Whale Fjord

Ten

Gudni lived in a tiny apartment in a modern block on the crest of the hill at Grafarholt. As he rang the bell and waited for a response, Magnus looked out over a terrific view of Reykjavík, of the bay and of Mount Esja on the other side of Kollafjördur, slim clouds skimming its elongated summit, which was dusted with a sprinkling of snow. At that moment, the sun was painting Esja in a warm golden glow, but of course that could, and probably would, change within the hour.

When Magnus was old, he wouldn’t mind spending his last years watching Esja.

Magnus had done some calculations, and if Frída’s story was accurate, Gudni must be in his late eighties or early nineties. He looked younger — old, but not ancient. He was balding with long strands of white hair hanging over his ears. His small blue eyes were set close together and peered out through round glasses. Although his legs were stiff and his steps tiny, his movements were quick as he fetched Magnus a cup of coffee.

He was clearly excited about an unexplained visit from the police. And not just the police, a detective.

The flat was a shrine to the English football club Tottenham Hotspur. Posters, photographs, even a framed white shirt bearing the number 10 and the name ‘Hoddle’. Gudni took his coffee in a Spurs mug, although Magnus’s was emblazoned Ísland Euro 2016.

‘Arsenal supporter, are you?’ Magnus asked. He didn’t know much about English football, but he did know who Spurs’ big London rival was.

‘How did you guess?’ said Gudni. He looked around the room. ‘I know it’s a bit over the top. Way over the top. When my wife was alive I was only allowed one team photo in the toilet. But, a couple of years after she died, I thought, why not?’

‘I’m an American football guy myself,’ said Magnus. ‘The Patriots.’

‘That game’s a mystery to me,’ said Gudni. Then his smile disappeared. ‘Oh, I know what you’re here for.’ The excitement seemed to leave him and his brows knitted. ‘It’s my mother, isn’t it?’

Magnus nodded.

‘Have you found her body?’

‘It’s too early to say for sure, but we may have. We need to do some forensic analysis to be certain.’

Gudni closed his eyes. ‘I knew this would happen one day. Where is she?’

‘In a gully between Selvík and Laxahóll farms.’

‘Gerdur’s Hollow?’

Magnus nodded.

‘That figures.’

‘Why does that figure?’ said Magnus.

‘Oh, it’s near the farm. A good place to hide a body, and there was a landslide there during the war, which could be why it stayed hidden for so many years. There’s also all that superstitious crap about a witch being buried there. We never believed any of that, but they did at Selvík.’

‘They certainly do.’

‘Did you find Uncle Marteinn too?’

Magnus nodded.

‘You’ve spoken to Frída and her son?’

‘We have. Jón was still freaked out by the story. Frída less so.’

‘Yeah. Frída had a lot of common sense.’

‘I suspect she still does. But the disappearance happened before she was born and she was unclear about the details. Can you fill me in?’

‘I can try,’ said Gudni. ‘It happened in 1940. I was only six at the time. I can remember it very well, of course, it’s one of my most abiding early memories, but I don’t know the details of what went on.’

‘Tell me what you do know.’

‘I was in bed. There were three other people living in the house at that time: my mother Kristín, her brother Marteinn and my grandfather Hálfdán. Grandpa was out that day; I think he had been to Akranes. So it was just Mum and Uncle Marteinn. Grandpa came home late that evening and they weren’t there.’

‘No note or anything as to where they had gone?’

‘Nothing. Grandpa woke me up when he got home, but I hadn’t heard anything. I went back to sleep, but when I got up the next morning, they still hadn’t shown up and Grandpa was in a right state. He dropped me off at Selvík and organized search parties. They didn’t find them. I think he got the British involved — there was a camp fairly close and then the big naval base further up the fjord. But once again, nothing.’

‘Why didn’t they find the bodies if they were just in Gerdur’s Hollow?’

Gudni shrugged. ‘Maybe they were well hidden?’ He knitted his brow. ‘Thinking about it, it was probably the farmer at Selvík who was responsible for searching his own land. That would have been Frída’s father, and he was the most superstitious of the lot of them.’

‘So he may not have searched the hollow thoroughly?’

‘It’s just a guess. Is there any sign how they died? Were they caught by a landslide? Or was it something else?’

Magnus paused. ‘They were shot,’ he said. ‘We found a bullet hole in one of the skulls. We assume the other victim was shot as well.’

That hit home as Magnus had feared it might. Gudni crumpled, and suddenly looked every one of his ninety or so years. A tear emerged in one eye. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. Then more tears came and he began to sob.

Magnus hesitated and then got up to place a hand on the old man’s arm.

Gudni smiled. ‘I don’t know why I’m doing this. I thought I had given up crying over Mum years ago.’

Back in Boston, Magnus had broken the bad news of the murder of a loved one to dozens of relatives over the years. That wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that the breaking of bad news was usually immediately followed up by intrusive questioning about the victim and their secrets.

It never got easier. Each relative was different, each suffering special. No matter how many times Magnus saw it, he never got used to it; it was what spurred him on to bring the victims’ murderers to justice.

He sat back in the sofa and waited.

After a minute, Gudni wiped his nose and exhaled. ‘Huh. It’s probably best I got that out of my system. Do you have any more questions?’

‘Yes. There was another brother, wasn’t there? He would have been your uncle. Where was he?’

‘Oh, yes. Uncle Siggi. He was working at the naval base at Hvammsvík, further up the fjord, so he wasn’t home when it happened. But he came back to help with the search.’

‘Now that you know your mother and your uncle were murdered, do you have any idea who might have done it? Were there any theories in the family that you can remember?’

‘No. Uncle Siggi thought the British were involved somehow. The farmer at Selvík blamed it on Gerdur, which is ironic given he obviously didn’t search her hollow very thoroughly. And Grandpa was just destroyed. He said he didn’t understand it. His wife had died a couple of years earlier, as had my dad, who I scarcely remember. This was the final straw. He never recovered.’

‘And what happened to you?’ said Magnus.

‘Grandpa looked after me, with Uncle Siggi. Siggi got married to Sunna from a farm near Akranes, who was really nice to me. Then Siggi ran off with Frída from Selvík and he got kicked out by Grandpa. Sunna stayed on with us until Grandpa sold the farm — in about 1970, I think. But by that stage, I was out of the house.’

‘I assume none of these people are still alive?’

Gudni shook his dead. ‘Just me. And Frída, but she wasn’t born until the end of the war.’

Magnus scribbled some notes.

‘If the bodies are theirs,’ Gudni said, ‘and if they were murdered, what will happen?’

‘The district medical officer will prepare a death certificate and give it to the sheriff. And then there will be a funeral. You’re the next of kin, so you’ll get a copy of the certificate.’

‘But no murder investigation?’

Magnus shook his head. ‘Not eighty years later, when the murderer — whoever he was — is long dead. But can I take a DNA sample from you? That will be the best way to confirm that the body is your mother.’

Gudni nodded. Magnus had a kit with him. If there was a chance that the sample could be used in a trial, he would have had the swab taken at the station, but for the district medical officer and the sheriff, one taken by him in Gudni’s flat would be fine.

As Gudni let Magnus out of his apartment, he paused. ‘If you do figure out who killed her, you will let me know, won’t you?’

After the detective had gone, Gudni shuffled quickly back to his favourite armchair and collapsed into it.

He stared across the room at the bookshelf against the far wall. And the old photograph album on its bottom shelf.

He levered himself up out of his chair and fetched it.

It was years since he had opened it. It always brought back a bittersweet mixture of memories. Happiness. Sadness. And horror.

It was the horror that kept him away from that album. But there was no hiding from that horror now.

He flipped through the pages. It was his mother’s and it was only half full. He didn’t think she had ever owned a camera, so the pictures must have been taken by her husband — Gudni’s father — Grandpa and Tom. A couple at the end had certainly been taken by Tom.

He started at the beginning. The earliest of Mum was when she was aged about sixteen, taken outside Laxahóll. Tall, a little gawky, but beautiful. There were pictures of small brothers — Marteinn and Siggi — and then a dark handsome man appeared. Gudni’s dad.

There were pictures of the wedding at the church at Laxahóll. Then of a house in Baldursgata in Reykjavík, with concrete steps leading up to the front door. Then of a baby and a toddler, a little Gudni.

Gudni leafed through to the end and his favourite two photographs: a young man in British Army uniform kicking a football to a six-year-old boy, and finally his mother standing by a motorcycle, the waters of Kollafjördur behind her, with the most gorgeous smile.

Gudni knew that the smile was directed at the man taking the picture, but he had always felt it was directed at him too, her son, from beyond the grave.

The grave that had now been found.

He closed the album. He smiled.

And then they came.

Those images that he knew would come. Of his mother. Of his uncle. Of those two pistol shots. Of the blood.

It wasn’t the news that his mother had been shot which had hit him so hard.

It wasn’t news. It was a memory that he had lived with for eighty years. And the policeman had brought it all back.

He closed his eyes and let out an animal howl.

Then he pulled out his phone and dialled a number.

‘Dad?’

He tried to speak but he couldn’t. He was aware of a whimper.

‘Dad? Are you OK?’

‘Something’s happened, Bjarni. Can you come round, please? Now. Come now.’