Arnaldur Indridason - Strange Shores

‘They’re all dead, my sisters,’ Hrund said. ‘I didn’t have much contact with the two who moved to Reykjavík. It was years between their visits. We did exchange the odd letter but that was it really, though Ingunn’s son moved out here as a young man and still lives in Egilsstadir. He’s in a care home now. We’re not in touch. As for Matthildur, I have nothing but good memories of her, though I was only thirteen when she died. She was considered the prettiest sister — you know how people talk — perhaps because of what happened to her. As you can imagine, her loss was a terrible tragedy for the family.’

‘I gather she’d been planning to walk over here to see your mother.’

‘That’s what her husband Jakob said. She got caught in the same storm as the British soldiers. Maybe you know the story?’

Erlendur nodded.

‘They had no luck finding Matthildur, though they made a huge effort, both here in Reydarfjördur and over on the Eskifjördur side where she started out.’

‘I hear there was torrential rainfall,’ Erlendur said, ‘and the rivers were in spate. They think one of the British soldiers drowned in the Eskifjördur River and got washed down to the sea.’

‘Yes, that’s why they combed all the beaches. Maybe she was carried out to sea. It seemed by far the most likely explanation to us.’

‘They say it was a miracle that so many of the soldiers survived,’ Erlendur commented. ‘Maybe people thought they’d exhausted the store of good luck. Did anyone else know of her plan to go over to Reydarfjördur? Aside from her husband, that is?’

‘I don’t think so; at least, she didn’t warn us she was coming.’

‘And no one saw her? She didn’t stop anywhere along the way? There were no witnesses who spotted her heading up to the moor?’

‘The last time anyone saw her was when she said goodbye to Jakob. According to him, she was well prepared, and had a packed lunch as she expected the walk to take all day. She left at the crack of dawn because she wanted to get to Reydarfjördur in good time, so there wouldn’t have been many people about when she left. And she wasn’t planning to stop anywhere either.’

‘The British claimed not to have seen any sign of her.’

‘No.’

‘Though she was on the same path.’

‘Yes, but they would hardly have been able to see a thing in that weather.’

‘And your mother didn’t know she was coming, did she?’

‘Bóas has done a thorough job of filling you in.’

‘He told me the whole story, yes.’

‘Jakob was. .’

Hrund looked out of the window, as she did all day every day, sitting at her post, armed with her cushion and binoculars. When dusk fell, the glow from the construction site lit up the landscape. She gave a wry smile.

‘What extraordinary times we’re living through,’ she said, with an abrupt change of subject, and started talking about the local developments that she simply could not come to terms with: the aluminium smelter, the huge dam at Kárahnjúkar, the destruction of a majestic canyon in order to build a reservoir that was to become the largest man-made lake in Iceland. Erlendur understood that she welcomed none of it. He automatically thought of Bóas and his hostility to the transformation. During their descent from the moors, the farmer had told him of the suspicions that had arisen at the time of Matthildur’s disappearance and lingered on in the memories of the locals. Though most of them were pushing up the daisies by now, according to Bóas, or had grown old and peculiar.

‘Jakob Ragnarsson didn’t have an easy time of it,’ Hrund said, taking up the subject again after her digression.

‘In what way?’

‘Well, as the months went by, various rumours started to do the rounds. People even claimed she haunted him — persecuted him until he died. Such a pack of nonsense. As if my sister would come back as a ghost.’

‘What did your family think? Was there any reason to doubt his story?’

‘There was never any investigation,’ said Hrund. ‘But when Matthildur’s body failed to turn up, people became suspicious that Jakob was hiding something, as you might expect. There were dark mutterings that she’d been running away from him when she went out in that storm — that she’d never meant to go to Reydarfjördur. That he’d driven her out of the house. I expect Bóas probably laid it on a bit thick to you.’

Erlendur shook his head. ‘He didn’t mention that. What happened to Jakob? He was killed in an accident, wasn’t he?’

‘He drowned and was buried in Djúpivogur. That was several years after Matthildur vanished. His boat capsized in Eskifjördur Fjord during a storm and both men on board died.’

‘So that was the end of that.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Hrund. ‘Matthildur was never found. And years later a young boy went missing on the moor. He was never found either. It’s an unforgiving country.’

‘Yes,’ Erlendur said. ‘That’s true.’

‘Are you looking into that case as well?’

‘No.’

‘People said she haunted Jakob and dragged him to his death — they even blamed her for his accident. Utterly absurd. But Icelanders love making up ghost stories. Things went so far that one of the pall-bearers at Jakob’s funeral claimed to have heard him moaning as he was lowered into the grave. Complete codswallop, of course. And that wasn’t all.’

‘I once heard some talk about the British,’ Erlendur prompted.

‘Yes, there were rumours that she’d been involved with them. That she was pregnant — she’d been having an affair with a soldier and secretly fled the country with him. She was supposedly so ashamed that she never even wrote home.’

‘And died abroad?’

‘Yes, or died shortly after leaving the country. They questioned the troops stationed in the area but no one had heard a thing. Because it was rubbish, of course — preposterous.’

‘Are there any surviving friends or relatives of Jakob that I could talk to?’

‘They’re pretty thin on the ground. He came from Reykjavík, you know; lived with his mother’s brother in Djúpivogur to begin with, but the uncle died years ago of course. Maybe you should have a word with Ezra. He was a friend of Jakob’s.’

He is enveloped by cold and darkness, assailed by a flood of images of people and past events that he cannot hold back. There is no distinguishing time and place — he is everywhere and nowhere at once.

He lies in his room, a strange sense of serenity easing through his body after the injection. Although he tries to resist, it is futile; his blood has ceased to flow and a mist has shrouded his thoughts.

The doctor tells him what he is going to do but he can’t take it in, and continues to writhe and thrash his limbs until hands seize him and subdue him. The doctor consults his mother and she nods dully. He sees the syringe in the man’s hands, feels a sharp prick in his arm, then little by little the fight goes out of him.

His mother sits on the edge of the bed, stroking his forehead, her expression infinitely sad. He would give the world to change it.

‘Is there anything you can tell us about your brother?’ she whispers.

The minor patches of frostbite on his hands and feet do not trouble him unduly. He can remember nothing before waking up in the arms of a member of the search party, who was trying to pour hot milk down his throat. They took it in turns to carry him home from the moor, desperate to get him into the warmth as soon as possible. His mother took over for the final stretch and delivered him to the doctor, who examined him and tended to his frostbite. They told him that his father was safe. Why shouldn’t he be? he wondered. His mind was blank. He gazed around at the strangers who filled the house, the men milling around in the yard, armed with walkie-talkies and long poles. They stared back at him as if they had seen a ghost. Gradually he regained full consciousness and snatches of what had happened after they left home began to reassemble themselves in his mind, fragmentary at first, then merging to form a coherent picture. He gripped his mother’s arm.