Meltwater (30 page)

‘No. None.’

‘You see, we don’t know why, if he was working for Tretto, Tretto would want him killed. Or whichever crime boss in Italy is in this with Tretto – I assume the minister keeps his distance from those details.’

‘I see that. But to be honest, Magnus, I can’t think straight at the moment,’ Erika said. ‘It’s a lot to take in.’ Colour returned to her cheeks under the bandage. Anger. ‘If it’s true . . . the bastard! He deceived me. He totally deceived me.’

‘Totally,’ Magnus said. ‘I’ll talk to you this afternoon. When you have had a chance to digest this.’

He left Erika staring blankly at her computer screen, and the rest of the Freeflow team staring at her.

Magnus was just getting into his car on Thórsgata when his phone rang.

‘Magnús.’

‘Hi, it’s me.’

Magnus smiled as he recognized Ingileif’s voice. ‘Oh, hi.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Just by the Hallgrímskirkja,’ Magnus said. ‘Thórsgata.’

‘Well, I’m just outside the gallery in Skólavördustígur. Do you want a quick coffee?’

Magnus winced. ‘I’d love to. But I’m not sure I’ve got time.’

‘Oh, come on. We can’t just meet in the middle of the night, like a pair of vampires.’

‘Or trolls.’

‘You be the troll, I’ll be the vampire.’

‘Romantic,’ Magnus said. ‘All right. I’ll be there in five minutes. Mokka?’

‘See you there.’

Mokka was just down the hill from the gallery Ingileif used to own with a group of five other artists. It was a cosy place with leather benches, wood-panelled walls and a smell of waffles. It was the first Italian-style coffee house in Reykjavík, notable for the paintings on the walls, which changed monthly. Many of the artists were friends of Ingileif.

She was waiting for him, reading an Icelandic style magazine. Her face lit up when she saw him: it made Magnus’s day.

She kissed him quickly on the lips. ‘You know if you’d only let me solve your cases for you, you’d have plenty of time for cups of coffee during the day,’ she said. ‘In fact, I was wondering . . . You’ve had a tiring morning, you look as if you need a lie-down.’ Her eyes were twinkling.

‘Do you mean what I think you mean?’ Magnus said.

‘Of course I do.’

Magnus grinned. ‘I’d love to, but I’ve got an appointment at lunchtime.’

‘It wouldn’t take long,’ Ingileif said. ‘You never take long.’

‘That’s not true!’

Ingileif smiled. ‘OK. So where are you having lunch?’

‘At the Culture House.’

‘Oh. Well, say hello to my favourite saga. Who with?’

‘Jóhannes Benediktsson.’

‘Not Benedikt Jóhannesson’s son?’

‘The very same. He called me out of the blue this morning. He wants to share information about his father’s death.’

‘Fascinating. Ollie won’t like that, though, will he?’

‘No, he won’t.’ Magnus sipped his coffee and eyed the pastries under the counter. ‘Have you heard anything about your flight tomorrow?’

‘Nothing,’ Ingileif said. ‘Why should I?’

‘Loads of flights to Europe have been cancelled. The ash from the volcano.’

‘Really? Then I would have to stay here a few days longer. That would be a shame.’

‘Actually, I think it would be rather nice,’ Magnus said.

Ingileif smiled. ‘So do I.’

‘You know, I wish you’d given me some warning you were coming to Iceland,’ Magnus said.

‘It was all over my Facebook page,’ Ingileif said. ‘Didn’t you see?’

‘No.’

‘Why not, Magnús? I set you up your own page.’

‘I just didn’t get around to it.’ Magnus had successfully avoided Facebook in America, but Ingileif’s life revolved around it, so she had set a page up for him when she left for Hamburg. He had looked at her page a couple of times, but it just made him depressed. It was visual proof that she was having a frantic, fun-filled life without him.

‘You know, I checked your page last week,’ Ingileif said.

‘Why did you do that?’

‘Do you know you only have one friend? And that’s me.’

‘That’s in Facebook world,’ said Magnus. ‘Not the real world.’

‘Oh, yes, and how many friends do you have in the real world?’

Magnus winced but didn’t answer. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it.

‘Ninety-five per cent of Icelanders between twenty and thirty are on Facebook, Magnús. You have to use it. Otherwise you’ll never meet anyone.’

Magnus glanced at Ingileif sharply. ‘What do you mean, meet anyone?’

Ingileif’s cheeks reddened slightly. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Friends.’

‘You mean women?’

‘Well. Do you see any women?’

‘Do you see any men?’ Magnus asked. ‘In Hamburg?’

‘What I do in Hamburg is my own business, Magnús, just as what you do here is yours.’

‘Precisely,’ said Magnus. As usual, the status of his relationship with Ingileif was confusing him, but this time he felt more uncomfortable than usual. Wait. Wasn’t ‘Status’ something Facebook sorted out? They would probably need room for a paragraph for that section in Iceland, he thought. ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’

Ingileif reached over and gripped his hand. ‘Hey. Sorry. I can cancel my dinner this evening if you like. We could go out somewhere nice. No more vampires and trolls.’

Magnus grinned. ‘That’s a very nice idea. I would like that.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I
T WAS ONLY
a few minutes from Mokka to the Culture House, and so Magnus walked, leaving his car by the café. He checked his phone: one missed call from a number he didn’t recognize.

He called it back.

‘Hello?’ a female voice answered.

‘This is Magnús. Who is this?’

‘Oh, it’s Ásta.’

‘You called me?’

‘Um, it’s nothing,’ Ásta said uncertainly.

Magnus stopped on the pavement. ‘Are you in the house?’

‘Yes,’ said Ásta.

‘Well, if you can’t speak now I can call you back in a few minutes. Give you a chance to go back outside where no one can hear you.’

‘No, it was nothing, really.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m quite sure.’

‘OK, but if you do want to talk to me call me right back. I’ll pick up this time.’

‘All right.’ Ásta hung up.

Magnus frowned. Next time he saw Ásta he would be sure to take her to one side. He was certain there was something she had wanted to tell him. It might turn out to be ‘nothing really’, or it might not.

The Culture House was a grand building at the western end of Hverfisgata near the town centre. It had formerly served as the National Library, but now displayed a selection of the best of the saga manuscripts. The bulk of the collection was housed in the Árni Magnússon Institute at the university.

The café was a small room reached through the gift shop. It was three-quarters full and there were two men sitting alone: one was a young guy with a beard, obviously an American tourist, flipping through a guidebook. The other was a big man with a shock of white hair, wearing a tweed jacket, and scanning the room expectantly.

Magnus approached him. ‘Jóhannes?’

The man got to his feet. He was the same height as Magnus. ‘Yes. You must be Sergeant Magnús?’

‘That’s right.’ They shook hands and sat down. ‘I’m very glad you called, Jóhannes, but I don’t have much time. Shall we order now?’ He waved down a waitress. He ordered a salad, Jóhannes a sausage.

‘Good choice, this,’ said Magnus.

‘Yes, I think so,’ said Jóhannes. ‘I bring my classes here whenever I can.’

‘You’re a schoolteacher?’

‘Yes. Icelandic. Have you been inside recently?’

Magnus smiled. ‘It’s one of my favourite places in this city.’

‘Mine too. Have you seen
Gaukur’s Saga
?’

Magnus nodded. ‘Yes, I have seen it.’

‘Remarkable, isn’t it? I can’t believe it’s real.’

‘Oh, it’s real, all right,’ Magnus said. A lot of people had gone to a lot of effort twelve months before establishing that. ‘I used to read sagas over and over when I was a kid in America. It’s wonderful to see the real things here.’

Jóhannes smiled. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I suppose you could say it has been my life’s work to bring the sagas to adolescent children.’

‘A noble thing to do,’ Magnus said.

Jóhannes nodded. ‘I think so.’

‘Hi, Magnus.’

Magnus looked up in surprise to see his brother approaching the table. Ollie’s face was grim. ‘Hi, Ollie, I’m glad you came.’

Ollie nodded curtly and looked at Jóhannes with an air of insolence. Magnus could feel the schoolteacher bridle.

‘Let me introduce my brother, Óli,’ Magnus said in Icelandic. ‘This is Jóhannes Benediktsson. His father was a neighbour of Grandpa’s at Bjarnarhöfn.’

‘Hi,’ said Ollie. Or was it ‘
Hae’
, the Icelandic greeting?

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Jóhannes,’ said Magnus. ‘Do you mind if we speak English? My brother doesn’t speak Icelandic.’

‘That will be acceptable,’ said Jóhannes in a precise accent.

‘What do you want, Ollie?’ Magnus said, catching the waitress’s eye. Ollie’s surliness irritated him, but maybe it was a sign that his brother was finally accepting that Magnus was going to ask difficult questions, whatever Ollie thought.

‘I’ll take a Coke,’ he said, and sat down, crossing his arms.

Jóhannes was watching Ollie with ill-disguised distaste.

‘I’ve read a couple of your father’s books,’ Magnus said to him. ‘But only recently.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Jóhannes. ‘
Moor and the Man
and “The Slip”?’

Magnus nodded. ‘I enjoyed
Moor and the Man
. It reminded me a bit of—’

‘Halldór Laxness?’ Jóhannes interrupted. ‘But not quite as good?’ He eyed Magnus suspiciously.

‘I was going to say Steinbeck.’

Jóhannes smiled. ‘I’m sorry. I am a little sensitive about my father and his literary reputation. I have had a trying time recently. I lost my job two days ago, and I’ve discovered some disturbing facts.’

‘Sorry about the job,’ said Magnus.

‘Thirty-one years I’ve been showing children the wonders of our literature. Thirty-one years.’

‘That’s tough.’ Magnus paused while the waitress delivered their meals. ‘So, what did you find out?’

Magnus ate while Jóhannes told him about his trip to Búdir and the confrontation that the groom there had witnessed between Hallgrímur and Benedikt a few weeks before Benedikt’s murder. Magnus listened closely. Ollie’s arms were firmly folded and a scowl was fixed on his face, the Coke in front of him untouched. But he was listening too.

‘So when I left Stykkishólmur, Unnur, who is my aunt’s niece, told me that you had done some investigating yourself last year.’

‘I have,’ said Magnus. ‘Like you, I spotted that
Moor and the Man
and “The Slip” both seemed to describe real events: the murder of Benedikt’s father by Hallgrímur’s father, and then the killing of Hallgrímur’s father by Benedikt on Búland’s Head.’

‘I notice you don’t say murder,’ Jóhannes said.

‘I suppose I should have done,’ Magnus said. ‘It was murder, wasn’t it?’

‘It was revenge,’ said Jóhannes. ‘We were just talking about the sagas. My father was a good man. I think he thought it was his duty to avenge the murder of his own father. You remember what Thorstein’s father tells him in “The Tale of Thorstein the Staff-Struck” just before the duel? “I would rather lose you than have a coward son.” I often think of that.’

‘I’m a policeman,’ said Magnus. ‘That counts as a motive, not a duty. It was murder all right.’

‘Hm,’ Jóhannes grunted.

‘There’s something else you might find interesting,’ Magnus said. ‘Our own father was murdered eleven years after yours. In 1996.’

Magnus felt Ollie’s shoulders tighten next to him. He knew his brother wouldn’t like what he was about to say.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Jóhannes.

‘It was in the States. We were at the beach in a place called Duxbury for the summer. Everyone was out. Somebody rang the doorbell, my father answered, he let the man in, and then he was stabbed once in the back and twice more in the chest.’

‘But that’s what happened to my father!’ Jóhannes said.

‘Exactly. Even down to the stab wounds.’

‘Do you think there’s a connection?’ Jóhannes asked.

‘I’m a cop. I have to think there’s a connection.’

Jóhannes paused. ‘Could it be Hallgrímur?’ he asked. ‘Was there any tension between him and your father?’

‘There was plenty of tension,’ said Magnus. ‘Our mother drank. A lot. Our father had an affair with another woman – Unnur, in fact – and Mom found out about it. They split up. Dad went to America and Mom stayed in Iceland. Ollie and I stayed with Hallgrímur at the farm at Bjarnarhöfn. It was no fun.’