66° North

by Michael Ridpath

  But then Magnus needed Páll.

  ‘Murder is always painful. To the victims, to their friends and family, obviously, to all kinds of other people. Murder investigations hurt witnesses. I know you like Björn, and I hear what you say about him being a good guy. But we’ve just got to ask the questions. Every now and then we piss people off, good people. Although, unlike you, I’m not convinced Björn fits into that category.’

  Páll grunted.

  They got to their vehicles, Magnus’s Range Rover parked next to Páll’s police car outside the wooden police station.

  Ingileif was waiting. She had that air of barely suppressed excitement that Magnus knew well.

  ‘Good interview?’ she asked.

  ‘OK, I guess,’ said Magnus. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Páll, isn’t it?’ said Ingileif, giving the constable her best smile.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I assume the town library isn’t open on Sundays?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you know the librarian?’

  ‘Yes. She’s my wife’s cousin.’

  ‘Is there any chance that you could get her to open it up for us?’

  Páll glanced at Magnus. ‘Why?’

  Ingileif looked at Magnus, her eyes shining. ‘When I was wandering around, I remembered something. A Benedikt Jóhannesson short story. I think it’s called something like “The Slip”. I need to show it to you.’

  ‘Is this police business?’ Páll asked Magnus.

  ‘No,’ Magnus said.

  ‘Of course it is!’ said Ingileif. ‘It’s about a murder. At Búland’s Head, fifty years ago.’

  Páll raised his eyebrows. ‘I can’t get the library open for you, but my wife is a keen reader of Benedikt’s. She’s from around here, and he used to live over by the Berserkjahraun. We’ll see if she’s got the book you want.’

  The policeman’s house was on the edge of town: it took all of five minutes to drive there. His wife’s name was Sara, and she did indeed have a copy of Benedikt Jóhannesson’s short stories. Eagerly, Ingileif found “The Slip”. It was only five pages.

  She skimmed it and then began to read out loud. A boy was riding a horse along a cliff. He met the man who had raped his sister riding the other way. They squeezed past each other and the boy gave the other man’s horse a shove. Man and horse fell into the sea below.

  ‘Well?’ said Ingileif, her eyes shining.

  ‘You think Benedikt pushed my great-grandfather into the sea at Búland’s Head?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  Magnus glanced at Páll and his wife and their poorly concealed expressions of curiosity. He had blurted out his family’s secrets in front of these strangers without thinking, but it would be useful to learn if there was any local gossip that might cast some more light on those events. So he explained how his great-grandfather had died, and also the chapter in Moor and the Man that suggested that Gunnar had killed Benedikt’s father.

  ‘I remember that,’ said Sara. ‘It caused a little local scandal when that book came out. I was about fifteen at the time, I remember my parents discussing it. The mysterious disappearance of the farmer at Hraun was still talked about around these parts, even though it had happened fifty years before. And Benedikt’s book hinted at a solution, one that the locals noticed right away. He was murdered by his neighbour. And that was your great-grandfather?’

  ‘Yes. He lived at Bjarnarhöfn. I hadn’t heard anything about it until recently.’

  ‘And then of course Benedikt himself was murdered soon afterwards. But that was down in Reykjavík. I don’t think they ever caught whoever did it.’

  ‘Were there any rumours of a local connection?’

  ‘No, certainly not. That’s the kind of thing that happens in the big city, isn’t it? Nothing to do with people from around here.’

  ‘And nothing about Gunnar’s death on Búland’s Head?’

  ‘No. There were occasional accidents up there, especially in the old days before the road was improved. And of course there were lots of stories about trolls throwing people into the sea.’

  ‘I bet,’ said Magnus.

  ‘Are you investigating all this?’ Páll asked Magnus.

  ‘Only in a personal capacity,’ Magnus said. ‘It’s not official police business by any means. But thank you, Sara, for letting us look at your book. And please keep this to yourselves.’

  Magnus knew he couldn’t be a hundred per cent sure of their discretion, but Páll was a policeman and they seemed decent enough.

  ‘No problem,’ said Sara, with a smile. ‘Although you can imagine how much the town would love this gossip. Stay and have some lunch with us. I’ve made some soup. I’m sure there is enough for two more.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE SOUP WAS indeed tasty; lamb and vegetables. Páll and Sara had two noisy but good-humoured kids and both Magnus and Ingileif enjoyed the good-natured warmth. Páll had to take the boy to basketball practice, so they left soon after the meal was over.

  ‘So, what do you think of that story?’ Ingileif asked. ‘Do you think your great-grandfather was pushed?’

  Magnus smiled. ‘It’s the classic question, isn’t it? Did he fall or was he pushed? In this case I suppose it’s possible he was pushed. But who by?’

  ‘It must have been Benedikt himself.’

  ‘Or someone he knew well. A brother? I can’t believe he would as much as admit to it in a story.’

  ‘Perhaps he had to get it out of his system somehow,’ Ingileif said. ‘After all, that chapter in Moor and the Man is clearly about Gunnar.’

  ‘It could all be a coincidence,’ Magnus said.

  ‘You’re a cop. You don’t believe in coincidences, surely?’

  ‘Actually, I do,’ said Magnus. ‘In real life coincidences happen. You have to keep an open mind.’

  ‘So are we going to see Unnur? Find out if she has read that short story?’

  ‘I’ll give her a call,’ said Magnus.

  Unnur agreed to meet them in an old restaurant in Stykkishólmur. It was a warm, cosy place, but empty apart from a Spaniard and an Icelander talking to each other about fish in English. There was a good view of the harbour, where a ferry was gathering speed as it headed off towards the West Fjords.

  Unnur was waiting for them with a cup of coffee. Magnus introduced Ingileif.

  ‘I didn’t want to meet at the house this time,’ Unnur said. ‘My husband is at home, and I haven’t told him about the stuff with your father. I’m not proud of it: I’d rather he didn’t know.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Magnus. ‘But don’t worry. Like I said on the phone, we won’t talk about that.’

  ‘You read the chapter in Moor and the Man?’ Unnur asked.

  ‘I did,’ Magnus said. ‘You think that shows that Gunnar killed his neighbour?’

  ‘Yes. I’m pretty sure. As you can imagine there was a lot of gossip around here when the book came out. It didn’t take long for someone to spot the similarity. I was still working in Reykjavík at the time, but it was all the conversation of family visits.’

  ‘Do you know what Benedikt said about it?’

  ‘Oh, he denied it, but no one believed him. I think he was surprised that people had made the connection. And of course your grandfather said it was all nonsense. As you can imagine, he was angry about the whole thing. It was my aunt who convinced me that there was something in it.’

  ‘Your aunt?’

  ‘Yes. My uncle’s wife. She was also Benedikt’s older sister. She lived at Hraun at the time.’

  ‘And she confirmed the story?’

  ‘No,’ said Unnur. ‘She wouldn’t say anything. She just gave this kind of knowing smile.’

  ‘Did you know Benedikt?’

  ‘Only vaguely. We met once or twice at some of the larger family gatherings. A nice guy, very clever, rather quiet. His mother had sold the farm at Hraun and moved into town here. She used to own a clothes shop. I can just a
bout remember it. She died some time in the sixties. But you said you have found another story?’

  ‘Yes. Ingileif remembered it. Do you own any of his short-story collections?’

  ‘No,’ Unnur said.

  ‘Well, there’s one called “The Slip”,’ Ingileif said. She summarized the story for Unnur, who listened closely.

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘I seem to remember that Gunnar fell off a cliff somewhere, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Magnus. ‘On Búland’s Head. And he was riding a horse at the time. That was something my grandfather did tell me.’

  ‘And you are suggesting that someone pushed him? Benedikt?’

  ‘Possibly. In the book the boy is taking revenge for the rape of his sister. In this case it would be for the murder of his father.’

  Unnur mulled it over. ‘It is possible, I suppose. I can’t imagine Benedikt killing anyone. It’s all ancient history now, isn’t it?’

  ‘Perhaps not so ancient,’ Magnus said. ‘Remember Benedikt was murdered himself. In 1985.’

  ‘But that was a burglar,’ Unnur said.

  The three of them sat in silence, thinking it all through.

  Unnur shuddered. ‘This is creepy. Three deaths. Over, what, fifty years? From the nineteen thirties to the nineteen eighties.’

  ‘Is your aunt still alive?’ Ingileif asked.

  ‘Yes. But I doubt she would tell you anything.’

  ‘You never know with old people,’ Ingileif said. ‘Sometimes they are happy to talk when the people they are talking about are no longer with us.’

  ‘It’s important,’ said Magnus.

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ said Unnur. ‘Well, let’s go and see her. She lives just around the corner.’

  They left the restaurant and followed a small street that rose behind a fish factory. They came to a tiny house, that looked like an illustration out of a children’s book. It was clad in corrugated iron, painted a bright green with a red roof. A series of elfish knickknacks adorned the windows. Unnur rang the bell. Above the door was a white plaque upon which the year 1903 was carefully painted in black, with purple flowers winding around the numbers.

  Unnur’s aunt Hildur was a tiny woman with a crooked back, bright blue eyes and a sharp mind. Her face lit up when she saw her niece. She led them through to an over-heated and over-furnished sitting room, with landscapes on the walls, and little Icelandic flags sprouting up among various elves, seals, trolls and birds on every surface. Unnur was sent to the kitchen to fetch some coffee, there was some brewed.

  Hildur picked up some knitting. ‘It’s for my great-grandson,’ she said. ‘He’ll be two next week, and it’s for his birthday, so please don’t mind me if I keep working.’

  She held up an almost completed tiny lopi sweater, with an intricate pattern of blue and white crossing chest and shoulders in concentric circles.

  ‘That’s beautiful,’ said Ingileif with enthusiasm.

  The old lady grunted, but she was clearly pleased.

  Unnur returned with the coffee. ‘This is Magnús Ragnarsson, aunt. Hallgrímur’s grandson.’

  Immediately Hildur’s blue eyes fastened on Magnus, warmth replaced by suspicion.

  ‘I lived with my grandparents at Bjarnarhöfn for four years when I was a boy,’ Magnus said. ‘It wasn’t a happy time in my life.’

  ‘I imagine it wasn’t,’ said the old woman.

  ‘You know my grandfather, I take it?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Hildur. ‘We were neighbours until I was about twenty. We lived at Hraun. I have tried to avoid him since then.’

  ‘You don’t like him?’

  ‘No. I don’t. Benni and he used to be great friends when they were little, but I thought he bossed Benni around a bit. They grew apart as they got older.’

  ‘I don’t like him either,’ said Magnus. The old lady was shocked. Loyalty to grandparents was a given in Icelandic society.

  ‘Do you remember my great-grandfather?’ Magnus said. ‘Gunnar.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hildur.

  ‘What was he like?’

  Hildur didn’t answer straight away. ‘He was a bad man,’ she said eventually.

  ‘A very bad man,’ Magnus said. ‘He killed your father, didn’t he?’

  There was silence in the room, apart from the ticking of a clock, which seemed suddenly very loud. ‘I believe he did,’ said Hildur eventually. ‘I had no idea when I was a child. He used to come over to our farm often after Father disappeared. He helped my mother out around the place, he was a good neighbour. But all the time he knew that he had killed her husband.’ She shuddered.

  ‘How did you find out? Did Benedikt tell you?’ Magnus fought to keep the excitement out of his voice. He didn’t want to spook her.

  Hildur glanced at her audience. For a moment Magnus thought Ingileif might be right, that Hildur might decide that there was no point in keeping the secret any longer. But then she shook her head. ‘I can’t tell you. Some secrets go beyond the grave.’

  ‘Have you read your brother’s story “The Slip”?’ Magnus asked.

  The old lady smiled knowingly. ‘Yes. Yes, I have.’

  ‘Do you think that your brother might have pushed Gunnar over the edge at Búland’s Head? In revenge for what Gunnar had done to your father?’

  ‘Let’s just say that on the day Gunnar fell into the sea, Benedikt was returning from Ólafsvík. He claimed he never saw Gunnar. Everyone believed him. Benedikt was an honest boy.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘In fact he was an honest adult. He had to tell the truth somehow, in the end.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Magnus with a smile. ‘And thank you.’ He stood up to leave. ‘I know it happened a long time ago, but I am very sorry about your father.’

  A tear suddenly appeared in the old lady’s eye. ‘So am I.’

  Ingileif got her way. Despite Magnus’s reluctance, they stopped by the Berserkjahraun on the way back. They parked the Range Rover just below the farm of Hraun, on the eastern side of the lava field, the opposite side to Bjarnarhöfn.

  Hraun was much as Magnus remembered it, with several large outbuildings, and a couple of small houses in addition to the main farmhouse. Circular bales of hay in white plastic lined the home meadow, on which round woollen balls of sheep grazed. Magnus and Ingileif headed into the lava field, and a few metres in they found the Berserkjagata, the ‘Berserkers’ Street’. It was a footpath cut into the rock, only a few inches wide.

  ‘I thought it would be bigger than this,’ said Ingileif.

  ‘If you think it was made by two men cutting into solid rock, it’s big enough,’ Magnus said. ‘And it made it much easier to walk to Bjarnarhöfn.’

  ‘Show me the cairn.’

  The path wound through the twisted rock, down into hollows and up again. Autumn in Iceland has its own beauty. Not as striking, perhaps, as the change of leaves in Massachusetts, but the heather and grasses turn to gold and orange, and the bilberry leaves to a deep red. Peaceful.

  They caught glimpses of the little Hraunsvík, the ‘Lava Bay’ between the two farms, where the lava flow had spilled into the sea. Two eider drakes in their black and white finery patrolled the cove. Magnus wondered whether the inhabitants of Bjarnarhöfn still collected their mates’ dun-coloured down every summer after the ducklings had left their nests. Beyond the bay, flat islands dotted Breidafjördur, familiar to Magnus from fishing trips in the farm’s skiff.

  ‘It’s quite hard to take in,’ said Magnus. ‘Jóhannes. Gunnar.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got yourself your very own family feud,’ Ingileif said. ‘It’s fascinating really. Just like the old days. Arnkell and Thórólfur and Snorri and – who was the other one – Björn of Breidavík?’

  ‘That’s him,’ said Magnus. ‘It does sound a bit like that.’

  ‘What do you think of Benedikt’s murder? Do you think it is connected?’

  ‘It must be a possibility,’ Magnus said. ‘Burglars don’t usually murder people
in Iceland, although of course it can happen. I’ll pull out the police file next week and take a look.’

  ‘At least your grandfather wasn’t involved.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Magnus said. ‘He would be right there for a family feud.’

  ‘You mean he could have killed Benedikt?’

  ‘Possibly. Once I take a look at the file it will be clearer.’

  ‘You really don’t like him, do you?’

  Magnus didn’t answer.

  They reached the cairn nestling in a hollow, a flat mound of stone big enough to contain two large men.

  ‘This is it?’ Ingileif said. ‘Wow. And do they really think the berserkers are inside?’

  ‘They dug it up a hundred years ago,’ Magnus said. ‘There are two skeletons buried there. Apparently they are not particularly tall, but they were powerfully built.’

  Ingileif stopped and looked around at the wondrous stone shapes. ‘This must have been a great place to play as a kid.’

  ‘Yes. Although Óli was scared of it. Grandpa told him the berserkers were still roaming around.’

  ‘But not you?’

  Magnus took a deep breath. ‘I tried not to let my grandfather scare me. I didn’t always succeed.’

  Ingileif glanced at him. Magnus could tell she wanted to ask him more.

  Suddenly he needed to leave. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘No. I’d like to walk a bit further.’

  ‘Come on.’ Magnus turned on his heel and strode rapidly along the path back to the car. He didn’t look behind him until he reached it. Ingileif was struggling to catch up.

  Wordlessly, Magnus started the engine and drove off.

  They passed a spot where a road peeled off to the right. ‘Is that the way to Bjarnarhöfn?’ Ingileif asked.

  Magnus didn’t answer.

  The track became narrow, with a ten foot drop on either side into the rocky waves. A car approached kicking up dust, an old station wagon. Magnus pulled over as close as he could to the side of the track, leaving enough room for the other car to pass.

  The car stopped a few feet ahead. It flashed its lights and sounded the horn.