Strange Shores

40

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.’

‘I don’t suppose they’ll be the last,’ Hrund said.

‘I met Ezra again and we had a long talk. He’s not a happy man — hasn’t been for a very long time.’

‘No, I can imagine.’

‘We spoke a lot about his friend Jakob.’

‘Could he tell you any more about Matthildur?’

Erlendur paused. Ezra had confided more in him than he ever had in anyone else and Erlendur had no intention of betraying his trust. It would be better to massage the truth or evade the questions, regardless of who was doing the asking.

‘He said a great deal about Matthildur. How much he misses her and always has. He was desperately in love with her. Was there ever another woman in his life?’

‘No, never,’ said Hrund. ‘Ezra’s always been a lone wolf. Does he know any more about what became of my sister?’

‘Nothing that we can be sure of just now,’ said Erlendur. ‘Though things may become clearer in time.’

‘Well, if you don’t intend to fill me in, why did you come?’

‘Because of Ezra,’ said Erlendur. ‘Was it you who told me he worked at the ice house in Eskifjördur after quitting the sea? After he stopped crewing the boat with Jakob?’

Hrund puckered her brow. ‘It may well have been. I know he was employed there after the war, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘So he’d have been working there when the accident happened? When the boat went down with Jakob and his companion? There were two of them, weren’t there?’

‘Yes, that was in 1949. They were shipwrecked on their way home in a hell of a gale. They both drowned.’

‘And their bodies were taken to the ice house?’

‘Yes, that sounds likely.’

‘Where Ezra was working?’

‘Yes. Anyway, you can read about it in newspaper reports from the time if you want to check. There’s a decent library here. What’s got into you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What do you mean, “where Ezra was working”?’

‘And there’s another thing,’ said Erlendur hastily.

‘What?’

‘Jakob was buried in Djúpivogur.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Where can I get hold of the names of his pall-bearers?’

‘You what?’

‘I need their names.’

‘Why?’

Erlendur shook his head.

‘What on earth do you want with their names for?’

He continued to regard Hrund in silence.

‘You’re not going to tell me?’ she said.

‘Maybe later,’ he replied. ‘Right now I’m not even sure myself what I’m doing.’

Half an hour later he was seated at a desk in the town library, leafing through old newspapers brought to him by the helpful young woman librarian. Erlendur checked both the national and local papers around the time of the accident. He found two fairly detailed reports of the shipwreck in the local papers, which confirmed what he knew already but added little. The men who died were both described as single; one was from Grindavík, the other from Reykjavík, though his family originally came from the East Fjords. His funeral had been held two days after the accident.

The second account was accompanied by a grainy picture of Jakob’s coffin being lowered into the ground. Erlendur couldn’t make out any of the faces, only the indistinct outlines of the four pall-bearers who were identified in the caption under the picture. Hrund had recalled the name of the relevant man correctly. Erlendur consulted the local records with the help of the librarian and soon tracked his family down.

‘His daughter lives in Djúpivogur,’ announced the librarian, after a quick search on the Internet.

Erlendur started out immediately. The road followed the shoreline, threading in and out of one picturesque fjord after another, past endless ranks of mountains characterised by the distinctive sloping rock strata of the East Fjords. The small village of Djúpivogur was the southernmost settlement of any size in the region and when he reached it, after two hours’ driving, he had no difficulty finding the right house. He drew up outside a beautifully maintained period villa and switched off the engine. A light shone over the front door and another in a window that might belong to the kitchen, but he could see no movement inside. He decided to have another cigarette before disturbing the woman. He had been smoking far too much over the last few days: this was his third of the drive.

As he walked up the short flight of steps and knocked at the door, he wondered how to explain his business or indeed how to introduce himself, deciding it would be best to stick to the local history story which had served him well so far.

No one answered. Discovering a doorbell, he tried that instead. He could hear it competing with the sound of a television. He pressed the bell again and the volume of the TV was lowered. The door opened and a man in a red-checked shirt stood looking him up and down.

‘Is Ásta in, by any chance?’ asked Erlendur, wondering if this was her husband.

The man looked bemused by his visit. It was not that late, thought Erlendur, surreptitiously checking his watch.

‘Hang on a minute,’ said the man and disappeared inside. The volume was turned up again and soon a small woman appeared. From her appearance, Erlendur assumed she must have nodded off in front of the television. Her plump figure was dressed in a comfy tracksuit and her sleepy eyes registered surprise at receiving a visit from a strange man at this hour of the evening.

‘Are you Ásta?’ asked Erlendur.

‘Yes.’

‘Daughter of Ármann Fridriksson, the fisherman?’

‘Yes?’ There was hesitation in her voice. ‘My father was called Ármann.’

‘I was wondering if I could take up a few minutes of your time?’ said Erlendur. ‘I wanted to ask if you’d ever heard your father talk about a shipwreck that happened in Eskifjördur in 1949.’

‘A shipwreck?’

‘And also about the funeral of one of the victims that took place here in Djúpivogur. I gather your father was one of the pall-bearers. The dead man was called Jakob Ragnarsson.’