Strange Shores

43

Less than two hours later, soaked to the skin and covered in mud from head to toe, Erlendur put the spade back in the car and sat down behind the steering wheel. Although he had done his best to hide all signs of despoliation, it was still obvious that the grave had been tampered with. Even after he had shovelled all the earth back into the hole, the small mound had defeated his efforts to beat it flat. It would take time for the soil to subside to its former level. He replaced the turves on top of the heap, hoping that no one would visit the cemetery for a while. With any luck the villagers would remain in the best of health and the snow would fall heavily on Djúpivogur all winter long, lying in deep drifts far into the spring. Ashamed now of what he had done, he didn’t want anyone to discover it, and yet he didn’t really regret it.

He headed back to Eskifjördur. Few people were about that early, so he only met a couple of cars. In some places small drifts had formed over the road but otherwise the going was reasonable. He relished the warmth from the heater and listened to soothing music on the radio while mentally reviewing the grisly tale he had uncovered in the graveyard.

The sky was turning grey when he arrived back at the ruined croft and crawled into his sleeping bag, wrapping the blanket carefully around himself before lying back, exhausted. He didn’t anticipate having any difficulty in getting to sleep, despite the twinges of pain and stiffness from his exertions with the spade. He had worked like a man possessed, terrified of being caught in the act, not easing up until the last sod had been replaced. His arms and legs ached and he had blisters on his palms. It was years since he had last engaged in such intense physical labour.

Yet for all that, sleep would not come. He grew agitated every time he thought about Ezra in the ice house where the bodies were laid out; about Jakob in his coffin, and the mystery of Matthildur’s whereabouts. He was uncertain what to do with the information he had obtained in such a macabre manner. When he woke up, he resolved, he would go and have it out with Ezra, and perhaps that would settle his next move. There were many questions he wanted to put to the old man about what had gone on in that ice house long ago. After all, the indications were that Ezra had known full well Jakob was alive when the lid of the coffin was nailed down.

Cases where people revived after being certified dead could often be put down to negligence. But it was not from any suspicion of neglect that Erlendur had developed his hunch about Jakob and felt compelled to disinter him. Ezra’s words had played a part, along with Ármann’s tale of the noise he had heard during the funeral. Added to this was Erlendur’s own experience and knowledge of hypothermia. The fact that Ezra had direct access to the ice house had only served to fuel his suspicions. Then there was Thórdur’s story of the three men in the west of Iceland who were written off as dead but had risen from their biers and tried in vain to raise the alarm. Finally, Erlendur’s conviction had been so strong that he had felt compelled to act. Whatever the cost. He wasn’t trying to excuse his action but to find an explanation for what he had done.

And what had he uncovered? What had all his toiling in the cemetery achieved?

He had found an answer to the question that had troubled him most: Jakob had indeed been buried alive. A shudder had run down Erlendur’s spine when he realised what he was seeing, recognised the evidence of desperation, the terrible suffering in the skeleton’s attitude — the raised hands, head arched back, mouth gaping. Even though he must have been more dead than alive after his immersion in the icy sea and night in the freezing warehouse, Jakob had found the strength to score splinters from the wood of his coffin lid. His hold on life must have been phenomenal; his death an indescribable ordeal.

But what Erlendur could not read from the coffin, and would have to seek an explanation for elsewhere, was why Jakob had been buried alive. Had it been accidental or deliberate?

Although it was never possible to know a person completely, Erlendur reckoned he was pretty well acquainted with men of Ezra’s type. He was confident that the old man had nothing in common with the many criminals who had crossed his path. Ezra was neither amoral nor violent. He was like the vast majority of ordinary citizens Erlendur had encountered, people who had never so much as incurred a parking fine. Was it possible, though, that somewhere inside him lurked the will to commit an atrocity like the one Erlendur had just exposed?

If all Ezra had said was true — if Jakob had killed Matthildur and consistently refused to reveal where he had hidden her body — then he’d certainly had a grievance to avenge. Seven years later Jakob’s fate had been sealed, quite literally. But what role had Ezra played? Had he known Jakob was alive? Had they exchanged any words? Had Jakob told Ezra what he did with Matthildur’s remains?

Only one man could lay these questions to rest and Erlendur had every intention of speaking to him at the earliest possible opportunity.