‘Let’s go,’ he said.
‘I can’t,’ she said, so quietly he could hardly catch the words.
‘Come on.’
That night, after his mother had gone to bed at the guest house, he had hiked up onto the moor. It was summer, the sky still brightened by the midnight sun, and he had walked right to the foot of Mount Hardskafi, where he had stretched out on the moss and gazed up at the heavens. He had been a child when they moved away and it was with mixed emotions that he returned now as an adult. The visit to the abandoned croft had dredged up memories long forgotten or suppressed. Deep down he knew that he had been avoiding this place, not just physically but in his mind. The light Arctic night offered no comfort. On the contrary, it illuminated with painful clarity all that was most difficult and distressing about this homecoming. He was convinced there and then that he would never be a happy man — not that it really mattered in the great scheme of things.
Erlendur stubbed out a second cigarette. He watched the snow turning the earth a pristine white, like the promise of a new beginning, and inwardly cursed the cruelty of fate.
Ninna, a tiny old lady of eighty-five, was reading the Bible in her room when Erlendur, with the help of an attendant, tracked her down. He had been keen to avoid any awkward attempts to explain his visit to the staff, but in the event he was directed to her room without query and had no problem finding it.
‘Who are you?’ she asked in a clear voice.
‘My name’s Erlendur and I’d like a word with you, if that’s all right.’
‘I rarely get any visitors,’ Ninna said. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, the Bible in her hands and her long grey hair trailing loose down her back. ‘Though a girl came here the other day and started rabbiting on about traditional farming methods. She said she was collecting recordings of old folks like me for the National Museum. I said, look, dear, I have no time for nostalgic twaddle like that and absolutely no intention of being an exhibit in the National Museum. You can put me there when I’m dead!’
‘Ninna — it’s an unusual name, isn’t it?’ said Erlendur, testing the waters. She had few personal belongings in her room; no photographs of relatives or ornaments to cheer up her surroundings apart from two old prints on the walls. Her bed was neatly made and a half-full glass of water stood on the bedside table.
‘So what if it is?’ said the old woman, closing the Bible with a snap. ‘What do you want with me, young man?’
Erlendur abandoned the attempt to ingratiate himself.
‘I’m investigating what happened on the night in January 1942 when the British soldiers were caught in a storm on Eskifjördur Moor. Do you remember it?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘That night a woman died as well. I believe she was a friend of yours.’
‘Yes, Matthildur. Poor, dear Matthildur. Know all about her, do you?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘Matthildur was a wonderful girl,’ said Ninna. ‘We were great friends and it was a terrible loss when she died. Someone spread the rumour that she’d committed suicide but I always regarded that as tosh.’
‘Oh?’ said Erlendur. This was new.
‘They put it about that she must have thrown herself in the sea — that she’d never been near the moors or the British soldiers would have run into her. Absolute tosh. The soldiers couldn’t see a thing and didn’t have a clue where they were. That was one rumour and a malicious one too.’
‘That she’d killed herself, you mean?’
‘She’d never have done that in a million years,’ declared Ninna firmly. ‘She had no reason to. None whatsoever. I knew her better than that. The suggestion was ludicrous.’
‘So what do you think happened?’
‘I expect she died in the storm. It wouldn’t be the first time in this country.’
‘Did you know Jakob well?’
‘I was with her the first time they met. He came from Reykjavík. Lived in Djúpivogur for a while. They didn’t really know each other that well.’
‘What kind of man was he?’
‘Frankly, I thought she could have done better,’ said Ninna. ‘Though I never said as much to her face. Or his, for that matter. After all, it was none of my business, even when the truth came out. She was my friend and I’m in no position to judge her. I ended up with a wrong ’un myself — though I don’t wish to speak ill of my Viggó.’
Ninna’s old eyes regarded him. ‘When those good-for-nothings drink, then you’ve really had it.’
Erlendur smiled to himself. ‘The truth came out?’ he repeated.
‘Yes.’
‘What came out?’
‘That they’d been with the same man.’
‘Who?’
‘Not at the same time, of course. Matthildur met him later.’
‘Hang on a minute — Jakob knew her sister.’ Erlendur recalled Matthildur’s letter to Ingunn.
‘Jakob and Ingunn had been stepping out but it didn’t last and was over by then. I remember Matthildur telling me her sister had been dead set against her marriage. By then Ingunn had moved south to Reykjavík. I reckon she moved because of Jakob. But what would I know? It had nothing to do with me.’
‘Bastard’ had been scrawled in bold letters across the obituary in Ingunn’s possession. It had obviously been written in anger. Although that did not necessarily mean Ingunn had written it herself, it did seem highly likely if what Ninna said was anything to go by. Ingunn and Jakob had known each other before she moved to Reykjavík to start a new life, and later fate had decreed that he should marry her sister. Judging by the letter, Matthildur had been aware that Ingunn and Jakob were acquainted, but apparently not how intimately.
‘Did Matthildur know about their relationship?’
‘Know! It only came to light after they got married. The consequences only emerged then.’
‘Consequences?’
‘Well, it was never common knowledge. I was in on the secret, and maybe a few others. After all, Ingunn had moved away and seldom came home.’
‘What secret?’
‘About the baby,’ said Ninna. ‘Ingunn had a child by Jakob. Matthildur was distraught when she found out. Quite distraught.’
18
Ingunn told no one about her condition. Nor did she ever reveal the identity of the child’s father. When she discovered she was pregnant, she decided to move to the city. At first she had considered an abortion and was put in touch with people who could organise one, but when the time came she decided against it. Instead she took a job at a fish factory and had a tough few months as a single mother until she met and married a fishery foreman, going on to have three more children with him. She never looked back and never returned to Reydarfjördur or anywhere else in the east while Jakob was alive.
She had gone to see him shortly before moving to Reykjavík, to inform him that she thought she was pregnant and that the baby was his, which Jakob immediately cast doubt on. They had met when Ingunn took a summer job at the same fish factory in the village of Djúpivogur and had slept together once, towards the end of the season. She had fallen in love with him, believing him to be a good, decent man, but the truth had turned out to be different. After sleeping with her, he quickly lost interest and eventually told her bluntly to stop chasing him around. Their relationship was over almost before it began. When she went to see him to tell him about the baby, he lost his temper and declared that she could never prove it was his, then called her a slut and said he wanted nothing more to do with her. She had better not dare name the child after him, were his final words.
Shattered and humiliated, Ingunn chose to remain silent. She had often talked about wanting to go and live in Reykjavík, so no one was particularly surprised when she acted on her impulse. Most of her belongings fitted into a single suitcase. Some months later she gave birth to a son and, once they got together, her husband took the place of the boy’s father.