Meltwater (19 page)

‘Tell me about the other jeep. The one with the single guy.’

Mikael Már winced, concentrating. ‘I didn’t really see much of him. The jeep came up after us and after the Freeflow group. It was parked a couple of hundred metres away from our snowmobiles and the other two jeeps. Out of sight of them. We only saw it when we walked around a bit. And he left before we did. But we overtook him on the way back down.’

‘And the guy? Did you see him?’

‘Not then. I’d seen him before on the way up, just by Skógafoss. He was wearing a red jacket and staring at his mobile phone.’ Mikael Már raised his eyebrows. ‘Just like Pierre. The red jacket, I mean.’

‘How do you know it was the same guy?’

‘Same jeep. A black Suzuki Vitara. I remember thinking it was a bit small to take up a glacier, especially when the weather was bad. I suppose it is possible that there were two vehicles of the same type.’

‘Possible, but unlikely,’ said Magnus. ‘Can you describe him?’

Mikael Már screwed up his eyes, thinking. ‘No. I think he was young. But no, not really. I certainly wouldn’t be able to identify him. I could show you the spot where he was waiting.’

‘Could you do that now?’ asked Magnus.

‘Yes, if you like,’ said Mikael Már. ‘But what about the new eruption?’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ said Magnus. ‘Let’s go.’

They went in Magnus’s Range Rover. The cloud was low as they drove over the plain to the east of Selfoss. It was impossible to see Hekla or the Westman Islands. They followed Route 1, the national highway known as ‘the Ring Road’ that circled Iceland. The road was good and straight and Magnus drove fast.

Eyjafjallajökull was the nearer of the two glaciers that lay on either side of Fimmvörduháls, the site of the first volcano. On a clear day they would have had a perfect view of the glacier and the eruption, but that morning all they could see was grey moisture. They sped through Hvolsvöllur and in a few more minutes they approached the Markarfljót, the broad river that flowed down behind the northern slope of Eyjafjallajökull and curved around its western edge down towards the sea. Only the bottom couple of hundred feet of the ridge of mountains that supported the glacier and its volcano were visible beneath the cloud on the other side of the river. A narrow stream of water slipped down a cliff out of the clouds.

The river itself looked normal. It was broad and powerful but not in full spate. Magnus had a soft spot for the Markarfljót. It featured in one of his favourite sagas,
Njáll’s Saga
. There was a wonderful scene where Njáll’s son Skarphédinn slid across the ice from one side of the river to the other, swinging his axe and decapitating one of his father’s enemies as he did so. All that had happened only a few kilometres to the north.

A white jeep with the word
Lögreglan
emblazoned on its side was parked across the road in front of the modern bridge. Magnus stopped beside it and got out of his own car. Although there was no visible sign of the volcano, he could hear a distant rumbling. He recognized the patrolman as one of the officers from Hvolsvöllur police station.

‘Any sign of a flood yet?’ he asked the policeman.

‘Not yet. But we’re expecting it.’

‘Can you let me across?’

‘Sorry, Magnús. The road is closed.’

‘But the bridge looks fine.’

‘The bridge might be fine but see that guy in the Caterpillar over there?’ The policeman nodded over the bridge towards a lone yellow backhoe perched on the raised dyke which carried the road, waving its bucket in the air. ‘He’s making some holes in the road so that when the flood does come it doesn’t take out the bridge.’

‘Is there no way across?’

‘There’s a little bridge a few kilometres up from here. We are not letting the public across, but I guess it’s OK for you, as long as you don’t try to cross if there is a flood.’

‘Thanks.’ Magnus climbed back into his Range Rover and headed up a dirt track along the western edge of the river.

‘Shame we can’t see anything,’ said Mikael Már, nodding towards the clouds under which Eyjafjallajökull was apparently erupting.

‘They say it’s bigger than Fimmvörduháls,’ said Magnus.

They reached the bridge, a narrow stone construction of one vehicle’s width, and crossed the river, turning south. In a few more minutes they had reached the main bridge and the Caterpillar, and headed eastwards again on the national road.

‘Are we going to be OK if there is a flood?’ Mikael Már asked.

‘Sure we are,’ said Magnus. He wouldn’t mind seeing one of those famous
jökulhlaup
. But what he really wanted to see was where the man Mikael Már had spotted was standing.

‘Have you noticed there aren’t any cars?’ Mikael Már asked.

‘Yes,’ said Magnus. ‘There are probably police roadblocks ahead.’

‘And the farms look very quiet.’

‘Probably evacuated.’

‘Oh.’

Magnus could tell his passenger was nervous. He could also tell he didn’t want to admit to it.

The best way to reach the Fimmvörduháls volcano, and the way that the Freeflow team had used two days before, was to drive eastwards along Route 1 to the south of Eyjafjallajökull, and then turn north on to Mýrdalsjökull and double back to the saddle between the two glaciers. Skógafoss was to the southeast of Eyjafjallajökull, just a little way off the Ring Road.

They reached it in a few minutes. Skógafoss was one of Iceland’s many spectacular waterfalls, a broad sheet of water pouring over the edge of a cliff two hundred feet into a pool below, transporting glacial water down to the sea. Partly because of its proximity to Route 1, there were a number of tourist facilities nearby: a car park, some toilets, a hotel.

All quiet.

Magnus pulled off the main highway and on to a little paved road that led to the falls. ‘OK, where was this guy?’

‘We stopped just outside those toilets there.’ Mikael Már pointed to a sizeable wooden hut. ‘I waited for Pierre. The man was parked just up here on the left.’ Mikael Már indicated a strip of grass on the edge of the access road with a good view of the highway.

Magnus pulled over. ‘Show me.’

They walked on about thirty yards. ‘I’m not sure where it was precisely. About here, perhaps? He was leaning against the bonnet of his jeep.’

Mikael Már hesitated.

‘Yes?’ said Magnus. ‘Take your time.’ Memories couldn’t always be rushed.

‘He was checking his phone. And then checking the road. Concentrating, you know?’

‘I know. OK, if you don’t mind waiting here, I’ll take a look.’

Magnus put on gloves, took out tweezers and some small plastic evidence bags, and bent down. It was a long shot, it was always a long shot, but you never knew. Fortunately this part of the access road was a fair distance from the waterfall and the car park. Not the kind of place most tourists would park. Which meant if Magnus did find something, there was a good chance that it might be connected to the mysterious man in the red jacket.

He had covered about twenty yards. Nothing. He stood up and turned towards Mikael Már to ask him if it was worth going on further, when he saw a police jeep cruising towards them, its blue light flashing.

He stood up and trotted over to the vehicle.

An officer got out of the car – Magnus didn’t recognize him.

He pulled out his badge. ‘Magnús. Reykjavík CID,’ he said. ‘I’m investigating the Fimmvörduháls murder.’

‘Might be an idea to do that some other time,’ said the policeman. ‘We’re evacuating the area.’

‘Any sign of a
jökulhlaup
?’

‘One has been reported on the north side of the glacier,’ said the policeman. ‘It’s flowing down into the Markarfljót right now. But there might be another one on this side of the glacier any time.’

Mikael Már looked up at the waterfall. ‘Could it come down there?’

The policeman shrugged. ‘Maybe. I’d say this isn’t an intelligent place to be right now. And we are expecting ash fall tonight.’

‘Ash?’

‘Yeah. Apparently this thing is throwing ash kilometres up into the sky. Lots of it. And it’s going to come down soon.’

‘And cover up any evidence,’ said Magnus.

Overhead, thick moisture pressed down upon them. Magnus glanced over towards the north-west, where Eyjafjallajökull lurked beneath its grey cloak of clouds. He had been considering trying to persuade Mikael Már to go back up the glacier and show him exactly where he had seen the Suzuki Vitara parked on Fimmvörduháls. But now it didn’t really seem like such a smart idea.

There was a deep boom and the ground shook.

‘Hear that?’ said Mikael Már.

‘So, I suggest you leave,’ said the policeman. Forceful but polite. ‘And head east, not west.’

‘But how will I get back to Reykjavík?’ said Magnus. There was no other route to the west, unless you followed the Ring Road anti-clockwise around the whole island. A couple of days’ drive. Or took an airplane from somewhere in the east.

‘I know. I live in Hvolsvöllur,’ said the cop. ‘Somehow I don’t think I’m going to be home for supper tonight.’

‘OK. I’ll pack up here and be right along,’ said Magnus.

The policeman drove off. Magnus returned to the patch of ground he had been examining.

‘Come on, Magnús, let’s go!’ said Mikael Már.

‘Is there any way your guy might have been parked a bit further along?’

‘No. Let’s go!’

Magnus didn’t believe him. He had spotted some scraps of litter on the grass verge forty yards away, and, abandoning his methodical search, went over to take a closer look. A piece of chewing-gum wrapping and a cigarette butt. And another piece of paper ground into the dirt.

Magnus picked it up with tweezers and examined it. It was a receipt. Part of it had faded. But he could read the words
Caffè Nero
and
Heathrow Terminal One
. Dated
11 April 2010.
Timed
12:17. Server’s name Rosa. 1 latte £2.10.

With a grin, Magnus slipped the receipt into his evidence bag. He collected the chewing-gum wrapper and the cigarette butt for good measure. He spent a further couple of minutes checking the immediate vicinity of the spot where he found the receipt, but then gave up.

Perhaps it was a good idea to leave the scene.

Mikael Már was looking distinctly anxious as Magnus joined him in the Range Rover. He started the engine, pulled out of the Skógafoss tourist area on to the main road. And turned right.

‘Hey, didn’t the cop say go east?’

‘I need to get back to Reykjavík,’ Magnus said. ‘And I’m not driving all the way around this island to do it.’

‘OK, but put your foot down,’ said Mikael Már. ‘The sooner we’re out of here, the better.’

Magnus did as his passenger suggested. They had been driving for five minutes when the mountain on the right rumbled and then roared.

‘Oh, my God! Look at that!’

Magnus looked. They were only half a mile from the base of the escarpment of the mountains. A small green valley bit a mile into the ridge, and at its head a massive wall of grey and brown water surged out of the clouds, flinging mud and rocks into the air as it went, and tumbled down the valley towards the highway ahead of them.

For a second, Magnus just stared. It was as if the volcano had thrust a mighty fist of violent meltwater down the glacier towards the sea, knocking all before it in a churning, grinding tumult of destruction. He had never witnessed such raw power before in his life. It was magnificent.

It was also very frightening.

He put his foot right down. He estimated the
jökulhlaup
would take a couple of minutes to reach the road. The Range Rover should make it in sixty seconds.

The churning mass of meltwater and debris gouged its way into a field just by the side of the road, tossing ten-foot circular bales of hay into the air.

Magnus’s estimate was wrong: they would have a lot less than sixty seconds’ leeway. Either the water was accelerating or Magnus had just misjudged it. He was committed now – if he braked they would be swept away for sure. He glanced at his speedometer as it edged above 120 kilometres per hour.

The foremost tongue of the
jökulhlaup
ripped through the fence by the side of the road just as Magnus sped past, and leaped over the highway and across the flat farmland on the other side towards the sea.

‘Jesus, that was close!’ said Mikael Már.

‘Yeah,’ said Magnus. He glanced in his mirror at the long stretch of submerged road behind them, and then fought to control his vehicle speeding at 150 kilometres an hour round a gentle bend, only just managing to keep the Range Rover on the road.

‘You know if there is another one of those ahead of us, we’re screwed,’ said Mikael Már.

Magnus didn’t have an answer for that.

A few minutes later, they were at the Markarfljót. The Caterpillar was working furiously at building a makeshift dam over the road. On the far side of the bridge he could see the police car parked across the road. Road closed.