The Polar Bear Killing

Chapter eight

Vigdís led the way up the hill towards the henge, her long legs making easy work of the slope. The sun had already been up for a while, and the air was full of the sound of birds busy with whatever birds do that early in the morning.

‘You know they laid this out according to the ‘Völuspá’, the first poem of the Poetic Edda?’ Magnus said.

Vigdís’s only reply was to let out something between a moan and a grunt.

‘Apparently, there’s a path bearing the name of each of the dwarfs mentioned in the poem. All seventy-two of them.’

‘I bet you know all their names,’ said Vigdís.

‘Not all of them,’ said Magnus.

‘When did you read all this stuff?’

‘When I was a kid at high school.’

‘In America?’ Magnus had moved to Boston from Iceland when he was a kid.

‘Yes.’

They carried on in silence for a few moments.

‘Magnús?’

‘Yes?’

‘Did your friends in America think you were a little weird?’

‘Thanks, Vigdís.’

Although forensics had finished with the scene, police tape still flapped in its own geometric circle within the henge. Vigdís pointed out the spot where Halldór had been shot, and the two rocks down the hill from where it was possible his killer had stood. While there was a clear view of the gate where Halldór had been found, the rocks were on the other side of the hill from the road, out of sight.

Magnus examined the ground and then made his way down the hill along a half-trodden path, criss-crossing twenty or thirty metres on either side. He paused every time he came to a patch of exposed mud. After ten minutes or so he halted.

‘Vigdís!’

She came over. ‘Found some dwarf footprints?’

Magnus pointed to a patch of mud next to a puddle. ‘Look.’

Vigdís looked. ‘I see tracks.’

‘Look more closely. And count.’

Vigdís looked again. ‘Jesus!’ she said, standing up. ‘Well, well, well.’

‘Do you have any spare spent .22 bullets or casings among the evidence?’ Magnus asked. ‘Doesn’t matter which gun they are from.’

‘We have a few from the range Halldór used back at the station.’

‘Perfect.’

‘Bjartur! Quiet!’

The old farmer came out to meet Magnus and Vigdís, wearing blue overalls and a woolly cap. The sheepdog, the Icelandic breed with a red and white coat and a curled tail, hopped over to them on its three legs.

Vigdís was right: the skin under Egill’s beard was criss-crossed with crevasses and fault lines.

He broke into a smile of welcome when he recognized her. ‘The blue policewoman! Come in, come in! I have a little coffee but no cakes, I’m afraid.’

Before they entered the house, Magnus glanced across the river towards the more prosperous farm on the other side. The view was clear and uninterrupted.

‘So that’s where the polar bear was shot?’ he said.

The farmer frowned and nodded. ‘Yes. It was a cruel day.’

They sat at a table in the cosy kitchen and Egill took off his hat. His ears were massive, flapping straight out from his head, and sprouting white hairs like some kind of polar mammoth. He poured a small quantity of thick gritty liquid from a thermos into two cups. There wasn’t enough for himself.

‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting visitors.’

Magnus sipped the coffee and tried hard not to grimace.

‘Do you know who murdered Halldór yet?’ Egill asked Vigdís.

‘Not yet,’ said Vigdís.

‘Yes,’ said Magnus.

Vigdís glanced at him quickly. And so did Egill. The bright blue eyes focused on Magnus under bushy eyebrows.

Magnus produced a clear plastic bag, inside which was a small brass-coloured metal object.

Egill’s eyes turned to the bag.

‘Did you know, Egill, that our scientists can examine a rifle and determine whether it was the one that fired this bullet? With 100 per cent accuracy.’

Egill shook his head, still concentrating on the bullet. His left hand fiddled with one of his ears, pulling it out even further from his head.

‘We’ve come to ask you for your rifle,’ Magnus said slowly. ‘So our scientists can examine it. See if it was the weapon that fired the bullet that killed Halldór. Can you fetch it for me?’

Egill didn’t move. He stared at the bullet. Then looked up at Vigdís and Magnus. He sat back in his chair.

‘You know I told you about that polar bear in Grímsey? The man the bear saved was one of my ancestors.’

‘It may be wrong to shoot polar bears,’ Magnus said quietly, ‘but it’s very wrong to shoot people.’

‘That policeman risked Anna’s life just so he could get the credit for killing a bear,’ Egill said, his eyes suddenly on fire. ‘So he shot the bear through the eye, but that was just because the bear was moving slowly.’ He leaned forward. ‘If the bear had charged — and it could easily have charged — then it would have been almost impossible to hit it with that accuracy. If he had hit the bear in the chest or the neck with a .22, Anna would be dead now. So I couldn’t understand why everyone was treating the man like a hero when he had almost killed a child.’

‘How did you get him up to the henge?’ Magnus asked.

‘I spoke to him on the telephone. I told him what I had seen. Said I needed to talk to him and suggested we meet at the henge by one of the stone gates there. I made him think I was going to blackmail him. I waited a short distance away from the henge and shot him. Through the eye. He was standing still.’

‘You had your dog with you, didn’t you?’ said Vigdís. ‘We saw the tracks from its three paws in the mud on the way up the hill.’

‘Yes, he comes everywhere with me,’ said Egill. ‘Couldn’t leave him behind.’

‘I think you had better show us where you keep your rifle,’ Magnus said.

Egill nodded. He bent down and scratched the ears of the dog at his feet. The animal rolled on to his side, so that the rear right stump where his leg had once been was visible. His tail thumped the kitchen floor.

‘Sorry, Bjartur, old fellow. I’m going to have to leave you now. Perhaps Anna will look after you.’

For the first time, a tear appeared in the old man’s eye.