Sea of Stone

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘Yes. Although in reality it wasn’t Ingvar who killed Dad. It was my grandfather. Ingvar was just his instrument. As was Villi.’

  ‘And now he’s been avenged,’ Ingileif said. ‘Does that feel good?’

  ‘No,’ said Magnus. ‘You would have thought it would, but it doesn’t. It’s a tragedy that my father is dead, that he died so young. It turns out that the fact that I know who was behind it, and that that person is dead, doesn’t change that tragedy.’

  ‘Hmm.’ They lay in silence for a minute, thinking. ‘What about your police work?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘Ever since I’ve known you, I’ve got the feeling that it was the desire to solve your father’s murder that drove you on to solve all those others. Now you’ve done it, will you keep going?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Magnus. Ingileif was right: his father’s murder had driven him to become a homicide detective and had given him the determination to wade through the messy tragedies of one investigation after another.

  ‘I think I will. Dad’s murder has shaped my life. It changed me. I can’t go back now, even if I do know who killed him. And I understand all those other people whose lives have been ruined by murder. I’ll still want to help them.’

  ‘One last question?’ said Ingileif with small smile.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What do you think about having sex three times in one night?’

  ‘I’m all in favour,’ said Magnus.

  Ingileif giggled, pulled herself up on to her knees and kissed him.

  *

  Thursday, 22 April 2010

  The First Day of Summer

  Magnus and Ingileif had an early breakfast at the hotel, and then Ingileif drove them back to Stykkishólmur, the early morning sun glowing yellow and pink off the white cap of the Snaefellsjökull.

  When they reached Stykkishólmur, Ingileif let Magnus out at the petrol station on the main road and waited for him in the car. A small group of people huddled in their coats, bags at their feet. One of them stood apart from the others, smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Hi, Ollie,’ Magnus said.

  Ollie glanced at his brother and then turned away, staring out towards the snow-capped mountains to the south. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Couldn’t let you go without saying goodbye,’ said Magnus. ‘Sorry you have to take the bus. I’d give you a lift all the way to the airport, but the police want me to stick around here.’

  ‘I know what that feels like,’ said Ollie.

  ‘Is your flight confirmed for this afternoon?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘Who knows? They seem to be opening up the airspace over Europe, so they ought to let me back to the States. At least I’ve got my passport back.’ He shivered. It was only a couple of degrees above freezing. ‘What’s all this crap about the first day of summer?’

  ‘Icelandic joke,’ said Magnus. It was exactly a year since he had arrived in Iceland, on the first day of summer 2009. A lot had happened in that time. ‘They all get the day off. There will be a parade in Reykjavík.’

  ‘I think I’ll skip that,’ said Ollie. He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘Are they bringing charges against you?’

  ‘Not for murder, no. But they might for interfering with a crime scene. I don’t know. We’ll see.’

  ‘That won’t be good for your career, will it?’

  ‘It would be disastrous. But the Police Commissioner likes me. Or at least, he used to like me.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ said Ollie.

  Even though Ollie had yet to face him, Magnus could sense the hostility glowing from his brother in the cold. Magnus felt the resentment build inside him. After all he had done for his brother, the risks he had taken, he deserved some thanks, surely.

  ‘You screwed up the crime scene on purpose?’ said Ollie, turning to him at last, as if reading Magnus’s thoughts.

  Magnus nodded.

  ‘I guess you must have thought I really did kill Afi?’

  Magnus nodded again.

  ‘You know now I didn’t kill him, right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Magnus. ‘But I know you intended to.’

  Ollie shrugged. ‘He was an old bastard, you know. He destroyed our family.’

  ‘He did,’ said Magnus.

  A bus pulled into the petrol station and opened its doors. The driver jumped out, opened up the luggage doors beneath the seats, and began to stow bags as the small group formed a line to get on.

  ‘Ollie?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You knew about Dad’s murder, didn’t you? That Ingvar killed him?’

  ‘Actually, I thought it was Villi. I didn’t know it was Ingvar.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I was scared,’ Ollie said. ‘I was always scared of Afi, you know that. I’ve spent my whole life being scared of him.’

  ‘I would have protected you.’

  ‘I did tell Dad, you know. About that writer Benedikt’s murder, Joe’s father. When I was a little kid at Bjarnarhöfn I overheard Afi and Uncle Villi talking about it. It must have been the night after it happened. I didn’t really understand what they were saying, but they caught me and told me never to breathe a word. I didn’t tell anyone for eleven years, and when I did tell Dad, they killed him.’

  Magnus knew his brother: he was lying. Or at least he was not telling the whole truth.

  ‘They killed him. You didn’t?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Ollie. ‘I was at the beach with a girl the whole afternoon. A bunch of people saw us. You know that.’

  That was true. ‘But you helped them, didn’t you? You helped Afi and Villi and Ingvar?’ Those three were all dead now. There was no one to tell what Ollie’s role in their father’s death really was, apart from Ollie himself.

  ‘Can’t you just drop this, man? Haven’t you caused enough trouble? Let it go, Magnus, let it go.’

  ‘It was our father, Ollie. How can I let it go?’

  Ollie threw his cigarette on to the ground. Anger flared in his eyes. ‘Look, Magnus. That bald-headed police guy, he’s even called Baldy or something – do you know what he’s done?’

  ‘No,’ said Magnus.

  ‘He’s been in touch with the police in the States. They are going to reopen Dad’s murder. They are going to interview me. And according to Baldy, they are going to arrest me and put me in jail.’

  ‘Baldur can’t know that,’ said Magnus.

  ‘Is he wrong?’ said Ollie, his eyes alight with anger and fear. ‘Tell me that, cop brother. Is he wrong?’

  Magnus didn’t answer. It seemed highly likely to him that Ollie was implicated in their father’s murder in some way. And he was certainly implicated in the cover-up. While it was true that many of the key suspects were now dead, Ollie could easily end up in jail.

  ‘And when they ask you to testify, what will you say, big brother? You’ll tell them everything you can to screw me, won’t you?’

  ‘No,’ said Magnus. ‘I’ll tell them the truth.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Ollie. He spat the word out, lacing it with bitterness. ‘That’s something you never quite understood, did you, Magnus? The truth isn’t always good. Sometimes the truth can be bad. Real bad.’

  ‘They won’t lock you up, Ollie,’ Magnus said. ‘I’ll find a way to stop them.’ But even as he said it, he didn’t believe it. Ollie was right. In this case, maybe the truth was bad. It was, after all, what Magnus had always been scared of, what Ollie had done his best to hide from.

  The last of the crowd was almost on the bus. Ollie looked away, back towards the mountains in the distance, biting back the frustration. ‘I told you to leave this alone all along, but you didn’t listen. Joe, you, Afi, Uncle Villi – you all talk about revenge like it’s something honourable. Well, believe me, Magnus, if I go to jail for this, you’ll know about revenge. And it won’t be honourable. I will bring you down with me.’

  Magnus saw the hatred in Ollie’
s eyes. Many times over the years he had seen fear, insecurity, deceit and greed in his brother, but never such pure hatred. It unnerved him.

  Ollie turned and climbed onto the bus. The driver shut the doors and the bus pulled away on the long journey back to Reykjavík.

  Magnus watched it go. He had hoped that in solving his father’s murder he had put the past back in its box.

  But now he knew. His father’s murder would remain with him. Always.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Bjarnarhöfn is a real farm on the north coast of Snaefellsnes. Although the Viking inhabitants of the area mentioned in the book – Björn the Easterner, Vermundur the Lean, Styr and the two berserkers – really existed, Hallgrímur’s family is entirely fictional. The farm is well worth a visit: it has a fascinating little shark museum, and of course the Berserkjahraun lava field surrounding it.

  I am grateful for the help of Deputy Sheriff Dadi Jóhannesson and Chief Superintendent Ólafur Gudmundsson of Stykkishólmur. Also to the governor and the staff of Litla-Hraun prison for allowing me to visit. Audur Möller gave me much useful information about sheep farming in Iceland, and Alda Sigmundsdóttir read over the manuscript for me. Alda’s Iceland Weather Report Facebook page is an invaluable and entertaining source of information on all things Icelandic.

  Thanks also to Superintendent Karl Steinar Valsson in Reykjavík, my agent Oli Munson at A. M. Heath, and to my editor Sara O’Keeffe and her colleagues at Corvus.

  Barbara, Julia, Laura and Nick have been as supportive as always, and shown great patience with my Icelandic enthusiasms. They even joined me on a trip there to research this book. It rained.