Free Sea of Stone by Michael Ridpath Page B

wind is still blowing from the north,’ said Ingvar. ‘All the farms to the south of Eyjafjallajökull are covered in it.’
    ‘It will ruin them,’ said Kolbeinn. ‘Once the fluorine gets into the soil, you have to bring all the livestock inside and keep them there. And just before lambing season too.’
    ‘Did you see Hvolsvöllur on TV?’ Krissi said. ‘I was watching the news just now. It’s pitch black in the middle of the day, just like night-time. And all the fields are covered in ash, and the people and the horses.’
    ‘It must be horrible for the horses,’ said Tóta. ‘They should have brought them inside. Maybe we should bring ours in, Dad?’
    ‘I hope to God it doesn’t come this way,’ said Kolbeinn. ‘But I’m glad it brought you over here, Villi.’
    ‘Hallgrímur will be pleased to see you, Villi,’ Sylvía said. ‘I think perhaps he is at choir practice. He’ll be back soon.’
    There was silence around the table. It was at least a decade since Hallgrímur had sung in the local choir. He had once had a fine baritone voice, but eventually ageing vocal chords had forced him out. It was as if Sylvía, unable to face today, was taking herself back in time.
    Villi glanced at the others. Each one of them had tried to explain to Sylvía what had happened to her husband and failed.
    ‘I’m sorry I missed him,’ Villi said, swallowing.
    There was a knock at the door.
    ‘Hello?’ called an unfamiliar voice.
    The two dogs, who were lying in their corner of the kitchen, roused themselves and began to bark. Aníta got up and hurried to the front door. Tóta was there with a tall man in his fifties with a shock of thick white hair. Another policeman, perhaps?
    ‘We’re just having dinner,’ Aníta said. ‘Can we answer your questions tomorrow?’
    The man frowned and then smiled. ‘Oh, I’m not with the police,’ he said. ‘My name is Jóhannes. Jóhannes Benediktsson. My family came from Hraun, just over the lava field.’
    ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Come in. Would you like some food?’
    The phone had been ringing and they had had a couple of visits already from Hallgrímur’s old cronies. Perhaps this man was one of them, although Aníta didn’t recognize him at all.
    Aníta introduced the man to the family around the table. Kolbeinn looked perplexed, but Ingvar seemed to register who the stranger was. ‘You’re Benedikt Jóhannesson’s son, aren’t you? The writer?’
    ‘That’s right. I apologize for disturbing you, and I won’t stay long. I’m on my way back to Reykjavík, but it’s very important that I speak to you all first. It’s about Hallgrímur’s death. His murder.’
    There was silence around the table as they all stared at him. Aníta gave the man a seat and he sat down.
    ‘First, let me say how sorry I am. I didn’t know Hallgrímur. Indeed, I have never met him. But he was part of your family. And that’s why I have to talk to you.’
    He looked around the table, checking that he had got all their attention.
    ‘Krissi, can you leave us now?’ Aníta asked.
    ‘No, let him stay,’ commanded Jóhannes. ‘It’s important that all generations are here.’
    Krissi stayed, eyes wide, eager to hear what the stranger had to say. Aníta didn’t mind being contradicted. The stranger had a natural authority, and she wanted to hear him out too. Even the dogs’ ears were pricked.
    ‘I’ve spent some time researching my family,’ Jóhannes went on. ‘And through those researches I have learned a lot about your family. We have both suffered a number of untimely deaths. This is just the most recent.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ asked Villi.
    ‘The first was in 1934,’ said Jóhannes. ‘At least, I think it was the first. My grandfather, also called Jóhannes, who was the farmer at Hraun, disappeared suddenly one afternoon. No one knew why or where he had gone. Perhaps he fell into the sea. There was a rumour he disappeared to America. But he left his wife without a