Free Strange Shores by Arnaldur Indridason

farmer remarked as he invited him indoors. ‘The nights are getting damned chilly.’
    ‘Oh, I can’t complain,’ said Erlendur.
    ‘I’m not used to entertaining guests, so I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with coffee.’ Bóas explained that his wife was visiting relatives in Egilsstadir. His tone revealed that he was not sorry to miss them.
    They sat down together in the spotless kitchen. Bóas put two cups on the table, filled them with coffee and added such a generous splash of milk to each that they turned pale brown and tepid. Then he puffed on his pipe and started grumbling about the industrial developments and those bloody capitalists making fools of the politicians.
    ‘Discovered any more about Matthildur?’ The question came from out of the blue. It made it sound as if Erlendur was conducting an official inquiry into her disappearance more than sixty years ago.
    ‘No,’ said Erlendur, lighting a cigarette to keep Bóas company. ‘There’s nothing new to report. She must have died in the storm. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened.’
    ‘No, I’m afraid you’re right there.’ Bóas slurped his milky coffee. ‘Not the first time by a long chalk.’
    ‘Do you know any more about her sisters? Two of them moved to Reykjavík. And there’s the one who lives in Reydarfjördur.’
    ‘I know Hrund quite well,’ said Bóas. ‘A fine woman. Have you spoken to her?’
    Erlendur nodded.
    ‘Oh, so you
are
interested, then.’
    ‘Did you ever hear any gossip about Matthildur and Jakob’s marriage? About her sisters’ attitude to him, for example?’
    ‘What have you discovered?’ Bóas demanded, with unabashed curiosity.
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘You’re lying, of course,’ said Bóas. ‘I don’t remember hearing that. Did they disapprove? Which ones? Why?’
    ‘I’m asking because I don’t know,’ said Erlendur. ‘Are you familiar with the name Pétur Alfredsson? I imagine he’d be dead by now.’
    ‘Yes, I remember him. He was a fisherman. Died years ago. What about him?’
    ‘Pétur wrote an obituary for Jakob in the farmers’ paper. It was the only one printed. I checked at the library in Egilsstadir. He described him as an all-round good bloke and mentioned that he’d lost his wife several years before.’
    ‘Did he now?’
    ‘Did this Pétur have any children?’
    ‘Yes, three, I think. One of his daughters used to live in Fáskrúdsfjördur. Probably still does. She was involved in local politics. I assume his other kids must have moved to Reykjavík because I haven’t heard their names for years.’
    ‘What about a woman called Ninna? It’s not a nickname, by the way. She was Matthildur’s friend, mentioned in one of her letters. They went to a dance together and Jakob was there.’
    ‘I don’t recall any Ninna,’ Bóas said. ‘Is she supposed to have lived in Eskifjördur?’
    ‘I don’t know. She’s probably not important – just a name in a letter. But she may have been present the evening Matthildur and Jakob got together. I spoke to an old friend of Jakob’s too – Ezra.’
    ‘You’re obviously not at all interested,’ said Bóas, grinning. ‘I’d be better off asking who you haven’t talked to. Seems I really got you going.’ He sounded pleased with himself.
    ‘Do you know Ezra?’
    ‘Ezra’s getting on, and his health’s not what it was. You’d never guess to look at him now but in his day he was a titan: hardy, brave and good in a fight, as they used to say in the sagas. And never beholden to anyone.’
    There was no mistaking Bóas’s admiration. Sitting up eagerly, he embarked on a long speech about how they didn’t make them like Ezra any more: the last of his breed, indomitable, a man of true grit. He was the best hunter and fisherman Bóas had ever known: fox, reindeer, ptarmigan and geese, cod and haddock – none of them stood a chance. Finally breaking off his eulogy, he asked: ‘What sort of welcome did he give