Arnaldur Indridason - Strange Shores

‘What do you do down there in the city?’ asked the farmer.

He didn’t answer immediately.

‘Sorry, I’m such a nosy bastard.’

‘No, it’s all right,’ he replied. ‘I’m a policeman.’

‘That can’t be much fun.’

‘No. Though it has its moments.’

They climbed on higher to the moor, and he took care to tread lightly on the heather. From time to time he stooped to brush his hand over the low-growing vegetation, trying to remember if he had ever heard of Bóas as a child. The name didn’t ring any bells, though that was hardly surprising — he had lived in the east for a comparatively short period and lost touch with the area after moving to the city. Anyway, guns had been a rare sight in his home. He vaguely recalled a passer-by at his parents’ house who had stopped to speak to his father, gesturing down the river with a rifle in his hand. And he remembered that his uncle, his mother’s brother, had owned a jeep and used to shoot reindeer. He had worked as a ghillie for city dwellers who came out east to bag a deer, and would bring his family the meat. The fried steaks were a real treat. But he couldn’t remember anyone hunting foxes, nor a farmer named Bóas.

‘You find the oddest things in foxholes,’ remarked Bóas, keeping up a brisk pace. ‘They certainly don’t go hungry. They’ll wander down to the shore and scavenge for drowned guillemots or shellfish and crabs. The cubs will even eat crowberries, as well as the odd field mouse. And once in a while, if a fox gets lucky, it’ll find a dead ewe or lamb. But there’s the odd sheep-worrier that gets a taste for live meat and then you’re done for. Then it’s up to Bóas to track the little blighter down and destroy it. But not with any pleasure, mind.’

Uncertain whether the farmer was addressing him or merely thinking out loud, he did not reply. He followed in the other man’s footsteps as they waded through deep beds of heather, and enjoyed the sensation of the cool rain pricking his face. He knew the moors well but had put all his faith in the farmer and was no longer sure of their exact whereabouts. Bóas trudged on, carefree and confident, chatting away, apparently unconcerned whether his new companion was listening.

‘We’ve seen a fair few changes around here since the construction work began,’ he said, stopping to take a pair of binoculars from his satchel. ‘It’s had an impact on the environment and maybe the fox has realised. Maybe it doesn’t dare go down to the shore any longer because of the factory and all the shipping. What do I know? We should be getting close now.’ He replaced the binoculars.

‘I saw work under way on the new smelter as I drove up from Reykjavík,’ remarked Erlendur.

‘That eyesore!’ exclaimed Bóas.

‘I went and had a look at the dam too. I’ve never seen anything so huge.’

He could hear Bóas muttering grumpily under his breath as they continued their climb. It sounded like: ‘Can you believe they let this happen?’ As he toiled along behind, he thought about the foundations that were being sunk for a vast aluminium smelter in the picturesque setting of Reydarfjördur Fjord, and the giant freighters that docked there, transporting construction materials for the plant and the controversial hydroelectric dam at Kárahnjúkar in the highlands. He couldn’t understand how on earth an unaccountable multinational, based far away in America, had been permitted to put its heavy industrial stamp on a tranquil fjord and tract of untouched wilderness here in the remote east of Iceland.

Bóas halted in the middle of an expanse of scree and gestured to him to do likewise. Emulating the farmer, he dropped to his knees and peered into the fog.

Minutes passed without his being aware of any movement, until quite suddenly he found himself looking into the eyes of a fox. It stood about fifteen metres away, staring at them with ears pricked. Almost imperceptibly, Bóas tightened his grip on the gun, but it was enough to startle the fox which whisked away up the slope, vanishing from sight in an instant.

‘Bless her,’ said the hunter, standing up and slinging his gun over his shoulder again before continuing on his way.

‘Is that the culprit?’ asked Erlendur.

‘Yes, that’s the little blighter. I know the earths in this area like the back of my hand and I reckon we’re close. They return to the same lairs generation after generation, you know, so I dare say some date back a pretty long way — though maybe not quite to the Ice Age.’

They walked on, through the hush of nature, until they came to a small hide made of heaped stones and moss. Bóas told him to take a breather and remarked that they were lucky with the wind direction, then said he was going to take a look around. Erlendur sat down on the moss and waited. He recalled what he knew about the Arctic fox, said to be the first settler of Iceland since it had arrived ten thousand years ago at the end of the last Ice Age. Judging by the way he blessed it and spoke about it like an old friend, Bóas had a great respect for the beast. Even so, he was prepared to exterminate it if necessary — to snuff out its life and dispatch its offspring as if this were all in a day’s work.

‘She’s here, bless her. All we need now is a little patience,’ Bóas announced when he returned, and got down beside him in the hide. He unslung the rifle and ammunition from his shoulder, and put down the leather satchel, producing a hip flask that he offered to Erlendur who grimaced as he tasted the contents. Bóas obviously made his own moonshine and was none too particular about how he distilled it.

‘What does a bit of depopulation matter anyway?’ Bóas asked rhetorically, taking back the flask. ‘The countryside was uninhabited when we arrived, so why shouldn’t it be abandoned again when we leave? Why sell the land to speculators to try and halt a perfectly natural process? — tell me that. People come and people go. I ask you, what could be more natural?’

Erlendur shrugged.

‘Look at poor old Hvalfjördur on your doorstep,’ Bóas continued, ‘with those two monstrosities belching out poison day and night. And who for? A bunch of insanely rich foreigners who couldn’t even find Iceland on a map. Is that our fate? To end up as a factory for people like that?’

He handed the flask back to Erlendur who this time sipped with extreme caution. Bóas rummaged in his satchel again and removed a large object wrapped in plastic that produced a rancid stench when opened. It was a lump of meat that had gone distinctly high. After chucking it as far as he could in the direction of the fox’s earth, he wiped his hands on the moss and reclined again with the rifle at his side.

‘Shouldn’t take her long to get wind of that.’

They waited quietly in the drizzle.

‘Of course, you wouldn’t remember me,’ Bóas said after a while.

‘Should I?’ asked Erlendur, coughing.

‘No, it would be surprising if you did,’ said Bóas. ‘After all, you weren’t yourself at the time. And it’s not as if I knew your parents — we didn’t have any contact.’

‘When was this? How do you mean I wasn’t myself?’

‘During the search,’ Bóas said. ‘When you and your brother went missing.’

‘You were there?’

‘Yes, I joined the search party. Everybody did. I hear you come out here now and then. Roam the moors like a ghost and sleep in the old croft at Bakkasel. You still believe you can find him, don’t you?’

‘No, I don’t. Is that what people are saying?’

‘Us old folks like to reminisce about the past and someone happened to mention that you still go up on the moors. And to prove it, here you are.’

He didn’t want to have to explain his behaviour to a stranger or justify how he chose to live his life. This was his childhood home and he came back for a visit every so often when he felt the urge. He did a lot of walking in the area and preferred the ruined farmhouse to a hotel. Sometimes he pitched a tent, at other times he unrolled his sleeping mat on a dry patch in the house.