Sea of Stone

by Michael Ridpath

  Jóhannes was a schoolteacher, and although Ollie had only known him for a few days, it was long enough to realize that he never stopped lecturing. Which Ollie liked. The two men had slipped into a student–teacher relationship, which Ollie found comforting, encouraging even.

  But Ollie wasn’t sure he liked the sound of this Bárdur guy. ‘Does that mean he’s with us or against us, then?’

  Jóhannes chuckled. ‘Oh, he’s with us. If there’s one thing those Vikings understood, it was revenge.’

  Constable Páll Gylfason grinned to himself as he climbed into his police car. This was the third time he had been called by Gunnhildur to complain about the young couple from Reykjavík who liked to have sex in the living room with the curtains open on a Sunday morning. The couple had pointed out that they were perfectly entitled to do whatever they liked in the privacy of their own home; it was Gunnhildur’s problem if she insisted on spying on them. To Páll’s suggestion that they pull the curtains closed, they replied that in the heat of the moment there wasn’t time. Páll wasn’t convinced by this. It seemed to him that their Sunday morning passion was becoming predictable. The real point he wanted to get across was that in a small town like Grundarfjördur, you didn’t mess with women like Gunnhildur.

  They were a nice couple, though. The woman, who was a new teacher at the school in town, had a foxy look about her, and had complimented Páll fulsomely on his bushy moustache, of which he was very proud.

  He started the car and headed back home. The little police station near the harbour was left unoccupied on a Sunday. He turned on the car radio, looking for news on the Eyjafjallajökull volcano, which had erupted the previous week, chucking ash all over farms in the south and causing chaos to anyone trying to travel anywhere by air. Fortunately, because of the direction of the wind, most of Iceland had been spared. There was no sign of any ash on the Snaefells Peninsula.

  But the wind direction could always change.

  His police radio crackled into life. He recognized the voice of the dispatcher from Stykkishólmur.

  ‘A body has been reported at Bjarnarhöfn. Suspected homicide. Sergeant Magnús Ragnarsson called it in.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  Páll whipped his Hyundai Santa Fe around and hit the accelerator, lights flashing, sirens blaring. A woman preparing to cross the main street, pushing a child in a buggy with another one holding her hand, stopped and stared. Bjarnarhöfn was about halfway between Grundarfjördur and regional headquarters at Stykkishólmur. Since Páll was already in his vehicle, he should get there first. If he hurried.

  Páll remembered Magnus well. He was an American homicide detective who had been transferred to the Reykjavík Metropolitan Police, but he had been born in Iceland and spoke good Icelandic. They had worked together on a case involving a fisherman from Grundarfjördur the previous year, and Páll rated Magnus highly. He also knew that Magnus had family at Bjarnarhöfn.

  Visibility was poor as mist pressed down on the road from the mountains above. The road was empty on a Sunday morning, and Páll took some risks he probably shouldn’t have. He turned left off the main Stykkishólmur road onto the dirt track that led through the Berserkjahraun lava field to Bjarnarhöfn. Three minutes later, he was rattling over the cattle grid into the farm.

  There were a couple of cars parked in front of the nearest building, a cottage with white concrete walls and a red corrugated metal roof. Páll knew that was where old man Hallgrímur lived; his son, Kolbeinn, inhabited the main farmhouse with his family. The front door of Hallgrímur’s cottage was open. Páll slowed and scanned the farm. The cloud stooped low, embracing the lower flanks of the fell, from which fingers of snow stretched down to the fields. A waterfall spurted from a gash in the steep hill, feeding a stream that tumbled down towards the sea, hidden in the gloom. Páll could see one other dwelling – the main farmhouse – a large barn and a number of smaller farm buildings. The gaps between the buildings were cluttered with the usual farming bric-a-brac: machinery, fuel tanks, large circular hay bales wrapped in white plastic, and even a couple of old shipping containers.

  Two red-and-white-coated Icelandic sheep dogs with tightly curled tails appeared, barking. But no people.

  Then Páll remembered the little church, set a couple of hundred metres to the north of the farm towards the sea. He could just make it out through the mist, and he spotted Magnus, standing at the entrance to the churchyard, waving. A woman stood next to him, holding the bridle of a horse.

  Páll considered driving over the field to the church, but common sense prevailed. If it was indeed a homicide, then chewing up the path to the crime scene was not a good option.

  So he parked his car a few metres away from Hallgrímur’s cottage and took a direct route to the church. There was no path over the field, but it would be important later to ensure that everyone approached the crime scene by the same way. Páll recognized the woman Magnus was with as Aníta, the farmer’s wife, and therefore Hallgrímur’s daughter-in-law.

  ‘Hi, Páll, how are you?’ said Magnus. He was a tall, redhaired detective in his mid-thirties with broad shoulders. Last time Páll had seen him he remembered feeling in awe of the tough cop from Boston, with his air of calm competence. But now Magnus’s face was tense.

  ‘What have we got?’ Páll asked.

  ‘Take a look.’

  The church was little more than a black wooden hut, with its own red metal roof and a small white cross at the peak of the gable above the entrance. The door was open, and Páll looked inside. There were only half a dozen rows of pews. An ancient oil painting hung behind the altar, which was fenced in by an ornate white wooden rail.

  In front of the altar lay the body of an old man. Páll recognized him. Hallgrímur.

  A pool of blood spread across the wooden floor around the old man’s head, reddening his wispy white hair, and licking his wrinkled face. His blue eyes were open.

  ‘I’m sorry, Magnús.’

  Magnus shrugged. ‘I didn’t know him that well. But I’ve got to admit it was a shock to find him here.’

  ‘How long has he been dead?’ Páll asked.

  ‘Not for too long. He’s still warm and rigor hasn’t set in.’

  ‘There’s no chance he just fell, is there?’ There were at least three or four cuts in the old man’s scalp, and a dent high on his forehead.

  Magnus shook his head. ‘When I first saw him on the floor, that’s what I assumed. But once I’d taken a closer look…’

  Páll took a deep breath. ‘When did you find him?’

  ‘About twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘Did you see who did it?’

  ‘No. I didn’t seen anyone until Aníta arrived about ten minutes ago.’

  Páll stood still at the entrance and scanned the church. No sign of an obvious murder weapon. There was a footprint in the blood next to Hallgrímur’s head, and a couple of red marks leading back to the entrance.

  ‘Was that you?’ He glanced down to Magnus’s shoes.

  ‘Yes. Sorry,’ Magnus said. ‘This is my grandfather. I was thinking more like a grandson than a detective. When I saw him lying there, I just went straight to him.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Páll. He surveyed the church. ‘We should secure the scene.’

  ‘Right,’ said Magnus. ‘If you get the tape, I’ll help you. I figure I’m more witness than investigating officer here.’

  They left the church and Páll approached Aníta, still waiting patiently at the entrance to the churchyard. She was a tall woman in her late forties, with high, finely lined cheekbones, and long plaited blonde hair. Although Páll knew who she was, they had only spoken a couple of times in the past.

  ‘Did you see anything?’ he asked her. ‘Anyone leaving the church?’

  ‘No. The only person I saw was Magnús up at the cottage, and he took me down here to show me Hallgrímur.’

  ‘Who is at the farm now? Where’s Hallgrímur’s wife?’

  ‘Sylvía? I
haven’t seen her today.’ Aníta looked over towards the cottage. ‘Her car isn’t there. It’s a Sunday – church, maybe? She goes more and more these days. My husband Kolbeinn is off at basketball practice with Krissi, our son. Tóta, my daughter, is probably in the main farmhouse. She’ll have only just got up. That’s everyone who lives here.’

  ‘What about you? What were you doing?’

  ‘I went out for a ride for at least an hour, probably an hour and a half. I went round the far side of the fell, so I couldn’t see the road over the lava field. It’s too misty anyway.’

  Páll glanced at the horse, and more particularly at the horse’s hooves. They had churned up the damp grass just outside the gate to the churchyard. ‘OK, well you and your horse had better move right away from here. Follow a route directly back to my car over there. Then go back to the farmhouse. We’ll speak to you later.’

  Aníta did as she was asked. As Páll and Magnus followed her and the horse, another two police cars screeched to a halt next to Páll’s vehicle. Rúnar, the chief superintendent of the Stykkishólmur area, and two colleagues also in uniform, hurried down towards Páll.

  Rúnar was a bald, bouncy man who looked younger than his forty years. Although chief superintendent was a high rank, and the area he covered from Stykkishólmur was a large one, there were fewer than a dozen policemen reporting to him, including Páll. But there was also a population of only a few thousand for them to police, and the crime rate was low. Local knowledge and peer pressure made sure of that. A murder was virtually unheard of.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you here,’ said Rúnar. ‘I heard you were wrapping up that tourist case on the volcano.’

  ‘I’m here in a personal capacity,’ said Magnus. ‘This is my grandfather’s farm. I was just coming to visit him. And I found him dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Rúnar. ‘Show me.’

  Páll left Magnus to show his boss the body, and opened up the boot of his car to dig out some tape. A raven croaked. And a telephone rang; it was coming from Hallgrímur’s cottage.

  Páll dropped the tape, ran inside and picked up the phone in the living room.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, out of breath.

  ‘Afi? Is that Afi?’

  Páll hesitated. Afi was the Icelandic word for grandfather, but the question was in English.

  ‘Afi?’ Again.

  ‘No, Hallgrímur isn’t here now,’ Páll replied in English. ‘This is the police. Something has happened to him. Who am I speaking to?’

  Silence.

  ‘Is this his grandson?’

  The line went dead.

  Páll replaced the receiver, frowning. He crossed the field to join Magnus and Rúnar at the church.

  ‘I just took a phone call in the cottage,’ he said.

  ‘Who was it?’ asked Rúnar.

  ‘It was weird,’ Páll said. ‘Someone speaking English who asked for Afi. He hung up when I said Hallgrímur wasn’t here.’

  ‘His grandson?’ said Rúnar.

  ‘Must be,’ said Páll. They both turned to Magnus.

  ‘Do you have a brother?’ Rúnar asked him.

  Magnus took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I do. Ollie. He’s lived in America since he was ten. He speaks English; he’s forgotten all his Icelandic. Hallgrímur has other grandchildren, but it must be him.’

  ‘Is he in Iceland now?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s been staying with me for the last few days. Here, I’ll give him a call.’ Magnus pulled out his phone.

  ‘Better not,’ said Rúnar, reaching for his own phone. ‘Páll, your English is better than mine. You call him back. What’s his number, Magnús?’

  ‘OK,’ said Magnus. He dictated some digits. Páll punched in the numbers. It was a US dialling code.

  There was no reply. Páll left a message, in English. ‘Ollie, this is Páll from the police. We have some news about your grandfather. Please call me back on this number.’

  Rúnar turned to Magnus. ‘Do you know where your brother is now?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Magnus. ‘He took off from my place in Reykjavík this morning. I don’t know where he went.’

  ‘Let’s hope he calls back. All we can do now is secure the scene and wait for the Dumpling to arrive from Akranes.’

  ‘The Dumpling?’

  ‘Inspector Emil. He will be in charge of the investigation. I called him on my way. We’d better wait until he gets here.’

  The Stykkishólmur police didn’t have a detective on the payroll, so they had to borrow one from Akranes, a hundred kilometres to the south.

  ‘Look, Rúnar,’ Magnus said. ‘I know I’m off duty, but do you want me to help with the case? It will take this Dumpling guy an hour and a half to get here.’

  ‘I’m sure we could use someone with your experience,’ said Rúnar. He blew air through his cheeks, thinking. ‘But you’re a witness on this one, and the victim is your own family. Better wait for Emil. He can decide whether it’s OK for you to help us.’

  Magnus’s steady blue eyes examined the chief superintendent. He looked as if he was about to argue, but then he nodded. ‘OK, I guess that’s right. Have you requested the forensics unit from Reykjavík?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ll do that.’

  ‘Aníta said that Tóta was the only one at the farm. It might be worth checking to see whether she saw anything. And making sure that there really is no one else here. Maybe the farmer at Hraun over there saw something.’ Magnus pointed into the gloom to the east towards the lava field.

  ‘Don’t worry, Magnús,’ said Rúnar with a touch of impatience, struggling to assert his authority over the junior but more experienced officer. ‘We’ve got it covered. We’ll talk to you when we need you.’

  Magnus held Rúnar’s gaze for a moment and then nodded again. Páll busied himself with tape as Magnus headed over to the farmhouse where Aníta was taking off her boots by the front door, watched by the two dogs. As she went on into the house, Páll saw Magnus hesitate, then pull out his mobile phone to make a call.

  Páll respected Rúnar, and the Dumpling was no dummy, but neither of them had anything like Magnus’s experience. Procedure was procedure, but it seemed to Páll that they could use all the help from Magnus they could get.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘WHO WAS IT?’

  Jóhannes and Ollie were on the cliffs heading back towards Arnarstapi, where they had left Jóhannes’s car.

  ‘The police. They want me to call them back.’

  ‘You should do that,’ Jóhannes said.

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’ Ollie checked his watch. ‘It’s quarter of one. Why don’t you just take me back to the airport? I can still make my flight.’

  ‘If it isn’t cancelled.’

  ‘I think flights to the States are still OK,’ Ollie said, increasing his stride. The birds were wheeling and yelling under the rim of the cliffs a few yards to their left.

  ‘They’ll be waiting for you at the airport,’ Jóhannes said.

  ‘They might not be.’

  ‘They almost certainly will be. And it will be a lot tougher explaining ourselves then than it would be now.’

  ‘We could hide,’ Ollie said. ‘C’mon, Joe. This is a massive area with hardly anyone around. We must be able to find a hiding place in those mountains up there. Like those outlaws from history you were telling me about on the way up here. Gretel the Strong.’

  ‘Grettir,’ Jóhannes corrected him. He smiled wistfully. Ollie knew the idea of following in the footsteps of a saga hero would appeal to the schoolteacher. ‘It took them twenty years, but they caught up with Grettir eventually. And they would catch up with us. No, Ólafur, you have to call them. We discussed this before. We knew we would be interviewed. We just have to stick to our stories.’ He paused. ‘Well, modify them a bit. We can discuss that now.’

  The path emerged into the open. ‘Take a look at that,’ Jóhannes said. ‘Snaefellsjökull.’

  Behind them and to the
left the clouds had cleared above a perfect volcano-shaped mountain, with a soft white snowcap. A small pinnacle of rock thrust out of the glacier at the top, like a thorn or a question mark.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

  Ollie looked. It was beautiful. And comforting, in some strange way. Stuck out here at the end of the Snaefells Peninsula, he felt safe. He really didn’t want to go back to Bjarnarhöfn, or even Reykjavík.

  ‘Are you sure there’s nowhere around there we can hole up? Up by that mountain, perhaps?’

  ‘Call him back, Ólafur.’ Jóhannes was firm.

  Ollie felt like a school kid. A defiant school kid.

  ‘Ólafur?’

  Ollie sighed and took out his phone. He was disappointed to see he had cell coverage. He called the number back.

  Páll and one of the other constables had secured the scene. Magnus, Aníta and her daughter were in the farmhouse with the other constable. There was no sign yet of Kolbeinn, the farmer, or Sylvía, Hallgrímur’s wife. The ambulance was still parked behind the police cars, although Hallgrímur’s body wasn’t going anywhere soon. It had to wait for the local doctor from Stykkishólmur, who was on his way, but even then the body wouldn’t be moved for several hours, until the forensics team from Reykjavík had arrived.

  And of course they were waiting for Inspector Emil, also on his way. Rúnar was finding it difficult to control his impatience, darting back and forth between the chapel and the farmhouse.

  Páll’s phone rang. He checked the caller’s number.

  The chief superintendent saw Páll take out his phone and trotted across the farmyard towards him.

  ‘Ollie? This is Paul.’ Páll used the English form of his name.

  There was silence at the other end of the phone.

  ‘Ollie?’ Páll repeated. ‘We need to speak to you soon.’

  ‘Er, OK,’ came the reply. ‘Why?’

  ‘I am sorry to inform you that your grandfather Hallgrímur has been murdered. At Bjarnarhöfn. And we need to speak to you about it. Where are you now? Are you in Reykjavík?’