66 Degrees North

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE SOUP WAS indeed tasty; lamb and vegetables. Páll and Sara had two noisy but good-humoured kids and both Magnus and Ingileif enjoyed the good-natured warmth. Páll had to take the boy to basketball practice, so they left soon after the meal was over.

‘So, what do you think of that story?’ Ingileif asked. ‘Do you think your great-grandfather was pushed?’

Magnus smiled. ‘It’s the classic question, isn’t it? Did he fall or was he pushed? In this case I suppose it’s possible he was pushed. But who by?’

‘It must have been Benedikt himself.’

‘Or someone he knew well. A brother? I can’t believe he would as much as admit to it in a story.’

‘Perhaps he had to get it out of his system somehow,’ Ingileif said. ‘After all, that chapter in Moor and the Man is clearly about Gunnar.’

‘It could all be a coincidence,’ Magnus said.

‘You’re a cop. You don’t believe in coincidences, surely?’

‘Actually, I do,’ said Magnus. ‘In real life coincidences happen. You have to keep an open mind.’

‘So are we going to see Unnur? Find out if she has read that short story?’

‘I’ll give her a call,’ said Magnus.

Unnur agreed to meet them in an old restaurant in Stykkishólmur. It was a warm, cosy place, but empty apart from a Spaniard and an Icelander talking to each other about fish in English. There was a good view of the harbour, where a ferry was gathering speed as it headed off towards the West Fjords.

Unnur was waiting for them with a cup of coffee. Magnus introduced Ingileif.

‘I didn’t want to meet at the house this time,’ Unnur said. ‘My husband is at home, and I haven’t told him about the stuff with your father. I’m not proud of it: I’d rather he didn’t know.’

‘I understand,’ said Magnus. ‘But don’t worry. Like I said on the phone, we won’t talk about that.’

‘You read the chapter in Moor and the Man?’ Unnur asked.

‘I did,’ Magnus said. ‘You think that shows that Gunnar killed his neighbour?’

‘Yes. I’m pretty sure. As you can imagine there was a lot of gossip around here when the book came out. It didn’t take long for someone to spot the similarity. I was still working in Reykjavík at the time, but it was all the conversation of family visits.’

‘Do you know what Benedikt said about it?’

‘Oh, he denied it, but no one believed him. I think he was surprised that people had made the connection. And of course your grandfather said it was all nonsense. As you can imagine, he was angry about the whole thing. It was my aunt who convinced me that there was something in it.’

‘Your aunt?’

‘Yes. My uncle’s wife. She was also Benedikt’s older sister. She lived at Hraun at the time.’

‘And she confirmed the story?’

‘No,’ said Unnur. ‘She wouldn’t say anything. She just gave this kind of knowing smile.’

‘Did you know Benedikt?’

‘Only vaguely. We met once or twice at some of the larger family gatherings. A nice guy, very clever, rather quiet. His mother had sold the farm at Hraun and moved into town here. She used to own a clothes shop. I can just about remember it. She died some time in the sixties. But you said you have found another story?’

‘Yes. Ingileif remembered it. Do you own any of his short-story collections?’

‘No,’ Unnur said.

‘Well, there’s one called “The Slip”,’ Ingileif said. She summarized the story for Unnur, who listened closely.

‘I see,’ she said. ‘I seem to remember that Gunnar fell off a cliff somewhere, didn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ said Magnus. ‘On Búland’s Head. And he was riding a horse at the time. That was something my grandfather did tell me.’

‘And you are suggesting that someone pushed him? Benedikt?’

‘Possibly. In the book the boy is taking revenge for the rape of his sister. In this case it would be for the murder of his father.’

Unnur mulled it over. ‘It is possible, I suppose. I can’t imagine Benedikt killing anyone. It’s all ancient history now, isn’t it?’

‘Perhaps not so ancient,’ Magnus said. ‘Remember Benedikt was murdered himself. In 1985.’

‘But that was a burglar,’ Unnur said.

The three of them sat in silence, thinking it all through.

Unnur shuddered. ‘This is creepy. Three deaths. Over, what, fifty years? From the nineteen thirties to the nineteen eighties.’

‘Is your aunt still alive?’ Ingileif asked.

‘Yes. But I doubt she would tell you anything.’

‘You never know with old people,’ Ingileif said. ‘Sometimes they are happy to talk when the people they are talking about are no longer with us.’

‘It’s important,’ said Magnus.

‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ said Unnur. ‘Well, let’s go and see her. She lives just around the corner.’

They left the restaurant and followed a small street that rose behind a fish factory. They came to a tiny house, that looked like an illustration out of a children’s book. It was clad in corrugated iron, painted a bright green with a red roof. A series of elfish knickknacks adorned the windows. Unnur rang the bell. Above the door was a white plaque upon which the year 1903 was carefully painted in black, with purple flowers winding around the numbers.

Unnur’s aunt Hildur was a tiny woman with a crooked back, bright blue eyes and a sharp mind. Her face lit up when she saw her niece. She led them through to an over-heated and over-furnished sitting room, with landscapes on the walls, and little Icelandic flags sprouting up among various elves, seals, trolls and birds on every surface. Unnur was sent to the kitchen to fetch some coffee, there was some brewed.

Hildur picked up some knitting. ‘It’s for my great-grandson,’ she said. ‘He’ll be two next week, and it’s for his birthday, so please don’t mind me if I keep working.’

She held up an almost completed tiny lopi sweater, with an intricate pattern of blue and white crossing chest and shoulders in concentric circles.

‘That’s beautiful,’ said Ingileif with enthusiasm.

The old lady grunted, but she was clearly pleased.

Unnur returned with the coffee. ‘This is Magnús Ragnarsson, aunt. Hallgrímur’s grandson.’

Immediately Hildur’s blue eyes fastened on Magnus, warmth replaced by suspicion.

‘I lived with my grandparents at Bjarnarhöfn for four years when I was a boy,’ Magnus said. ‘It wasn’t a happy time in my life.’

‘I imagine it wasn’t,’ said the old woman.

‘You know my grandfather, I take it?’

‘Of course,’ said Hildur. ‘We were neighbours until I was about twenty. We lived at Hraun. I have tried to avoid him since then.’

‘You don’t like him?’

‘No. I don’t. Benni and he used to be great friends when they were little, but I thought he bossed Benni around a bit. They grew apart as they got older.’

‘I don’t like him either,’ said Magnus. The old lady was shocked. Loyalty to grandparents was a given in Icelandic society.

‘Do you remember my great-grandfather?’ Magnus said. ‘Gunnar.’

‘Yes,’ said Hildur.

‘What was he like?’

Hildur didn’t answer straight away. ‘He was a bad man,’ she said eventually.

‘A very bad man,’ Magnus said. ‘He killed your father, didn’t he?’

There was silence in the room, apart from the ticking of a clock, which seemed suddenly very loud. ‘I believe he did,’ said Hildur eventually. ‘I had no idea when I was a child. He used to come over to our farm often after Father disappeared. He helped my mother out around the place, he was a good neighbour. But all the time he knew that he had killed her husband.’ She shuddered.

‘How did you find out? Did Benedikt tell you?’ Magnus fought to keep the excitement out of his voice. He didn’t want to spook her.

Hildur glanced at her audience. For a moment Magnus thought Ingileif might be right, that Hildur might decide that there was no point in keeping the secret any longer. But then she shook her head. ‘I can’t tell you. Some secrets go beyond the grave.’

‘Have you read your brother’s story “The Slip”?’ Magnus asked.

The old lady smiled knowingly. ‘Yes. Yes, I have.’

‘Do you think that your brother might have pushed Gunnar over the edge at Búland’s Head? In revenge for what Gunnar had done to your father?’

‘Let’s just say that on the day Gunnar fell into the sea, Benedikt was returning from Ólafsvík. He claimed he never saw Gunnar. Everyone believed him. Benedikt was an honest boy.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘In fact he was an honest adult. He had to tell the truth somehow, in the end.’

‘I understand,’ said Magnus with a smile. ‘And thank you.’ He stood up to leave. ‘I know it happened a long time ago, but I am very sorry about your father.’

A tear suddenly appeared in the old lady’s eye. ‘So am I.’

Ingileif got her way. Despite Magnus’s reluctance, they stopped by the Berserkjahraun on the way back. They parked the Range Rover just below the farm of Hraun, on the eastern side of the lava field, the opposite side to Bjarnarhöfn.

Hraun was much as Magnus remembered it, with several large outbuildings, and a couple of small houses in addition to the main farmhouse. Circular bales of hay in white plastic lined the home meadow, on which round woollen balls of sheep grazed. Magnus and Ingileif headed into the lava field, and a few metres in they found the Berserkjagata, the ‘Berserkers’ Street’. It was a footpath cut into the rock, only a few inches wide.

‘I thought it would be bigger than this,’ said Ingileif.

‘If you think it was made by two men cutting into solid rock, it’s big enough,’ Magnus said. ‘And it made it much easier to walk to Bjarnarhöfn.’

‘Show me the cairn.’

The path wound through the twisted rock, down into hollows and up again. Autumn in Iceland has its own beauty. Not as striking, perhaps, as the change of leaves in Massachusetts, but the heather and grasses turn to gold and orange, and the bilberry leaves to a deep red. Peaceful.

They caught glimpses of the little Hraunsvík, the ‘Lava Bay’ between the two farms, where the lava flow had spilled into the sea. Two eider drakes in their black and white finery patrolled the cove. Magnus wondered whether the inhabitants of Bjarnarhöfn still collected their mates’ dun-coloured down every summer after the ducklings had left their nests. Beyond the bay, flat islands dotted Breidafjördur, familiar to Magnus from fishing trips in the farm’s skiff.

‘It’s quite hard to take in,’ said Magnus. ‘Jóhannes. Gunnar.’

‘Sounds like you’ve got yourself your very own family feud,’ Ingileif said. ‘It’s fascinating really. Just like the old days. Arnkell and Thórólfur and Snorri and – who was the other one – Björn of Breidavík?’

‘That’s him,’ said Magnus. ‘It does sound a bit like that.’

‘What do you think of Benedikt’s murder? Do you think it is connected?’

‘It must be a possibility,’ Magnus said. ‘Burglars don’t usually murder people in Iceland, although of course it can happen. I’ll pull out the police file next week and take a look.’

‘At least your grandfather wasn’t involved.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ Magnus said. ‘He would be right there for a family feud.’

‘You mean he could have killed Benedikt?’

‘Possibly. Once I take a look at the file it will be clearer.’

‘You really don’t like him, do you?’

Magnus didn’t answer.

They reached the cairn nestling in a hollow, a flat mound of stone big enough to contain two large men.

‘This is it?’ Ingileif said. ‘Wow. And do they really think the berserkers are inside?’

‘They dug it up a hundred years ago,’ Magnus said. ‘There are two skeletons buried there. Apparently they are not particularly tall, but they were powerfully built.’

Ingileif stopped and looked around at the wondrous stone shapes. ‘This must have been a great place to play as a kid.’

‘Yes. Although Óli was scared of it. Grandpa told him the berserkers were still roaming around.’

‘But not you?’

Magnus took a deep breath. ‘I tried not to let my grandfather scare me. I didn’t always succeed.’

Ingileif glanced at him. Magnus could tell she wanted to ask him more.

Suddenly he needed to leave. ‘Let’s go.’

‘No. I’d like to walk a bit further.’

‘Come on.’ Magnus turned on his heel and strode rapidly along the path back to the car. He didn’t look behind him until he reached it. Ingileif was struggling to catch up.

Wordlessly, Magnus started the engine and drove off.

They passed a spot where a road peeled off to the right. ‘Is that the way to Bjarnarhöfn?’ Ingileif asked.

Magnus didn’t answer.

The track became narrow, with a ten foot drop on either side into the rocky waves. A car approached kicking up dust, an old station wagon. Magnus pulled over as close as he could to the side of the track, leaving enough room for the other car to pass.

The car stopped a few feet ahead. It flashed its lights and sounded the horn.

An old man was behind the wheel.

‘Oh, Christ,’ said Magnus in English.

There was really nowhere for Magnus to go, unless he tried to reverse the Range Rover a hundred yards back down the track.

‘Come on, you old git,’ Ingileif said good-naturedly. ‘There’s plenty of room.’

The ‘old git’ edged forward until he pulled parallel with Magnus. Magnus recognized the broad weather-beaten face, the angry blue eyes. The wrinkles were deeper, the grey wiry hair thinner, but it was the same man.

Magnus stared straight ahead.

The man lowered his window. ‘Can’t you pull over further, you selfish bastard!’ he shouted. Then, ‘Magnús?’

Magnus put the car into gear and accelerated along the track, almost driving the large vehicle over the edge.

‘Jesus!’ said Ingileif. ‘Was that him?’

‘Of course it was him,’ said Magnus.

‘And he recognized you?’

‘You heard him say my name.’

The car lurched and skidded through the lava until it hit the main road. Magnus turned to the right up the pass over the mountains.

‘Slow down, Magnús!’ Ingileif said.

Magnus ignored her.

Ingileif stayed quiet as Magnus threw the car around the bends up the hill. But after they had crested the head of the pass, the road on the other side was straighter.

‘What did he do to you, Magnús?’ she asked.

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘But you have to.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Yes, you do, Magnús!’ Ingileif said. ‘You have to face up to it some time. You can’t just bury it.’

‘Why not?’ Magnus said. He could feel the anger in his voice. ‘Why the fuck not?’

Ingileif’s eyes widened at Magnus’s tone. But she didn’t back down. Ingileif didn’t do backing down. ‘Because otherwise it will eat away at you for the rest of your life. Just like it has for the last twenty years. You told me it was your father’s murder that bothered you, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?’

Magnus didn’t answer.

‘Isn’t there? Answer me, Magnús.’

‘No.’

‘Answer me.’

‘Ingileif?’

‘Yes?’

‘Shut the fuck up.’

A hundred and seventy kilometres is a long way to drive in silence, even if you are going thirty kilometres an hour over the speed limit.

He turned his motorbike off the little road, on to an even smaller road, not much more than a track with a strip of tarmac at its centre, and stopped to examine his Michelin map. He couldn’t believe how many trees there were in this country, specifically how many apple trees. They were unknown in Iceland. He would have plucked a fruit from the small orchard adjacent to the road, but that would mean taking off his helmet to eat it, and he didn’t want to do that.

He knew exactly where he was. He had spent a couple of hours examining the map at home and checking it against Google Earth, until this small strip of Normandy was etched on his brain. Sure enough, beyond the orchard the road curved to the left. On one side were small fields of pasture, on the other, woodland.

He kicked the motorbike into life and drove it slowly and quietly along the lane. He couldn’t see anyone. That was good. The bike had Dutch number plates, which made him feel conspicuous here in France. They should have thought of that, but as long as no one saw him, it wouldn’t matter.

He counted the telegraph poles running along the side of the road. At the seventh, he stopped and pushed the bike into the woods opposite. He spent a couple of minutes making sure that it was concealed from the road, yet ready for a quick getaway.

He made his way through the trees about twenty metres until he reached the other side. A group of cows were chewing their cud in a small field, their tails swishing away the flies. Beyond the field was the barn.

He moved through the edge of the wood just a few metres in from the field, until he found the tree he was looking for. It had been carved with a ‘B’ a metre above the ground. ‘B’ for Bjartur, although only he would know that; the French police would have no clue what it stood for when they discovered it. The patch of freshly dug ground was five metres to the west of the tree, partially hidden under a broken branch.

He slid the pack off his back, took out a trowel, and started to dig. The earth came away easily, and within a few minutes he had revealed a polythene bag containing rifle and ammunition.

A Remington 700. He grinned. He eased the rifle out of its bag and checked the mechanism. Everything worked perfectly.

Then he pulled out his binoculars and examined the barn. It was large and had been converted into a holiday home. Behind it was the farmhouse to which the barn must once have been attached. It was a sunny afternoon, and so there were no lights on in the building, but a door out to the garden was open. And in the garden were two chairs, a book resting open on the seat of one of them. There was a car parked on the patch of gravel in the front – only one car, which implied there were no bodyguards. Excellent. The car was an Audi estate: he could just make out the number plate – British, not French.

It was hard to estimate range with any precision, but he guessed a hundred and twenty-five metres was about right. The chair seemed to be about the same distance away from him as the petrol container had been back in the mountain valley the previous morning.

He found a good spot to lie, with the barrel resting on a log, and waited. It was a sunny day, the French September sun was much stronger than its Icelandic counterpart, and he felt uncomfortably warm in his motorcycle leathers. He would wait until nightfall if he had to, although having spotted the open book on the chair he was optimistic that that would be unnecessary.

He ran through the getaway in his mind. He would be sure to drive the bike at a steady speed so as not to attract attention. It was fifteen kilometres to the isolated water-filled quarry where he would chuck the polythene bag containing rifle, trowel, binoculars and bullet casings, and then twenty more kilometres before he hit the autoroute and the long ride back to Amsterdam.

Through the binoculars he could see movement in the house. He tensed. The target emerged.

He put down the binoculars and rested the rifle on his shoulder. The target was wearing a narrow-checked shirt and carrying a mug. Tea, no doubt – so English. The target walked across to the chair and bent to place the mug by its side. Stood up. Surveyed the landscape.

He pressed the trigger. Several things happened at once. The window behind the target exploded. The noise of the rifle shattered the rural quiet. Rooks further along the copse took to the air, yelling angrily.

The target turned towards the window and then back towards the wood, jaw open, reactions dulled by the surprise.

He had missed. Keep calm. He fired again. This time the target took a step back and raised a hand to his upper arm. A short, sharp cry of pain. One more shot. The target crumpled to the ground, just as a woman ran out of the door screaming.

Time to go.