Meanwhile, Ezra’s story would not leave him alone. Erlendur felt inclined to believe the old man’s account: one only had to listen to Ezra for a minute to feel his torment, the terrible uncertainty he had lived with so long, the deep guilt that had plagued him for most of his life. It seemed certain that Jakob had killed Matthildur and taken the knowledge of her body’s whereabouts to his grave. For Ezra, there had never been any sort of closure and it was only too apparent that his wounds were still raw, even after the passing of more than sixty years. He was old now and, judging by his constant references to his imminent death, no longer expected to live to hear the end of the story — should Matthildur ever be found. Ezra admitted he had given up searching for her decades ago.
Erlendur refilled his mug and drank slowly. Jakob had got away with murder, there was little doubt. What’s more, he had arranged it so that he could confess it to Ezra, torture him with the knowledge, accuse him and tie his hands at the same time. He had taken advantage of the lucky circumstances — the storm and the disaster that had befallen the British servicemen. He had shown incredible audacity in the way he lied about Matthildur’s movements. And he had known just how to apply pressure to Ezra’s vulnerable point: his affair with Matthildur and the betrayal of his friend.
The most obvious flaw in Ezra’s testimony was that he could not call on anyone to confirm it. There were no witnesses; he had never shared what happened with anyone and he was now the only living person who knew the facts. His statement would stand or fall by his own credibility. Erlendur considered calling a halt at this point: he supposed he had been fairly successful in his inquiry, though, strictly speaking, he was not really investigating Matthildur’s disappearance; rather, he was satisfying his own curiosity, aware that no one could be held to account at this late stage. The case had been subject to a conspiracy of silence for a lifetime.
Yet Matthildur’s story had touched a nerve with Erlendur; he felt he could relate to her fate and this feeling had given him a sense of connection to the case — though he didn’t really know what was driving him on. Perhaps it was the thought of Ezra’s dismal plight: doomed to live on in the wreckage of his lost love. If what he said was true, he had only ever learned half the story. And Erlendur knew how unbearable life could be on those terms.
He thought about Jakob’s revenge; how he had trapped Ezra and made him an accessory to his deed, though Ezra had done little to deserve it. Jakob had committed a crime of passion, probably performed without premeditation. These crimes were generally committed in a fog of madness. But what had followed had been a calculated act of vengeance: Jakob had arranged it so that the person he believed bore all the blame would never experience another day of happiness.
Or perhaps it was the love story that had caught Erlendur’s imagination. The love between Matthildur and Ezra denied a chance to blossom, cut short with such brutality.
During the afternoon the wind had picked up and was now making a low keening in the eaves. Erlendur reviewed all that he had uncovered by tracking people down and asking questions about Matthildur, Ezra and Jakob. His thoughts did not follow any coherent path: the individuals he had met, their stories and circumstances became mingled with the East Fjords fog and the blizzard, with his sojourn in the ruined farm, his journeys on foot and by car, the freighters sailing into Reydarfjördur and the astonishing, ever-present signs of industrial development. All these elements coalesced in his mind until, abruptly, he was brought up short by three minor details to which he had paid scant attention at the time. One was the reference to Ezra’s former workplace. The second was a comment, uttered during a conversation, which Erlendur had hardly taken in. But for the wind moaning in the roof he would have forgotten it completely. After he had been listening to the noise for a while, puzzled as to what it reminded him of, a memory suddenly surfaced: someone had heard a noise coming from Jakob’s coffin. The third detail was a remark that Ezra had let fall when they were talking about Jakob’s death and how his body had been stored overnight in the ice house where Ezra worked. It was an innocent statement about Matthildur’s whereabouts that held no significance at the time: I couldn’t get it out of him.
‘Is it possible?’ Erlendur whispered into the gloom.
He rose from his camp chair in sudden agitation.
‘Was he talking about the ice house?’ he asked aloud.
Oblivious to the passing hours, Erlendur wrestled with these three ostensibly trivial threads, trying to find a link between them and growing ever more perplexed until finally he stubbed out his last cigarette and decided that he would have no choice but to impose on Hrund one more time.
39
In the middle of the night he wakes with a jolt from a dream and blinks at his surroundings. He sees only darkness beyond the lantern’s ring of light but can still sense the presence of the boy in his dream. At first he isn’t sure whether he has been asleep and dreaming, or whether it was something else. A sudden dread seizes him, followed by a flood of relief when he realises it was only a nightmare. Curiously, it had felt like the re-echo or revisiting of a dream he’d had in the most wretched period of his youth, which he has never forgotten.
In the dream, which shocks him so violently awake, he is lying on his side, alone in the house in his sleeping bag, covered by a blanket. The house is open to the elements. It is dark and eerie. All at once he feels a presence behind him. Turning deliberately, he peers blindly into the blackness, until a vision materialises of a dejected-looking boy whose eyes meet his.
The vision vanishes.
Erlendur lies in the darkness, meditating on the dream that had woken him once long ago with such a terrible start. He recognised the boy in the vision: it was himself.
40
When he arrived at lunchtime to see Hrund in the hospital at Neskaupstadur, she was asleep. Unwilling to disturb her, he took a seat by her bed and waited for her to stir. He couldn’t entirely shake off the chill that had gripped him when he woke early that morning and drank the dregs of the cold coffee in his Thermos. He had resorted to hurrying to the car and using the heater to thaw out before driving into the village to visit the swimming pool. It had been his morning routine for most of his stay, but he only used the showers, never set foot in the pool itself. The staff respected his privacy, wishing him good morning but never displaying any curiosity or trying to strike up a conversation. This time he stood for longer than usual under the jet of hot water, trying to restore the circulation to his body. Then, having dressed again, he went and ate breakfast at the petrol station and refilled his Thermos before heading off to Neskaupstadur.
Through it all he had been wrestling with the theory that had taken shape during the night. He had been quite excited when it first occurred to him, but the more he thought about it, the more implausible it felt. If it were true, it would mean abandoning several of his preconceptions, including his instinct about Ezra. On the other hand, he knew enough about cold and its impact on the bodily functions, particularly the heart and circulation, to appreciate that they could slow down almost to a standstill without resulting in death or damage, so long as intervention was made in sufficient time.
Hrund opened her eyes and saw that she had a visitor. She pulled herself up a little in bed.
‘You again?’ she said.