Arnaldur Indridason - Strange Shores

‘But what did you think? About the stories people told about Jakob?’

‘They were nothing to do with me.’

‘Did you grow up together?’

‘No, I’m not from around here. Neither was he. We were about the same age — he was a couple of years older. He came from Reykjavík originally but didn’t talk about it much.’

A pause developed.

‘Do you think you’ll be needing any more fish?’ asked Ezra. He was still caressing the cat but abruptly it sprang to the floor and tore out of the kitchen. It was in such a hurry that Erlendur assumed it must have spotted a mouse.

‘No, thank you, this’ll do,’ he said, rising. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Ezra.

‘There was some rumour that she’d met a British soldier and fled the country with him.’

‘I know the stories but they’re damned lies. Matthildur wasn’t involved with any soldier — that’s a ridiculous idea.’

As Erlendur was on his way out of the kitchen he caught sight of a small object amid the clutter on top of the fridge by the door. He stared at it before moving closer for a better look. It had once been a toy car that would have fitted in a child’s hand but was now faded and weathered, missing its wheels and base so that only the hollow chassis remained.

‘Where did you get this?’ he asked, his eyes fixed on the toy.

‘I found it.’

‘Where?’

‘Let me see. By a foxhole, probably. Somewhere on Hardskafi, I think.’

‘Hardskafi?’

‘Yes, probably. Donkey’s years ago now. I’d forgotten all about it. It’s been sitting there ever since — I was reluctant to throw it away for some reason. It struck me as a bit funny at the time.’

‘Have you any idea when this was?’

‘Goodness, it would have been a long time ago,’ said Ezra. ‘I have a feeling it was around 1980, though I couldn’t swear to it. I expect I was out after foxes. They used to pay a decent price for the tails back then but there’s no market for them nowadays, so people don’t bother to hunt much and the foxes are growing very bold as a result.’

Erlendur couldn’t take his eyes off the car. ‘Can I touch it?’

‘Touch it?’ echoed Ezra in surprise. ‘Of course you can. This isn’t a museum.’

Picking up the toy, Erlendur turned it over in his fingers.

‘You’re welcome to keep it,’ said Ezra, noticing the powerful effect the small object had on his visitor. ‘I’ve no use for it. It doesn’t matter to me — I’m not long for this world anyway.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘My dear lad, keep it.’

‘Did you find anything else in the hole?’ asked Erlendur, pocketing the car.

‘Not that I recall.’

‘Have you any idea how it might have got there?’

‘A fox could have picked it up or maybe a bird nabbed it and dropped it there. Impossible to say.’

‘And you think this was on Hardskafi?’

‘Yes, I’m fairly sure.’

‘Thank you,’ said Erlendur, as if in a daze. He walked out of the house, climbed into his car and drove away, still in shock. In the rear-view mirror he saw Ezra step outside and watch him leave, as Bóas’s words rang in his ears: ‘You find the oddest things in foxholes.’

Erlendur sat in his car until evening fell, lighting one cigarette after another and keeping the driver’s window open a crack to prevent the interior from filling with smoke. Ezra’s dried fish lay on the passenger seat but he had no appetite. He had driven down to the shore and, as daylight merged into dusk, he watched a giant container ship glide up the fjord and pondered how heavy industry was transforming people’s lives. Houses and shops were springing up all over the place, served by a network of new roads, and the local economy was booming. The few villagers who had passed the time of day with him — shopkeepers, dockworkers, the boys at the petrol station, all East Fjords born and bred — shared none of Bóas’s and Hrund’s misgivings. They were pleased with the developments. They saw the situation changing so fast it took their breath away.

‘The place was dying on its feet,’ he was told. ‘Now times have changed for the better.’

‘They’ve certainly changed,’ he replied.

His thoughts wandered back to Matthildur, and to the British servicemen who had been fighting for their lives on the moors that night. The pass at Hraevarskörd had been blocked. It was there that their journey had taken a turn for the worse and the soldiers’ death march had begun. Unfamiliar with the climate and terrain, they had ploughed on instead of turning back, climbing ever higher, unwilling to surrender to this remote, alien land to which war had brought them. But in the end they had been forced to admit defeat.

Matthildur had been better prepared, although she should never really have set out. There were countless stories of people who embarked on journeys against their instincts, ignoring all advice and common sense. Was that what Matthildur had done? Such trips often began well, with no hint of imminent danger: the weather pleasant, the going underfoot good and the prospect of a reasonable day’s journey. They would head off full of confidence, only to find themselves halfway along and abruptly confronted with death. Perhaps that was what had happened to Matthildur.

She had been a robust woman, according to Ezra, and would have equipped herself well. She had food and intended to stop at least once. After saying goodbye to her husband early that morning, she had marched off with a high heart. At much the same time the British had been readying themselves to leave. No doubt they had sought local advice and been directed to take the shortest route over the pass. When the storm struck, with a ferocity that stunned them, the group was scattered and each man was forced to fend for himself. Matthildur would have found herself in the same predicament. Perhaps she had tried to retrace her steps down from the moors, only to fall in a river and be washed out to sea, which would explain why her body was never found.

But it was also possible that she had never left home in the first place.

The idea was hardly novel. Bóas and Hrund had both hinted as much, going on no more than fickle rumour. But their words had not fallen on deaf ears. Erlendur had an old theory that among the many and various incidents of people going missing in the Icelandic interior, more than one crime had gone undetected. He knew of an example from the Second World War, which bore out his belief. Several years ago he had investigated the discovery of human bones in the Reykjavík suburb of Grafarholt which was then being built. A family man had been murdered and buried in a shallow grave not far from his own front door. His wife, the victim of years of domestic abuse, had stated that he had gone missing in bad weather — she had not heard from him since he set out on foot to cross Hellisheidi, the mountain road between Reykjavík and Selfoss. The matter had not been investigated at the time; he had simply been presumed dead. Then decades later his grave had been uncovered close to where the couple’s house had stood, and the truth had come to light.

Erlendur stubbed out his umpteenth cigarette, delved in his jacket pocket for the broken hunk of metal that had once been a toy car and balanced it on the dashboard. He had postponed a closer inspection, uncertain whether it would be of any use, but now he sat and contemplated the almost unrecognisable object.

He distinctly remembered a toy car of the same make, which had once been a bright red, with windows through which a child’s eye could make out a front seat and a minute steering wheel. The tyres had been white. The car had belonged to Bergur. Erlendur recalled the day it had come to Bakkasel. Their father had been playing the violin at a dance in Seydisfjördur and bought them each a gift. Erlendur had been given a lead soldier holding a rifle with a bayonet on the end. The soldier was painted green, apart from his boots which were black and a pale pink splash where his features could be discerned. It was not the best figure he owned. The colour of the soldier’s face had leaked onto his helmet, his hands were green like his uniform and it was hard to make him stand up. Bergur was presented with the car and immediately fell in love with its small, shiny perfection and miniature steering wheel. Although Erlendur was pleased with his soldier and propped it up in the vanguard of his toy army, Beggi’s car left him feeling oddly resentful.