‘The farm was Alfabrekka?’
‘That’s right. There were two farmers there, a father and a son, and they both came back with me to look for Asgrimur, while the farmer’s wife called mountain rescue. By the time we got to your father, he was dead.’ The pastor shook his head. ‘When the rescue team eventually arrived they said he had been dead for a while, but I still wish I hadn’t got myself lost in the storm.’
‘Did the police find any evidence that the doctor’s death wasn’t accidental?’ Magnus asked.
‘Of course not!’ the pastor protested, his voice booming. ‘You can check on the file. There was never any doubt about that.’ The pastor glared at Magnus, commanding him to accept his assertion. Magnus didn’t flinch. He would make up his own mind.
He was beginning to understand what Ingileif had meant when she said the pastor was creepy. The man had an aura of power about him that reached out towards Magnus, urging him to bend to his will.
It was a power that Magnus was determined to resist.
‘Did you continue looking for the ring after my father’s death?’ Ingileif asked.
The pastor turned to her and relaxed slightly. ‘No. I let all that drop. I must confess it was fun working on the puzzle with your father, but once he had died then I lost all interest in the ring. Or the saga.’
Magnus glanced at the walls. There were three different prints of a volcano erupting. Hekla. ‘So how do you explain those?’
‘I have made quite a study of the role of the devil in Icelandic ecclesiastical history,’ said Hakon. ‘Hekla was known throughout Europe as the mouth of hell. That, as you can imagine, intrigues me.’
He paused. ‘I must admit that from that point of view, Gaukur’s Saga is very interesting. As far as I am aware it is the earliest mention of Hekla in that role. And also the first recorded ascent of the mountain. Until now we thought that no one dared climb Hekla until 1750. But of course Isildur and Gaukur were climbing it before the big eruption of 1104, so perhaps it wasn’t quite so frightening then.’
‘You spoke to my colleague a few days ago about a visit here by Professor Agnar Haraldsson,’ Magnus said.
‘That’s true.’
‘And what did you tell her he wanted to speak to you about?’
The pastor smiled, a mass of wrinkles appearing around his eyes. ‘Ah, I wasn’t entirely honest with your colleague. I take the confidences of my parishioners very seriously.’ He looked pointedly at Ingileif.
‘So what did Agnar really talk to you about?’
‘ Gaukur’s Saga, of course. And the ring.’ The pastor pulled at his beard. ‘He told me that Ingileif had asked him to act for the family in the sale of the saga.’ He frowned at Ingileif. ‘I must admit that I was quite shocked by this. After all the years that the family had successfully kept the saga a secret. Centuries even.’
Ingileif reddened at the admonition from her pastor.
‘I hardly think that’s for you to judge,’ said Magnus. ‘In fact, you should have told my colleague the truth first time around. It would have saved a lot of people a lot of time.’
‘Asgrimur was a very good friend of mine,’ said Hakon sternly. ‘I know what he would have wanted me to do.’
‘What you did was obstruct a murder inquiry,’ said Magnus. ‘Now. Did Agnar have something specific to ask you?’
‘Ingileif had just discovered the letter to her grandfather from Tolkien which referred to the discovery of the ring. Agnar came straight here and asked me much the same questions as you did just now. I gained the very strong impression that he wanted to try to find the ring himself. Of course, I couldn’t help him.’
‘How did he behave?’ Magnus asked.
‘Agitated. Excited. Aggressive in his questioning.’
‘Did you tell him anything you didn’t tell us?’ Magnus asked.
‘Absolutely not.’
Magnus paused, examining the pastor. But the man wasn’t about to say any more. ‘See, the day after he saw you, Agnar sent a message which implied that he knew where the ring was.’
‘Well, he certainly didn’t seem to know when I saw him.’
‘Did you tell him where you looked for it that day in 1992?’
‘No. He asked, but I told him I couldn’t remember. But of course I can.’
Ingileif showed the pastor the map that she had found among her father’s papers. ‘Is that the place?’
Hakon peered over. ‘Yes, that’s it. And there’s the farm, Alfa-brekka. I suppose I could have told Agnar where it was, wasted his time. I’m sure the ring is not there. At least it wasn’t there seventeen years ago, and I doubt it could have got there since.’
‘Are you certain it wasn’t there?’ Magnus asked. ‘I wonder if Agnar discovered clues to the location somewhere else and found something you missed.’
‘I’m absolutely certain,’ said Hakon. ‘Believe me, Asgrimur and I scraped every inch of the cave, and it wasn’t very big.’
‘Did your son know anything about this?’ Magnus asked.
‘Tomas? I don’t think so. He was, what, thirteen at the time? I didn’t tell him about the saga or the ring either then or afterwards. Did you, Ingileif?’
‘No,’ said Ingileif.
‘Then why was he speaking to Agnar the day he died?’ Magnus asked.
Hakon shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I had no idea they knew each other.’
‘Interesting coincidence, don’t you think?’
Hakon shrugged. ‘Maybe. I suppose so.’ Then he leaned forward, his eyes boring into Magnus. ‘My son is not a killer, young man. Remember that.’
‘God that man gives me the creeps,’ Ingileif said as they drove back towards Reykjavik.
‘Was he always like that?’
‘He was always weird. We didn’t go to church much, but when we did his sermons always used to scare the wits out of me. Lots of fire and brimstone, the devil behind every rock. As you can imagine, hearing that sort of thing while you are actually sitting in Hruni church is pretty frightening for a kid.’
She laughed to herself. ‘I remember one Monday morning, after one of his services, I gave back the hair clip I had “borrowed” from the girl I sat next to in class. I was so scared I was going to be swallowed up by the earth or struck by a bolt of lightning.’
‘I can imagine that.’
‘So, Mr Detective, was he telling the truth?’
‘I don’t think so. We know he lied to Vigdis about Agnar. I’m pretty sure he was lying about Tomas. He must have told him about the saga and the ring; why else would Tomas be talking to Agnar? It’s good I got him to deny that. Bad decision on his part.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because when I get Tomas to admit that he heard about the saga from his father, we will have caught Hakon out in another lie. From then on he’ll be struggling to keep his story straight. What did you think?’
‘I think he killed my father. And I think he’s got the ring. Couldn’t you search his house?’
‘We’d need a search warrant.’
‘Are you going to get one?’
‘Possibly.’ Magnus would have loved to do that. But he would have to persuade Baldur, and that would not be easy. Not until he had broken Tomas’s story. He was looking forward to getting back to police headquarters to interview him.
‘Can we drop by that farm that Reverend Hakon went to for help?’ Ingileif asked. ‘Someone there might remember something.’
‘I’d like to get back as soon as possible to interview Tomas.’
‘I understand. But it might shed some light on my father’s death.’
Magnus hesitated.
‘Please, Magnus. You know how important it is to me.’
‘What was the name of the farm? Alfabrekka. He showed us on that map.’
‘That’s right. We’d have to go up Thjorsardalur.’
‘But that would be fifty kilometres out of our way, there and back.’
‘At least.’
Magnus knew he should tell Baldur about his interview with Hakon as soon as possible. And he wanted to do that in person rather than over the phone so he would be able to confront Tomas himself.
He glanced at Ingileif. It was true, he did know how important her father’s death was to her.
‘OK,’ he sighed. ‘Get the map out and tell me where to go.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
As the airplane began its descent into Keflavik Airport, Diego licked his lips. He was nervous. It wasn’t the hit, he was looking forward to that. And it wasn’t flying, he had been on many airplanes. But he had never been to Europe before. Spain he could have handled, Italy maybe, but Iceland?
From what little he had been able to find out about it, it was one weird country.
He was expecting snow and ice, Eskimos and igloos. The cold he could probably cope with. Since the age of fifteen he had lived in the town of Lawrence, about twenty miles north of Boston. It got pretty cold there in winter.
The cold had been one hell of a shock when he had first arrived in the States, aged seven. His family were from the town of San Francisco de Macoris in the Dominican Republic. They had crossed the hundred-mile Mona Passage to Puerto Rico by boat, and with fake ID purchased there flew to New York. They spent several years in Washington Heights in Upper Manhattan, where his father had plied his trade as a mule. He got caught, went to prison, died there ten years later. His mother had taken Diego and his two sisters up to where her cousin lived in Lawrence.
There, Diego had begun his narcotics career in logistics, before taking up an enforcement role, at which he was very successful. He wasn’t quite as gratuitously violent as some of Soto’s other enforcers, but he was smart, and often that counted for more. He was certainly the best guy to go find a Boston cop among a bunch of Eskimos and off him.
They landed, and were out of the plane in no time. Immigration control wasn’t a problem, the official glanced quickly at Diego’s fake US passport and stamped it. Then in the arrivals hall he looked for and found a sign saying Mr Roberts. The guy holding it was stocky, with close-cropped brown hair and what sounded a bit like a Russian accent, although actually he was Lithuanian. He led Diego out to the car park and a Nissan SUV.
There had been very little time to prepare for Diego’s trip. But Soto had managed to find out from his wholesale suppliers who the big guys in drugs in Iceland were, and to make an introduction. They were Lithuanians, which was some kind of country in Russia, and they would help him.
He looked out over the black wasteland. No snow. Certainly no igloos. And not even a goddamned tree. The place already gave him the creeps.
After half an hour or so of driving, they pulled up in the parking lot of a Taco Bell. Sweet. Diego insisted on getting himself a burrito, even though it was early. When he returned to the car, there was another man waiting for him in the back seat. Thirties, also short-cropped hair, small blue eyes.
‘My name is Lukas,’ he said, by way of introduction, in a strong accent that wasn’t quite the Russian that Diego knew from Boston.
‘Joe,’ said Diego, shaking the proffered hand.
‘Welcome to Iceland.’
‘Have you got the piece?’
Lukas hesitated and then pulled a Walther PPK out of a black shoulder bag. Diego examined it. It looked like a PPK/S but it had a blue-steel finish. Some European model, perhaps. It was in good condition. Serial number filed off. Not a revolver, but this job would be bang bang and outta there.
‘Be careful with this,’ the Lithuanian said. ‘There are no handguns in Iceland. This one was bought in Amsterdam and smuggled in.’
‘Other than the cops. They got guns, surely?’
‘Cops don’t have guns either. Except at airport.’
Diego smiled. ‘Man, that’s cool. And the ammo?’
Lukas handed it to him.
‘How about the getaway?’
Lukas reached into his bag and took out a mobile phone. ‘Take this. The first name on the address list is “Karl”. Call that when you want to get out. If you are for real, say “Can I speak to Oskar?” Got that? Otherwise we think cops have you and you are on your own.’
‘What happens then?’
‘We’ll meet your car. Get you out of Iceland.’
‘Will it be quick?’
‘It will be very quick. Trust me, we don’t want you caught. And if you do get caught, don’t tell them we help you. We don’t want start war with police.’
‘I get it,’ said Diego. ‘So where do I find Magnus Jonson?’
‘You know what he looks like?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Then I suggest you hang around outside police headquarters until you see him.’
‘Oh, great. Can you ask some questions for me, man? Find out where he lives?’
‘No,’ said Lukas. ‘If you shoot policeman on the streets of Reykjavik it will be big deal. Very big deal. If they learn we have been asking questions about cop there will be big trouble for us. You understand?’
‘I guess so,’ said Diego.
‘Good. Now we take you to hotel and then you go to small airport in centre of city to hire car. There is bus station opposite police headquarters. I suggest you go there to watch.’
Arni was exhausted. It was amazing how sitting in one place for so long could be so tiring. He was very glad to be back in Iceland, although his body clock was completely confused.
He had been really looking forward to interviewing Isildur. He had planned all kinds of clever strategies to prompt him to finger Steve Jubb as the murderer. And he had hoped to see a bit of California – the drive to Trinity County had promised to be spectacular. He might even have got to see some giant redwoods. As it was he hadn’t even made it in to San Francisco, spending the night at an airport Holiday Inn and the following morning organizing the flight back, via Toronto.
He had never been to Canada before. Not impressed.
The only good thing was that he was whipping through The Lord of the Rings. He was on page 657 and going strong. It was a great book. And all the more interesting for having read Gaukur’s Saga.
Keflavik Airport was crowded – all the flights from North America arrived back in Iceland at the same time. Arni ignored his compatriots stocking up at the duty free shop and went straight through immigration and customs. As he came through the door into the main concourse, he spotted a man he recognized, Andrius Juska, stocky with short hair, a foot soldier in one of the Lithuanian gangs that sold amphetamines in Reykjavik. Arni only recognized him because he had tailed him for three days a couple of months before, while he was helping out the Narcotics Squad.
The ‘yellow press’, as Iceland called its popular newspapers, had whipped itself into a bit of a frenzy over Lithuanian drug dealers, seeing them on every street corner. The truth was that the majority of drugs in Iceland were sold by Icelanders. But the Police Commissioner in particular was concerned about the possible future spread of foreign drugs gangs, the main candidates being Scandinavian motorcycle gangs, and the Lithuanians. There was as yet no sign of Latino gangs, or Russians, but the police were all on the lookout for them.
Juska was holding up a welcome sign for a Mr Roberts. Arni slowed his pace to a saunter. As he did so a slim man with light brown skin approached the Lithuanian. From the reticence with which they greeted each other, it was clear that they had never met before.
Arni let his bag slip from his fingers, and then knelt down to pick it up. The two men were speaking English, the Lithuanian’s accent was heavy, the other man’s was American. Not educated American, street American. Arni took a good look. The man was about thirty, wearing a black leather jacket, and he looked as if he could handle himself. He most certainly did not look like your typical American tourist in Iceland.
Interesting.
‘Battle of Evermore’ rang out through the study as Hakon sat in his chair, eyes shut. The ring was on his finger as Led Zeppelin’s music washed over him.
/> He was excited. The more he thought about it, the clearer he understood his role in the plans of the ring. Sadly, he was not to be the one through which the ring would unleash its power on the world. But he had been chosen as the catalyst by which the ring would escape from a thousand years in the Icelandic wilderness and make its way back into the centre of the world of men.
An important role indeed.
The murder of Agnar, the arrest of Tomas, these were not everyday events. The police were getting closer, but now that did not worry the pastor unduly. It was preordained.
He listened to the haunting mandolin: ‘Waiting for the angels of Avalon’. His thoughts returned to who it was who would be chosen to bear the ring after him. Tomas perhaps? Unlikely, the more he thought of it. Ingileif? No. Although she had always been a strong-willed girl, she was the last person he could imagine being corrupted. The big red-haired detective? Possible. He had an American accent and he exuded an aura of power and capability.
For a moment Hakon wondered whether he should just give the detective the ring. But no, he couldn’t bring himself to do that.
The phone rang. The pastor turned down the music and answered. The conversation didn’t take long.
When he had finished, he glanced again at the ring. Should he replace it in the altar, or should he take it with him?
Events were picking up pace.
He turned off the stereo, grabbed his coat and went out to the garage, the ring still firmly on his finger.
A few kilometres south of Fludir, Magnus and Ingileif came to the mighty Thjorsa. This was the longest river in Iceland, carrying cold green-white water in a torrent from the glaciers in the centre of the country south towards the Atlantic Ocean. They turned left, following the road up the valley towards Gaukur’s old farm of Stong.
The river glistened in the sunlight. On the left, scattered farms and the occasional church nestled in the lee of the crags, many of them still covered in snow. Ahead, to the right, loomed Hekla. That morning the summit was draped with cloud, darker than the white puffs which smattered the rest of the pale sky.
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