Silence of the Grave (19 page)

"I know you're searching for him and I know that if there's anyone who can find him, it's you."

He turned away from her, poised to leave, when he saw his ex-wife standing in the doorway. He did not know how long she had been standing there. Did not know how much she had heard of what he had told Eva Lind. She was wearing the same brown coat as before, on top of a jogging suit, but now she wore stilettos too, an outfit which made her look ridiculous. Erlendur had barely seen her for more than two decades, and he noticed how she had aged during that time, how her facial features had lost their sharpness, her cheeks fattened and a double chin started to form.

"That was a repulsive lie you told Eva Lind about the abortion." Erlendur seethed with rage.

"Leave me alone," Halldóra said. Her voice had aged too. Grown hoarse. Smoking too much. Too long.

"What other lies did you tell the kids?"

"Get out," she said, moving away from the door so that he could get past.

"Halldóra . . ."

"Get out," she repeated. "Just go and leave me in peace."

"We both wanted the children."

"Don't you regret it?" she said.

Erlendur didn't follow.

"Do you think they had any business coming into this world?"

"What happened?" Erlendur said. "What made you like this?"

"Get out," she said. "You're good at leaving. So leave! Leave me in peace with her."

Erlendur stared at her.

"Halldóra . . ."

"Leave, I said." She raised her voice. "Get out of here. This minute. Leave! I don't want you around! I never want to see you again!"

Erlendur walked past her and out of the room, and she closed the door behind him.

21

Sigurdur Óli finished searching the cellar that evening without discovering any more about Benjamín's tenants in the chalet on the hill. He did not care. He was relieved to escape from that task. Bergthóra was waiting for him when he got home. She had bought some red wine and was in the kitchen sipping it. Took out another glass and handed it to him.

"I'm not like Erlendur," Sigurdur Óli said. "Never say anything so nasty about me."

"But you want to be like him," Bergthóra said. She was cooking pasta and had lit candles in the dining room. A beautiful setting for an execution, Sigurdur Óli thought.

"All men want to be like him," Bergthóra said.

"Aei, why do you say that?"

"Left to their own devices."

"That's not right. You can't imagine what a pathetic life Erlendur leads."

"I need to work out our relationship at least," Bergthóra said, pouring wine into Sigurdur Óli's glass.

"Okay, let's work out our relationship." Sigurdur Óli had never met a more practical woman than Bergthóra. This conversation was not going to be about the love in their lives.

"We've been together now for, what, three or four years, and nothing's happening. Not a thing. You pull faces as soon as I start talking about anything that vaguely resembles commitment. We still have completely separate finances. A church wedding seems out of the question; I'm not clear about any other type. We're not registered as cohabiting. Having children is as remote to you as a distant galaxy. So I ask: What's left?"

There was no hint of anger in Bergthóra's words. So far, she was still only seeking to understand their relationship and where it was heading. Sigurdur Óli decided to capitalise on this before matters got out of hand. There had been ample time to ponder such questions over his drudgery in Benjamín's cellar.

"We're left," Sigurdur Óli said. "The two of us."

He found a CD, put it in the player and selected a track that had haunted him ever since Bergthóra started to pressurise him about commitment. Marianne Faithfull sang about Lucy Jordan, the housewife who, at the age of 37, dreamed of riding through Paris in a sports car with the cool wind in her hair.

"We've talked about it for long enough," Sigurdur Óli said.

"What?" Bergthóra said.

"Our trip."

"You mean to France?"

"Yes."

"Sigurdur . . ."

"Let's go to Paris and rent a sports car," Sigurdur Óli said.

Erlendur was trapped in a swirling, blinding blizzard. The snow pounded him and lashed his face, the cold and the darkness enveloped him. He battled against the storm, but he made no headway, so he turned his back to the wind and huddled up while the snow piled up against him. He knew he would die and there was nothing he could do about it.

The telephone started to ring and kept on, penetrating the blizzard, until suddenly the weather cleared, the howling storm fell silent and he woke up at home in his chair. On his desk, the telephone rang with increasing intensity, showing him no mercy.

Stiffly he got to his feet and was poised to answer when the ringing stopped. He stood over the telephone, waiting for it to start again, but nothing happened. The telephone was too old to have a caller ID, so Erlendur had no idea who could be trying to contact him. Imagined it was a cold caller trying to sell him a vacuum cleaner with a toaster thrown in for good measure. He silently thanked the telesales person for bringing him in from the blizzard.

He went into the kitchen. It was eight in the evening. He tried to shut the bright spring evening out with the curtains, but it forced its way past them in places, dust-filled sunbeams that lit up the gloom in his flat. Spring and summer were not Erlendur's seasons. Too bright. Too frivolous. He wanted heavy, dark winters. Finding nothing edible in the kitchen, he sat down at the table with his chin resting in his hand.

He was still dazed from sleeping. After returning from a visit to Eva Lind at the hospital at around six, he sat down in the chair, fell asleep and dozed until eight. He thought about the blizzard from his dream and how he turned his back on it, waiting for death. He had often dreamed this dream, in different versions. Yet there was always the unrelenting, freezing blizzard that pierced him to the bone. He knew how the dream would have continued if his sleep had not been broken by the telephone.

The ringing began again and Erlendur wondered whether to ignore it. Eventually he lunged out of the chair, went into the sitting room and picked up the receiver.

"Yes, Erlendur?"

"Yes," Erlendur said, clearing his throat. He recognised the voice at once.

"Jim from the British embassy here. Forgive me for calling you at home."

"Did you ring just now?"

"Just now? No. Only this time. Well, I just spoke to Ed and I thought I needed to get in touch with you."

"Really, is there anything new?"

"He's working on the case for you and I just wanted to keep you in the picture. He's phoned America, looked through his diary and talked to people, and he thinks he knows who blew the whistle on the theft from the depot."

"Who was it?"

"He didn't say. Asked me to let you know and said he was expecting your call."

"This evening?"

"Yes, no, or in the morning. Tomorrow morning might be better. He was off to sleep. Goes to bed early."

"Was it an Icelander? Who grassed on them?"

"He'll tell you about it. Good night, and my apologies for disturbing you."

Erlendur was still standing by the phone when it started ringing again. It was Skarphédinn. He was on the hill.

"We'll uncover the bones tomorrow," Skarphédinn said without any preamble.

"About time too," Erlendur said. "Did you call me just now?"

"Yes, did you just get in?"

"Yes," Erlendur lied. "Have you found anything useful up there?"

"No, nothing, I just wanted to tell you that . . . good evening, evening, ehmm, let me help you, there you go . . . er, sorry, where were we?"

"You were telling me that you'll reach the bones tomorrow."

"Yes, some time towards evening, I expect. We haven't uncovered any clues as to how the body ended up being buried. Maybe we'll find something under the bones."

"See you tomorrow, then."

"Goodbye."

Erlendur put the phone down. He was not fully awake. He thought about Eva Lind and whether any of what he said got through to her. And he thought about Halldóra and the hatred she still felt for him after all those years. And he contemplated for the millionth time what his life and their lives would have been like had he not decided to leave. He never came to any conclusion.

He stared at nothing in particular. An occasional ray of evening sun broke past the sitting-room curtains, slashing a bright wound into the gloom around him. He looked into the curtains. They were made of thick corduroy, hanging right down to the floor. Thick, green curtains to keep the brightness of spring at bay.

Good evening.

Evening.

Let me help you.

Erlendur peered into the green of the curtains.

Crooked.

Green.

"What was Skarphédinn . . . ?" Erlendur leaped to his feet and snatched up the phone. Not remembering Skarphédinn's mobile number, he desperately called directory enquiries. Then he rang the archaeologist.

"Skarphédinn. Skarphédinn?" He blared down the phone.

"What? Is that you again?"

"Who did you say good evening to just then? Who were you helping?"

"Eh?"

"Who were you talking to?"

"What are you so worked up about?"

"Who's there with you?"

"You mean who I said hello to?"

"This isn't a videophone. I can't see you up there on the hill. I heard you say good evening to someone. Who's there with you?"

"Not with me. She went somewhere, wait, she's standing by the bush."

"The bush? You mean the redcurrant bushes? Is she by the redcurrant bushes?"

"Yes."

"What does she look like?"

"She's . . . do you know her then? What's all this panic about?"

"What does she look like?" Erlendur repeated, trying to keep calm.

"Take it easy."

"How old is she?"

"Seventyish. No, maybe more like 80. Difficult to say."

"What's she wearing?"

"She's got on a long green coat, ankle-length. A lady of about my height. And she's lame."

"In what way, lame?"

"She's limping. More than that really. She's sort of, I don't know . . ."

"What?! What! What are you trying to say?"

"I don't know how to describe it . . . I . . . it's like she's crooked."

Erlendur threw down the phone and ran out into the spring evening, forgetting to tell Skarphédinn to keep the lady on the hill there with him at all costs.

*

The day that Grímur returned home, Dave had not been with them for several days.

Autumn had arrived with a piercing north wind and a thin blanket of snow on the ground. The hill stood high above sea level and winter came earlier there than in the lowland, where Reykjavík was beginning to take on some kind of urban shape. Simon and Tómas took the school bus to Reykjavik in the mornings and came back in the evening. Every day their mother walked to Gufunes, where she tended the milk cows and did other routine farm work. She left before the boys, but was always back when they returned from school. Mikkelína stayed at home during the day, excruciatingly bored by her solitude. When her mother came home from work Mikkelína could hardly control herself for glee, and her delight was all the greater when Simon and Tómas burst in and threw their school books into one corner.

Dave was a regular visitor to their home. Their mother and Dave found it increasingly easy to understand each other, and they sat at length at the kitchen table, wanting the boys and Mikkelína to leave them in peace. Occasionally, when they wanted to be left entirely to themselves, they went into the bedroom and closed the door.

Simon sometimes saw Dave stroke his mother's cheek or sweep back a lock of hair if one fell across her face. Or he stroked her hand. They went on long walks around Reynisvatn and up the surrounding hills, and some days even strolled over to Mosfellsdalur and Helgufoss, taking food with them because such an outing could last a whole day. Sometimes they took the children along and Dave carried Mikkelína on his back without the slightest effort. Símon and Tómas were amused that he called their outings a "picnic", and they clucked the word at each other: pic-nic, pic-nic, pic-nic.

Sometimes Dave and their mother sat talking seriously, on their picnics or at the kitchen table, and in the bedroom once when Símon opened the door. They were sitting on the edge of the bed, Dave was holding her hand and they looked over to the door and gave Símon a smile. He did not know what they were talking about, but he knew it could not be pleasant, because he recognised his mother's expression when she felt bad.

And then, one cold autumn day, it all ended.

Grímur came home early one morning when their mother had gone to the farm and Simon and Tómas were on their way to take the school bus. It was piercing cold on the hill and they met Grímur as he walked up the track to the house, clutching his tattered jacket close to him to fend off the north wind. He ignored them. They could not see his face clearly in the dim autumn morning, but Simon imagined he wore a hard, cold expression as he headed towards their house. The boys had been expecting him for the past few days. Their mother had told them he would be released from prison after serving his sentence and would come back to the hill to them; they could expect him at any time.

Simon and Tómas watched Grímur walk up to the house, and looked at each other. Both were thinking the same thing. Mikkelína was home alone. She always woke up when they and their mother got up, but went back to sleep for much of the morning. She would be alone to greet Grímur. Simon tried to calculate their father's reaction when he discovered that their mother was not at home, nor the boys, only Mikkelína, whom he had always hated.

The school bus arrived and beeped twice. Although the driver saw the boys on the hill, when he could not wait for them any longer he drove away and the bus disappeared down the road. They stood motionless, not saying a word, then set off slowly and inched their way towards the house.

They did not want to leave Mikkelína at home by herself.

Simon contemplated running after his mother or sending Tómas to fetch her, but told himself that there was no hurry for them to meet again; their mother could have this last day of peace. The boys saw Grímur enter the house and close the door behind him, and they broke into a run. They did not know what to expect inside the house. All they thought about was Mikkelína asleep in the double bed where she must not be found under any circumstances.