‘Is anybody there?’ he repeats in a whisper.
He continues his search, out of the kitchen and down the short passage to the bedrooms. He can’t get into his parents’ room because the roof has fallen in over the door and part of the passage. There his father had sat after his descent from the moors, inconsolable, aware that his two sons were still out there; sure that they were lost. He had known better than anyone what conditions up there were like and his collapse had been total. There were ugly patches of frostbite on his face as he sat there while the rescue party gathered in the kitchen.
‘Is anybody there?’ he whispers a third time. The torch beam fades still further and begins to gutter. He bangs it on his palm and the light grows momentarily brighter. The battery is almost dead. He proceeds to the room he once shared with his brother and illuminates the place where their beds used to stand, separated by a night table. There was a small wardrobe in the corner and a thick rug to protect their toes from the icy floor. Now the room contains nothing but darkness.
The realisation finally hits him that there is no one else in the house. The presence he felt was merely an illusion. There is no one left but him. He turns and makes his way back past the kitchen and hall to the sitting room, where the torch conks out. When he thumps it again it sheds a weak light on the wall opposite. The shadow of a man plays over the rough surface and for an instant he sees a figure with back turned and head bowed, as if in defeat. The vision startles him so much that he drops the torch and it goes out again.
Stooping, he fumbles for it, then knocks it on the floor three times until the bulb comes on, lighting up the room with an instant of brilliance before finally dying for good. He looks around frantically but the man has vanished.
‘What do you want from me?’ he murmurs into the night.
He is lying in the cold, eyes half open, unsure how long it is since the involuntary shivering ceased. He can’t feel his hands or feet, is no longer aware of being frozen. He knows he will soon fall asleep but struggles against the drowsiness. It is vital to stay awake as long as possible but his strength is dwindling. He remembers seeing the stars as he lay in the snow.
Through the brain-numbing cold it occurs to him that he is no longer in his right mind.
15
As Erlendur bumped slowly up the track to the farm, he saw Bóas emerge into the yard to greet him. He had not called on him before because they were to all intents and purposes strangers, in spite of the hunting trip. But now he felt he had personal business with this man who had tried to extract milk from a dead vixen.
Bóas had seen him coming and hurried out in slippers and shirtsleeves, with a stump of pipe in his mouth. He had recognised the blue four-wheel drive from seeing it parked outside the old place at Bakkasel over the last few days. Erlendur got out and they shook hands.
‘I don’t understand how you can rough it in that ruin,’ the farmer remarked as he invited him indoors. ‘The nights are getting damned chilly.’
‘Oh, I can’t complain,’ said Erlendur.
‘I’m not used to entertaining guests, so I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with coffee.’ Bóas explained that his wife was visiting relatives in Egilsstadir. His tone revealed that he was not sorry to miss them.
They sat down together in the spotless kitchen. Bóas put two cups on the table, filled them with coffee and added such a generous splash of milk to each that they turned pale brown and tepid. Then he puffed on his pipe and started grumbling about the industrial developments and those bloody capitalists making fools of the politicians.
‘Discovered any more about Matthildur?’ The question came from out of the blue. It made it sound as if Erlendur was conducting an official inquiry into her disappearance more than sixty years ago.
‘No,’ said Erlendur, lighting a cigarette to keep Bóas company. ‘There’s nothing new to report. She must have died in the storm. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened.’
‘No, I’m afraid you’re right there.’ Bóas slurped his milky coffee. ‘Not the first time by a long chalk.’
‘Do you know any more about her sisters? Two of them moved to Reykjavík. And there’s the one who lives in Reydarfjördur.’
‘I know Hrund quite well,’ said Bóas. ‘A fine woman. Have you spoken to her?’
Erlendur nodded.
‘Oh, so you are interested, then.’
‘Did you ever hear any gossip about Matthildur and Jakob’s marriage? About her sisters’ attitude to him, for example?’
‘What have you discovered?’ Bóas demanded, with unabashed curiosity.
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re lying, of course,’ said Bóas. ‘I don’t remember hearing that. Did they disapprove? Which ones? Why?’
‘I’m asking because I don’t know,’ said Erlendur. ‘Are you familiar with the name Pétur Alfredsson? I imagine he’d be dead by now.’
‘Yes, I remember him. He was a fisherman. Died years ago. What about him?’
‘Pétur wrote an obituary for Jakob in the farmers’ paper. It was the only one printed. I checked at the library in Egilsstadir. He described him as an all-round good bloke and mentioned that he’d lost his wife several years before.’
‘Did he now?’
‘Did this Pétur have any children?’
‘Yes, three, I think. One of his daughters used to live in Fáskrúdsfjördur. Probably still does. She was involved in local politics. I assume his other kids must have moved to Reykjavík because I haven’t heard their names for years.’
‘What about a woman called Ninna? It’s not a nickname, by the way. She was Matthildur’s friend, mentioned in one of her letters. They went to a dance together and Jakob was there.’
‘I don’t recall any Ninna,’ Bóas said. ‘Is she supposed to have lived in Eskifjördur?’
‘I don’t know. She’s probably not important — just a name in a letter. But she may have been present the evening Matthildur and Jakob got together. I spoke to an old friend of Jakob’s too — Ezra.’
‘You’re obviously not at all interested,’ said Bóas, grinning. ‘I’d be better off asking who you haven’t talked to. Seems I really got you going.’ He sounded pleased with himself.
‘Do you know Ezra?’
‘Ezra’s getting on, and his health’s not what it was. You’d never guess to look at him now but in his day he was a titan: hardy, brave and good in a fight, as they used to say in the sagas. And never beholden to anyone.’
There was no mistaking Bóas’s admiration. Sitting up eagerly, he embarked on a long speech about how they didn’t make them like Ezra any more: the last of his breed, indomitable, a man of true grit. He was the best hunter and fisherman Bóas had ever known: fox, reindeer, ptarmigan and geese, cod and haddock — none of them stood a chance. Finally breaking off his eulogy, he asked: ‘What sort of welcome did he give you?’
‘Not bad,’ said Erlendur. ‘I bought some first-rate dried fish off him.’
‘No one makes better hardfiskur,’ said Bóas. ‘Did he mention the dam business at all?’
‘No.’
‘No, that’s just it. I don’t know where he stands on it. He’s not one for showing his hand, Ezra. Never has been.’
‘Did he ever go out fishing with Jakob?’ Erlendur asked.
‘I don’t know — I’d have to ask around. Ezra’s done so many jobs. He was foreman at the ice house in Eskifjördur for years. Started work there during the war, I believe.’
Erlendur vacillated for some time before changing the subject. Now that it came to it, he wasn’t sure he really wanted to find the answers he had been seeking for so long. Noticing his preoccupation, Bóas held his tongue for once. In the end, Erlendur took from his pocket the scrap of metal that Ezra had found by a fox’s earth on the slopes of Mount Hardskafi.