Thorson wasn’t keen on dogs. He scanned the surroundings for help but couldn’t see a soul. He was unwilling to abandon his errand at this stage, but he had nothing to bribe the beast with, so he decided to see what would happen if he gave the dog a wide berth and approached the door from the side. The animal let Thorson pass, though it kept up a constant growling. Thorson heaved a sigh of relief, wondering what an earth he would have done if the dog had gone for him.
Once inside, he caught the strong earthy smell of the walls and floor, and then a powerful reek of smoke, as if from burning peat. He thought he could hear classical music, punctuated by the ringing of metal on metal. As he made his way along the passage, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, he wondered if the old farmhouse had been converted into a smithy. He received his answer when he entered what would have been the living area and saw a man standing in the middle of the room, beating out a scythe with a heavy sledgehammer, then cooling it in a bucket of water, sending up great clouds of steam. A lone light bulb hung over the man’s head. The music was coming from a big wireless that had been set up on an old workbench. Strung from the rafters were large fillets of salmon, joints of smoked lamb and what looked to Thorson like a flayed guillemot.
The man had his back to him and was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t notice his visitor until Thorson coughed and said good afternoon. He hadn’t meant to startle him, but the blacksmith jumped and whipped round. Then Thorson saw that, just as the old woman had said, the man wore a patch over one eye.
‘I’m sorry,’ Thorson said hastily, ‘I didn’t mean to give you a shock.’
‘Who are you?’ asked the blacksmith, reaching over and switching off the music.
‘My name’s Thorson and I’ve just driven all the way from Reykjavík. I wondered if I might have a quick word. I won’t take up much of your time.’
‘Thorson?’ said the man with the eyepatch. ‘What kind of name is that? From Reykjavík, did you say? To see me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you a politician? Or the tax man? If so, you can get lost. I’ve nothing to say to you.’
‘No, I’m neither. I’m from the police. The military police, in fact.’
The man regarded him, baffled, with his one eye. The old woman had told Thorson that he was a recluse who lived here with his dogs, a few cows and a herd of sheep. He was hard-working but unsociable, and took little interest in the doings of his neighbours, let alone in the course of the war. According to the old woman, a number of the local farmers’ daughters had set their caps at him, but to no avail. She blamed Vera for that. You’d have thought she’d cast a spell on the poor man.
Thorson apologised again and started to tell the blacksmith about himself — the usual spiel about coming from an Icelandic family in Canada, which was why he spoke the language. He was working with the Icelandic police in connection with a recent incident in Reykjavík. The smith might have heard about it on the radio.
‘I only listen to music,’ the man said, still unsure of the reason for this unexpected visit. ‘I don’t follow the news much.’
Thorson told him that a man’s body had been found in a basement flat in Reykjavík, shot in the head with what the police believed to have been a US military pistol. The victim’s name was Eyvindur, and he had been living with a woman who came from around here. Although she had moved away to the city, Thorson gathered that the blacksmith had known her well at one time.
Thorson’s explanation was met by a long silence. The man stood there watching him, the big sledgehammer in his hand, and although the question hung in the air between them, he seemed reluctant to voice it, as if he was afraid of the answer. Thorson waited, and after a while the man laid down the hammer and adjusted his patch, pulling it down more firmly over his eye.
‘What woman?’ he asked at last, though Thorson could see that he already knew the answer.
‘Her name’s Vera.’
The man regarded his visitor without speaking. Thorson thought he detected a combination of distaste and surprise in his manner. A complete stranger, all the way from Reykjavík, had popped up out of the blue and was standing here, on his beaten-earth floor, telling him about a serious crime in the capital. Bringing up a name the smith had never expected to hear again. No wonder he was speechless. Thorson guessed that in his position he would have been pretty shaken himself.
‘Why... What do you want from me? Why are you here?’
‘I understand that you used to know Vera rather well.’
‘Is she involved?’ the blacksmith asked after a pause. ‘In what happened to that... that...’
‘Eyvindur? It’s not out of the question,’ said Thorson.
‘Why do you want to talk to me?’
‘To find out more about her,’ said Thorson. ‘I’ve been talking to some of the locals, and they advised me to speak to you. Said you knew her best, though you might not speak very highly of her. Was that a fair comment?’
‘You’d better leave,’ the man said, picking up the hammer again. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’
‘Would you at least think about it?’ asked Thorson. ‘I’d be grateful if I could ask you a few questions.’
‘You shouldn’t listen to what the people around here say. They think they know a lot more than they do. Good day.’
‘Is it true that she —?’
‘You’d better leave now,’ said the man, his manner starting to turn threatening. ‘I don’t want to talk to you. I never want to hear another word about that... that woman. Just leave me alone. Do you hear me? Leave me alone!’
‘All right,’ said Thorson. ‘I hear you. I won’t take up any more of your time. There’s just one thing I wanted to say before I go. She’s with a soldier now, a British sergeant. I don’t know if you’ve heard. She started seeing this soldier while she was still living with the man who was murdered. Does that surprise you? That she was cheating on him?’
‘Get out!’ The man raised his voice and stepped towards Thorson, clutching the hammer. ‘I don’t want to hear about it. Get lost. Get out of here!’
Thorson retreated along the passage, out into the open air. The man followed and stood in the doorway, watching him sternly with his one eye, a powerfully built figure, with black hair and beard, in a frayed work shirt and worn braces, his face covered in soot.
The moment Thorson stepped outside he encountered the red-gold dog with the dark stripe down its spine. It snarled at him, and Thorson stumbled away in the direction of his jeep. The other two dogs that had frisked around him earlier were standing a little way off, watching, but suddenly they started barking like crazy. He had only a few yards left to go when the savage dog — foaming at the mouth now, its growling giving way to ferocious barking — sprang at Thorson and knocked him to the ground. As Thorson rolled around in the dirt, frantically trying to stop the beast from ripping his throat out, his thoughts went to the pistol in his glove compartment. If he’d had it to hand, he would have used it without a moment’s hesitation. He felt the dog’s jaws close over his forearm, and he punched its nose as hard as he could, but it was too strong. Thorson yelled with pain and groped for a rock to bring down on the animal’s head. Then a dark figure loomed over him. The dog loosened its grip and went flying into the air with a yelp, landing several yards away on its back. It slunk off behind the turf farmhouse, its tail between its legs.
‘Are you all right?’ he heard the man ask and felt strong hands helping him to his feet. ‘I’m afraid he’s old and cussed. I’ve been putting off shooting him. He attacks anything that crosses his path. Don’t take it personally.’