Arnaldur Indridason - Strange Shores

Erlendur saw him straighten up with a large cardboard box in his arms.

‘Take a look in here, if you want,’ Daníel said, bringing it over. ‘I’m going to check if the rest are over there.’

‘Really, there’s no need,’ protested Erlendur, but the man either didn’t hear or didn’t want to listen.

Accepting the box, Erlendur placed it on a heap of carpet offcuts. It turned out to be full of turnip-coloured bones that he found hard to identify, though they might have included the skulls of birds and cats, a fox’s jawbone with needle-sharp teeth, and assorted leg bones and ribs. Among them were what appeared to be the skeletons of mice. None were labelled in any way, either with the name of the species or the site of discovery. Erlendur glanced up from the box to see Daníel cradling an old wooden crate which had once contained bottles of some long-discontinued Icelandic fizzy drink called ‘Spur’. Erlendur had never tasted it.

The contents of this one were better organised. Some of the bones were in brown paper envelopes, with the name of the animal and the find site written on the front. Erlendur guessed that Daníel had started out with a system but eventually abandoned it. Perhaps he had amassed the bones quicker than he could catalogue them.

‘He knew a whole lot about bones,’ Daníel’s son remarked from the other end of the garage. He sounded proud. ‘Specially of birds. He trained as a taxidermist when he was young, though he never practised. It was just a kind of hobby. I’ve got a white fox indoors that he stuffed. Did a good job too. And a falcon, if you’re interested.’

‘Would I be right in thinking he did the raven?’ asked Erlendur, gesturing at the black bird stowed up among the rafters.

‘That’s right,’ said the younger Daníel. ‘Are you from Reykjavík, by any chance?’

‘Yes, I live there,’ said Erlendur, going through the envelopes in the crate. He was engrossed now. One was marked ‘Arctic tern, Lodmundarfjördur’. He opened it, tipping a near intact skeleton into his palm.

‘He used to talk about putting these bones in a display case with proper labels and donating the collection to the local college. He had a case built ages ago, with a glass front, but I can’t find it anywhere. I spotted it in here once, so I can’t understand what’s become of it.’

Erlendur replaced the skeleton in the envelope. Daníel was holding yet another crate which he now passed to him. Inside were numerous smaller containers which were clearly labelled. Old Daníel had been very systematic about organising this part of his collection.

Erlendur picked up one of the smaller boxes. The white label glued to its lid read ‘Foot of Mount Snaefell, Golden plover’.

Erlendur took out several more and examined them. One had a question mark scribbled on the lid. He read the label: ‘Hardskafi, North flank’.

The words were written in pencil. The question mark gave him pause.

Opening the lid, he saw immediately that the small bones it contained were human. He had after all once dug up the skeleton of a four-year-old girl. A shiver ran like cold water down his spine.

‘What have you got there?’ called Daníel from the back of the garage. He had noticed that his visitor was standing as if turned to stone, with one of his father’s boxes in his hands.

‘Did your father ever mention someone going missing on the moors around here?’ asked Erlendur, not taking his eyes off the bones.

‘Missing? No.’

‘A child from Eskifjördur, lost on the moors forty years ago?’

‘No, he never mentioned it,’ said Daníel. ‘At least not in my hearing.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’d remember that. But I don’t.’

Erlendur stared at the question mark on the lid. Old Daníel hadn’t known what it was that he had found on the northern slopes of Mount Hardskafi, but he had shoved the bones in his pocket anyway because of his collecting mania. Perhaps he had intended to find out what they were, maybe even send them to an expert, but never got round to it. If he had, he would without a doubt have discovered what he had in his possession. Then someone would have heard about his find and made the connection with the boy who went missing.

He searched for a date on the box but there was none.

There were two bones. He didn’t dare touch them but was convinced he was right. One was part of a chinbone, the other a cheekbone.

They were not fully grown.

They belonged to a child.

Erlendur walks in silence behind his father as they slog up the hill to the moor. He pays little heed to where they are going. Bergur, lagging behind, breaks into a jog to catch up. Soon the distance between them opens once more and Bergur is forced into a trot again. Erlendur himself is walking hard on his father’s heels, trying to tread in his footprints, though this is tricky because they are too far apart. At times he has to quicken his pace to avoid being left behind like Beggi.

They continue like this for a good while, until their father decides it is time for a rest. Not for him; for the boys. The higher they climb, the deeper and more of a hindrance the snow becomes, especially for short legs. Raising a pair of binoculars to his eyes, their father scans the landscape for the lost sheep.

‘Wait for me, Lendi,’ Beggi calls. He pretends not to hear.

Beggi calls him ‘Lendi’, ‘big brother Lendi’. His mother occasionally addresses him as ‘Lillabob’, which infuriates him, though she only uses it nowadays to tease him. But his father only ever calls him by his given name. ‘Erlendur,’ he will say, ‘pass me that book, will you?’ Or, ‘Time you were in bed, Erlendur.’

Beggi catches up. He notices that Beggi is struggling with his gloves and discovers that he has brought along his toy car. He has freed his hands so he can extract the car from his pocket to check if it’s all right. Then he pushes it inside one of the gloves and tries to put his hand in after it, so that he can hold the toy.

‘I can’t see them,’ their father announces. ‘We’ll climb a bit higher and see if we can find their tracks.’

They resume their journey, their father in front, Erlendur in the middle and Bergur bringing up the rear, fiddling with the little car inside his glove and trying to keep up. Their father sets a steady pace, lifting his binoculars from time to time and heading first one way, then another. Before they know it they have reached the high moors. To a half-comprehending child’s eye, everything then happens very fast. Events arrange themselves into a series of brief snapshots. Their father glances at the sky. Beggi is lagging behind. Snow has been falling for some time but now heavy, black storm clouds pile up with alarming speed over the mountains. The sky grows dark. Their legs sink into the snow and Erlendur, who has paid scant attention to the weather, now feels a cold breath of wind on his cheek. He can no longer see down to Eskifjördur Fjord through the thickly falling flakes. Bergur is some distance behind and Erlendur calls out to him but he doesn’t hear. Erlendur goes back to fetch him and loses sight of their father when out of nowhere a blizzard strikes, reducing visibility to zero. He shouts again to Bergur, who has fallen over in the snow, then yells his father’s name, but receives no answer.

Beggi gets up again but drops his glove which is immediately snatched away by the wind. He starts off after it with Erlendur in pursuit. The glove is lost in an instant in the blinding snow but they do not give up the chase. Erlendur comes close to losing Bergur who is oblivious to everything but his glove. Their mother has taught them to take good care of their clothes. He grabs hold of Bergur’s jacket to slow him down. Bergur is holding the toy car in his bare, raw hand and stops to put it in his pocket.