Strange Shores Read Online Free PDF Page B

had no qualms about discussing his imminent death with all and sundry, and gave the impression that he looked forward to meeting his end. He had been trotting out the same old excuse for putting things off for years – that he would die soon, so it would all be a waste of time. Hrund said it was the oddest form of apathy she had ever come across.
    Erlendur gradually steered the conversation round to tales of ordeals in the wilderness as Ezra resumed his pounding of the
hardfiskur
.
    ‘I’ve been doing a bit of research into stories about people who’ve got into difficulties in the mountains around here.’
    ‘Oh yes?’ said Ezra. ‘Are you a historian?’
    ‘No, it’s just a hobby really,’ Erlendur replied. ‘I was reading about the British servicemen who were planning to cross the Hraevarskörd Pass. I suppose that would be, what, more than sixty years ago now?’
    ‘I remember it well,’ said Ezra. ‘I met some of them. Fine lads. They got caught in a freak storm. Some of them died but they were all found in the end, dead or alive. Which is not always the case, I can tell you.’
    Erlendur agreed.
    Ezra touched his mitten to his nose and asked if Erlendur would like a coffee while they were settling up. Erlendur thanked him and they went up to the house and into the kitchen where Ezra put on an old percolator that belched and hissed but produced good, strong coffee. The kitchen was neat and tidy, with an old-fashioned fridge and an even more ancient Rafha cooker. From the window the head of the fjord and the brooding swell of Eskifjördur Moor were visible. Ezra fetched two cups and poured the coffee, dropping four sugar lumps into his, then offering the bowl to Erlendur who declined. After they had talked about the tragedy of the British soldiers, the conversation moved on to the young woman who had disappeared the same night.
    ‘That’s right,’ Ezra said with slow deliberation. ‘Her name was Matthildur.’
    ‘I gather you were friends with her husband, Jakob.’
    ‘Yes, we knocked around together. In those days.’
    ‘So you knew her too, you knew both of them?’
    ‘I did indeed.’
    ‘Did they have a good marriage?’
    Ezra had been methodically stirring his coffee but now he stopped, tapped his spoon several times against the cup and laid it on the table. ‘I’m not the first person you’ve discussed this with, am I?’
    ‘No,’ Erlendur admitted.
    ‘Who did you say you were again?’
    Erlendur had not introduced himself but did so now, explaining that he lived in Reykjavík but had been born here and had a special interest in stories of people who got lost in the wilderness and died of exposure, especially people who were never found and whose fates remained a mystery. When Ezra grasped that his visitor had local roots, he immediately wanted to know where Erlendur had lived and the names of his parents. Erlendur duly gave them and Ezra said he certainly recalled Sveinn and Áslaug from the tenant croft which had always been known as Bakkasel.
    ‘Well, you know all about me then,’ said Erlendur. ‘So, what can you tell me about Matthildur?’
    ‘They had to move,’ Ezra said, leaning forward over the kitchen table. ‘Sveinn and Áslaug. They couldn’t face staying on in the shadow of the moors. Not after all that. I gather you come here from time to time and go walking up there.’
    ‘That’s right,’ said Erlendur. ‘I’ve made several visits.’
    ‘They’re both buried here in the churchyard, aren’t they? Your parents?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Fine, upstanding people,’ the old man remarked, sipping his coffee. ‘Good people. He taught music at the school – occasionally, anyway, if I’m not mistaken. Played the fiddle too. Dreadful what happened. Someone said you’d become a policeman in Reykjavík. Is that why you’re asking about Matthildur?’
    ‘No,’ said Erlendur. ‘I’m just curious on my own behalf. I’m interested in that sort of case.’
    Ezra sat lost