Freyr paused for a moment before replying as he tried to remember the name of the childhood friend who was still alive. ‘Obviously, the most direct course of action would be to ask the only one of them left about what actually went on.’ Freyr flipped through the book a bit in search of entries concerning the man. ‘Lárus. The one who appeared to Védís with his guts hanging out.’
‘What sort of death do you suppose awaits him?’ Dagný rested her glass on her leg and swirled the wine in it like an experienced wine taster preparing to sip and spit.
‘No idea. Maybe stomach cancer.’ Freyr pushed back thoughts of accidents and illnesses that could do serious damage to one’s abdomen. ‘Perhaps I’ll try to find him tomorrow, since I’ll be in town. He lives in Reykjavík.’
Dagný looked at the kitchen clock. ‘I’d forgotten that you’re heading south in the morning. I’d better get going.’ She put down her glass and stood up. ‘I like the idea of you trying to reach Lárus; I’d prefer this not to get mixed into the investigation with things as they are. I don’t want to have to explain all this spooky stuff to my boss or the police down south. It can wait.’
When they were at the front door Freyr wished he could ask her to stay the night, but was afraid she would say no. Dagný herself seemed unsure how to say goodnight, and she appeared relieved to remember a detail that she’d forgotten to ask him about in their conversation concerning the diary. ‘Do you remember how Védís wrote near the end that she’d started being woken by noises in the basement and that it disturbed her dreams, so that she couldn’t finish them?’ Freyr nodded. ‘Have you noticed anything, heard a knocking like she describes or any other noises?’
‘No, not that I recall.’
‘Too bad.’ Dagný smiled. ‘Not that I want you to be haunted or anything. I was just hoping that if the noises were still occurring, they might be coming from broken pipes or something in the house itself, and that way we could solve at least one part of the puzzle.’
Once Freyr was under the covers he listened for noises from the house, instead of falling asleep to music on his iPod as he usually did. It wasn’t long before he regretted it.
Chapter 19
The night had passed without any trauma; either they’d been too tired to notice anything, or their move to the doctor’s house had had the desired effect. The hammering sound, which had nearly frightened them to death, had stopped just as abruptly as it had begun, and Katrín and Líf had managed to persuade Garðar not to rush outside. They’d subsequently checked all the windows and doors to reassure themselves that no one could get in, and propped chairs under the knobs of the front and back doors for added security. Reasonably satisfied with this arrangement, the three of them had then settled themselves on the upper floor and huddled together on the biggest bunk they could find in the hope of keeping warm. Nevertheless, Katrín was so cold when she woke up that she doubted the situation could have been worse, even if she’d slept out on the porch, alone. At first she found it difficult to use her hands, but then returning circulation slowly worked its way out to her extremities. Her joints were stiff and her entire body ached from her injuries, and the few bruises that weren’t covered by clothing were larger and darker than they’d been the day before. She didn’t dare look beneath her clothing and examine the rest because of the cold. Every breath and every word left behind a little white cloud and magnified the chill that seemed to have settled into her battered body. In the faint light that came in through the loose window shutters she could see Líf and Garðar’s deathly pale faces, their eyes swollen and their noses bright red. Their hair was oily and dirty, since they’d given little thought to washing themselves in the confusion of these past days.
It was as if Líf read from Katrín’s expression how she looked. She scratched her scalp, which only served to mess up her hair and make her look even scruffier. ‘Jesus, I’m looking forward to getting home and having a shower.’ The good old spa had clearly now become too remote an idea in her mind for her to think of it any more. ‘Can’t we heat some water and rinse most of the dirt off ourselves? I’m getting sick of the smell of my hair.’ She wrapped her arms around herself in the hope of increased warmth. ‘And I don’t want to be found looking like shit if we die here.’
Garðar snorted, but when he spoke he ignored her pessimism. ‘If you’re willing to go up to the house with me I can heat water there. It’s no problem.’ He pulled his trousers up over the woollen underwear he’d bought specially for the trip. ‘The food is there so we need to go anyway, unless we’re planning to starve to death. And when we go we can try to continue with some of the repairs. We’re better off doing something apart from hanging around here getting freaked out. I promise you time will pass quicker that way. We know now that the child is just as likely to turn up here as there.’
Katrín reached for the woolly jumper she’d taken off before crawling into her sleeping bag, but missed very much when she woke half frozen. The garment was ice-cold to the touch. ‘You want us to go and paint? I can’t say I’m wild about the idea.’ Putti looked as if he agreed with her. He probably didn’t want to go out into the snow at all, and would happily have continued to lie on the mattress at her feet.
Líf was still shivering. ‘I want to walk further up the fjord.’ She finally looked as if she were going to put on more clothing. ‘Maybe, maybe we’ll find a boat that we can take to Ísafjörður. I’m not talking about going far, just far enough to give us a better view of the fjord. Remember the big chimney and the remains of the whaling station, or factory, or whatever it is, just near here, that we saw from the boat on the way? Can’t we go there?’
‘Do you even know how to pilot a boat?’ Garðar seemed irritated by their negative reaction to his idea about continuing the repairs and Katrín found this rather silly; he could hardly have expected them to leap eagerly to their feet. ‘I wouldn’t want to risk it.’ His voice was slightly shrill with agitation.
‘If there’s a boat here, there’s probably a radio or a phone in it.’ Líf wasn’t giving up.
Not for the first time, the negotiator in Katrín stirred. ‘I suggest we go up to the house, have something to eat, perk ourselves up a bit by washing our hair, work for a while and then go for a hike when it’s light enough.’ She had no idea if it was pitch-dark outside or whether the sun was shining brightly. Nor did she know whether she could walk for any distance, although the aching in her body had subsided somewhat. ‘Of course it depends on the weather, but it sounds to me like it’s quietened down outside.’ They couldn’t hear the wind moaning; silence seemed to dominate outside as well as in. ‘Is that a plan?’ She looked at Líf, who shrugged her shoulders, then at Garðar, who stared sadly at her. Why he should be sad, she didn’t know; perhaps it was dawning on him that this was going to end badly. They would probably make it home okay, but then the struggle would begin all over again, not helped by their worsening financial problems. A guesthouse in an abandoned village, whether it was dilapidated or newly renovated, wouldn’t change anything. She smiled sweetly at him but he looked away. Líf, however, seemed thrilled with her proposal; they could walk further up the fjord after all. In search of a boat that didn’t exist.
The water was far too hot, or did it just seem that way in the cold out on the porch? Katrín felt her scalp contract as Garðar poured water from an aluminium pot over her head, and the throbbing of the bruise there nearly killed her. She was facing the mutilated woodwork and the black soil beneath the gaping hole that they still had to repair. She was surprised there was no snow on the soil, despite the area all around being covered in white. Maybe the black soil was warmer than the surrounding ground and had melted the snow as soon as it fell. Black objects were generally warmer to the touch than lighter-coloured ones on sunny days. Luckily Garðar had covered over the fox skeleton immediately after they found it, so she didn’t have that staring up at her. That would have been the icing on the cake. Another wave of water cascaded over her head, getting soap in her eyes but diminishing the pain in her warm, sore scalp. ‘Shit.’ Katrín rubbed her eyes but that just made things worse. ‘Hand me the towel.’ She bent down, opened her eyes, and gasped when she thought she saw little filthy feet on the porch, directly below her face, as if a child were standing close in front of her. She shut her eyes again, but when she reopened them she saw only the wet planks of the porch. She straightened up so quickly that her head spun, and water from her hair flew in all directions.