Sea of Stone

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘Hey, Magnus, how are yah?’ He shook Magnus’s hand.

  ‘I’m doing great, Jim. Thanks for seeing me.’

  ‘No problem. Anything Pattie can do to get me out the house.’

  Magnus smiled. ‘So how long have you been retired now, Jim?’

  ‘Nearly five years. She still hasn’t gotten used to it. I make myself scarce during the day. I’ve got a boat down here that I tinker with in the summer. Do some fishing.’

  ‘Sounds like a good life.’

  ‘Ah, the winter drags a bit, you know?’

  They went up to the counter. Fearon ordered a complicated pastrami sandwich and Magnus splurged and ordered a lobster roll. They had lobsters in Iceland, just not as many as in New England. Another thing he missed.

  Fearon took a bite of his sandwich. ‘So you said you are only around for a couple of days? You moved out of the area?’

  ‘Iceland,’ Magnus said. ‘I’m attached to the Reykjavík Metropolitan Police.’

  ‘Gee. That must be different.’

  ‘It certainly is. And it’s been good to go back to where my family originally came from.’

  ‘That’s all I know about Iceland,’ said Fearon. ‘Your family.’

  ‘You sound like you regret it,’ Magnus said.

  ‘Hey. We didn’t solve the case. You’re a cop now; you know what that’s like.’

  ‘I also know you tried pretty damn hard.’

  Fearon smiled. ‘With some serious prompting from you.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Magnus winced. ‘In retrospect you were incredibly patient putting up with me. I must have been a pain in the ass.’

  ‘You were. You acted like you were taking what happened to your dad well, but I could see it was real tough on you.’ He wiped his lips with his napkin. ‘My guess is you haven’t quit being a pain in the ass, am I right?’

  Magnus nodded. ‘That’s why I’m here. You see, while I was in Iceland I discovered a link between my father’s murder and another one ten years before.’ Magnus explained about the stabbing of Benedikt Jóhannesson.

  Fearon listened closely. ‘That must just be a coincidence, surely? I agree it’s the same MO, but we’re talking thousands of miles in distance.’

  ‘True. But Benedikt grew up on the neighbouring farm to my grandfather Hallgrímur. Who, by the way, hated my dad.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Fearon considered this for a moment. ‘It still could be a coincidence, but I see your point.’ He frowned. ‘But no one saw any Icelanders around here. And, as you well know, we’ve tried just about every avenue. There are no loose ends.’

  Magnus took a deep breath. ‘What about the DNA? On that strand of hair?’

  ‘They analysed it to death, you know that. They couldn’t get a complete sequence. No matches. All we know is its colour: blond.’

  ‘Yes. You can only get the mother’s mitochondrial DNA from hair, unless you’ve got a root. That made it hard to get a match, especially back in the nineties.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Fearon.

  ‘But if two people are related on the mother’s side, you should be able to figure that out from the hair sample.’

  Fearon frowned.

  Magnus took out a pair of latex gloves and put them on. The middle-aged couple at the next table stared. Then he took out a sample envelope from his jacket pocket. His name was already written on it.

  ‘Hey, Magnus, what are you doing?’

  Magnus didn’t answer. From another pocket he took out an envelope, opened it and extracted a cotton swab. He opened his mouth and wiped around the inside of his cheek. He popped the swab in the sample envelope and put it on the table between them.

  Both men, and the couple at the neighbouring table, stared at the sample.

  ‘Do they still have the hair?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘They should in theory. But you know what police files are like. It’s thirteen years ago.’

  ‘Can you take a look?’

  ‘I told you, I’m retired,’ said Fearon.

  ‘And you never talk to your old buddies at the station?’

  Fearon smiled. ‘If we do have the hair, you want it reanalysed?’

  Magnus nodded. ‘See if the hair belonged to someone related to me on my mother’s side. I think they can do that.’

  Jim Fearon thought. ‘I guess they can try,’ he said. He came to a decision. ‘OK. I’ll see what I can do.’ He grinned. ‘You are still a pain in the ass, you know that?’

  ‘I know it,’ Magnus agreed. He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry about all that grief I gave you about Kathleen.’

  Fearon sighed. ‘You were right, she wasn’t telling you the truth. You just weren’t right about why.’

  The twenty-year-old Magnus had been perplexed as to why, after an initial flurry, the police seemed to have pulled back from investigating his stepmother. He knew that things were going badly between her and his father, and he didn’t trust her an inch. What Fearon had discovered, and what he didn’t tell Magnus for several weeks, was that at the moment Ragnar was murdered, Kathleen was in bed with an air-conditioning engineer from Pembroke, a neighbouring town. They had met the previous week when he had come round at her insistence to install a unit in the unconditioned house.

  ‘You know I haven’t seen her at all since then?’

  ‘Probably a good thing,’ said Fearon.

  The ex-detective hesitated and then returned to his sandwich. Magnus picked up the hesitation. ‘What is it?’

  Fearon glanced at Magnus and carried on munching.

  ‘Come on, Jim. Don’t hold out on me now. After all these years, tell me, whatever it is.’

  Fearon leaned back and nodded to himself. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Do you still see your brother?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Magnus. ‘In fact, I’m planning on seeing him tonight.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Jim? Tell me.’

  ‘You’re right; there was a lot of tension between your father and stepmother. You probably noticed that it got worse a couple of weeks before he died.’

  ‘I told you that at the time.’

  ‘You did,’ said Fearon. ‘What you don’t know is why it got worse.’

  ‘I assumed she was having an affair. The air-con guy.’

  ‘Not him. Your dad never found out about him.’ Fearon paused and looked straight at Magnus. ‘She’d slept with your brother.’

  ‘What!’ Magnus was stunned. ‘He was only eighteen! She didn’t even like him.’

  ‘That was old enough for her. And turned out she did like him after all. High school had just finished. He had been drinking. He came home, your father was at work, she gave him another drink, she had a couple herself, and one thing led to another.’

  ‘How many times?’

  ‘They said three. I believe them.’

  ‘And did Dad know?’

  ‘Yes. She hadn’t tried very hard to hide it. My guess is she let him find out. She wanted to hurt him. Anyway, she admitted it to him.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. Why would Ollie do something so stupid? With her, of all people?’

  But he knew why Ollie would do it. He was vain at eighteen, and the idea of seducing an older woman would have appealed. Kathleen was about thirty-seven at that stage, and still attractive. Red hair, full body. But, Jesus Christ!

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this then?’

  ‘Kathleen and your brother begged me not to. They thought you wouldn’t understand, that it would upset you. It wasn’t relevant to the investigation; both Ollie and Kathleen’s alibis were rock solid.’

  ‘You thought I wouldn’t understand?’

  ‘Actually, I thought you would understand perfectly well. But I did think it would upset you. It seemed to me you and your brother needed each other. You know how it is in murder investigations.’ Fearon caught Magnus’s eye. ‘The dirty secrets come out. A lot of the time you gotta confront the victim’s family with all that filth. But if you don’t have to do it, you do
n’t. At least, I don’t.’

  Magnus did know what he meant. Everyone has a secret, and when a person is murdered, that secret comes out. Some of his colleagues enjoyed getting it all out into the open, shaking the tree to see what fell out. Magnus didn’t. Often he had had to tell relatives brutal truths. So he understood why Fearon had dodged that task if he could.

  ‘I missed all that,’ Magnus said. ‘I stayed up in Providence that summer after college ended, working in a restaurant. I had a girl-friend who was working in the city on some youth project and I wanted to spend the summer with her. But I remember coming over to Duxbury the weekend before, and there was a lot of tension in the house. They were all on best behaviour, but I could tell it was for my benefit. And I do remember my father being angry with Ollie, but he was often angry with Ollie at that stage. Ollie had gotten himself into trouble over drugs, I think. He had been very lucky not to be expelled from high school.’

  ‘Yeah, I recall something about that,’ said Fearon. ‘But I think what really pissed your dad off was that his son was banging his wife. Can’t really blame him.’

  ‘Oh, Ollie.’ Magnus shook his head. He had done his best his whole life to look after his kid brother, but Ollie always seemed to find new ways of screwing up.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Monday, 19 April 2010

  THE SPOT WOULDN’T come out of the kitchen floor tile no matter how hard Aníta scrubbed. She had no idea what it was and she didn’t care; she just scrubbed harder. It was good to be on her hands and knees doing something.

  She was scared, as had been Grána. They had cantered back to the farmhouse from the lava field and Aníta had hurriedly unsaddled the mare and let her into the paddock with the other horses. Kolbeinn and Villi were working on one of the fences of what would become the lambs’ meadow. Sylvía had come in from the chickens and was looking lost, so Aníta had put her in front of Shrek with Tóta, who thankfully hadn’t complained that she was too old to see the film again. She knew things with Sylvía were serious and she was prepared to do her bit.

  As Aníta scrubbed, she remembered Jóhannes’s visit of the evening before and his claim that Hallgrímur’s father Gunnar had killed his grandfather, also called Jóhannes. That was clearly whom the woman Marta had been talking about.

  Perhaps it wasn’t Marta. Perhaps Aníta had dreamed it all, prompted by Jóhannes’s story? And perhaps Aníta had just dreamed about Hallgrímur? Dreams were supposed to be like that, weren’t they? Rehashing and reordering in your sleeping brain the events of the previous day.

  But you couldn’t dream something in the middle of the day on a horse. A horse that had bolted at the same thing.

  What scared Aníta most was that having seen two ghosts in less than twenty-four hours, she would soon see another. She really didn’t want to see Hallgrímur again.

  What she wanted was for her grandmother to appear. Tell Hallgrímur to leave her granddaughter alone. Give Aníta a bit of comfort.

  She had told Kolbeinn about Hallgrímur’s visit the night before when they had finally got to bed in the small hours of the morning, after the policemen and firemen had left. He had listened closely, accepting what she said, and then he held her tight until they both went to sleep. That was the thing about Kolbeinn. He was big, reliable, he loved her, he never doubted her and he was always there.

  She heard barking outside. Someone was coming. Aníta allowed herself a brief smile. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if her grandmother walked in?

  ‘Hello!’

  It wasn’t her amma. It was Gabrielle.

  Aníta’s heart sank. She liked Gabrielle, but she wasn’t sure she was up to the serious gossip session that Gabrielle would want to embark upon.

  ‘Oh, leave that,’ the Frenchwoman said as she saw Aníta on her hands and knees. ‘That can wait.’

  ‘It’s just good to be doing something,’ said Aníta, getting to her feet. ‘Let me put this away and then I’ll make us some coffee.’

  ‘I wondered how you were coping,’ Gabrielle said. ‘I heard about the fire. And I saw the cottage just now. It’s crawling with people wearing those funny plastic bags. Don’t they know Sylvía started it?’

  Aníta put away the scrubbing brush and bucket and made coffee while Gabrielle nattered on in her strong French accent. Actually, it was nice to have her there. Aníta didn’t have to think too hard about what she was saying, or how she replied. She was sure Gabrielle’s concern was genuine, but it was clear that her sister-in-law was excited by the drama.

  ‘Can I have another one?’ Gabrielle said, reaching for the plate Aníta had put out. ‘They are delicious.’

  Gabrielle was excited by the cakes too.

  She had olive skin, big brown eyes and thick dark hair cut short. She wore a pretty green scarf around her neck. She was several years older than Aníta, but Aníta was jealous of the way she always managed to wear the simplest items with a hint of sophistication, even on a farm in the middle of nowhere.

  ‘How’s Sylvía?’ Gabrielle asked.

  ‘She’s watching a DVD with Tóta now. But I’m worried about her. She seems really confused. She knows her house has burned down and she seems to know she did it, but she won’t say how, and she doesn’t seem to understand that Hallgrímur has died, let alone been murdered. I was hoping Ingvar would come over and look at her.’

  ‘He’s got a clinic this morning,’ Gabrielle said. ‘I know Villi called him earlier this morning and they were talking about getting her to see a specialist in Reykjavík. Ingvar is surprised she has deteriorated so fast.’

  ‘But he’s hardly spoken to her!’ said Aníta. ‘How could he know how bad she was before?’

  ‘He said he’d come over later.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Aníta. ‘I mean, I know he’s wary about treating his own family, but his mother really needs his help.’

  Gabrielle nodded. ‘He understands that now. Villi told him so this morning. Anyway, how are you? I thought you were bearing up well last night at dinner, but you don’t look so good this morning.’

  ‘I don’t feel it,’ said Aníta.

  Gabrielle reached over and took Aníta’s hand. Her fingers were surprisingly cold, but Aníta appreciated the gesture.

  ‘When this is over, you and Kolbeinn should spend a week in our flat in Paris.’

  Aníta smiled. ‘That’s kind of you, but you know we can’t leave the farm.’ Although actually the idea of running away abroad at that very minute sounded attractive.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Gabrielle. ‘Maybe later in the year. At least we’ll be able to keep it now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Aníta.

  ‘The bank was all set to take it back. We had a big euro mortgage on it when we bought it, and after the crash we’ve had a lot of trouble keeping up with the payments on our flat and our place in Stykkishólmur.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t realize.’ Aníta had assumed that they were fairly well off, especially since Ingvar was a doctor.

  ‘Yes. That’s why Ingvar and his father fell out last year. Ingvar asked for some money and Hallgrímur said no.’

  ‘I’d noticed Ingvar had seen less of him recently,’ said Aníta. ‘I wondered why. But then Hallgrímur had a pretty strange relationship with all of his sons.’

  ‘You’re telling me. In some ways Ingvar seemed almost to hate him. He wanted to keep his distance. And yet Hallgrímur had this power over him. It was irresistible. I mean, we had the whole of Iceland to live in and we chose Stykkishólmur. Ingvar did very well at medical school and was a star in Paris. He could have been a top surgeon at the National Hospital in Reykjavík by now. But we are here. Ingvar always says it’s because he loves the area, but the reality is he couldn’t tear himself away from his father. It’s unhealthy.’

  ‘He seemed to take Hallgrímur’s death pretty well. They all did, apart from Tóta.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure. You know Ingvar; he always seems so cool and detached, never lets anyone
see what he’s thinking, even me. But he’s a mess. He couldn’t sleep last night. I woke up in the middle of the night to find him sobbing. He got up and drank half a bottle of brandy. He never does that.’

  Aníta had never really liked Ingvar. She respected him, but thought him too cold, too arrogant. She expected more warmth from a family member; even Hallgrímur could be warmer than Ingvar. In fact, the doctor took after his mother more; ever since Aníta had first known her, Sylvía had seemed permanently detached from everything. It had always struck Aníta as odd that a doctor could appear so little moved by humanity. She was glad, in a way, that Ingvar’s father’s death had had an effect. But Gabrielle was right: it was an unhealthy relationship.

  ‘That burn on Ingvar’s face wasn’t really an accident, was it?’ Aníta said.

  Gabrielle glanced at Aníta conspiratorially and shook her head. ‘Ingvar won’t tell me what really happened, but I know his father had something to do with it. I’ll bet he threw boiling water at his face when he was a little kid. And none of them are allowed to talk about it. Even now.’

  ‘Villi was the smart one,’ said Aníta. ‘Escaping to Canada.’

  ‘Yes. Although I sometimes get the feeling that Hallgrímur’s power stretched over the Atlantic.’

  ‘So why did Ingvar ask him for the money?’ said Aníta. ‘Hallgrímur was always going to say no, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He shouldn’t have done,’ said Gabrielle. ‘Considering Ingvar was responsible for Hallgrímur making all that cash in the first place.’

  ‘All what cash?’ Aníta said. She was vaguely aware that there was some arrangement between Hallgrímur and his sons about who should have what, which had led to Kolbeinn taking over the farm, but she had never troubled to find out the details.

  ‘You know Hallgrímur had a small quota in Stykkishólmur?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Aníta. ‘But didn’t he sell it?’

  In the early 1980s fisherman had been given the windfall of a ‘quota’ or proportion of the total Icelandic fishing catch. This could be transferred, and many of the smaller fishermen, especially the part-time ones like Hallgrímur, had sold theirs to fishing companies for useful lump sums.