Where the Shadows Lie

CHAPTER SEVEN

Ingileif Asgrimsdottir owned an art gallery on Skolavordustigur, which was a bit of a mouthful, even for an Icelander. New York had Fifth Avenue, London had Bond Street and Reykjavik had Skolavordustigur. The street led up from Laugavegur, the busiest shopping street in town, to the Hallgrimskirkja at the top of a hill. Small stores lined the road, part concrete, part brightly painted corrugated metal, selling art supplies, jewellery, designer clothes and fancy foods. But the credit crunch had made its mark: some premises were discreetly empty, displaying small signs showing the words Til Leigu, meaning For Rent.

Vigdis parked her car a few metres below the gallery. Above her and Magnus the massive concrete spire of the church thrust upwards. Designed in the nineteen thirties, it was supported by two great wings that swept up from the ground; it looked like Iceland’s very own intercontinental ballistic missile, or possibly a moon rocket.

As Magnus climbed out of the car, he was almost knocked over by a blonde girl of about twenty dressed in a lime green sweater with a short leopard-skin skirt and a two foot tail hurtling down the hill on a bicycle. Where were the traffic cops when you needed them?

Vigdis pushed open the door to the gallery and Magnus followed her in. A woman, presumably Ingileif Asgrimsdottir, was speaking to a tourist couple in English. Vigdis was about to interrupt them, when Magnus touched her arm. ‘Let’s wait until she’s finished.’

So Magnus and Vigdis examined the objects on sale in the gallery, as well as Ingileif herself. She was slim with blonde hair that came down in a fringe over her eyes and was tied back in a ponytail. A quick broad smile beneath high cheekbones, a smile which she was using to maximum effect on her customers. An English couple, they had begun by picking up a small candle holder made of rough red lava, but had ended up buying a large glass vase and an abstract painting that hinted of Reykjavik, Mount Esja and horizontal layers of pale grey cloud. They spent tens of thousands of kronur.

After they had left the store, the owner turned to Magnus and Vigdis. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ she said in English. ‘Can I help you?’

Her Icelandic accent was delicious, as was her smile. Magnus hadn’t appreciated that he looked so obviously American; then he realized it was Vigdis who had prompted the choice of language. In Reykjavik, black meant foreigner.

Vigdis herself was all business. ‘Are you Ingileif Asgrimsdottir?’ she asked in Icelandic.

The woman nodded.

Vigdis pulled out her badge. ‘My name is Detective Vigdis Audarsdottir of the Metropolitan Police, and this is my colleague, Magnus Ragnarsson. We have some questions for you relating to the murder of Agnar Haraldsson.’

The smile disappeared. ‘You’d better sit down.’ The woman led them to a cramped desk at the back of the gallery and they sat on two small chairs. ‘I saw something about Agnar on the news. He taught me Icelandic literature when I was at the university.’

‘You saw him recently,’ Vigdis said, checking her notebook. ‘On the sixth of April, at two-thirty?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Ingileif, her voice suddenly hoarse. She cleared her throat. ‘Yes, I bumped into him in the street, and he asked me to drop in on him some time at the university. So I did.’

‘What did you discuss?’

‘Oh, nothing, really. My design career, mostly. This gallery. He was very attentive, very charming.’

‘Did he say anything about himself?’

‘Not much had changed really. He had married again. He said he had two children.’ She smiled briefly. ‘Difficult to imagine Agnar with kids, but there you are.’

‘You come from Fludir, don’t you?’

‘That’s right,’ said Ingileif. ‘I was born and brought up there. Best farmland in the country, biggest courgettes, reddest tomatoes. Can’t think why I ever left.’

‘Sounds like quite a place. It’s near Hruni, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Hruni is the parish church. It’s three kilometres away.’

‘Did you meet Agnar at Hruni on the afternoon of the twentieth of April?’

Ingileif frowned. ‘No, I didn’t. I was in this shop all day.’

‘It only takes a couple of hours to drive there.’

‘Yes, but I didn’t go there to meet Agnar.’

‘He met someone in Hruni that day. Doesn’t it strike you that it’s a bit of a coincidence that he should go to Fludir, the village where you grew up?’

Ingileif shrugged. ‘Not really. I have no idea what he was doing there.’ She forced a smile. ‘This is a small country. Coincidences happen all the time.’

Vigdis looked at her doubtfully. ‘Is there anyone who could confirm that you were in the shop that afternoon?’

Ingileif thought a moment. ‘That was Monday, wasn’t it? Disa in the boutique next door. She dropped in to borrow some tea bags. I am pretty sure that was Monday.’

Vigdis glanced at Magnus. He realized that she was holding off on pushing Ingileif directly on her relationship with Agnar, and so he decided on a different tack. They could always come back to Agnar later. ‘You had a brother, named Isildur, who died young?’

‘Yes,’ said Ingileif. ‘It was several years before I was born. Meningitis, I think. I never knew him. My parents didn’t speak about him much. He was their first child, it hit them badly, as you can imagine.’

‘Isn’t Isildur an unusual name?’

‘I suppose it is. I hadn’t really thought about it.’

‘Do you know why your parents gave him that name?’

Ingileif shook her head. ‘No idea.’ She seemed nervous and was frowning slightly. Magnus noticed a V-shaped nick above one of her eyebrows, partly hidden by her fringe. Her fingers were fiddling with an intricate silver earring, no doubt designed by one of her colleagues. ‘Except that Isildur was my great-grandfather’s name, I think. On my father’s side. Maybe my dad wanted to honour his own grandfather. You know how names recur in families.’

‘We’d like to ask your parents,’ Magnus asked. ‘Can you give us their address?’

Ingileif sighed. ‘I’m afraid they are both dead. My father died in 1992, and my mother last year.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Magnus said, and he meant it. Ingileif appeared to be in her late twenties, which would mean she had lost her father at about the same age Magnus was when he lost his mother.

‘Were either of them fans of the Lord of the Rings?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Ingileif. ‘I mean, we had a copy in the house so one of them must have read it, but they never mentioned it.’

‘And you? Have you read it?’

‘When I was a kid.’

‘Seen the movies?’

‘I saw the first one. Not the other two. I didn’t really like it. When you’ve seen one orc you’ve seen them all.’

Magnus paused, waiting for more. Ingileif’s pale cheeks blushed red.

‘Have you ever heard of an Englishman named Steve Jubb?’

Ingileif shook her head firmly. ‘No.’

Magnus glanced at Vigdis. Time to get back to Ingileif and Agnar. ‘Ingileif, were you having an affair with Agnar?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Ingileif replied angrily. ‘No, absolutely not.’

‘But you found him charming?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. He always was charming, and that hasn’t changed.’

‘Have you ever had an affair with him?’ Magnus asked.

‘No,’ said Ingileif, her voice hoarse again. Her fingers drifted up towards her earring.

‘Ingileif, this is a murder investigation,’ Vigdis said slowly and firmly. ‘If you lie to us now then we can arrest you. It will be a serious matter, I can assure you. Now, once more, did you ever have an affair with Agnar?’

Ingileif bit her lip, her cheeks reddening again. She took a deep breath. ‘OK. All right. I did have an affair with Agnar when I was his student. He was divorced from his first wife then, it was before he remarried. And it was hardly an affair, we slept together a few times, that was all.’

‘Did he finish it, or did you?’

‘I suppose it was me. He did have a real magnetism for women then, in fact he still had it when I last saw him. He had this way of making you feel special, intellectually interesting as well as beautiful. But he was sleazy, basically. He wanted to sleep with as many girls as he could just to prove to himself what a good-looking guy he was. He was deeply vain. When I saw him the other day he tried to flirt with me again, but I saw through it this time. I don’t mess around with married men.’

‘One last question,’ said Vigdis. ‘Where were you on Friday evening?’

Ingileif’s shoulders lowered marginally as she relaxed, as if this was one difficult question she could answer. ‘I went to a party for a friend who was launching an exhibition of her paintings. I was there from about eight until, maybe, eleven-thirty. There were dozens people there who know me. Her name is Frida Josefsdottir. I can give you her address and phone number if you want.’

‘Please,’ said Vigdis, passing her her notebook. Ingileif scribbled something on a blank page and handed it back.

‘And afterwards?’ asked Vigdis.

‘Afterwards?’

‘After you left the gallery.’

Ingileif smiled shyly. ‘I went home. With someone.’

‘And who would that be?’

‘Larus Thorvaldsson.’

‘Is he a regular boyfriend?’

‘Not really,’ said Ingileif. ‘He’s a painter: we’ve known each other for years. We just spend the night together sometimes. You know how it is. And no, he’s not married.’

For once in the conversation, Ingileif seemed completely unembarrassed. So did Vigdis for that matter. She obviously knew how it was.

Vigdis passed the notebook across again and Ingileif scribbled down Larus’s details.

‘She’s not a very good liar,’ Magnus said when they were back out on the street.

‘I knew there was something going on between her and Agnar.’

‘But she was convincing that that was all in the past.’

‘Possibly,’ said Vigdis. ‘I’ll check her alibi, but I expect it will hold up.’

‘There must be some connection with Steve Jubb,’ Magnus said. ‘The name Isildur, or Isildur is significant, I know it. Did you notice she didn’t seem surprised we were asking about her long-dead brother? And if she saw the Lord of the Rings movie the name Isildur would have jumped out at her. She didn’t mention that connection at all.’

‘You mean she was trying to downplay the Isildur name?’

‘Exactly. There’s a connection there she’s not talking about.’

‘Shall we bring her in to the station for questioning?’ Vigdis suggested. ‘Perhaps Baldur should see her.’

‘Let’s leave it a while. Let her relax, drop her guard. We’ll come back and interview her again in a day or two. It’s easier to find the hole in a story second time around.’

They checked with the woman who owned the boutique next door. She confirmed she had dropped into Ingileif’s gallery one afternoon earlier that week to borrow some tea bags, although she wasn’t absolutely sure whether it was the Monday or the Tuesday.

Vigdis drove up the hill past the Hallgrimskirkja. Magnus peered up at a large bronze statue on a plinth in front of the church. The first vestur-islenskur, Leifur Eiriksson, the Viking who had discovered America a thousand years before. He was staring out over the jumble of brightly coloured buildings in the middle of town to the bay to the west, and on towards the Atlantic.

‘Where are you from originally?’ Magnus asked. Although his Icelandic was already improving rapidly, he was finding it tiring, and there was something familiar about sitting in a car with a black partner that tempted him to slip back into English.

‘I don’t speak English,’ Vigdis replied, in Icelandic.

‘What do you mean you don’t speak English? Every Icelander under the age of forty can speak English.’

‘I said I don’t speak English, not I can’t speak it.’

‘OK. Then, where are you from?’ Magnus asked again, this time in Icelandic.

‘I’m an Icelander,’ Vigdis said. ‘I was born here, I live here, I have never lived anywhere else.’

‘Right,’ Magnus said. A touchy subject, clearly. But he had to admit that Vigdis was an incontrovertibly Icelandic name.

Vigdis sighed. ‘My father was an American serviceman at the Keflavik airbase. I don’t know his name, I’ve never met him, according to my mother he doesn’t even know I exist. Does that satisfy you?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Magnus. ‘I know how difficult it can be to figure out your identity. I still don’t know whether I am an Icelander or an American, and I just get more confused the older I get.’

‘Hey, I don’t have a problem with my identity,’ said Vigdis. ‘I know exactly who I am. It’s just other people never believe it.’

‘Ah,’ said Magnus. A couple of raindrops fell on the windscreen. ‘Do you think it will rain all day?’

Vigdis laughed. ‘There you are, you are an Icelander. When in doubt discuss the weather. No, Magnus, I do not think it will rain for more than five minutes.’ She drove down the other side of the hill towards the police headquarters on Hverfisgata. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I just find it easier to straighten out those kind of questions up front. Icelandic women are a bit like that, you know. We say what we think.’

‘It must be tough being the only black detective in the country.’

‘You’re damn right. I’m pretty sure that Baldur didn’t want me to join the department. And I don’t exactly blend in when I’m out on the streets, you know. But I did well in the exams and I pushed for it. It was Snorri who got me the job.’

‘The Commissioner?’

‘He told me my appointment was an important symbol for Reykjavik’s police force to be seen as modern and outward looking. I know that some of my colleagues think a black detective in this town is absurd, but I hope I have proved myself.’ She sighed. ‘The problem is I feel like I have to prove myself every day.’

‘Well, you seem like a good cop to me,’ Magnus said.

Vigdis smiled. ‘Thanks.’

They reached police headquarters, an ugly long concrete office block opposite the bus station. Vigdis drove her car into a compound around the back and parked. The rain began to fall hard, thundering down on the car roof. Vigdis peered out at the water leaping about the parking lot and hesitated.

Magnus decided to take advantage of Vigdis’s direct honesty to find out a bit more about what he had got himself into. ‘Is Arni Holm related to Thorkell Holm in some way?’

‘Nephew. And yes, that is probably why he is in the department. He’s not exactly our top detective, but he’s harmless. I think Baldur might be trying to get rid of him.’

‘Which is why he dumped him on me?’

Vigdis shrugged. ‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’

‘Baldur isn’t very happy with me being here, is he?’

‘No, he isn’t. We Icelanders don’t like being shown what to do by the Americans, or anyone else for that matter.’

‘I can understand that,’ Magnus said.

‘But it’s more than that. He’s threatened by you. We all are, I suppose. There was a murderer on the loose last year, he killed three women before he turned himself in.’

‘I know, the Commissioner told me.’

‘Well, Baldur was in charge of the investigation. We failed to find the killer and there was a lot of pressure on Snorri and Thorkell to do something. People wanted heads to roll. Moving Baldur on would have been the easiest thing to do, but Snorri didn’t do that. I’d say Baldur isn’t out of the woods yet. He needs to solve this case and he needs to do it himself.’

Magnus sighed. He could understand Baldur’s position, but it wasn’t going to make his life in Reykjavik easy. ‘And what do you think?’

Vigdis smiled. ‘I think I might learn something from you, and that’s always good. Come on. The rain is easing off, just like I said it would. I don’t know about you, but I’ve got work to do.’