Whale Fjord

Thirty-Two

September 2023

Magnus and Vigdís drove east out of town and then north along the N1 Ring Road. As they were passing the turnoff to Thingvellir, Magnus’s phone rang.

It was Líney, one of the uniformed sergeants on the team.

‘What have you got?’

‘Louisa used her credit card to buy petrol at the Olís petrol station in Grundarhverfi at five-twenty-two p.m.’

‘That’s just before the Hvalfjördur tunnel, right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Have you checked the tunnel cameras?’

There were cameras at the exit of the Hvalfjördur tunnel where the Ring Road headed north towards Borgarnes.

‘Nothing.’

‘So she turned off the Ring Road before the tunnel?’

‘She must have.’

‘Thanks, Líney.’ The phone went dead.

Magnus turned to Vigdís and grinned. ‘Looks like we’re on the right track.’

Vigdís smiled weakly. ‘It does.’

Magnus was acutely aware of the difference in mood between himself and Vigdís. It must be her mother. That would be a difficult conversation, but not for now.

Magnus decided to keep his news about Ingileif to himself; somehow flaunting his own happiness at that moment seemed wrong.

They reached the tunnel and turned right just before it. In a few minutes, they were following along the edge of Hvalfjördur. The ugly blue pipes of the aluminium smelter blighted the far shore; chunky grey clouds rolled around the steep hillsides on either side of the plant. A ray of yellow light beamed down at an angle onto the fjord’s deep waters, turning grey into a ruffled circle of gold.

Vigdís’s phone rang.

She answered. ‘Hi, Lúdvík.’

Magnus flicked his eyes from the road to check Vigdís’s expression. It was hard to read. Shocked? Surprised?

Lúdvík was doing all the talking, with Vigdís grunting in acknowledgement.

‘Thanks for letting me know, Lúdvík,’ she said eventually, hanging up.

She stared out of the car window at the fjord; Magnus couldn’t see her expression. Then she turned towards him and a smile crept across her face.

‘What is it?’

‘That was Lúdvík. It’s Mum. She just turned herself in at the police station. She admitted it was her who ran over the jogger.’

Magnus grinned. ‘At last! Lúdvík doesn’t know you saw her, does he?’

‘I think he has probably guessed,’ said Vigdís. ‘But he’s not going to say anything, I’m sure. He made a point of telling me he wouldn’t need to look for any more witnesses now.’

‘I always liked that guy. Did you talk your mother into it?’

‘I tried. I thought I’d failed to get through. I was up all night stewing about it. As was she, it seems.’

‘She did the right thing in the end.’

‘You’re not going to say anything now, are you?’ said Vigdís, aware that she had still broken the law by giving a false witness statement.

‘No,’ said Magnus, smiling. ‘Not even I am that much of a hard-arse.’ He felt a surge of relief — he would have followed through on his threat to report Vigdís and that would have destroyed her career. He was profoundly grateful he hadn’t had to do that. ‘It’s good news, Vigdís.’

‘She’s going to jail, though.’

Magnus thought Audur deserved what was coming to her; it was Vigdís who was the one who was suffering unjustifiably. And the poor guy whom Audur had killed. But he decided now wasn’t the right time to tell Vigdís that.

‘Right.’ They were approaching Selvík and the turnoff to Laxahóll. ‘Time to concentrate. We have a murder to solve.’

‘Two murders,’ Vigdís corrected him.

‘Plus the two in 1940,’ Magnus said. ‘That makes four.’

Magnus scanned the fjord as he waited for the door to the farmhouse to be answered. Two grey sausages of seal sunned themselves on a rock only a few metres out from the shore, watching him and Vigdís, weighing up whether to slip into the sea or just to stay put. A small boat drifted far out in the water, within it a figure hunched over a fishing rod. A pair of ravens, perching on nearby fence posts, watched him.

Eventually, Frída opened the door, dressed in a skirt and a green lopi sweater. She smiled in an anxious greeting when she saw who it was.

‘Hello, Frída. Can we speak to Jón?’

‘He’s out there, fishing.’ She pointed to the man in the boat. She checked her watch. ‘But he said he’d be back about now. I’m sure he won’t be long. Come in and have a cup of coffee.’

Magnus and Vigdís sat at the table in the kitchen, familiar from their last visit only four days before. They waited as Frída fussed over a thermos of coffee and placed two slices of soda cake on plates in front of them.

‘Is this about the murder of that poor Englishwoman I saw on the news last night?’ Frída asked as she sat down opposite them with her own cup.

‘Yes, it is,’ said Magnus. ‘Did she visit you on Thursday?’

The old woman sipped her coffee thoughtfully. Magnus and Vigdís waited.

She seemed to come to a decision. ‘Yes, she did. Late afternoon.’

‘About what time?’ Magnus asked as Vigdís pulled out her notebook.

‘I’m not sure, I didn’t check the time. I’d say about six? It was still light; I was getting supper ready.’

‘What did she want to talk to you about?’

‘Her father. I told you she had visited us here a few years ago. Her father was stationed here in the war and knew Kristín, the girl you found.’

‘Yes. We know.’

‘She spoke in English, mostly to Jón. My English isn’t very good, but I got an idea of what she was saying.’

‘And what was that?’

‘She was very upset. Apparently, Gudni — you know who I mean?’

Magnus nodded.

‘Well, Gudni had told you people that he had seen his mother and uncle being shot at Laxahóll when he was a little boy, and it was Louisa’s father who had shot them. Louisa was certain this couldn’t be true. She was desperate to prove that it wasn’t him, it was another British officer called Neville something-or-other. She asked Jón if he knew anything that would prove her father was innocent.’

‘And what did Jón say?’

‘Jón said he didn’t know anything.’

The woman frowned into her coffee.

Vigdís leaned forward; she had picked up on something. ‘And what did you say, Frída?’

Frída looked up from her coffee directly at Vigdís, as if grateful she had been asked the question.

‘I said I knew Neville had killed Kristín and Marteinn. I knew it wasn’t her father.’

‘And how do you know that?’ Magnus asked quietly.

‘My husband Siggi told me years ago. Gudni had told him. In secret — Gudni had never told the police what really happened. They were both adults, Gudni was visiting us here at the farm and he and Siggi stayed up late drinking. Since he was a kid, Gudni had been scared that Neville might come back and kill him if he found out he had told anyone.’

‘When was this?’ Vigdís asked.

‘Sometime in the 1980s.’

‘Why didn’t you mention this to us?’ Magnus asked.

‘It’s Gudni’s secret, not mine. And at the time it didn’t seem relevant.’

‘Whereas it does now?’

Frída looked straight at Magnus. Her bright blue eyes showed the wisdom of the old. ‘It was for Louisa. It seemed very relevant.’

‘And to your son?’ Vigdís asked.

Frída hesitated. ‘He didn’t think it was relevant,’ she said eventually. ‘Louisa said she would tell the police — you, presumably. I said that was fine. I assume she never got the chance?’

‘No,’ said Magnus.

Frída considered his answer and nodded.

‘What did Jón think about her going to the police?’ Vigdís asked.

‘He didn’t think it was necessary.’

‘I see,’ said Magnus. ‘What time did Louisa leave?’

‘I don’t know. She was with us about an hour, maybe a little less.’

‘And Jón? Did he stay at the farm all evening?’

‘No,’ Frída replied, weighing her words. ‘He said he had to go into Reykjavík to get a part for his tractor.’

‘At night?’

‘He said he needed to use it first thing in the morning.’

‘And what time was this?’

‘I don’t know. After supper.’

‘When did he get back here?’

Frída shrugged. ‘I was in bed.’

‘What time do you go to bed?’

‘About half past ten.’

So Jón could have been beside the bay at Saebraut in Reykjavík at 10.42 p.m. on Thursday evening when Louisa’s phone went dead.

Magnus looked out of the kitchen window to the fjord. The boat was chugging towards the shore.

‘Did Siggi ever travel to London with Jón?’

‘We went together once, just Siggi and me. But with Jón?’

Magnus nodded.

Once again, Frída seemed to weigh her words carefully. ‘Yes, they did go once. In the 1980s. To see a football match. Gudni is an avid Spurs fan, and he passed that on to Siggi and Jón, although they were nowhere near as keen as him.’

‘Which year was that?’

Frída shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Mid-eighties sometime?’

Magnus and Vigdís sat in silence, processing the implications of what the old woman had just said.

‘Wait a moment,’ Frída said. ‘I think I know where the programme for the match is. Jón kept it.’

She shuffled out of the room. Vigdís glanced at Magnus. ‘Do you think she knows what she’s doing?’

Magnus nodded. ‘I think she does.’ Out of the window, he saw the large figure of Jón drive the boat up to a dock and tie it up. He hoped Frída would hurry up.

She returned to the kitchen carrying a small booklet, which she handed to Magnus. On the cover, four men in white grinned as they lifted their arms in triumph. Tottenham Hotspur was playing Manchester United. Along a sidebar, a date was inscribed in small white letters.

The day Sir Neville Pybus-Smith was murdered.