Sea of Stone

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘Damn it!’ said Emil. ‘We should never have left the shotgun there after that rifle was taken.’

  Dead right, thought Magnus. ‘Let’s hope that Ingvar doesn’t realize Tóta is at home.’

  Emil’s vehicle bucked as Magnus drove it over the loose stones. Magnus lost traction as he rounded a bend too fast but got control back just in time to avoid hurtling into the rocky lava.

  ‘There he is!’ Magnus said.

  Ahead, a BMW four-wheel-drive was speeding towards them.

  Magnus flashed his lights but kept his foot on the accelerator.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Emil.

  ‘Playing chicken,’ said Magnus.

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

  The two vehicles were hurtling towards each other on the narrow track at a closing velocity of well over a hundred kilometres an hour. The other car showed no signs of slowing.

  Magnus was good at games of chicken. The secret to victory was conspicuous, unwavering determination. He maintained his speed.

  They were five seconds away. Four. Three.

  Emil shifted in the seat next to Magnus.

  Two.

  Ingvar wasn’t wavering either. It suddenly occurred to Magnus why. For Ingvar, a head-on collision at high speed and instant death wasn’t such a bad option. It may, in fact, be the best option.

  Magnus took his foot off the accelerator and swerved to the right.

  As did Ingvar.

  The two vehicles dealt each other glancing blows. Emil’s spun around and careered off the track into the lava field, bucking twice before ending nose-down in a small depression.

  The seatbelt bit into Magnus’s shoulders as he was flung forward and then whiplashed back into his seat.

  He felt blood dribbling down his forehead and into his eye. Next to him, Emil was groaning. Magnus’s brain was fuzzy.

  It took him a moment to figure out where he was, which way was up. Then he shoved open the car door and clambered out.

  On the other side of the track, about twenty yards into the lava field, was Ingvar’s car, leaning drunkenly on one side.

  Two figures were running through the sea of stone: a man behind and a girl in front. And the man was pointing a shotgun at the girl.

  Ingvar. And Tóta.

  Magnus ran after them.

  The stone and moss were slick with rain. Magnus slipped, twisted his ankle and fell, but rolled on to his feet again in one motion. His ankle hurt as he chased after Ingvar and Tóta. They had joined a narrow path through the cold lava, the Berserkers’ Path, and were making faster progress. They stumbled over the crest of a hillock, between writhing statues of gnarled stone, and disappeared from view.

  A few seconds later Magnus reached the path and followed them. As he crested the rise, he saw Ingvar and Tóta standing in the middle of a depression of moss and congealed stone about thirty yards across and twenty feet deep. Standing next to the cairn of the two dead berserkers.

  Ingvar was pointing his shotgun at Tóta, who was weeping silently.

  Magnus slid down the slope of the hollow along the Berserkers’ Path.

  ‘Stop right there!’ Ingvar shouted.

  Magnus stopped. And then took a pace forward.

  ‘I said stop! Or I’ll blow her head off!’

  Tóta let out a loud sob.

  ‘OK, OK,’ said Magnus, raising his hands. He stopped. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

  ‘All right,’ said Ingvar. He was breathing heavily, his eyes shining, the burn mark on his face blazing purple.

  Magnus sat on a stone just to the side of the path and kept his eyes on Ingvar. He was about ten yards away.

  ‘This is it, Uncle Ingvar. The police are on their way. There will be about twenty of them here in a few minutes, including the Viking Squad with guns. Your car is a write-off. There’s no way out of here.’

  ‘I’ve got Tóta,’ said Ingvar. ‘I can negotiate.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ said Magnus. ‘You are in a godforsaken corner of a godforsaken island cut off from the rest of the world by a volcano. I’d say you are stuck.’

  ‘What about you, Magnús?’ said Ingvar. ‘Aren’t you stuck? You murdered Dad. Now you will have to pay for it.’

  Tóta was watching Magnus with her eyes wide.

  ‘I didn’t kill him,’ said Magnus. ‘Your mother did. Sylvía.’

  ‘That’s not true!’ protested Tóta.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Magnus. ‘I’m sorry, Tóta, but Amma killed Afi. She had her reasons, you could almost say good reasons, but she is a murderer.’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’ said Tóta.

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Ingvar.

  ‘It’s true.’ The voice came from above and behind Magnus. All three of the people standing around the cairn turned to see Emil panting on the rim of the hollow, his face red, wheezing audibly. ‘Sylvía did kill Hallgrímur.’ He bent down, fighting to regain his breath.

  ‘Let Tóta go and give yourself up,’ said Magnus. ‘She hasn’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘Neither have I,’ said Ingvar. ‘It was Villi who killed Benedikt Jóhannesson and your father. Then he killed himself.’

  ‘It wasn’t suicide, Ingvar. Forensics can prove it. We found the spot where you drove down to the lake and the place where you shot Villi. When we examine those clothes you are wearing now, we’ll find traces of Villi on you.’

  ‘Did you shoot my mum, Uncle Ingvar?’ Tóta asked, through sobs.

  ‘Of course he did,’ said Magnus. His eyes hardened. ‘And he stabbed my father. Didn’t you? They found a hair at the house in Duxbury where you killed him. It was yours, wasn’t it? Back when you had some hair.’ In those days Ingvar was not as bald as he was now, and his hair had been a sandy blond.

  ‘I had to,’ said Ingvar. ‘To protect the family.’

  ‘You mean Afi told you to.’

  ‘I was a good son,’ said Ingvar. His voice caught as he said it. ‘In the end.’

  The anger welled up inside Magnus. A good son? Here, finally, was the moment for which Magnus had been waiting for his entire adult life. He was face to face with the man who had murdered his father, the man who had ruined his life, ruined Ollie’s life, changed everything for both of them. And how did his father’s killer justify what he had done? He was a good son!

  Magnus hated Ingvar with every sinew of his body, more than he had ever hated anyone before.

  But he had to remain calm, for Tóta’s sake. Focus on her. Change the subject to something less charged.

  ‘How did you know we were on to you, Ingvar?’

  ‘I called in to the clinic. My receptionist said that the police had been looking for me, and some of them were armed. I knew that wasn’t just a casual call for more questions.’

  ‘You should have given yourself up then,’ said Magnus. ‘There’s nothing you can do now. Killing Tóta won’t achieve anything.’

  In the distance Magnus could hear sirens. Ingvar really didn’t have any options. But the key was to make sure that nobody died.

  Magnus glanced at the cairn next to Ingvar and Tóta, a square solid block of stone, covered with a tablecloth of intricate patterns of moss in many shades of green, splashed with brown and orange. Under there lay the bodies of the two berserkers that had been killed over a thousand years before. The two Swedes from long ago who had loomed so large in Magnus’s childhood at Bjarnarhöfn, and presumably in Ingvar’s. It was as if those bloodthirsty warriors had dragged Ingvar to this spot.

  The doctor took a deep breath. ‘You are right.’ He paused. Seemed to come to a decision. ‘I’ve got two barrels here. One for me. And one for you. You first, I think.’

  He pushed Tóta away. She stumbled on a tangle of twisted rock and fell.

  Too late, Magnus realized he had made an error. If it had been plausible that Villi should take his own life, how much more plausible would it be that Ingvar, cornered as he was, would take his? And take Magnus with him.
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br />   Magnus was too far away to jump Ingvar, too close to get away from him.

  ‘Ingvar—’

  Behind him, Magnus heard a gasp and the sound of a heavy weight rolling down a slope. He turned to see Emil tumbling to the bottom of the hollow.

  Magnus rushed over to him.

  ‘Stop, Magnús!’

  Magnus ignored Ingvar and knelt over the detective, who had come to rest on his side. With a heave, he rolled him over on to his back, all the time expecting to hear the report of the shotgun and feel a hail of lead striking him.

  ‘He’s not breathing!’ Magnus said. He pulled back Emil’s jacket, placed his hands on Emil’s chest and started pumping. Emil was so large and so fat he wasn’t sure he had the right place. Was it the fourth or fifth rib down?

  Nothing.

  He pressed harder and then tried mouth-to-mouth.

  Still nothing.

  He turned to Ingvar. ‘You’re a doctor, Ingvar. Help me here and then blow your own head off. Help me save him!’

  Ingvar hesitated. He began to raise the shotgun towards Magnus. Then hesitation left him: he laid the gun down on the cairn, and ran over to where Magnus was scrabbling at Emil’s chest.

  He pushed Magnus out of the way. Pressed into the rolls of fat around Emil’s neck, searching for an artery. Pulled back his shirt, felt with his fingers through the fat for the right spot, placed both hands on his chest and pumped. Again. And again. Then he too tried mouth-to-mouth, and then pumped again.

  Magnus sat back and watched.

  ‘Call the police, Magnús! Tell them to bring a defibrillator down here. They should have one with them. If this works, he’ll still need shocking.’

  Magnus reached into Emil’s jacket pocket and found his phone. He made the call.

  After about thirty seconds, Ingvar glanced up at him. ‘It’s working! I’m feeling something!’ More mouth-to-mouth. Emil’s eyes flickered. Ingvar kept on pumping.

  A minute later Ingvar stopped. He was sweating and breathing hard. He straightened himself and leaned back, still on his knees. ‘You take over for a minute,’ he said to Magnus.

  Magnus was just beginning to move back towards Emil when a loud bang went off in his ears, and the back of Dr Ingvar’s head erupted all over his last patient.

  Magnus turned in shock. The fifteen-year-old schoolgirl was standing astride the cairn, holding the shotgun, her face expressionless.

  ‘Tóta?’ Magnus said. ‘Why? Why did you do that?’

  ‘He killed my uncle. He killed your father. He shot at my mother. He probably killed Afi. He deserved to die.’

  Magnus stared at Hallgrímur Gunnarsson’s granddaughter for a moment. Then he pushed Ingvar’s bloody body aside and resumed pumping Emil’s chest.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  IT TOOK A while to sort out the mess. Magnus kept Emil’s heart going until reinforcements arrived from Swine Lake with a defibrillator. Emil was then packed into an ambulance for the long drive down to Reykjavík’s National Hospital.

  Baldur arrested Magnus. And Tóta. Magnus understood, and went quietly. By the time he had got to Stykkishólmur police station, Emil had called Baldur from the ambulance to explain that Sylvía, not Magnus, had murdered Hallgrímur. Magnus himself insisted that one of Edda’s people check his hands for gunshot residue; he didn’t want a lawyer putting the idea in Tóta’s mind that it was Magnus, not she, who had shot their uncle. They found nothing, of course. Then Adam took a full statement. After a call to the Police Commissioner, Baldur had removed himself from the investigation into Hallgrímur’s murder, although he stayed in charge of the investigations into Villi and Ingvar’s deaths, and Aníta’s shooting.

  Inspector Thorsteinn from Keflavík was on his way up to Stykkishólmur to take over from Emil.

  After Magnus had kicked his heels in the cell for a couple of hours, Adam returned to let him out.

  ‘You can go now, Magnús. But please remain in this area. We’ll need to talk to you some more.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Magnus. ‘How’s Emil?’

  ‘He’s conscious and proclaiming your innocence,’ said Adam. ‘He’s at the National Hospital. Apparently Aníta is much better as well.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Magnus. He followed Adam along the corridor. He wondered what the hell he should do. He was wearing the sweatshirt and jeans he had put on that morning at Litla-Hraun; the clothes and his coat he had been wearing when he was arrested had been taken away for examination. His wallet and his phone were still at the prison. As for his car, he had no idea where that was now, except he was sure that forensic officers would have crawled all over it.

  Presumably the police had let Ollie go and he was somewhere in Stykkishólmur. His brother had some serious questions to answer, but Magnus couldn’t face confronting him right then.

  Perhaps he should call Sibba. Even though she was no longer his lawyer, she would be willing to help. Poor Sibba.

  At least it looked as if her father hadn’t actually murdered anyone himself after all.

  Magnus contemplated the destruction of Hallgrímur’s family. His wife and granddaughter held on suspicion of murder. Three of his four children dead. Plus his son-in-law, Magnus’s father. His grandson, Ollie, messed up.

  And all of it Hallgrímur’s fault. It was extraordinary how much damage one man could cause.

  Who was left to clear up the mess? Kolbeinn would find it hard to cope. Aníta, perhaps, when she recovered. Gabrielle? Sibba? And him.

  ‘Hey, Magnús! You look lost without a cell to go to.’

  Magnus turned to see Vigdís grinning at him. They both hesitated and then she gave him a hug.

  They broke apart. ‘You never thought I killed anyone, did you, Vigdís?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘I knew beating up an old man wasn’t your thing.’

  ‘Thanks for all your help. I’m lucky to work with someone like you.’

  ‘No problem.’ Her voice was casual, but she was smiling. Then the smile went. ‘There’s, um… There’s someone waiting for you. In the lobby.’

  Magnus looked through the window of the door in the corridor and saw Ingileif sitting on a chair, staring into space, an unopened book on her lap.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ Vigdís said. ‘The paperwork from this mess is going to take a month.’ She turned and strode rapidly down the corridor, away from the lobby.

  ‘Vigdís!’ Magnus called after her, but she ignored him.

  Magnus pushed through the doors. Ingileif stood up to face him. She was wearing a big red waterproof coat. Her eyes were tired and puffy, and her blonde hair was a greasy mess. Despite that, she looked gorgeous, at least to Magnus.

  ‘You look terrible,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Magnus, grinning.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Ingileif.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘You know.’ She walked up to him and kissed him softly on the cheek. ‘I was stupid. Selfish. But I’m not any more. Can I give you a lift?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Magnus. ‘But I’m not sure where to.’

  ‘I’ve booked us two rooms at the Hótel Búdir,’ Ingileif said. ‘Yours has a view of the Snaefellsjökull. You know Halldór Laxness used to go there to write?’

  ‘As did Benedikt Jóhannesson,’ said Magnus.

  ‘Do you want to come?’ asked Ingileif. Her grey eyes were unsure. Magnus realized she was nervous.

  ‘Of course,’ said Magnus. He smiled. ‘But I don’t understand why we need two rooms?’

  Ingileif’s eyes lit up and she reached up to kissed him again, hard this time, on the mouth.

  ‘Hey! There are the northern lights!’ Ingileif jumped out of bed and skipped across the room to the window. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  Their room faced west, towards the glacier. The night sky was clear and moonlight slipped over Ingileif’s naked body. Behind her, through the window, Magnus could see a shimmering green curtain hovering above t
he pale white of the snow-capped volcano, the mountain’s lower slopes a deeper black against the dark night sky.

  She turned to him. ‘Why are you smiling?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Magnus. It had been a wonderful evening. Magnus had never been to the Hótel Búdir before; it was too close to Bjarnarhöfn for his father to include it on one of their trips to Iceland. It was in a magnificent location. To the north rose a dramatic wall of mountains and waterfalls that divided the peninsula; to the east stretched a long curved beach; to the south was the sea; and to the west a lava field within which stood a small, isolated wooden church and, beyond that, the glacier. On a clear evening, with the sun slanting low, throwing a soft light on the yellow grass and green and brown moss, it was one of the most beautiful places Magnus had ever seen.

  They had gone for a short walk down to the sea through the ruins of an abandoned fishing village, and then had dinner. Although it had only been a week since they had seen each other, it felt much longer. She was different. He was different. They were different.

  They had made love, a joyful reunion of lust and tenderness.

  ‘Hey, I have a question for you,’ said Ingileif, skipping back to bed next to him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you fancy coming to Hamburg? I’d like to show you the gallery. And the city.’

  ‘Yeah, OK,’ said Magnus. ‘What about Kerem? Do I get to meet him too?’

  ‘Hmm. I think I’m going to have to have a conversation with Kerem. He won’t like it. So no, I don’t think you will get to meet him.’

  Magnus pulled her towards him and kissed her. ‘I would love to see you in Hamburg.’

  She ran her fingers over his chest. ‘How are you?’ she said.

  Magnus felt like asking her ‘how am I about what?’ but he knew what she meant. ‘I’m glad I finally know what happened to him. To Dad. Who killed him. I’ve wanted to know for so long.’

  ‘It’s good you came here,’ Ingileif said. ‘The answer was in Iceland all the time.’