66° North (22 page)

‘What did the police want to see you about?’

‘I don’t want to say,’ said Frikki.

‘Was it stealing?’

Frikki didn’t answer. Magda removed her hand. They sat in silence.

‘It was worse than that,’ said Frikki. ‘A lot worse.’

‘Tell me.’

Frikki took a deep breath. And told her.

Magnus went to Ingileif’s apartment that evening. As she cooked supper she talked about her day in the gallery and quizzed him about the case. He told her about missing Björn at Grundarfjördur and about Harpa’s visit to Óskar in London. He mentioned nothing about Unnur.

After dinner he called Sharon Piper in London to tell her about the interview with Harpa. Unsurprisingly, Harpa had said nothing once her lawyer had arrived, and following Baldur’s instructions Magnus had let her go. Magnus also told Sharon about Ísak, the student at the London School of Economics who had had an argument with Harpa the night Gabríel Örn had died. Sharon agreed to talk to him.

When he had finished the call, Ingileif picked up her cello. She was still quite a serious player and practised almost every day. Magnus liked to listen to her, or to read while she was playing. She started on one of her favourites, a piece by Brahms. Magnus knew that whenever he heard that particular piece in future he would think of her.

It was all very domestic. And yet there were things that Magnus didn’t understand about Ingileif. They were not ‘in a relationship’ in the American sense of the word. Ingileif came and went as she pleased, made her own plans. Magnus wasn’t quite sure what his role in her life was. Should they spend time together at the weekend? Should he ask her what she was doing? What
was
she doing?

Sometimes Magnus wondered whether she was seeing other men. He had asked her once and she had denied it and got angry at him for even thinking it. But he was still suspicious. Perhaps that was because he was a cop, always suspicious.

He dispelled those uncomfortable thoughts from his mind and opened the novel Unnur had given him,
Moor and the Man
. He decided to read chapters one and two before getting on to chapter three.

It was about a family recently arrived in Reykjavík in 1944. The war and the British and American occupation of Iceland had brought wealth to the country. The man of the title was a young farm labourer named Arnór from an unspecified area of the countryside who had moved to Reykjavík looking for work. The book was well written and the story had gripped Magnus by the time he turned to chapter three, a flashback to Arnór’s childhood.

It was spring, and Arnór and his best friend Jói from a neighbouring farm crept into the barn to play in the hay, something they were strictly forbidden from doing. They heard rustling and grunting. At first they thought that some large animal had found refuge there, or perhaps a tramp. As they crept nearer they recognized the sounds as human, and not just human, but coming from their parents. Arnór’s father was making love to Jói’s mother, the farmer’s wife, right there in the hay.

The two boys ran away without being seen.

A month later, the boys were playing by a secluded lake some distance from the farm. They were on their way home when Arnór realized he had forgotten his knife and returned to the lake. He saw Jói’s father the farmer rowing out from the shore of the tarn, a large sack visible at the bow of the boat. When he reached the middle he paused and shipped his oars. With a fair bit of heaving and cursing, he rolled the heavy sack out of the boat and into the water.

Arnór returned home. His father was late back from a trip to the local town. When he failed to return home that night, his mother raised the alarm. Arnór’s father was never seen nor heard from again. The theory was that he had fled to America, but if he had, he never sent word back to Iceland. And Arnór never told anyone what he had seen.

Magnus closed the book. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said in English.

Unnur had claimed that Hallgrímur’s father had killed Benedikt’s father, Jóhannes, who was the farmer at Hraun. If the episode in the novel was based on that, that would mean that Benedikt and Hallgrímur were the two small boys, and Jóhannes’s body was in a nearby lake: either Swine Lake or perhaps the lake next to it, Hraunsfjardarvatn.

Magnus hadn’t heard anything about a neighbour being murdered, or even disappearing. But if it had happened when his grandfather was a child, that would have been in the 1930s. Neither had he heard about a writer living nearby, there certainly wasn’t one there during Magnus’s four-year stay in the 1980s. But Benedikt could easily have moved away years before.

Ingileif paused in her playing. She had noticed the stunned expression on Magnus’s face.

‘What are you reading?’ she asked.

Magnus held up the cover of his book.

‘Oh, I’ve read that. It’s not bad. I like him.’

‘I’ve never read anything he wrote until now.’

‘He’s quite good. A bit like Steinbeck, but not
that
good. I’ve
read most of his books, I think. Why the sudden interest? And why the “Jesus Christ”?’

Magnus told Ingileif about his visit to Unnur. He felt slightly guilty about not mentioning it to her before, but she seemed to understand, and she didn’t dwell on what Unnur had said about her affair with his father, for which Magnus was grateful.

‘I remember that chapter,’ Ingileif said. ‘So this woman thinks that the guy who killed Benedikt’s father was your great-grandfather?’

‘That’s right. Gunnar was his name.’

‘Do you remember him? Was he still alive when you were at Bjarnarhöfn?’

‘No, he had been dead a long time. I don’t know very much about him. Apart from how he died.’

‘And how was that?’

‘Have you heard of Búland’s Head?’

‘It’s on the Snaefells Peninsula somewhere, isn’t it? I’ve never been there.’

‘That’s right. It isn’t too far from my grandfather’s farm. It’s one of those places that has a bunch of folk tales attached to it. The road from Grundarfjördur to Ólafsvík runs along its edge. It used to be very narrow, and it’s still pretty scary, or it was in the nineteen eighties. Apparently my great-grandfather slipped and fell. He was riding his horse.’

‘But no one told you about him being suspected of killing anyone?’

‘No. But then my grandparents would be hardly likely to tell me. As you know, I lived with my father from the age of twelve and he never spoke about my mother’s family. Do you know anything about this guy Benedikt Jóhannesson?’

‘A bit. He wrote in the sixties and seventies. I think that might have been one of his last books.’

Magnus checked the front of the book. ‘Copyright 1985.’

‘There you are. Actually, he died about then. I think he might have been murdered. I’m sure he was. Hold on, let’s google him.’

Ingileif grabbed her laptop and after a certain amount of fiddling about they were on the Icelandic Wikipedia entry for Benedikt Jóhannesson. Born 1926, died 1985. He was born and brought up on a farm on the Snaefells Peninsula. He studied Icelandic at the University of Iceland and lived in Reykjavík. He published a dozen novels, the last of which was
Moor and the Man
, and several collections of short stories.

‘Those are quite good,’ said Ingileif. ‘I think I prefer them to the novels, although they are not as popular.’

They read on. ‘Look at that!’ exclaimed Ingileif, pointing to the section headed
Death
.

Magnus was a couple of lines behind her; he skipped a bit, and read the section. ‘Jeez.’

In 1985 Benedikt Jóhannesson was found murdered at his home in Reykjavík. The crime was never solved, but the police assumed it was a burglar.

‘There you are, Mr Detective,’ said Ingileif. ‘There’s something to get your teeth into.’

H
ILDUR’S BACK ACHED
as she raked up the hay. Her brother Benedikt was twenty metres away, laying low the tall lush grass with rhythmic sweeps of his scythe. Hildur glanced up towards Bjarnarhöfn Fell. A black cloud was gathering on the other side of the mountain, preparing to pounce. They had only harvested half of the home field, and time was running out if they were to get all of it in for the winter. Cutting the hay was the easy part. The difficulty was drying it and then keeping it dry. A row of haycocks behind her testified to their efforts so far.

She saw a figure on a horse picking its way along the Berserkjagata through the lava field. Hallgrímur. He was eighteen and although not tall, he was broadening out. Some of the younger girls in the region even found him attractive, much to Hildur’s disgust. She was surprised to see him pause as he passed her younger brother. Usually the two of them ignored each other.

‘Hello, Benni!’

Benedikt paused and straightened up. ‘Hello, Halli.’

‘What are you bothering to get the hay in for? I thought you’d sold the place?’

‘The new owner will need to feed his sheep this winter just like we do.’

‘Huh. He’s from Laxárdalur, isn’t he? Can’t he bring his own hay?’

Benedikt shrugged at the stupidity of the remark and made as if to go back to work.

‘I hear your mother has bought the clothes store in town?’ Hallgrímur said.

‘That’s right.’

‘So you will be selling ladies’ underwear?’

‘I’m going to school in Reykjavík. The Menntaskóli.’

‘That’s a bit of a waste of time, isn’t it? But I suppose your mother won’t need you at home any more once she sells the farm.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Well,’ Hallgrímur said. ‘When you get to Reykjavík, remember what I told you.’ He glanced at Hildur, who looked away. ‘In the church, when we were kids. Do you remember?’

‘I remember,’ said Benedikt. ‘I remember very well.’

‘And you will keep your word?’

‘I always keep my word.’

‘Good,’ said Hallgrímur. He kicked his horse on.

‘Oh, Halli,’ said Benedikt.

Hallgrímur paused. ‘Yes?’

‘Do you remember what
I
said in the church?’

Hallgrímur frowned. ‘No. No, I don’t.’

Benedikt smiled and went back to his scything.

Hallgrímur hesitated and then rode off. Hildur approached her brother. ‘What was all that about?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘Was it something to do with Dad?’

‘Really, Hildur, you don’t want to know.’

Hildur did want to know, but she knew there was no point in pushing her brother. He was stubborn in his own way.

‘I’m glad that boy won’t be our neighbour any more,’ she said.

‘So am I,’ said Benedikt. ‘So am I.’

Magnus put the cup of coffee down on the nightstand inches from Ingileif’s head and climbed into bed beside her. As he sipped from
his own mug, he studied her back. Her fair hair was spread over the pillow and her shoulders were moving up and down in a tiny shallow rhythm. She had a cluster of faded freckles above one shoulder blade that formed the shape of a crescent – he had never noticed them before. He felt an urge to lean over and run his hand down her spine, but he didn’t want to disturb her.

He smiled. He was lucky to wake up next to someone like her.

As though she could feel his eyes upon her, Ingileif stiffened, grunted and rolled over, blinking.

‘What time is it?’ she said.

‘Just after nine.’

‘That’s a bit early for a Sunday, isn’t it?’

‘I need to get going soon. I’ve got to go back up to Grundarfjördur.’

Ingileif sat up, her back against the pillow, and sipped her coffee. ‘Again?’

‘Now we know Harpa saw Óskar in London over the summer it’s all the more important to check up on her boyfriend. If he’s there. I’ll call the police up there to make sure he’s at home before I set off.’

‘Can I come? We could go for a walk afterwards. I could see Bjarnarhöfn, if only from a distance. Or we could go talk to Unnur about Benedikt Jóhannesson. If you want to, of course.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Magnus.

‘Oh, come on. You supported me last spring when I was trying to come to terms with what I learned about my father’s death. I’d like to do the same for you.’

The idea of going anywhere near Bjarnarhöfn again didn’t thrill Magnus. Ingileif may be right, perhaps it would be more bearable if she accompanied him.

‘You have to promise to leave me alone to interview Björn.’

‘I promise.’

Magnus smiled. ‘All right. Let me check with the Grundarfjördur police and then we’ll go.’

The sun was shining out of a pale blue sky as they drove north.
Ingileif put a Beethoven symphony on the car’s CD system, great music for driving through the Icelandic countryside, she said. She was right. Magnus had little knowledge of classical music, but Ingileif was a good guide.

Páll, the constable in Grundarfjördur, had confirmed that although there were no lights on in the house, Björn’s motorbike was in his driveway as was his pickup truck. Magnus asked the constable to keep a discreet watch on the house until he got there. If Björn left home, Magnus wanted to know where he was going.

As they descended the north side of the mountain pass down towards Breidafjördur, Magnus pointed out the Berserkjahraun and Bjarnarhöfn.

‘Is that a little church there, down by the sea?’ Ingileif asked.

‘Yes. It’s tiny,’ Magnus said. ‘Not much more than a hut.’

‘It’s cute. And why is it called Bjarnarhöfn?’

‘It’s named for Björn the Easterner,’ Magnus said. ‘The son of Ketill Flat Nose, and the first settler in the area.’

‘I remember,’ said Ingileif. ‘But it’s a long time since I’ve read the
Saga of the People of Eyri
.’

Ingileif had studied Icelandic Literature at university, and knew the sagas almost as well as Magnus. ‘And this is where the Swedish berserkers cut their path?’

‘Yes. You can still see the cairn where they were buried.’

‘Cool. Let’s stop there on the way back.’

‘Maybe,’ said Magnus.

Ingileif detected the note of caution in his voice. ‘Does your grandfather still live at the farm?’

‘He does. My uncle Kolbeinn farms the place now, but my cousin said that Grandpa still lives there with Grandma.’