘I don’t know about any of her things, but I do have a picture of us sisters, if only I knew where to lay my hands on it.’ Hrund rose and went into her bedroom. Erlendur felt guilty about putting her to this trouble, but consoled himself with the thought that she was lonely and that a bit of company, however unexciting, would probably do her good.

Hrund returned carrying two shoeboxes, sat down in her chair and started to sift through them.

‘It’s not in an album,’ she said. ‘I’ve never bothered to sort these pictures out properly. My husband’s dead — did I tell you that?’

‘No,’ said Erlendur. Bóas had informed him that Hrund was a widow with two sons who had gone away to study in Reykjavík and stayed there, only coming home for visits.

‘There are photos of him here that I’d forgotten all about. And here’s one of us four sisters during the haymaking.’

She handed Erlendur a curling, black-and-white picture with a yellowing back, stained with what might have been coffee. The four sisters were standing in a meadow, holding rakes. It was a brilliant summer’s day and they stood there beaming at the camera, all wearing dresses, and two of them headscarves, lined up in a row for the photographer. There was no mistaking their happiness, even so many years on.

‘Our mother took the picture,’ said Hrund. ‘The camera belonged to her second husband, Thorbjörn. That’s me on the far left, the baby of the family — the afterthought. Then that’s Ingunn, with the headscarf, and Matthildur beside her and then Jóa — poor old Jóhanna.’

Their faces were not particularly clear but Erlendur could make out Matthildur’s features: deep-set eyes and a determined expression. He looked for a date but couldn’t see one.

‘I think it was taken about eight years before she went missing,’ said Hrund, as if reading his mind. ‘During the Depression.’

‘Ingunn and Jóhanna moved to Reykjavík, didn’t they? Did they go at the same time?’

‘No, Jóhanna went first, then Ingunn followed. Shortly after the picture was taken, in fact. Everything changed so quickly. One minute we were all living at home, having a whale of a time. Next thing you know, we’d scattered to the four winds. It all seemed to happen at once and nothing was ever the same again.’

‘Do you remember a friend of Matthildur’s, known as Ninna?’ Erlendur asked.

‘Yes, I do. A sweet girl. I believe she’s still alive. You should check. Ninna’s her real name — not a nickname.’

‘Has she lived in the East Fjords all this time?’

‘Yes. She and Matthildur were great friends — childhood friends.’

‘Maybe I’ll look her up,’ said Erlendur, rising to his feet. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to keep you up all night.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Hrund. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I just don’t understand why someone who didn’t know the family should be so interested in Matthildur. Are you writing a book?’

‘No,’ Erlendur said, smiling. ‘There’ll be no book. By the way, did Ingunn and Jakob know each other before he got together with Matthildur?’

‘Ingunn and Jakob? Why do you ask?’

Erlendur wondered if he should tell her about the letter from Matthildur that he had found in Ingunn’s trunk, and the word ‘bastard’ scrawled across Jakob’s obituary. There was no telling whether Ingunn had written the word herself. The paper may not even have been hers: someone could have sent it to her.

‘Just a thought,’ he said. ‘Good-looking girls like you must have had dozens of admirers.’

‘What have you found out?’ asked Hrund, brushing aside Erlendur’s attempt at flattery.

‘Nothing,’ he said hastily, sensing an abrupt change in her mood.

‘You’re not. . spying on our family, are you?’ she asked.

The conversation was taking a disastrous turn but Erlendur could think of no way of rescuing the situation. After a bad night’s sleep and a long drive he was not at his sharpest.

‘No, of course not,’ he assured her, realising how unconvincing he sounded.

‘Well, let me tell you that I’m far from happy with your prying. Far from happy. I don’t like the way you come here and start interrogating members of my family like a. . like a policeman. I won’t have it!’

‘No, of course not,’ Erlendur repeated. ‘I’m very sorry if I’ve offended you in some way — ’

‘What are you up to?’ Hrund asked, thoroughly riled by now. ‘What are you trying to dig up? What’s all this got to do with people going missing?’

‘Nothing,’ Erlendur said. ‘Really. You said yourself that rumours had been going around about Jakob — that people used to claim Matthildur haunted him.’

‘I told you that was just gossip. Surely you’re not taking it seriously? Gossip from half a century ago?’

‘No, but — ’

‘And I don’t believe in ghosts.’

‘Neither do I.’

‘I think perhaps you should leave.’

Erlendur said a hasty goodbye and went out to his car without looking round, aware of her presence at the window, her eyes boring into his back.

He parked by the aluminium smelter to watch all the activity. The construction of the huge sheds for the reduction pots was well advanced, a crowd of labourers swarming over the site, day and night, racing to finish on time. Floodlights lent the surroundings an unearthly appearance in the dusk. All this relentless progress was such a striking contrast to the tranquillity of the narrow fjord and the snow-capped mountains reflected in its mirror-like surface.