Whale Fjord - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Michael Ridpath (Twenty-Six) #27

Twenty-Six

Magnus and Vigdís entered the interview room, Vigdís with a folder under her arm containing evidence gathered during the search of Gudni’s apartment in Grafarholt. The search was still continuing. Gudni had a lifetime of paper crammed into his small apartment and it was taking hours to go through it all. But his clothes were already being analysed for bloodstains.

Gudni looked up from his chair. In the station, he appeared even smaller and frailer than he had at home, his long unkempt white hair a straggly mess. But his eyes were bright, defiant.

‘You again?’ he said. ‘Can we get on with this?’

Magnus and Vigdís sat down opposite him. The video-recording equipment was already on. Vigdís placed her folder in front of her: it contained a couple of items which Gudni might have difficulty explaining.

Magnus cleared his throat and formally identified himself and Vigdís. ‘Gudni, I must inform you that we are now treating you as a suspect in the murder of Louisa Sugarman. This means you have a right to a lawyer if you wish.’

‘I don’t need a lawyer. But I do want to talk to my son.’

‘That won’t be possible just yet. Your son is next door. We will interview him next.’

‘Is he a suspect too?’

‘He certainly is.’

Gudni snorted. ‘Ridiculous. All right, what do you want to know?’

‘Were you in London on the twelfth of March 1985?’

‘How should I know?’ said Gudni. ‘I can’t remember that far back.’ He chuckled. ‘I’m not sure what I was doing this time last week. But I’d say no. We were living in Kópavogur then.’

‘Did you travel to London in 1985?’

‘I said, I don’t know.’

‘Think.’

Gudni shrugged.

‘Have you ever been to London at all?’ Vigdís asked.

Gudni nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve been a couple of times on short holidays with the family. But probably not in the mid-eighties. The kids were grown then. But I also went to see Spurs sometimes.’

‘How often?’

‘In those days, once every couple of years. It was expensive and my wife wasn’t keen on me going away too often. After she died, I went more frequently. But it’s even more expensive now.’

‘Who did you go with?’

‘Usually a friend from work. Bragi Örn. He’s long dead now. Once or twice with my uncle and cousin.’

‘Not with your son?’

‘Bjarni? Again, once or twice. But he never really liked football.’

‘Did you go to see Spurs in 1985?’

Gudni nodded. ‘Eighty-four/eighty-five was a good season for Spurs. Came third in the league. I think that year I saw them play Ipswich Town. We lost three — two. Leworthy scored twice. I thought he was a good player, but he only stayed with us a few months. I wonder what happened to him?’

Didn’t seem much wrong with Gudni’s memory, Magnus thought. He knew dementia could strike randomly, destroying some memories and preserving others. But it seemed to him that Gudni’s forgetfulness was far from random.

Vigdís produced a programme from the match, the words Tottenham Hotspur picked out in blue over a photograph of a man in a white shirt and black shorts leaping to head a ball. In smaller letters on the cover were the words Saturday, 20 April 1985. ‘We found this in your flat.’

Gudni picked up the programme and leafed through it. ‘It was always a shame to spend all that money and travel that distance to watch them lose.’

‘Did you see any other matches that year?’

‘Not that season,’ said Gudni. ‘I went to see them play Luton in eighty-six. Nil-all draw. Another waste of money.’

‘So you didn’t go in March eighty-five?’

‘No. Have you found a programme?’

‘We haven’t,’ said Vigdís. ‘But you could have got rid of it.’

‘Why would I do that?’ said Gudni. ‘I’d never throw away a programme.’

‘To stop us finding it,’ said Vigdís.

Gudni snorted.

‘You told us you saw Lieutenant Tom Marks shoot your mother,’ Magnus said.

‘That’s right.’

‘But you didn’t, did you?’

Gudni blinked. ‘Yes, I did. I told you. That’s something I can remember.’

‘Then how do you explain this?’

Magnus nodded to Vigdís who extracted an airmail envelope from her folder. She passed it to Gudni.

It was addressed to him. It bore a stamp of Queen Elizabeth.

His shoulders slumped. ‘I’d forgotten I still had that.’

‘But you remember its contents?’ Magnus asked.

Gudni extracted two sheets of thin airmail paper and scanned the black handwriting.

Meadow House School

Benningsby

Nr Skipton

North Yorks

England

8th February 1985

Dear Gudni,

I was so pleased to receive your letter! You were lucky to find me at the same address. I suppose you must have got it from those Christmas cards I sent your family after the war. This is my last year as headmaster here and I will be retiring in the summer. I am planning to buy a house somewhere by the sea in the West Country; I will be sure to send you our new address when that happens.

I’ve enjoyed teaching, but I have hung on too long as it is. I will be seventy-one next month.

I visited Iceland a few years ago with my daughter. We went to Laxahóll, but your grandfather had sold the farm. I should have tracked you down then.

I’m so sorry you witnessed your mother being shot. That must have been truly dreadful for a six-year-old boy. I’m not surprised you didn’t tell anyone at the time, especially if the man who shot her threatened you.

I do know who the British soldier with the little moustache was: Captain Neville Pybus-Smith. He was in charge of military intelligence in Iceland. He had met your mother a couple of times before, and I knew he was attracted to her.

I was convinced at the time that he killed your uncle and your mother and somehow disposed of their bodies. I have no direct evidence, but I remember the afternoon when they “disappeared” very well. Pybus-Smith was drunk, and he said he was going to interview your uncle at Laxahóll. I’m sure what he really wanted to do was see your mother who, as you know, was a very beautiful woman.

He subsequently claimed that he went straight on to Reykjavik and never stopped at the farm. Since he was in charge of the investigation into Kristín and Marteinn’s disappearance from the British side, it was difficult for me to dispute this. I discussed my suspicions with my commanding officer who advised me to stay quiet.

I didn’t. I confronted Pybus-Smith himself, but he denied ever having stopped at Laxahóll. He was adamant, and convincing, except I wasn’t convinced. Everyone else was, though. I tried talking to a captain in the Military Police and finally the general staff officer at Divisional HQ, but no one wanted to know. The idea of a British officer being responsible for the deaths of two missing Icelanders did not appeal. If I had had hard evidence, their reaction might have been different, but I didn’t have any real evidence at all.

I visited Laxahóll a few days after the disappearance, but only once. Your poor grandfather was in a daze of misery. Your uncle Siggi was angry at me and all the British. Only you were pleased to see me. We had a last kick around with the football I gave you, before your uncle chased me away.

I left Iceland with the 49th Division the following year when the Americans took over. Pybus-Smith stayed on as intelligence officer, before eventually handing over to an American. I believe he was sent back to England in disgrace after he tortured some Icelandic prisoners.

After the war, he had a classic career as one of ‘the great and the good’, meaning he became a director of a number of companies including the merchant bank he worked for, and chair of a couple of government organizations. He was knighted four years ago, so he is now Sir Neville Pybus-Smith.

It makes me sick. I’m sure you have worked out by now that I was in love with your mother. I was devastated when she disappeared. I got married after the war — my wife died a few years ago — but I still think of your mother. Often.

And you too. I enjoyed kicking a football around with you. Do you still support Spurs? Can you do that from Iceland? I do, despite being surrounded by Leeds United fans. I coached the school’s first eleven for as long as I decently could.

You also asked for the officer’s address. I have done some digging and discovered he has two: one in Hampshire and one in London.

They are: Cherry Tree House, Chellingham, Andover, Hants and in London: Flat 12, Eton Court, Porlock Square, South Kensington.

Don’t tell me why you want his address. But when you have time, tell me your own news.

Yours ever,

Tom Marks

Gudni pursed his lips and looked up from the letter to Magnus.

‘It really doesn’t sound to me as if the last time you saw Tom Marks he was waving a pistol at you and threatening you to keep quiet because he had just shot your mother.’ Magnus peered at Gudni. ‘Does it sound like that to you?’

‘No.’

‘So why did you lie to us?’

Gudni’s eyes fell to the letter. He didn’t reply.

‘Was it because you knew that it was actually Pybus-Smith who had shot your mother but you wanted to put us off the scent? In case we realized it was you who killed him in London. For revenge.’

Gudni didn’t move.

Magnus waited.

‘I wish you hadn’t told Louisa that her father shot my mother,’ Gudni said at last.

‘Because it wasn’t true?’

‘Because she died believing it was.’

‘For what it’s worth,’ Magnus said, ‘I don’t think she did believe it.’

‘That still leaves the question: why did you lie to us?’ Vigdís said.

‘We know you saw someone shoot your mother,’ Magnus said. ‘You knew she had been shot in the head, so you must have witnessed it yourself. Was it this British officer with the small moustache? Neville Pybus-Smith?’

Tears appeared in Gudni’s eyes. He nodded. He looked up. The tears came fast, running along the crags and creases of his face. He made no attempt to stop them.

‘Well?’ Magnus said. ‘Why didn’t you want us to know that?’

No answer. The pain in Gudni’s watery eyes tugged at Magnus. But he knew he was getting somewhere. All he needed to do was push harder.

‘You went to London in March 1985, didn’t you? With your son, Bjarni? You went to Pybus-Smith’s block of flats. You passed a black woman on your way in. And when he let you into his flat you strangled him. Was it you? Or was it Bjarni?’

Nothing.

‘That black woman went to jail for twenty years, you know? For a crime she didn’t commit. A crime you committed.’

Gudni slumped back in his chair and let his eyes drop.

‘What about Louisa?’ said Vigdís. ‘How much of this had she discovered? What was she planning to tell us?’

Gudni muttered something inaudible.

‘What was that?’ said Magnus.

‘I didn’t kill Louisa,’ he said, still not raising his eyes. ‘And neither did Bjarni.’