Where the Shadows Lie

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

‘You can’t release Steve Jubb!’ Magnus almost shouted.

Baldur stood in the corridor outside the interview room, facing him. ‘I can and I will. We don’t have the evidence to hold him. We know that there was someone else there that night after Steve Jubb had driven back to Reykjavik. Someone who dumped Agnar into the lake once it got dark.’

‘According to a four-year-old girl.’

‘She’s five. But the point is all the forensic evidence backs that up.’

‘But what about her parents? Surely they would have heard another car going past their house after nine-thirty?’

‘We checked. They went to bed early. Their bedroom is at the back of the house. And they were busy.’

‘Busy? Busy doing what?’

‘Busy doing what married people sometimes do when they go to bed early.’

‘Oh.’

‘And now we have another suspect.’ Baldur nodded towards the door where Tomas Hakonarson was just beginning a marathon interview session.

Magnus looked in. A man with round glasses, thinning hair and chubby cheeks was sitting smoking a cigarette, watched closely by Vigdis. The famous television personality.

‘And has he confessed?’

‘Give me time,’ Baldur said. ‘His fingerprints match the unidentified set we found in the house. We’re analysing his clothes and his boots now. For the moment his story is that he came and went before Steve Jubb arrived. Jubb arrived at about seven-thirty that evening and the neighbours were out all afternoon, so it’s just about possible that Tomas came and went without them seeing him. But if you thought Jubb was lying, you should see this guy. His story is shot full of holes. We’ll break it.’

‘Don’t you think what I told you about Lawrence Feldman and Steve Jubb trying to buy a ring from Agnar changes things?’

‘No,’ said Baldur, firmly. ‘Now, I have some work to do.’

Magnus went back to his desk in intense frustration. What really bugged him was the possibility that Baldur might be right and he wrong. Baldur was a good cop who trusted his intuition, but then so was Magnus. Which was why it would be so galling if Baldur’s hunches proved to be correct and his were not.

He knew he should take a deep breath, keep an open mind, let the direction of the inquiry follow the evidence as it emerged. But the trouble was, the more he looked into the saga and ring deal, the murkier it got. And the higher were the stakes for those involved.

When it came right down to it, Tomas Hakonarson had the opportunity but as yet not the motive. Isildur and Gimli, as they liked to call themselves, had motive aplenty.

The seat opposite Magnus was empty – Arni was still up in the air. Magnus called his cell phone and left a message on his voice-mail to tell him that Isildur was in Reykjavik and he may as well come home.

Poor guy.

He switched on his computer and checked for an e-mail. There was one from Deputy Superintendent Williams, a long one by his standards.

Williams apologized for the failure to protect Colby. He claimed there was a patrol car outside all night, but they didn’t see anything. There was no trace of Colby herself, although she had told her boss and her parents that she was going away for a while.

There had been questions asked around Schroeder Plaza, the headquarters of the Homicide Unit, questions about Magnus disguised as gossip. Friends of Lenahan; friends of friends of Soto. There was no doubt that Soto’s gang was after Magnus.

The kid Magnus had shot had died. The inquest into his death and that of his older partner was going to be delayed until after the Lenahan trial.

But the big news was the Lenahan trial itself. The judge had finally grown impatient with the delay tactics of the defence and had denied their motions to subpoena thousands of e-mails from the police department. That, combined with the surprise collapse of another murder trial which left a hole in the judge’s docket, meant that it was likely that the trial would begin sometime the following week. Magnus would be called as a witness as early as possible: the FBI hoped that as soon as he testified, Lenahan would talk. The Feds would send Magnus details of his flight as soon as they had decided them. The destination airport was still under discussion, but it wouldn’t be Logan. The FBI would be there in force to meet him and take him to a safe house.

Magnus tapped out a reply saying it would be good to be home. Which was true. He felt that the value he was adding to the Icelandic police force was precisely zero. Baldur’s estimate would be negative.

He thought about Colby, and smiled. Good for her. If the Boston police couldn’t find her, that was a good thing. If she really wanted to hide, she could do it.

He wrote a quick e-mail to her, telling her to let him know she was OK, if she got the opportunity. That was the best he could hope for.

His thoughts turned to the case. He hated the idea of dropping it, leaving it to Baldur to clear up.

OK, if he was right and Baldur was wrong, that meant the case turned on the saga and the ring. Especially the ring. Leave aside the question of whether this was really the ring that was taken from a dwarf who fished in the shape of a pike a couple of millennia ago. That wasn’t important. What was important was that Agnar thought he knew where a ring was, and Feldman wanted that ring. Badly.

So where was it?

As he had pointed out to Arni, it seemed unlikely that Agnar could conjure up a fake thousand-year-old ring in a couple of days. Which meant either that someone else had it, Ingileif for example, or that Agnar had figured out where he could find it.

Magnus didn’t think Ingileif had the ring. All right, he didn’t want to believe that Ingileif had the ring, but he knew he should keep the idea open as a possibility.

Unless someone else had it. Magnus had no idea who.

What if Agnar had figured out where it was hidden? Magnus had read Gaukur’s Saga: there were not enough clues in there to lead anyone to the ring. But Agnar was an expert on medieval Icelandic literature. He no doubt knew of dozens of folk tales and legends which might hold clues, cross-references.

Then Magnus remembered the entry in Agnar’s diary for Hruni. Not Fludir, Hruni. Vigdis had interviewed the pastor there, the pastor Petur had told Magnus about, Dr Asgrimur’s friend. Magnus recalled her report: the pastor had had nothing much of interest to say.

Magnus needed to go to Hruni. But first he wanted to speak to Ingileif. He wanted to find out more about the ring, and the pastor.

And, damn it, he wanted to see her.

He walked to the gallery and arrived just before closing time, but Ingileif wasn’t there. Her partner, a striking dark-haired woman, told him she was probably working at home. He had her home address from the initial interview and it only took him ten minutes to walk there.

Her first reaction when she saw him on her doorstep seemed to be pleasure, her smile was wide and warm, but a moment later it was clouded by doubt. But she invited him in.

‘How are you getting on in Iceland?’ she asked ‘Met any nice girls yet?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I’m offended.’

‘Present company excepted of course.’

‘Of course. Have a seat.’

Magnus sat in a low chrome chair and accepted a glass of wine. A cello was propped up against the wall, dominating the small room. In an apartment this tiny a violin might have been a better choice of instrument, Magnus thought. Or a piccolo.

‘I didn’t know you were allowed to drink on duty,’ Ingileif said as she handed the glass to him.

‘I’m not sure I am on duty,’ said Magnus.

‘Really?’ said Ingileif, raising her eyebrows. ‘I didn’t realize this was a social call.’

‘Well, it’s not a formal interview,’ Magnus said. ‘I want your help.’

‘I thought that’s what I had been doing,’ Ingileif said. ‘Helping the police with their inquiries. Except I admit I wasn’t very helpful at first.’

‘I want to talk to you about the ring. I need to figure out where it is. Who has it.’

‘I have no idea, I told you that,’ Ingileif said. ‘It’s stuffed in some tiny niche in the rocks somewhere in the Icelandic wilderness.’

‘Agnar thought he had found it,’ Magnus said. ‘Or at least he thought he knew where it was. It wasn’t just the saga he was trying to sell to Lawrence Feldman, it was the ring too.’

Magnus explained the contents of the text message Steve Jubb had sent to Feldman the night Agnar had been murdered, and Feldman’s conviction that Agnar knew where the ring was.

‘So somebody has it?’ Ingileif asked.

‘Possibly,’ Magnus said.

‘Who?’

‘The most obvious candidate is you.’

Ingileif exploded. ‘Hey! You said you wanted my help. I would have said if I had it. I know I didn’t tell you everything earlier, but I’ve given up on the saga, and the damned ring. So if you don’t believe me, take me away and interrogate me. Or torture me. You are American, aren’t you? Do you want to try out some water-boarding on me?’

Magnus was taken aback by the vehemence of her denial. ‘It’s true I have lived in America for a while. But I’m not going to torture you. In fact, I’ll just ask you. Do you know where the ring is?’

‘No,’ Ingileif said. ‘Do you believe me?’

‘Yes,’ Magnus said. He knew that as a professional detective he should still doubt her, but a professional detective wouldn’t have been drinking a glass of wine in her apartment. He had given up on being a professional detective, at least while he was in Iceland. He just wanted to find out who killed Agnar.

She seemed to calm down. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘About the water-boarding dig.’

‘Will you still help me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your brother told me that your father confided in the local pastor. That the two of them worked on theories of where the ring might be hidden. Can you tell me something about this pastor?’

‘I didn’t know anything about my grandfather finding the ring at that stage, but I did know that Dad planned several hiking trips around Thjorsardalur with the pastor to look for it. So, what can I tell you about Reverend Hakon?’

She paused, gathering her thoughts. ‘He’s strange. I mean there are plenty of eccentric country priests in Iceland, but Hakon is one of the strangest. A lot of my friends were scared of him, scared and fascinated at the same time. He used to mess with their heads.’

‘But not yours?’

‘No, he was always straightforward with me, because of my father, I think. He’s clever, he fancies himself as an intellectual. He’s very interested in Saemundur the Learned – you know, the guy who kept on cheating the devil. And of course he knows everything about the legend of the Hruni dance.’

‘Have you seen him recently?’

‘He officiated at my mother’s funeral at the end of last year. He didn’t do a bad job, actually. He definitely has presence.’ She finished her wine. ‘Do you want another glass?’

Magnus nodded. Ingileif went to the fridge to retrieve the bottle and refilled their glasses.

‘I’ve been thinking a lot about my own father’s death this week, after what happened to Agnar. I know it’s Agnar’s murder you are investigating, but I wonder whether Dad’s death was all that it seemed.’

‘What happened?’

‘Dad and the pastor were going on a two-day expedition, with tents, up in the hills to the west of the River Thjorsa. It’s pretty barren up there, and there was still some snow on the ground. I never found out exactly where they went – presumably they were checking out some local caves or hound-shaped chunks of lava.’

Ingileif took a gulp of her wine. ‘On the second day they were on their way back when a snowstorm blew up out of nowhere. I say out of nowhere, it had been forecast, but the previous day had been clear and sunny, I remember it. They got lost on the moor, and Dad stumbled over a cliff. He fell about fifteen metres on to some rocks. The pastor climbed down. He says he thought Dad was badly injured but still alive. He hurried off as quick as he could to find help, but he got lost in the snowstorm. Six hours later he found a sheep farm and grabbed the farmer. By the time they got back to the cliff, Dad was dead: fractured skull, broken neck. In fact, they think he probably died within a few minutes of the fall.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Magnus. ‘My father died when I was twenty. It’s rough.’

Ingileif smiled quickly. ‘Yes, it is. And although you think you have come to terms with it, you never really do. Especially when something like this happens.’

‘Do you think he was pushed?’ Magnus asked.

‘By Reverend Hakon? You mean, they both found the ring and the pastor pushed my father over the cliff to take it from him?’

Magnus shrugged. ‘You just said it. What do you think?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ingileif said. ‘The pastor and my dad were good friends. My dad had lots of friends, he was good with people, but Reverend Hakon wasn’t. I think Dad was probably the only true friend he really had. After Dad died the pastor sort of withdrew into himself and became really weird. His wife left him a couple of years later. No one in the village blamed her.’

‘Or it could simply be the reaction of someone who had just murdered his best friend,’ said Magnus. ‘I think I should go and see the Reverend Hakon tomorrow.’

‘Can I come?’ Ingileif asked.

Magnus raised his eyebrows.

‘It’s hard to explain,’ Ingileif said. ‘I need to find out what really happened to my father. It was a long time ago and I’ve tried to bottle it all up, but there are so many questions that I don’t have the answers to. Agnar’s murder has brought them all back. I’ve just got to find those answers if I’m going to get on with my life. Do you understand?’

‘Oh, I understand,’ said Magnus. ‘Believe me, I understand. I sometimes think I spend every day trying to answer those kinds of questions about my own father.’

He considered her request. It was certainly not part of the standard investigative procedure to take one witness along to interview another, just to satisfy her curiosity. ‘Yes,’ said Magnus, smiling. ‘That would be fine.’

Ingileif returned his smile. There was a silence that was and was not uncomfortable.

‘Tell me about your father,’ Ingileif said.

Magnus paused. Drank some wine. Glanced at the woman opposite him, her grey eyes warm now. It wasn’t standard investigative procedure. But he told her. About his early childhood, his parents’ separation, his own move to America to join his father. About his stepmother, his father’s murder and his failed attempts to solve it. And then about his recent discovery of his father’s infidelity.

They talked for an hour. Perhaps two hours. They talked a lot about Magnus, and then they talked about Ingileif. They finished the bottle of wine and opened another.

Eventually Magnus got up to leave. ‘So you still want to come with me to Hruni? To see the Reverend Hakon?’

‘I’d like to,’ said Ingileif, with a smile.

‘Good,’ said Magnus, putting on his coat. Then he froze. ‘Wait a minute!’

‘What?’

‘This pastor. This Reverend Hakon. Does he have a son?’

‘Yes. As a matter of fact I saw him only this morning. He’s an old friend of mine.’

‘And what’s his name?’

‘Tomas. Tomas Hakonarson. He’s a TV presenter now. He’s quite famous: you must know him.’

‘Yes,’ said Magnus. ‘As a matter of fact, I do know him.’

The street was cold and damp after the warmth of Ingileif’s flat. There was a light drizzle and a steady fresh breeze pushed the moisture against Magnus’s cheeks.

He knew he should go home, but Ingileif lived not far from the Grand Rokk.

Just one beer.

As he made his way along the higgledy-piggledy little streets, Magnus pulled out his phone. He should call Baldur, tell him that the man he had in custody was the son of the pastor who had accompanied the doctor in his search for the ring seventeen years before.

He didn’t have Baldur’s home number or the number for his cell phone. But if he called the station they could pass on the message.

Screw it. Magnus slipped his phone back in his pocket. It’s not as if Baldur would care. He wouldn’t actually do anything with the information. Magnus would tell him the following day, when he had actually spoken to the Reverend Hakon.

His phone rang. It was Arni.

‘I’ve just arrived in San Francisco,’ he said. ‘I got your message.’ The disappointment flowed unhindered the thousands of miles from California.

‘Sorry about that, Arni. I saw Isildur this morning at the Hotel Borg.’

‘Did he give you some good information?’

‘Yeah, he did. Not that your boss would care.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘He’s made another arrest. Some guy called Tomas Hakonarson.’

‘Not from The Point?’

‘That’s the guy.’

Arni whistled down the phone. ‘So what shall I do now?’

‘I guess you’d better come home. Your plane will probably turn right around and head back to New York. You’d better check they got a seat for you on it.’

‘Oh, shit,’ said Arni. ‘It feels like I’ve been on the plane for days already. I don’t think my body could stand another flight that long.’

Don’t be such a wimp, Magnus thought. But he took pity on his new partner. ‘Or you could just check into a hotel and listen to my message first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘Good idea. I’ll do that. Thanks, Magnus.’

‘No problem.’

‘And Magnus?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Keep at it. Don’t give up. You’ll get there.’

‘Night, Arni.’

As Magnus switched off his phone he thought about Arni’s last comment. He was pleased to be going home. But he didn’t like giving up. He hated the idea that he would leave Iceland with Agnar’s murder unsolved. To be brutally honest, he hated the idea of Baldur solving it just as much. Arni was right, he shouldn’t give up. He was looking forward to going to Hruni the next day with Ingileif. There was her father’s death to explain as well.

There was so much to explain. With a kind of weary inevitability, his mind drifted back to his own father’s death.

He paused outside the Grand Rokk and strode towards the pool of light emanating from the bar. The warmth of the chatter and the alcohol seeped out into the little front yard.

He went in.

Magnus was in a tight spot. He had already wasted three of the bad guys, but there were another two out there, at least. He was packing a Remington shotgun and a three fifty-seven magnum. The docks were dark. He heard a rustle.

He turned, saw a gun poke out from behind a container and loosed off two rounds from the Remington. A figure rolled out on to the tarmac, dead. Two more figures jumped him from close quarters; he shot one and then a message flashed up in the bottom corner of the screen. SHOULDER WOUND. He had to drop the gun. The grinning face of a hoodlum appeared in the screen, followed by the

business end of an MP5. ‘Make my day,’ the guy said and the screen went orange and then black. GAME OVER.

Johnny Yeoh swore and pushed his chair back from the screen. He had been playing Magnus’s career for five hours straight. Kopz Life was his favourite game, and he always called himself Magnus. That guy was just so cool.

Johnny wondered whether he should take the plunge and apply to join the police department for real. He was certainly smart enough. And he thought of himself as good under pressure. Sure, he wasn’t exactly big, but if you packed the right piece, what did that matter?

The buzzer sounded. He checked his watch: half-past midnight. He suddenly realized how hungry he was. He had ordered the pizza forty-five minutes before, although thanks to his total absorption in the game, it felt like only ten.

He buzzed the pizza guy into his building, and a minute later unlocked his apartment door to let him in.

The door slammed open and Johnny found himself pinned up against the wall of his living room, a revolver shoved down his throat. A light brown face with cool eyes stared at him, inches away. Johnny’s own eyes hurt as he crossed them, trying to focus on the gun in his mouth.

‘OK, Johnny, I got one question for you,’ the man said.

Johnny tried to speak, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know whether it was the fear or the metal pressed on his tongue.

The man withdrew the gun so that it was an inch away from his mouth.

Johnny tried to speak again. No sound. It was the fear.

‘Say what?’

This time Johnny squeezed out some words. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘You done some work for a cop by the name of Magnus Jonson?’

Johnny nodded vigorously.

‘You found the address of some guy in California he was looking for?’

Johnny nodded again.

‘How about you write that down for me, man?’ The guy glanced around the room. He was tall, slim, with a smooth face and hard brown eyes. Eyes which alighted on some paper and a pen. ‘Over there!’

‘I need to check my computer,’ Johnny said.

‘Go right ahead. I’ll be watching you. So don’t go typing no messages to nobody.’

Intensely aware of the gun in the back of his head, Johnny Yeoh went over to the desk and sat in front of his computer. He clenched his buttocks, trying desperately hard to stop his bowels moving. He wanted to pee too.

Within less than a minute he had found Lawrence Feldman’s address. He wrote it down: his hand was shaking so badly it took him two attempts, and even then the words were illegible.

‘Did Jonson say where he’s at?’ the guy asked.

‘No,’ said Johnny, turning to look up at the man, his eyes wide. ‘I didn’t speak to him. He sent me an e-mail.’

‘Where’d it come from?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Sweden?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then look!’ The gun was crammed into his skull.

Johnny called up his e-mail folder and found the one from Magnus. The truth was he hadn’t checked the address. The domain name was lrh. is. Where the hell was that? A country beginning with ‘IS’. Isreal? No, that was ‘. il’. ‘Iceland, perhaps?’

‘Hey, I’m asking you.’

‘All right, all right. I’ll check.’ It took Johnny less than a minute to confirm that the domain was indeed in Iceland. The Icelandic police to be precise.

‘Now, Iceland ain’t in Sweden, is it?’

‘No,’ said Johnny.’

‘Is it near Sweden?’

‘Not really,’ said Johnny. ‘I mean it’s in Scandinavia but it’s right in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. A thousand miles away. Two thousand.’

‘All right, all right.’ The man with the gun grabbed the scrap of paper and backed off towards the door. ‘You know, you ain’t no fun, man.’

Then the gunman did something very strange. He looked Johnny Yeoh right in the eye. Put the revolver to his own temple. Smiled.

And pulled the trigger.