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there. Impossible to say.’
    ‘And you think this was on Hardskafi?’
    ‘Yes, I’m fairly sure.’
    ‘Thank you,’ said Erlendur, as if in a daze. He walked out of the house, climbed into his car and drove away, still in shock. In the rear-view mirror he saw Ezra step outside and watch him leave, as Bóas’s words rang in his ears: ‘You find the oddest things in foxholes.’

9
    ERLENDUR SAT IN his car until evening fell, lighting one cigarette after another and keeping the driver’s window open a crack to prevent the interior from filling with smoke. Ezra’s dried fish lay on the passenger seat but he had no appetite. He had driven down to the shore and, as daylight merged into dusk, he watched a giant container ship glide up the fjord and pondered how heavy industry was transforming people’s lives. Houses and shops were springing up all over the place, served by a network of new roads, and the local economy was booming. The few villagers who had passed the time of day with him – shopkeepers, dockworkers, the boys at the petrol station, all East Fjords born and bred – shared none of Bóas’s and Hrund’s misgivings. They were pleased with the developments. They saw the situation changing so fast it took their breath away.
    ‘The place was dying on its feet,’ he was told. ‘Now times have changed for the better.’
    ‘They’ve certainly changed,’ he replied.
    His thoughts wandered back to Matthildur, and to the British servicemen who had been fighting for their lives on the moors that night. The pass at Hraevarskörd had been blocked. It was there that their journey had taken a turn for the worse and the soldiers’ death march had begun. Unfamiliar with the climate and terrain, they had ploughed on instead of turning back, climbing ever higher, unwilling to surrender to this remote, alien land to which war had brought them. But in the end they had been forced to admit defeat.
    Matthildur had been better prepared, although she should never really have set out. There were countless stories of people who embarked on journeys against their instincts, ignoring all advice and common sense. Was that what Matthildur had done? Such trips often began well, with no hint of imminent danger: the weather pleasant, the going underfoot good and the prospect of a reasonable day’s journey. They would head off full of confidence, only to find themselves halfway along and abruptly confronted with death. Perhaps that was what had happened to Matthildur.
    She had been a robust woman, according to Ezra, and would have equipped herself well. She had food and intended to stop at least once. After saying goodbye to her husband early that morning, she had marched off with a high heart. At much the same time the British had been readying themselves to leave. No doubt they had sought local advice and been directed to take the shortest route over the pass. When the storm struck, with a ferocity that stunned them, the group was scattered and each man was forced to fend for himself. Matthildur would have found herself in the same predicament. Perhaps she had tried to retrace her steps down from the moors, only to fall in a river and be washed out to sea, which would explain why her body was never found.
    But it was also possible that she had never left home in the first place.
    The idea was hardly novel. Bóas and Hrund had both hinted as much, going on no more than fickle rumour. But their words had not fallen on deaf ears. Erlendur had an old theory that among the many and various incidents of people going missing in the Icelandic interior, more than one crime had gone undetected. He knew of an example from the Second World War, which bore out his belief. Several years ago he had investigated the discovery of human bones in the Reykjavík suburb of Grafarholt which was then being built. A family man had been murdered and buried in a shallow grave not far from his own front door. His wife, the victim of years of domestic