66 Degrees North

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

THERE WAS A bomb under Ólafur’s car. Árni checked it himself, crawling under the chassis. Probably a dumb move, but he had to do something to shut up his former Prime Minister. The Explosive Ordnance Disposal Unit from the coastguard was called in. More used to dealing with unexploded mines from the Second World War, it took them a while to locate their two experts who were trained to deal with car bombs. One was on holiday, and the other one turned out to be in one of the hot tubs at the Laugardalur pool.

In the end the expert played it safe and went for a controlled explosion. Wrought havoc with the ex-Prime Minister’s garden, and scared the wits out of the little girl next door.

The Viking Squad, when it eventually assembled, burst into Harpa’s parents’ house and arrested Einar watching the golf on TV. A forensics team was poring over his garage looking for signs of bomb-making, and finding them.

In Stykkishólmur police station, Magnus prepared to drive back to Reykjavík. Before he left he brought a cup of coffee in to the interview room where Harpa was waiting. The plan was to drive her down to Reykjavík where she would be formally interviewed at police headquarters. Uniformed officers would escort her.

‘Thanks,’ Harpa said, accepting the coffee.

‘And thank you for stopping Ísak. I meant to ask you, how did you get down there so fast?’

‘Jumped. Just like you.’ She smiled. ‘I seemed to do myself less damage, though. How is Ísak? Is he going to live?’

‘He’s in intensive care in hospital. They are keeping him unconscious and giving him drugs to prevent the brain swelling, apparently. They can’t be sure, but the chances are good that he will make a full recovery. Unfortunately.’

‘You say that, Magnús, but I’m glad. I don’t want to have anyone else’s death on my conscience.’

Magnus was going to argue with her, but stopped himself. He sipped his coffee.

‘What happens now?’ Harpa asked. ‘Do I go to jail?’

‘Probably,’ said Magnus. ‘You may be lucky, with a good lawyer. This is Iceland, not Texas.’

‘I’m not sure I can face it.’

‘You’ve had a tough time,’ said Magnus. ‘A really tough time. Most other people would have cracked long ago.’

Harpa smiled, weakly. ‘I think I’m not far off it.’

‘I’m sure you’re not. Just think of Markús. Keep on thinking of Markús. Hold it together for his sake.’

‘Yeah,’ said Harpa. ‘Yeah.’

Magnus drained his cup. ‘Despite everything, he’s lucky to have you as his mother. If you hold it together, he’ll grow up into a fine boy. I’m sure he will.’

Harpa struggled to control her tears. ‘Thanks,’ she mouthed so quietly Magnus could barely hear it.

The sun was sinking slowly towards the western ocean, brushing the broad shoulder of Bjarnarhöfn Fell as it dropped. Magnus was glad to be alone as he started the drive back to Reykjavík, savouring the two hour interlude between the hubbub of Stykkishólmur police station and police headquarters.

His phone rang. Magnus didn’t recognize the number, and almost didn’t answer. After the third ring he decided he had better pick it up.

‘Magnús.’

‘Hello, Magnús, it’s Snorri here.’

Magnus felt himself straightening in the driver’s seat. The Big Salmon himself.

‘Hello, Snorri.’

‘I’m calling to apologize. You were right all along. We should have listened to you.’

‘It was a difficult call,’ Magnus said. ‘I never had the evidence.’

‘It was a good call. I guess that’s why we have you here. And why we want you to stay.’

‘Thank you,’ said Magnus. ‘And Snorri?’

‘Yes.’

‘Remember these guys are criminals, not terrorists.’

Snorri laughed. ‘I’ll remember that. I’ll just have to convince everyone else of it.’

Magnus smiled as he disconnected the phone. The apology was appreciated. Policemen didn’t like to apologize, in his experience, especially important ones.

He was staying in Iceland. So be it.

But what about Ingileif? She would have called Svala by now. Taken her decision. Perhaps he should have stayed on the phone with her just a minute longer. Told her to wait, at least until he had warned Ólafur Tómasson.

But he hadn’t.

Too late.

Or was it? He didn’t want her to go. Sure, it was up to her what she did with her life. Sure, Germany was a good opportunity. Perhaps she really did need to get away from him and from Iceland. But he didn’t want her to go.

He picked up his phone. Selected her number. And waited.

She didn’t answer. She could probably see it was him calling, but she chose not to pick up.

Her message kicked in. It was good to hear her voice. The pause for him to leave his message was long. Profound. Unbreakable.

He hung up.

The fell at Bjarnarhöfn was coming closer, as was the Berserkjahraun. He felt a wave of nausea sweep over him. The damned concussion.

He pulled over to the side of the road and got out of the car. He stood up straight and took some deep breaths. The fresh air in Iceland is really fresh. The breeze thrust oxygen into his lungs and tingled his pale cheeks.

After a couple of minutes he felt much better. As he climbed back into the car, he noticed the pathologist’s report into the Benedikt Jóhannesson case lying on the back seat.

He left the driver’s door open and began to leaf through it. He was confident there would be nothing there that hadn’t been referred to in the rest of the file, but you never knew.

You never knew.

It was right there, up front, under Cause of Death. Something that he, and only he, would find significant.

Benedikt had been stabbed once in the back and twice in the chest, by a killer who was probably right handed.

On a July day eleven years later, Magnus’s father had answered the door of the house he was renting for the summer in Duxbury. Let someone in. Turned away from him. Had been stabbed in the back, and then stabbed again twice in the chest. And died. The killer was right-handed.

Same MO. Same killer. No doubt about it.

It never ceased to amaze Magnus how criminals stuck to the same modus operandi, whether they be small-time car thieves, or the most cunning serial killers. There was something about the routine, the familiarity of doing things exactly the same way they had been done before, which seemed to help them deal with situations of maximum stress.

He could imagine the killer, whoever he was, ringing the bell at the house in Duxbury, wearing gloves, greeting his father and entering the hallway. Perhaps he always planned to wait until his father turned his back on him, just as Benedikt had done ten years before. Then he would stab him once, and finish him off with two more stabs to the heart. It had worked before. It would work again.

There was only one man Magnus could think of who was linked to both Benedikt and to Ragnar.

Hallgrímur. Magnus’s grandfather, Ragnar’s father-in-law and Benedikt’s childhood playmate. And the man who lived at the farm just across the lava field in front of him.

Magnus knew that the police investigation hadn’t touched his grandfather. Why should it, when Benedikt had moved to Reykjavík decades before his death?

Magnus tried to remember if his grandfather was right- or left-handed. He couldn’t visualize him writing, but he could remember being hit. The old man had favoured his left fist, he was pretty sure. But there was a more obvious problem. The USCIS had confirmed that Hallgrímur had not visited the States in the summer of 1996. More importantly, Hallgrímur didn’t even have a passport.

So where was Hallgrímur on 28 December 1985, the afternoon Benedikt was murdered?

That would have been Magnus’s second Christmas at Bjarnarhöfn. The time when Sibba and his uncle and aunt had visited from Canada. But Magnus couldn’t possibly remember his grandfather’s every movement that December.

There was a definite pattern. A family feud, fit for the Saga of the People of Eyri, starting with the death of Jóhannes, Benedikt’s father in the 1930s, moving on to Gunnar plunging off a cliff in the 1940s, and then to the stabbing of Benedikt in the 1980s. Could Ragnar’s death in the 1990s somehow be connected to this feud? Magnus couldn’t see how. Yet.

He looked up from the report, over the lava field to the white buildings around the farm, and the darker dot of the church.

If he was going to stay in Iceland, what would he do about Bjarnarhöfn? Would he continue to run away from it? Or would he face up to it?

Anger swept through him. The tension of the previous few days overwhelmed him. Ingileif, his grandfather, the hunt for the killers of Óskar Gunnarsson, the stabbing of Björn, his own escape from death.

He took a decision. He didn’t want to think about it: it was something he had to do while he had the anger to see it through.

He put his foot down and sped through the lava field, turning off on the road to the farm.

He passed the hollow where the two berserkers were buried and in a moment he was approaching the familiar cluster of buildings. It should have been a beautiful spot, the imposing fell with the waterfall pouring down its flanks, the little wooden church, the sun setting in pink streaks on the ocean.

But Magnus could feel a heavy blanket of dread descending upon him.

He didn’t want to run into his uncle Kolbeinn. He remembered Sibba saying that their grandfather no longer lived in the main farmhouse, so Magnus drew up outside one of the two smaller houses.

He got up out of the car. Through the window he could see a man bent over a newspaper in a sitting room. His face was obscured as he worked at the crossword, but Magnus could see it was an old man. And he could see he was holding his pen in his left hand.

He rang on the bell. Then he knocked. Loudly.

‘All right, all right!’ He heard the familiar voice, gruff but perhaps a touch frailer than he remembered. ‘Give a man a chance. Patience! Patience!’

Magnus knocked louder.

The door was opened by an old man in a green shirt. His face was wrinkled with the erosion of a thousand gales. The corners of his mouth pointed downwards. His small blue eyes burned angrily.

‘Magnús?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Didn’t I see you here a couple of days ago?’

‘You did.’

‘Well, what are you doing here?’

‘I’ve come to give you a message.’

‘And what makes you think I wish to hear it?’

The man might be in his eighties, but Magnus felt his power. He was struggling to control the situation, the conversation, Magnus himself. Magnus could almost feel himself shrinking, back to the proud but scared twelve-year-old he used to be.

‘I don’t know how my father died. And I don’t know how Benedikt Jóhannesson died. But I do know you had something to do with both their deaths. And I am going to find out what.’

‘Is that your message?’

‘No, my message is don’t die before I do find out. Because you are going to pay, old man. I am going to make sure you pay.’

Hallgrímur’s face reddened as he puffed out his chest. ‘Who the devil do you think you are?’

Magnus wasn’t listening. He spun on his heel, jumped into his Range Rover and turned it around to face Reykjavík.

He would be back.