Fire & Ice 02.5 - Edge of Nowhere
Page 6
Two days later, Magnus and Vigdís departed Bolungarvík, leaving Árni behind to tidy up loose ends. They were driven by a constable from Ísafjördur: Tómas was suspended and was under investigation for obstructing a police investigation. He admitted to a very brief affair with Eyrún, but claimed he had had no part in the murder of Gústi, and that he didn’t even know that Gústi had seen him and Eyrún together and blackmailed the Mayor. Magnus believed him, but he was glad that he wasn’t responsible for proving it one way or the other.
Eyrún had made a full statement and had been transported to Kópavogur Women’s Prison near Reykjavík. Her husband had not taken the news well: if Eyrún had intended to protect him by killing Gústi, she had failed. The children had gone to stay with their grandmother, Davíd’s mother. Magnus felt for them – after all, he and his brother had had to stay with his own grandparents at the farm in Snaefellsnes when he was only a little older than them, and that had been one of the worst experiences of his life. But he didn’t feel sympathy for Eyrún. She had destroyed her family as well as finishing someone’s life.
It was mid-morning, and a murky dawn was suffusing sky and sea with a lighter shade of grey. A stiff breeze corkscrewed into the fjord, twisting around the edge of the brooding mountain and whipping up angry little waves. They crossed the bridge over the river and drove up past the church on its little knoll. Magnus spotted the postman’s van parked next to the rectory.
‘Wait a moment,’ he said.
As the Ísafjördur constable pulled over, Magnus got out of the police car and approached Haraldur who was checking his postbag. The postman grunted a stiff greeting.
‘Thanks for your help,’ Magnus said.
‘Not at all,’ said Haraldur. ‘I was sure Rós hadn’t killed Gústi but I thought you should know she had tampered with the construction machinery.’
‘Yes, that was very useful.’ Magnus hesitated, suddenly embarrassed. But there was no one to hear him apart from the postman himself. ‘Did you know who had killed Gústi?’
The postman shook his head. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Um.’
‘Yes?’ The postman’s eyes were clear.
Since he was twenty, Magnus had asked questions about his father’s death. Mostly he had just asked those questions of himself, but sometimes he had asked other people. And all he got were more questions, no answers. Now he wanted to ask questions again. Perhaps this quiet man really could see things. Perhaps he had answers. Or an answer.
Then Magnus shook his head. He was losing it: he needed to get out of town quick before he became like the rest of the nutters clinging on to the edge of nowhere.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing. Thanks again.’ And he turned on his heel back to the police car.
‘Oh, Magnús?’ the postman said.
Magnus turned. ‘Yes?’
‘You’re American, aren’t you?’
‘Not really. But I did live there for a while.’
‘Well, the answer lies here in Iceland. Not in America. Remember that.’
Magnus stared at the postman as he got into his van and drove off back to the little town.
Was that an answer? Or was it just another question?
THE END