‘I gather they were stored in the ice house,’ Erlendur said. ‘In Eskifjördur.’
‘That sounds likely. They were buried only a day or two after they died, according to Dad. It all happened very quickly, but then I think Dad said neither of them had any dependants.’
‘Did your father ever mention Matthildur?’
‘Not very often.’
‘Or their relationship?’
‘You mean Jakob and Matthildur? Not that I recall. There were rumours but my father dismissed them as nonsense. That she’d come back to haunt him and even caused the shipwreck.’
‘What triggered them, do you think?’
‘Search me. Isn’t it typically Icelandic? All that superstitious claptrap about ghosts and elves and trolls. Isn’t it all the same thing?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And of course she was never found — Matthildur, I mean — which only fuelled the gossip.’
‘That must have made things worse,’ agreed Erlendur, who had no time for coincidence or superstition.
‘You don’t believe in any of that, do you?’ asked Gréta, touching a silver cross that she wore on a chain round her neck.
‘Not really,’ said Erlendur.
The screaming from the pool had abated. Through an open door, Erlendur caught a glimpse of a young female instructor kneeling beside the water, teaching backstroke.
‘Not everyone learned to swim in the old days,’ Gréta remarked after he had been watching the lesson for a minute. ‘I seem to recall Dad saying Jakob couldn’t swim.’
‘What else did he say about him?’
‘Once he said Jakob’s worst fear had come true. He recited those lines from the Hymns of Passion.’
‘Which lines?’
‘Oh, how do they go again?’ Gréta thought. ‘“The fate he feared most of all / would in time upon him fall.”’
‘And he was talking about Jakob?’
‘Yes. Apparently he suffered from severe claustrophobia. I don’t even know if they used the word back then, but from the way Dad described it that’s what it was. Apparently you could hardly close the door when he was in the room. Dad didn’t know why but his worst nightmare was to be trapped somewhere and suffocate.’
‘Are you saying he actually got locked in somewhere?’
‘Yes, at least once. He and Dad worked together when they were young — this was in Reykjavík. They were taken on by the slaughterhouse for a few months, no longer. That’s where they met. Times were hard and they were grateful for any job they could get. Jakob worked in the smokehouse.’
‘Smoking meat?’
‘Yes. And got locked in.’
‘In the smokehouse?’
Gréta nodded. ‘Dad said it was one of his mates having a laugh — he didn’t know about Jakob’s phobia.’
‘Perhaps no one did.’
‘No, probably not. Anyway, Dad said he went completely berserk. When they eventually opened the door he attacked the first man he could lay his hands on and they thought he was going to kill him. They had to hold him down. His fingers were all bloody from where he’d been clawing at the door. It was made of steel, Dad said.’
‘Sounds pretty nasty.’
‘Dad had never seen anything like it. Jakob refused to discuss it afterwards. Dad once tried to ask him what had happened but he clammed up.’
‘Did your father ever learn any more about Matthildur’s disappearance?’ asked Erlendur. ‘Did he mention it at all?’
‘No, he didn’t. It was just one of those tragedies.’
‘Do you know how Jakob reacted?’
‘Well, I gather he was devastated,’ said Gréta. ‘Of course, they organised a big search party, not just for her but for the British soldiers too. Every able-bodied person in the district took part, including Jakob and Dad. Dad spent a lot of time with him afterwards but he felt Jakob had changed. He became very edgy — quick-tempered and difficult to be around. Not the same man.’
‘I heard Jakob wasn’t all he seemed,’ said Erlendur, remembering Ezra’s words.
‘That’s not the impression I got. At least, Dad never described him like that.’
‘It must have been a terrible strain,’ said Erlendur. ‘By the way, do you know a woman called Ninna? She’d be pretty old by now, if she’s still alive. I gather Ninna’s her Christian name, but I can’t find her listed in the phone book.’
‘The only Ninna I know around here lives in the nursing home,’ said Gréta. ‘I used to work there. I don’t know if it’s the same woman, but the one I’m thinking of is ancient.’
17
The snow was coming down ever more heavily as Erlendur parked in front of the nursing home in Fáskrúdsfjördur. Instead of getting out, he lit up and watched the flakes floating lazily to the ground. There was not a breath of wind.
As he sat there, taking his time over the cigarette, he relived the walks he had been on since arriving in the east. Clad in his old boots, waterproof trousers and a thick down jacket, with a small rucksack on his back, he had hiked from the head of Eskifjördur up to the moor, along the foothills of the mountains, then high up their flanks. It had been returning from one such trip that he had bumped into Bóas by the Urdarklettur crags. His expeditions generally lasted from early in the morning until dusk, though on one occasion he had slept rough on a carpet of moss, alone with the birds. He enjoyed lying on his back, head propped on his rucksack, gazing up at the stars and reflecting on the theory that the universe was expanding into the void. There was something strangely soothing about pondering such incomprehensible distances, as if a reminder of the greater context provided a temporary relief from petty terrestrial concerns.
It was not the first time he had bedded down in the heather, listened to the birds and contemplated the sky. He had a clear memory of his first trip back east after the family had moved to Reykjavík. It was following the death of his father, whose last wish had been to be laid to rest in his home ground. Erlendur and his mother had flown with his body to Egilsstadir and driven from there to Eskifjördur on rough gravel roads, with the coffin in the back of an open pickup truck. He remembered thinking what an undignified homecoming it was. He and his mother had sat in the cab, listening to the driver gassing away, music blaring from his radio. Erlendur had wanted to ask him to show a little respect, but his mother had seemed indifferent. There was a short ceremony in the church, attended by a handful of locals. It was the middle of the week, the funeral had only been announced once on the radio and there were no obituaries. In the end mother and son had been left standing alone by the open grave. A white cross bearing a black metal plaque lay beside them, waiting to be driven into the ground.
‘God bless you,’ he heard his mother whisper.
Later that day he took her to visit the croft at Bakkasel, which had been standing empty ever since they moved to Reykjavík. The house was already looking very dilapidated, the doors wide open, windows broken and signs of animal activity inside. At first, his mother had wandered from room to room in a daze, as if their life there had belonged to another world, a world that was gone forever. Until now, her resilience had surprised him. She had shown no emotion when his father died long before his time, merely busied herself with organising his funeral the way she knew he would have wanted it. She had not shed a tear on the journey or expressed any irritation at the garrulous driver, and had stood in the graveyard speaking only those three whispered words: ‘God bless you.’ But now, confronted by the evidence of decay and neglect, and remembering the time when they had all lived there together, she seemed to have woken from her stupor. At last a crack appeared in her calm facade.
‘What’s happened here?’ she whispered.