While his eyes were following the words, however, his attention began to stray back to Hrund and to the fate of all those left behind when their loved ones depart this life without warning, leaving the survivors to wrestle with feelings of bereavement and even guilt. When someone disappeared, all the focus was on the lost person, on the circumstances of their life and possible explanations for what had happened. But Erlendur’s interest went further. He had said as much to Marion Briem, his colleague of many years, whom he missed more than he cared to admit. Marion had known how to listen; known, perhaps better than anyone, about loss. Erlendur attributed this to Marion’s childhood experience of tuberculosis, which had led to prolonged sojourns in sanatoria in Iceland and Denmark. On the whole Marion had been reluctant to speak of it, but occasionally over the years, at Erlendur’s prompting, had opened up enough to give an impression of those times: the rows of patients lying in the wards, coughing up blood; the grim surgical procedures like collapsing the infected lung or removing ribs. These accounts had been tinged with a sense of grief that Erlendur guessed was connected to a lost love, though Marion never said so.
‘What exactly do you mean?’ Marion had asked once when he tried to explain this reaction.
‘I’m telling you that as a professional, as a police officer, my main objective is to find out what happened, who disappeared, how and why.’
‘Yes,’ Marion had said. ‘That’s obvious.’
‘But then I start wondering: what about all the others?’
‘Others?’
‘The ones left behind.’
‘What about them?’
‘The people I pity are the ones left to cope with the fallout. Who have to endure the sadness for the rest of their lives. It’s them I’m concerned with.’
‘Policemen can’t be responsible for men’s souls, Erlendur,’ Marion had said. ‘That’s what priests are for.’
‘But I can’t stop thinking about it.’
‘And trying to help.’
‘If I can. But there’s so little one can do.’
Erlendur stared blankly into the black void of the house and listened to the moaning of the wind. Eventually, he put down his book and enjoyed a dreamless night’s sleep in the warmth of the gas lantern.
The road through the Fagridalur Valley had been snowploughed by the time Erlendur drove along it at lunchtime next day. He parked outside the care home in Egilsstadir and thought about all those who remembered the story of Matthildur and Jakob. Most were getting on; some, like Ninna and Ezra, were very elderly. Soon their tales would be forgotten, along with their lives and fates, their sorrows and triumphs. They would all vanish into the eternal silence, laid to rest under the green turf of the graveyard, where in the end their only visitor would be the wind in the grass.
Kjartan recognised him immediately in spite of his poor eyesight. He asked if Erlendur had found anything useful in his mother’s trunk. Erlendur nodded: actually he had discovered a letter from Matthildur that had provided a promising lead.
‘Well, that’s good,’ said Kjartan, after they had sat down together in the otherwise empty lounge. ‘So you’re back again, are you? I don’t know what more I can do for you. Did you say you were going to publish it in a book?’
‘I don’t know. It’s mostly to satisfy my own curiosity. I’ve spoken to a few locals and they’ve all been very kind. It’s extraordinary how much they remember.’
‘Yes, they’re good folk round here,’ agreed Kjartan. ‘I haven’t a bad word to say about them.’
Erlendur nodded again. On the drive through the Arctic landscape he had been debating how to bring up the subject of Kjartan’s father tactfully, and wondering whether the old man knew his true paternity. He used a different patronymic, after all. And judging from what people said, Jakob could be an awkward subject to broach with anyone — particularly his supposed illegitimate son. As both a stranger and no relation, Erlendur had absolutely no right to go around interrogating people about the past, and it was doubly despicable to talk to them under false pretences. He wanted to come clean; he abhorred using duplicity and underhand methods when dealing with honest people.
‘I’m not sure I’ve explained my interest in Matthildur’s death or disappearance properly,’ he said after a pause. ‘The subject came up recently when I was talking to a man called Bóas, but actually my fascination with the story of Matthildur and Jakob and their families goes back a long way.’
Kjartan fixed his unseeing eyes on him, puzzled as to what Erlendur was implying.
‘I’m a policeman from Reykjavík, on holiday out here. As it happens, my family comes from these parts and I first heard about Matthildur when I was a boy. Her story intrigues me. But I’m not trying to expose anyone. This is in no way a police investigation.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ asked Kjartan. ‘You didn’t mention it, did you? If you did, I don’t remember. I was under the impression you were a historian.’
‘No,’ said Erlendur, ‘I’m not a historian. I felt it was better you understood before we talked any further — if you still want to, that is.’
Kjartan considered this. Erlendur waited patiently. He couldn’t predict how the old man would react.
‘I’ve had to put up with a lot because of my family history,’ Kjartan said at last. ‘But I don’t believe it’s any business of the police. I’d be grateful if you’d be on your way.’
Erlendur hesitated, at a loss as to how to retrieve the situation. As he dithered, the opportunity slipped from his hands.
‘Good day,’ said Kjartan, standing up.
‘There’s a chance I might be able to find out what happened to Matthildur,’ Erlendur interjected hastily. ‘With your help, that is.’
‘Good day,’ repeated Kjartan and stalked out of the lounge and down the corridor towards his room.
Erlendur sighed. He watched Kjartan’s retreating back. The man’s objections were only fair: Erlendur had no right to interfere in his life. Yet he couldn’t leave it at that. Even if Kjartan wasn’t concealing any knowledge that would help uncover further details about Matthildur’s fate, the fact remained that he was an important link in the story.
A member of staff came in and asked if he could help him, and Erlendur explained that he was on his way out. He traipsed down the corridor, past Kjartan’s room. The old man had left his door ajar and Erlendur paused outside. For an instant he considered testing the old man’s patience still further, but in the end decided to leave well alone.
‘Are you still there?’ came Kjartan’s voice.
Erlendur pushed the door open. Kjartan was sitting on the bed, his eyes on the floor.
‘There’s not much to do here but listen for footsteps,’ he said.
‘I’m leaving,’ said Erlendur. ‘I just wanted you to know that I’m not prying. I’m not some sort of ghoul. And I’m not here in any official capacity. I’m simply looking for answers. I’ve been in contact with your aunt Hrund.’
‘Yes, well, I don’t know her.’
‘So I gather.’ Erlendur lingered in the doorway.
‘What do you think happened to Matthildur?’ asked Kjartan.
‘I don’t know,’ said Erlendur, beginning to ease his way into the room. ‘She probably died of exposure on the way to Reydarfjördur.’
‘My mother and I didn’t get along,’ said Kjartan, ‘so I left home as soon as I could. I know it sounds harsh but there it is.’
‘Was that in part because you were aware of your father’s identity?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did you find out it was Jakob?’
‘Why do you need to know that?’
‘I need to understand the bigger picture,’ said Erlendur, choosing his words with care. ‘Everything matters, especially details that seem trivial.’
‘I’ve known ever since I was old enough to understand,’ said Kjartan. ‘I feel like I’ve always known. But I moved out east long after he died, so I never met him or heard from him as a child. I suppose I moved here partly because my parents used to live in the east and my mother always spoke well of the people here.’