Sea of Stone (19 page)

‘What happened there?’

‘You know she’s been in Germany for the last few months?’

Vigdís nodded.

‘I think she just appeared unannounced. I didn’t see her the first evening she came, but they spent the night together. Then they had some kind of row, I think.’

‘Yes, he told me,’ said Vigdís.

‘Not a great week for Magnús, last week,’ said Katrín.

‘Except he made some arrests,’ said Vigdís. ‘That always makes him happy.’

Katrín shrugged. ‘Whatever turns you on.’

‘Árni said that Ollie left early on Sunday morning to drive up to Bjarnarhöfn with a schoolteacher. Do you know what time?’

‘No. I rolled over and went back to sleep. But it was early. Six? Seven? Something like that.’

‘Did you see the schoolteacher?’

‘No. And I don’t know his name. But I bet I know where you can find it.’

‘Where?’

‘Have you ever been in Magnús’s room?’ Katrín asked, that little smile hovering on her lips.

‘Certainly not,’ said Vigdís, trying to suppress a flash of anger. ‘We are just work colleagues,’ she added unnecessarily.

‘Let me show you.’

They went up some narrow stairs into a bedroom with a bathroom off to one side. There was very little furniture. A bed. A desk. Two bookshelves. A closet. The bookshelves were full, with volumes overflowing on to the floor. A laptop was sitting open on the desk. Through the window was a view of the smooth spire of the Hallgrímskirkja thrusting up between the red metal roofs of the houses opposite.

There were two books on the bedside table:
Moor and the Man
by Benedikt Jóhannesson and
The Good Soldier
by Ford Maddox Ford. Vigdís was about to pick them up, but then decided against it. It was unlikely, but if a forensics officer came to take prints in the room, it would not look good if hers were on everything.

‘Take a look at that.’

One wall was a patchwork of photographs, newspaper cuttings, drawings and Post-its in several different colours.

‘Wow,’ said Vigdís.

‘Some men have pictures of women or football players on their walls,’ said Katrín. ‘And Magnús has this. I’ll leave you to it.’

Vigdís stared at the wall. She could discern a pattern. One half dealt with the murder of Ragnar Jónsson, Magnus’s father, in 1996 in Massachusetts. The other half centred on Benedikt Jóhannesson, the author who had been killed in 1985.

The space between was a mess of arrows and plain sheets of paper on which ideas had been scrawled and crossed out.

Vigdís took out her notebook and began to write.

It wasn’t far from Magnus’s house to the gallery in Skólavördustígur, which Ingileif still owned with a group of other female designers. Vigdís was betting that that was where Ingileif would decide to hang out when stuck in Reykjavík. And even if she wasn’t there, someone at the gallery would probably be able to give Vigdís a clue where to find her.

Her phone rang just as she was about to enter the gallery. It was Árni.

‘I called the American detective. His name is Jim Fearon.’

‘It’s a bit early, isn’t it?’

‘They get up early in America.’

‘And?’

‘Fearon said that the lab results were personal information. The only person he would speak to was Magnús himself.’

‘Did you tell him that would be difficult?’

‘Yes. I said that Magnús was in jail accused of murder.’

‘You did what!’

‘I figured Fearon would have to give me the information then. You know, he’d think I was investigating Magnús.’

‘And did he?’

‘No. He said in that case if the Icelandic police wanted the
evidence they would have to go through the proper channels. That means Interpol, doesn’t it?’

‘Oh, Árni!’ Vigdís couldn’t control her frustration. ‘Couldn’t you have been a bit more subtle? Didn’t I tell you to be careful?’

‘That was with Adam. Although that conversation didn’t go very well either. Anyway, we don’t know what the lab tests were for. Maybe they were nothing.’

‘Árni! What kind of detective are you? “Maybe they were nothing.” Jesus Christ!’

Vigdís hung up. Árni and Vigdís had no chance of getting the information through Interpol themselves. They could tip off the Dumpling, but without knowing whether the lab results helped or harmed Magnus’s case, that was a bad idea. Perhaps Magnus’s lawyer would be able to help, whoever he was. Vigdís knew all the criminal lawyers in Reykjavík; she wondered which one Magnus had chosen. Worth finding out.

But first Ingileif.

Vigdís took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself down and entered the gallery. She was in luck. Ingileif was serving a customer, a Danish tourist. Vigdís was instantly reminded of the first time she had encountered Ingileif. It had been with Magnus in this very gallery. Ingileif was a witness in a murder inquiry, and Magnus had suggested they wait and observe her before talking to her.

At that stage, Vigdís had no idea that Magnus’s interest would become more than professional. But Ingileif was undoubtedly attractive. Slim, blonde, very Icelandic, with a lively smile, Vigdís could see how Magnus had fallen for her.

Ingileif caught sight of Vigdís and flashed her a quick smile as she sold some earrings to the Danish woman.

‘Hi, Vigdís!’ she exclaimed as the customer left the shop. ‘It’s great to see you!’ She kissed Vigdís on the cheek.

‘I didn’t want to interrupt,’ said Vigdís.

‘It’s deathly quiet these days,’ said Ingileif. ‘The only hope is that some of the tourists who are trapped here by the volcano decide to go shopping. I thought it was bad when I left, but things haven’t got any better.’

‘I take it you’re trapped here too?’ Vigdís asked.

‘Yes. I was supposed to go back to Hamburg on Friday, but my flight was cancelled. I’m trying not to get myself too worked up over it. I’ll be helping out here until the ash cloud moves.’

‘Can we talk?’ Vigdís asked.

‘Sure. But if a customer does come in, I’ll have to do my stuff. What do you want to talk about?’

‘Magnús,’ said Vigdís.

Ingileif frowned. ‘Oh, Vigdís! You’re not some kind of messenger, are you? A peacemaker? That’s a bit teenage even for Magnús.’

‘He’s in jail,’ said Vigdís coldly. ‘Charged with murder.’

‘Oh, God,’ exclaimed Ingileif. She put her hand to her mouth and blushed. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. What did he do? Lose his temper? Beat up some criminal?’

‘It was his grandfather.’

‘Hallgrímur? He killed Hallgrímur?’

‘Of course he didn’t kill Hallgrímur,’ Vigdís said angrily. ‘How could you think he did?’

Ingileif blinked. ‘I thought you just said he did. I’m sorry, I’m confused.’

Vigdís realized she was losing control. ‘Yes. Sorry, I’ll explain. The police in Stykkishólmur believe that Magnús murdered his grandfather at his farm at Bjarnarhöfn. I think they’ve got it wrong. So I want to help Magnús. I’m off duty now and this conversation is off the record.’

‘OK, OK,’ said Ingileif. ‘I understand now. But it’s still a lot to take in. Do the police have any evidence?’

‘They must have some,’ said Vigdís. ‘Or they wouldn’t have sent him down to Litla-Hraun. They are keeping his colleagues in Reykjavík out of it. But any help you can give me about Magnús’s relationship with his grandfather, or his brother for that matter, would be very helpful.’

Ingileif frowned.

‘What is it?’ Vigdís asked.

‘If there was any reason why Magnús might kill anyone, it
would be to do with his grandfather,’ Ingileif said. ‘That, and his father’s murder.’

‘I saw the wall in Magnús’s bedroom,’ Vigdís said.

‘When?’ asked Ingileif sharply.

‘Just now,’ said Vigdís. ‘I’ve just been talking to Katrín. She showed it to me.’

‘Sorry,’ said Ingileif. She shook her head. ‘Sorry. Yes. Magnús had a bad time as a kid at Bjarnarhöfn staying with his grandfather. As did Ollie. And since he’s been back in Iceland he’s begun to think that there is a connection between his father’s murder in America and Hallgrímur. Magnús wanted to find out more, Ollie wanted to leave it alone; in fact, that’s why Ollie came over to Iceland, I think, to persuade him to leave it all alone.’

‘Did Magnús talk to you about all that?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Ingileif. ‘Many times.’

Vigdís took out her notebook. ‘Do you mind if we go over some of the details?’

They spent an hour going over Vigdís’s notes, interspersed with the odd visit from a customer. Ingileif was an expert at getting them to buy, Vigdís noticed: gentle with some, more forceful with others.

Eventually, they had finished.

‘One last question,’ Vigdís said. ‘Did Magnús mention any lab results he was expecting? He got a call last week from an ex-detective, Jim Fearon, in the town where his father was murdered, saying he had some results for him. Árni took the call.’

‘Meaning that the detective won’t tell you what he’s got?’

‘Meaning that the detective wants a notice from Interpol before he tells us what he’s got.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Ingileif.

‘Yes. Oh dear.’

Ingileif shook her head. ‘No, Magnús didn’t mention anything to me about that.’

‘OK,’ said Vigdís. ‘Thanks for telling me all this.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought I knew him pretty well, but he never said anything to me.’

‘He’s a private person,’ said Ingileif.

‘Yes,’ said Vigdís. She was about to leave it there, but she couldn’t help herself. ‘But he did mention you.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘Yes. We went out for a drink last Friday. He told me about the Turkish guy. And you blaming him for being jealous.’

Ingileif’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t see what that has to do with you.’

‘Magnús did,’ said Vigdís. ‘He was upset.’

‘I’m sorry he was upset,’ said Ingileif. ‘But he knew what our relationship was. He’s an American; he doesn’t understand how life is in Iceland. You know, he thinks that a man and a woman seeing each other is the same as being married.’

‘That’s the thing,’ said Vigdís. ‘You were telling him that he was an uptight American putting too much emphasis on his relationship with you. When actually all you were trying to do was fix it so that you could fuck him and fuck someone else at the same time.’

‘Vigdís! What is this?’ said Ingileif. ‘As I said, this has nothing to do with you. The poor guy is in prison. Can’t you just focus on getting him out?’

‘While you go back to Hamburg and your Turkish friend?’

Ingileif’s face was bright red. ‘Vigdís, I think you had better leave.’

It was all Ingileif could do not to scream at Vigdís as she left the gallery.

Who the hell did she think she was? OK, Magnus had confided in Vigdís more than he should, probably, knowing Magnus, after he had had more beers than he should. But what was he doing talking about their relationship with someone else anyway?

Ingileif paced around the small space, picking up a lampshade that was askew and putting it down again, more askew.

It was clear that Vigdís had a thing for Magnus. And it was
true that she was a beautiful woman. Tall, long legs, great body. Would Magnus care that she was black? Ingileif knew the answer to that.

How unprofessional! Lusting after the boss.

Ingileif remembered when Vigdís and Magnus had come into that very gallery. She had spoken to Vigdís in English, naturally assuming that she was a foreigner. Vigdís had been insulted and replied in Icelandic.

Ingileif winced. That had been embarrassing.

She stopped pacing. She blinked. She felt a tear run down her cheek, and then another, the anger leaking away.

She knew why she was so angry. Because Vigdís was right. She was right, damn her!

‘Ingileif? Are you OK?’

It was Sunna, a painter, and one of the co-owners of the gallery.

Ingileif sniffed. ‘Not really.’ She coughed, trying to force back the tears, but she could feel them coming. ‘I’ve had some bad news. Do you mind if I go out for a walk?’

‘Er, no,’ said Sunna, her face full of concern. ‘No, go on. I’ll look after things here.’

Ingileif blundered out. She stalked up the hill towards the big church and then turned down towards the bay.

She liked Magnus. She liked Magnus a lot. And she had hurt him; she knew that.

She had told herself that she wasn’t doing anything wrong. She had never pretended that their relationship was serious. When she had told Magnus she was going to the gallery in Hamburg, he hadn’t stopped her. He hadn’t even
tried
to stop her; that wasn’t how their relationship was. They had the freedom to spend time with each other or not as they chose. So when Ingileif had returned to Reykjavík and had chosen to spend time with Magnus, he had seemed happy.

Then she had told him about Kerem in Hamburg. She couldn’t lie about that, could she? And he had been jealous, and, it had seemed to her, tried to use his jealousy to control
her. She
said
he could make his own friends when she had gone to Germany; she had even set him up with a Facebook page, a necessity for a social life in Iceland. But there was nothing on it, of course.

She had thought that he had liked that about her, her spontaneity. He had mentioned an old girlfriend back in America who had wanted to force him to be someone he wasn’t. Ingileif had never tried to do that. That was against everything she believed in.

She was down by the shore of the bay now, the breeze skipping in from the north-west. She turned along the bike path to the Höfdi House, the small white mansion that squatted between modern office buildings and apartment blocks at the edge of the main road that went along the water. She and Magnus had met there once, when she was still a witness to another murder. It was where she had realized that he was something more than a cop, and she knew that he had felt the same.

She had enjoyed their time together, but had he? She smiled to herself. Of course he had. It was their separation that was the problem.

For him, not her.

Because Ingileif knew Vigdís was right. Ingileif had always been in charge. She was the one who dictated the rules of the relationship, who delighted in keeping Magnus off balance, who confused and, yes, excited him. She knew that was one of the reasons that he liked her, but she had taken advantage of him. She had treated him badly.