Arnaldur Indridason - Strange Shores

Night fell rapidly and when he felt it was dark enough to enter the cemetery with lantern and spade, he stepped out of the car. As he made his way towards Thórhildur’s grave, he thanked his lucky stars that there was so little traffic in this part of the village. Putting down the gaslight, he began to shovel snow from the plot, then sliced off a sizeable patch of turf to uncover the bare earth.

He worked methodically. The question of what to say if he was caught in the act gave him a moment’s pause but no more. He could always wave his police ID if all else failed. His superiors would not look kindly on a private investigation of this kind but at least his intentions were good. All he was doing was solving an old crime. That was why he had permitted himself to disinter Jakob and was now hacking his way into Thórhildur’s grave.

Placing the lantern nearby, he dug carefully but was not aware of any hindrance. He picked up the light and shone it into the hole but could see nothing unusual. He stretched his back.

The village street lights lit up the harbour and the mountainsides above the highest houses. Like other settlements in the East Fjords, Eskifjördur was little more than a cluster of buildings round the docks with a main street running along the seafront, yet it had a long history and over the generations its inhabitants had experienced great changes. The most radical transformation of all was taking place now, with the building of the giant dam in the highlands to provide electricity for the aluminium smelter in the neighbouring fjord. The past was once more giving way irreversibly to the present.

He resumed his excavation. Every now and then he glanced around to check for anyone who might demand an explanation. But he never saw a soul.

He drove the spade into the ground again. The hole was no more than half a metre deep. Flinging the soil over the top, he pushed the blade down again and felt resistance, as if it had struck a stone. There was a small click. He shone the lamp over the spot but could see nothing, so he started digging again and now there was no doubt of the impediment. Using the blade, he scraped away the dirt, then illuminated the pit again.

This time he immediately spotted something in the soil that he couldn’t identify. By sliding the spade underneath it, he managed to lever it up, then he put down his tool, felt around with his fingers and held the object up to the light. He hadn’t a clue what it was until he had cleaned off some of the dirt. Then it became clear: he was holding a knife. The blade was rusty and notched; the wooden handle had almost rotted away. Recalling what Ezra had said about Jakob hiding some possession of his with the body, Erlendur guessed that the knife must have belonged to him.

Laying it aside, he picked up the shovel again and continued his excavation. After another spadeful, he met further resistance.

At first he could see nothing, but when he strained his eyes he began to perceive a shape in the soil, like one of those trick images that gradually reveals itself to the observer: familiar lines, an outline he recognised. Lying down, he reached into the hole to scrape more earth off his discovery. A little water had collected in the bottom but he could see no splinters of broken wood or any other trace of a coffin.

Finally he lowered the gas lantern down the hole and now at last he came face to face with what lay hidden above the last resting place of Thórhildur Vilhjálmsdóttir. The old woman was not alone in her grave. Under cover of night, an uninvited and unwilling guest had been laid down there with her and hastily covered with earth.

The first thing he made out distinctly, half submerged in the muddy water, was a row of teeth. Then a segment of skull took shape, complete with lower jaw and molars, and Erlendur knew that he had found the earthly remains of Matthildur Kjartansdóttir, who had purportedly died of exposure on her way over the Hraevarskörd Pass in the great January storm of 1942.

He opens his eyes. That insufferable question again.

‘I know who you are,’ he says.

‘Yes?’ says the traveller.

‘You once came to our house and talked to Bergur.’

‘You remember.’

‘You said we wouldn’t have him with us for long.’

The traveller makes no reply to this.

‘Because he was that kind of soul. It was you. I remember it clearly. Who are you? Why are you here?’

Still no answer.

‘Where are we?’

He has been under the impression that he was lying on his sleeping mat in the ruined farmhouse and that the man has come to visit him there. But that can’t be right because he now recalls leaving the house. He left behind his belongings and the car, and set out, unencumbered, for the mountain, for the north flank of Hardskafi. Although he barely surfaces into consciousness for more than a few seconds at a time, and the cold that is gradually killing him has addled his brain, he is fairly sure of this fact at least. He can’t be speaking to the man in the old croft because there is nobody there, not even himself.

‘Don’t you know?’ asks the traveller.

‘Where do you come from?’

No reply.

‘Where am I?’ he asks.

Again he senses that the traveller who once enjoyed his parents’ hospitality at Bakkasel is not alone. He is accompanied by that invisible being whose presence he has felt so strongly, never more so than now.

‘Who’s that with you?’ he asks yet again.

‘Who?’

‘The person with you? Who is he?’

‘You needn’t be afraid of him.’

Silence.

‘Do you think the time has come to meet him?’

‘Who is he?’

‘You’re holding him at arm’s length, but you know who he is. Deep down. You know who’s come with me to see you. He says you have nothing to fear. Do you believe him? Do you believe him when he says you have nothing to fear?’

Silence.

‘You know who he is.’

‘Not. .’

‘It’s you who’s keeping him away.’

When the traveller disappears he thinks he hears a child’s voice. Faint, remote. He can’t distinguish the words. But he knows who the voice belongs to, knows now who is with the man. He hasn’t heard that voice for many a long year and had believed he would never hear it again.

Briefly he recovers his wits, to find that the cold has intensified.

His consciousness fades once more.

He had found Matthildur’s earthly remains but experienced no sense of triumph, no satisfaction with what he had achieved. Instead, he was filled with sadness and an urgent desire to go and tell Ezra that his quest was over at last. He shovelled the earth back into the hole in frantic haste, replaced the square of turf and threw a few spadefuls of snow over the broken soil, praying that no one would notice immediately. Then, picking up the lantern and spade, he hurried back to the car.

Ezra’s house lay in darkness. His headlamps illuminated it before he switched them off and stepped out onto the drive. No light was visible inside and the bulb by the front door was broken. Erlendur had noticed this on his first visit a few days earlier and had meant to mention to Ezra that he needed to replace it.

He knocked on the door and, receiving no response, tried the handle. The door swung open and he walked inside.

‘Ezra!’ he called. ‘Are you home?’

There was no answer, so he groped his way along to the kitchen doorway where he found a light switch. Nothing happened when he flicked it. He tried it several times, to no avail.

‘Ezra!’ he called again.

Maybe he had gone out. Perhaps a fuse had blown and he had gone to buy a replacement. Erlendur stood in the kitchen, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He could hardly see a thing apart from the outline of the kitchen table, but recalled that the sink was behind him.