The sun peeked through the clouds and a few rays sprayed the water in the harbour with a bright golden sparkle. Stykkishólmur had a small natural harbour, protected on the fjord side by a basalt rock of steep cliffs. Brightly coloured fishing boats bobbed and rattled, and a large ferry was manoeuvring its way past the rock, out towards the open water of Breidafjördur.
Ollie walked along the harbour wall, the breeze refreshing on his cheeks. The fjord was dotted with innumerable islands. From somewhere in his distant past Ollie remembered something his amma had told him. ‘There are two things that cannot be counted: the stars in the night sky and the rocky islands of Breidafjördur.’
The thing was, Ollie was scared. Scared for his life. He remembered when the gangster had broken into his house in Medford and stuck that revolver in his mouth. He remembered the taste of the metal, the sound of the click as the man pressed the trigger. The feeling of relief and amazement when he realized there was no bullet in the chamber. The fear that there might be a bullet in the next one or the one after that. The man had wanted to know where Magnus was. Ollie had betrayed his brother then. Ollie had always betrayed the people closest to him. It was how he had survived.
He walked up the steep path on the rock to the seaward side of the harbour. The breeze was stiffer up there. He turned to look at the bright little town with its harbour, its fish factory, the hospital, the brightly painted metal houses – light blue, green, dark red, white, cream, peach – and on a bluff to one side of town, the space-age white church.
Why was it only he who was faced with these horrible choices, to betray or be killed? OK, he had taken a wrong turn or two back when he was a kid, but surely he had paid for those?
His phone buzzed. An SMS. Ollie checked it. He recognized the sender.
Meet me outside the church this afternoon. 4p.m.
Ollie looked at his watch. One-thirty p.m. Shit. He really didn’t have any choice.
Sibba found a spot in the car park outside her office on Borgartún and entered the lobby. There was a fresh breeze, and the sun was dodging between the clouds.
Magnus hadn’t answered her question. Which meant she probably shouldn’t have asked it. If he had admitted that he had killed their grandfather, she would have had to withdraw from representing him there and then. But as it was?
She didn’t know. She just didn’t know. He was clearly hiding something, and that something could be that he had driven up to Bjarnarhöfn and cold-bloodedly murdered the grandfather whom he had hated since childhood. Or it could be something else. She didn’t know. The police didn’t know.
But she did know that Magnus hated their grandfather. She hadn’t had as much of a problem with him; the old man had always been nice to her. Every few years, she and the rest of her family had made the pilgrimage to Bjarnarhöfn, often at Christmas. Icelandic Christmases were something special: the visits of the Yule Lads, singing carols around the tree on Christmas Eve, the candles and the gifts. Her grandmother was cold to Sibba and her little brother, but her grandfather was always eager to see her, eager to play. He had taken them out into the Berserkjahraun and told them wonderful stories of berserkers and the Vikings who had lived at Bjarnarhöfn and the farm opposite, she forgot the name.
She had enjoyed the attention. But as she grew older she began to notice the fear that everyone in the family felt towards Hallgrímur. His wife, her uncle Kolbeinn, even her own father. And the time she had visited as a teenager when Magnus and his little brother Ollie were staying there, it was clear Ollie was terrified. She remembered Magnus’s misery mixed with stoicism; he was a brave kid.
She should resign. Yet Magnus needed her. If he had wanted an experienced criminal lawyer to negotiate a guilty plea, he would have hired one. But he had hired her, to do as he instructed. Which was what, exactly? It was hard to tell.
Sibba was becoming more used to criminal trials, or at least criminal investigations, but those all involved paper. Lots and lots of paper. Statements, financial records, articles of association of offshore companies, shareholder agreements, loan agreements, and e-mails. Hundreds, no thousands, of e-mails. The role of a lawyer was to read the documents and figure out which ones would help and which ones would hinder her client.
But in this case? Sibba wasn’t entirely sure what to do. Magnus’s strategy of simply refusing to answer any of the police’s questions was probably a good one, but it didn’t give Sibba anything to get her teeth into. The police were under no obligation to share any of the evidence they were gathering until after twenty-one days.
In the meantime, Sibba didn’t even know whether Magnus was planning to plead guilty. Perhaps they could argue that Hallgrímur had accidentally fallen over? Or perhaps he had attacked Magnus and Magnus had pushed him away, so that the old man had tripped and cracked his head. That didn’t seem to fit with the medical evidence, but that could be discredited with a little ingenuity. It would help that the victim’s son had been the attending doctor. Or perhaps Magnus really had just shown up at Bjarnarhöfn to find his grandfather dead.
In which case, what was he hiding?
Sibba stepped out of the lift into the reception area of her law firm. The receptionist caught her eye.
‘There’s someone to see you.’
Sibba turned to see a tall black woman wearing jeans and a traditional lopi sweater sitting on a sofa. Who the hell was she? Sibba ran through her clients in her mind. She didn’t really look rich enough to be a girlfriend.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said in English. ‘I’m Sigurbjörg. I understand you are waiting for me.’
The woman stood up. She was a good thirty centimetres taller than Sibba.
‘Sael,’ she said. ‘My name’s Vigdís Audardóttir. Detective Vigdís Audardóttir. I am a colleague of Magnús. I believe you are representing him?’ The woman’s Icelandic accent was perfect.
Sibba raised her eyebrows. ‘Do you have ID?’
The woman’s lips pursed in frustration and she pulled out a Reykjavík Metropolitan Police identity card.
Sibba examined it. ‘You had better come into my office,’ she said.
They sat at Sibba’s small conference table.
‘Are you here in an official capacity?’ she asked the detective.
‘No, not at all,’ said Vigdís. ‘In fact, I am off duty at the moment. And I would be grateful if you wouldn’t mention to the police investigators that I have come to see you.’
Sibba examined the woman opposite her for a moment. She looked sincere. Magnus had mentioned that the police were keeping officers from Reykjavík outside the investigation. She was inclined to trust the woman. At least she might learn something from her, if not from Magnus.
She smiled. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
Vigdís nodded and Sibba asked the receptionist to bring some.
‘I’ve just come from Litla-Hraun,’ Sibba said.
‘How’s Magnús doing?’ Vigdís asked.
‘He’d only been there half an hour,’ Sibba said. ‘But he seems to have things under control.’ She chose her words carefully, not wanting to give too much away. ‘Do you have some information for me?’
‘First of all,’ Vigdís said, ‘I know he didn’t kill his grandfather.’
‘Oh?’ Sibba leaned forward. ‘And why is that?’
‘I’ve worked with Magnús for the last year. He solves murders; he doesn’t commit them. It’s just not his nature.’
‘You’re a detective,’ Sibba said. ‘That’s not exactly great evidence, is it?’
‘No. But you are a lawyer. It’s useful to know whether your client actually committed the crime they are accused of, isn’t it?’
‘Sometimes,’ said Sibba.
‘Anyway. Please tell Magnús I’ll do anything to help him. And if there is something I can do for you, just ask.’
‘I will,’ said Sibba. She realized Vigdís meant what she said, and she decided to be a bit more forthcoming. ‘The trouble is, it seems like Magn
ús doesn’t want much help.’
‘Typical,’ said Vigdís with a tight smile. ‘I managed to call him just before he was arrested, and he told me to leave it alone. He can be stubborn. But he also might need me.’
‘Perhaps you can do something for me,’ Sibba said. ‘Like give me some background.’
Vigdís described what Katrín and Ingileif had told her about Magnus and Ollie’s movements in the days before Hallgrímur’s murder. She also talked about the link that Magnus was trying to make between his father Ragnar’s murder in 1996 in America and the murder of Benedikt Jóhannesson in 1985 in Reykjavík.
She pulled out the police file on the Benedikt case.
‘Should you have this?’ Sibba asked.
‘Not really,’ admitted Vigdís.
‘In that case, please put it away. I don’t want to see it.’
‘I understand,’ said Vigdís. ‘Perhaps I can tell you some of the details of the case? I studied it at police college.’
‘Good idea,’ said Sibba with a smile. ‘But put that file back where it belongs so that I can request it officially.’
Vigdís closed the file and slipped it into her bag. She explained how Benedikt had been found murdered by his son Jóhannes at his house in Vesturbaer. How he had been stabbed once in the back and twice in the chest by someone who was right-handed, just like Ragnar eleven years later. And how that same Jóhannes, a schoolteacher, had made contact with Magnus and Ollie the previous week and then driven Ollie up to the Snaefells Peninsula.
Sibba took detailed notes. She remembered that Magnus had asked her the previous year about the rumour within the family that Ragnar had had an affair with his wife’s best friend, but she had had no idea how far Magnus’s investigations had taken him. Why the hell hadn’t Magnus told her all this that morning?
Vigdís then explained what she had gleaned from the wall in Magnus’s bedroom about Ragnar’s murder in the small town of Duxbury.
‘There’s one interesting lead that you might be able to follow up,’ Vigdís said.
‘Tell me,’ said Sibba, pen poised.
‘The detective in charge of the investigation in Duxbury back in 1996 was a Sergeant Jim Fearon. He called for Magnús last week, said he had some lab test results for him. Magnús never got the message, and when one of my colleagues called Sergeant Fearon back, the detective refused to give him any information. Unfortunately my colleague told the detective that Magnús was under arrest for murder, and Fearon said he would only release the test results after an official request.’
‘A blue notice?’ Sibba said, mentioning the standard Interpol form.
‘I guess so.’
‘Do we have any idea what the test is about?’
‘None. But presumably it has something to do with Ragnar’s murder.’
‘I’ll talk to Magnús.’ Sibba frowned.
‘You’re worried he won’t tell you anything about it, aren’t you?’ said Vigdís.
Sibba nodded. ‘Not an easy client, your colleague.’
Vigdís smiled. ‘Not always an easy boss either. Maybe you could call Fearon yourself? Here is the number.’ She handed Sibba a sheet from a notebook with a US number on it.
‘Maybe I will.’
After Vigdís left, Sibba stared out of her window across the bay. Somewhere over there, a hundred kilometres away or more, lay the Snaefells Peninsula. At that moment the Snaefellsjökull was hidden behind cloud.
Sibba was pretty sure she could trust Vigdís. But could she trust Magnus?
There was one awkward phone call she had to deal with first. She dialled a Canadian number. A cell phone.
‘Hi, Sibba.’
‘Dad, I have something to tell you,’ Sibba said. They spoke in English as they had always done since Sibba went to high school.
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m defending Magnus.’
‘Really? Why are you doing that?’ Sibba was relieved that her father sounded more puzzled than angry.
‘He asked me to.’
‘Is that OK? I mean, can you defend a relative?’
‘We’ve discussed conflicts of interest and Magnus is comfortable.’
‘You’re the lawyer,’ said her father. ‘But if I were you, I would be pretty uncomfortable.’
As usual, her father took the common-sense approach.
‘Am I going to get to see you?’ Sibba asked. ‘The kids would like it.’
‘How are they?’ said her father, his voice warm.
‘They’re both good.’
‘Well, I’d like to see them too. Trouble is, I’m needed up here. Your grandmother is not coping well. Her Alzheimer’s is much more serious than I thought. She won’t even accept that her husband is dead.’
‘I didn’t know Amma had Alzheimer’s.’
‘That’s why I came over,’ said her father. ‘Afi asked me to.’
‘Perhaps I can come up there at the weekend?’
‘I don’t know when the funeral will be,’ her father said. ‘Presumably you could come up for that, eh?’
‘That’s going to be a problem,’ said Sibba. ‘There’s a murder investigation. The police will want to hold the body.’
‘I thought the autopsy was supposed to be today?’
Sibba shuddered. She didn’t want to explain that the body would have to be kept in the morgue in case the defence lawyer demanded further evidence, especially since she was the defence lawyer.
Her father was right. Sibba was in a very awkward position.
The church in Stykkishólmur was seriously weird, like everything else in the country. Large for the small town, and painted white, it reminded Ollie of an ultra-modern reincarnation of some of the churches he had seen in New Mexico. It was isolated, on a rock on the edge of town. No one was about so he went inside. The painting behind the altar creeped him out. It was a massive picture of Mary and Jesus against a bright blue background staring at him. It was like they knew he shouldn’t be in a church.
He went outside and lit a cigarette. He had to keep his shit together. He’d figure a way out of this mess; somehow he always did. He just had to keep his head clear and keep talking.
A car pulled up into the lot. Ollie straightened up. The car stopped a few feet away.
‘Hi, Ollie.’ A man got out of the car. ‘I never thought I would see you back in Iceland.’
‘Uncle Villi.’
There was something almost comforting in his uncle’s deep Canadian accent, but Ollie wasn’t comforted.
‘Do you want to talk inside the church?’
‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ said Ollie. ‘Let’s stay out here.’
Villi looked around. There was no one about.
‘Have the police spoken to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘And I think I did OK. Don’t worry; I didn’t mention you at all. In fact, when they interviewed me I don’t think they even knew you were in the country.’
‘Good. I was thinking on the way here, if they check phone records they might know we have been in touch. Just say I am a concerned uncle, OK? Because I am worried about you, Ollie.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Ollie, his voice laced with sarcasm.
Villi turned away from his nephew to look out over the town.
‘Ollie. Now your grandfather is dead, there are only two people who know about your role in your father’s murder, and that’s me and you. Unless you told your brother?’
‘There’s no way I’d tell my brother that,’ said Ollie. ‘He’d freak out. He’d probably kill me.’
‘Good,’ said Villi. ‘I’m not going to talk and I really hope you are not going to talk either. Because if you do, you won’t go to that comfortable jail where they have sent Magnus. You’ll be back in the States in a maximum-security hell. Your life won’t be worth living.’
‘You’ll be there too, Uncle Villi.’
‘Ollie, are you trying to threaten me?’
Ollie tr
ied to hold his uncle’s eyes but he couldn’t. He swallowed, turned away towards the fjord, and took a drag on his cigarette. The damned thing was jumping about in his hand.
Villi sighed. ‘Because actually, if I thought you were going to say anything, I might have to take what they call pre-emptive action.’
Ollie swallowed. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You know what I mean.’
Ollie did know. His psycho uncle would kill him, that’s what would happen.
‘No need to worry about me, Uncle Villi.’
Villi smiled. ‘Excellent. So, tell me about this schoolteacher. He came to Bjarnarhöfn last night. He seems to think there’s a feud between our family and his.’
‘That is his theory. And he’s not entirely wrong, is he? But he knows nothing about you, I promise.’
‘Keep it that way, eh?’
‘The police have let him go. He went back to Reykjavík last night.’
‘Good.’ Villi turned back towards his car. ‘Now, enjoy your stay in Iceland. If I were you, I would get on a plane home as soon as you possibly can.’
‘Don’t worry, Uncle Villi. I will.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ST FRANCIS’S HOSPITAL in Stykkishólmur was an angular cream-coloured building down by the harbour. It had been founded by the Catholic convent next door, as part of their mission to save backward Protestant Iceland. The hospital was now run by the state, and was really too big for the three doctors and associated staff who worked there.
Adam argued with the receptionist who wanted him to wait until the last patient was seen before he spoke to Dr Ingvar. The patient in question, a stout woman in her sixties, glared at Adam as the detective insisted on priority. When a girl of about sixteen emerged from the consulting room, Adam walked right in.
The first thing that struck Adam about Ingvar was the purple burn mark across one side of his face and his nose. The second was the frown.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
Adam produced his ID. The doctor took it from him and examined it.
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