The Mist

the more challenging cases.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘And are you?’
‘Am I what?’
‘Up to coping?’
‘Yes,’ she lied, looking him straight in the eye.
‘Right, well. In that case, something’s come up and I’d like you to look into it, Hulda.’
‘Oh?’
‘An ugly business.’ He paused before frowning and emphasizing his words with a wave of his arm: ‘Bloody ugly, in fact. Suspected murder out east. We need to send someone over there right now. I’m so sorry to spring this on you so soon after your return, but no one else with your experience is free at the moment.’
Hulda thought he could have done a better job of dressing this up as a compliment, but never mind.
‘Of course I can go. I’m perfectly up to it,’ she replied, aware even as she said it that this was a lie. ‘Whereabouts in the east?’
‘Oh, some farmhouse miles from anywhere. It’s unbelievable anyone’s still making a go of farming out there.’
‘Who’s the victim? Do we know yet?’
‘The victim? Oh, sorry, Hulda, I didn’t give you the full story. We’re not just talking about one body…’ He paused. ‘Apparently, the discovery was pretty horrific. It’s not clear how long the bodies have been lying there, but they’re guessing since Christmas at least…’

PART ONETwo months earlier – just before Christmas 1987


I
The end.
Erla put down her book and leaned back in the shabby old armchair with a deep sigh.
She had no idea of the time. The grandfather clock in the sitting room had stopped working a while ago – in fact, it must be several years ago now. They had no idea how to mend it themselves and it was so heavy and unwieldy that they had never seriously considered lugging it out to the old jeep and driving it down the long, bumpy road to the village. They couldn’t even be sure it would fit in the car or that anyone in the village would have the necessary skills to repair such an antique mechanism. So it was left where it was, reduced to the status of an ornament. The clock had belonged to her husband Einar’s grandfather. The story was that he had brought it back with him from Denmark, where he had gone to attend agricultural college before returning home to take over the farm. It was what had been expected of him, as Einar used to say. Later, it had been his father’s turn, before finally the baton had passed on to Einar himself. His grandfather was long dead; his father too, somewhat before his time. Farming out here, even just living out here, took its mental and physical toll.
She became aware that it was freezing cold. Of course, that was to be expected at this time of year. The house was feeling its age and when the wind blew from a certain quarter the only way to keep warm in some of the rooms, like here in the sitting room, was to wrap yourself in a thick blanket, as she had done now. The blanket kept her body snug, but her hands, sticking out from under it, were so chilly that it was hard to turn the pages. Still, she put up with it. Reading gave her greater pleasure than anything else she knew. A good book could transport her far, far away, to a different world, another country, another culture, where the climate was warmer and life was easier. That’s not to imply that she was ungrateful or discontented with the farm or its location, not really. It was Einar’s family home, after all, so the only thing for it was to grit one’s teeth and make the best of it. Growing up in post-war Reykjavík, Erla had never dreamt of becoming a farmer’s wife in the wild Icelandic highlands, but when she met Einar he had swept her off her feet. Then, when they were still in their early twenties, Anna had come along.
She thought about Anna, whose house was in a rather better state than theirs. It had been built much more recently, at a little distance from their place, originally as accommodation for tenant farmers. The worst part about the distance was that they couldn’t easily pop round to see each other when the weather closed in like this, or at least only with considerable difficulty. Einar usually parked up the jeep over the harshest winter months, since even with the four-wheel drive, nailed tyres and chains were little use when the snow really started coming down, day after day after day. In those conditions, it was easier to get around on foot or on cross-country skis, so it was fortunate that both she and Einar were quite competent skiers. It would have been fun to have had the chance to go skiing more often – even if only a handful of times – to try out their skills on proper downhill slopes, but there had never been much time for that sort of thing. Money had always been tight too; the farm just about broke even, but they couldn’t justify spending much on leisure pursuits or travelling. They rarely discussed it. The goal now, as ever, was to keep their heads above water, keep the farm going, and in the black, if possible. For Einar, she knew, the honour of the family was at stake; he had shouldered a heavy ancestral burden and his forefathers were like an unseen presence, forever watching him from the wings.
His grandfather, Einar Einarsson the first, kept an eye on them in the oldest part of the house, where Erla was sitting now; the original timber structure that he had built ‘with his own two hands, with blood, sweat and tears’, as her husband had once put it. Einar’s father, Einar Einarsson the second, presided over what Erla referred to as the new wing, the concrete extension that now housed the bedrooms and had been built when her husband, Einar Einarsson the third, was a child.
Erla didn’t feel anything like