Meltwater (31 page)

Beside Magnus, Ollie snorted. It was true – ‘no fun’ was an understatement.

‘After four years of hell, Dad came to fetch us and take us over to America with him. Then, eight years later, he was murdered.’

‘It sounds as if Hallgrímur had plenty of reason to hate your father.’

‘Yes. Although according to Unnur, he was actually glad to see him leave Iceland and our mother.’

‘The question remains, could Hallgrímur have murdered your father and my father?’ Jóhannes asked.

‘I don’t
think
so,’ said Magnus.

‘Why not?’

‘He has never left Iceland, never even been issued with a passport. He certainly never went to America in 1996. And he is left-handed.’

‘And the stab wounds were inflicted by someone who was right-handed?’

‘You got it.’

‘Interesting,’ said Jóhannes. ‘Do you know anything about the police investigation into my father’s murder? I’ve read press reports, of course.’

‘Yes, I read the file last year. It was very thorough. The investigating officer was Inspector Snorri Gudmundsson who is now the National Police Commissioner. But they didn’t find any real suspects.’

‘Apart from me.’

‘Yes, I remember reading about you,’ said Magnus. ‘You discovered the body, didn’t you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You were never a real suspect. No one was ever a real suspect.’

‘But what about the similarities with your own father’s murder?’ Jóhannes asked.

‘That was something I spotted last year when I read the file.’

‘And what did they say about that?’

Magnus lowered his eyes. ‘Nothing. I didn’t tell them.’

‘You didn’t tell them! Why not?’

‘I . . .’ Magnus glanced at Ollie. ‘We. We didn’t want to reopen the case.’

‘What do you mean, you didn’t want to reopen the case!’ Jóhannes’s voice was raised in anger, and a number of other diners were staring at him. ‘This is an unsolved murder we are talking about. Two unsolved murders. You
have
to reopen the case. It’s your duty as a police officer.’

‘You’re right,’ said Magnus. And he was right. He was glad that Ollie was there to listen to this. ‘You are absolutely right. And it’s something I will do.’

‘When? This afternoon, I hope.’

‘Soon. There’s another murder investigation going on at the moment. The Italian man killed on the Fimmvörduháls volcano. You have probably seen it on the news.’

Jóhannes jabbed a finger at Magnus. ‘If you don’t reopen this investigation immediately, I will talk to the Commissioner myself.’

Magnus glanced at Ollie, whose scowl had deepened. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Now, I have to go. Can you give me your number so I can let you know what I find out? We should stay in touch.’

Jóhannes tore a page out of a notebook and ripped it in two. He scribbled an address and phone number on each half and pushed the pieces of paper across the table to Magnus and his brother. ‘I look forward to hearing from you soon.’

‘Where have you been, Magnús? Ragga’s been waiting for you.’ Árni looked frazzled.

‘Ragga?’

‘The police artist.’

‘Damn.’ Magnus had had an appointment to see her at eleven that morning. They needed to get a good impression of Erika’s attacker out to the police throughout the country. ‘I’ll be with her in a moment. What’s going on?’

‘Some progress,’ said Árni. ‘We’ve found the Canadians who rented the Suzuki Vitara from Hertz. They are in Akureyri.’

‘Good. Get the police there to find out where they were on Monday evening. If they have a firm alibi let them go, otherwise lock them up.’

‘They are checking on that now.’

‘What about Italian tourists?’

‘The attack on you last night means we can rule out all those who have left the country in the last couple of days, which helps a bit. And the volcano means that the attacker is trapped in this country for a few days at least. He can’t get out.’

‘Good point.’

‘We have two possibles waiting for you. They are both Italian tourists, they match your description and neither one of them has an alibi for Monday night.’

‘Good work! I’ll go see them right now. Anything from Interpol?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, keep on to them. How’s the ash cloud?’

‘Getting bigger. The volcano is still spewing. The wind is blowing it due south over Britain and the North Atlantic. Flights still cancelled. And it’s falling hard on the farms around Eyjafjallajökull.’

‘OK – take me to these Italians, and then I’ll see Ragga. Oh, one last question, Árni. Where can I buy a baseball bat?’

The Italians were a bust. Although they both fitted Magnus’s general description, he was quite sure that neither of them was the man he had seen holding a knife to Erika’s throat. He let them off with an apology.

Then he went to see the police artist. He could see the value of some kind of image of the assailant: it would save the police a lot of time.

Ragga was an ample forty-five-year-old with long curly red hair and big green eyes. She was waiting for him in an interview room with a stack of cards and a sketchbook. She was reading a book.

‘Sorry I kept you waiting,’ Magnus said. ‘How long will this take?’

‘About an hour,’ she said.

‘An hour! I’d have thought they’d have E-Fit or one of those other computer systems.’

‘They keep trialling them,’ said Ragga. ‘But they always end up with me. They say I’m better. The first three-quarters of an hour I do pretty much the same as a computer; I show you these cards and ask you which image each part of the face most resembles. It’s the last quarter of an hour I make the image into a person. That’s the bit the computer can’t quite do.’

‘OK, well, draw me,’ said Magnus. ‘Take just two minutes.’

‘Why?’ asked Ragga calmly.

‘I want to make sure I’m not wasting my time.’

‘OK.’ Ragga worked fast, glancing with those big eyes at Magnus as she sketched. In a couple of minutes she showed him his portrait.

It looked a lot like the man he saw in the mirror every day. Except: ‘Do I really look that suspicious?’

‘You do right now,’ said Ragga.

Magnus laughed. ‘OK, let’s get to it.’

An hour later they had a very good likeness of the attacker full face and profile and wearing a woolly hat. Ragga said that in Reykjavík it was good to know what people looked like wearing woolly hats. Magnus was impressed.

Back at the Violent Crimes Unit, Vigdís was at her desk, working on her computer.

‘Flight cancelled?’ Magnus asked.

‘Yes,’ she said. Her lips were pursed in frustration.

‘Any chance of it going tomorrow?’

‘They said I should show up at the airport. I’m doubtful though. The eruption is continuing and there’s no change in the weather forecast.’ Usually so cool, Vigdís seemed distinctly unhappy.

‘Did you call your man? Is he in Paris yet?’

‘He is.’ Vigdís sighed. ‘And he’s not pleased.’

‘It’s hardly your fault.’

‘I told him that. He said it’s never my fault when I cancel on him. He has a point.’

‘Make sure you’re at the airport tomorrow. I don’t want you missing a flight.’

Vigdís smiled quickly at him, and turned back to her screen.

‘What are you doing?’ Magnus asked.

‘Trying to track down a loose Suzuki Vitara.’

‘Any luck yet?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What about the Canadians, Árni?’ Magnus asked.

‘They claim they were in Húsavík that evening,’ said Árni. ‘The local police there are checking with their hotel now.’

Húsavík was on the north coast of Iceland. It looked as if the Canadians were ruling themselves out.

Magnus called Matthías. ‘Any news from Interpol?’

‘The Italians have asked for a Blue Notice.’

‘Damn it. Is that really necessary?’

‘I asked for an update and that’s what they told me. You’d have thought they would have been happy with message traffic; after all, it was one of their own citizens who was murdered.’

Message traffic was the usual informal way that information was passed around Interpol without going through headquarters at Lyons. A Blue Notice was an official request for information on suspects and was a royal pain in the ass. ‘Are they stalling or are they just being Italian?’

‘Both, I guess. I’ve almost got the Blue Notice together, though. I’ll send it in the next hour.’

‘We need to get at that computer! Isn’t there any way we can get around them? Go direct to the police in Milan?’

‘In Italy, no way. The Blue Notice should work. I’ll keep on top of them.’

‘Thanks, Matthías.’

‘Magnús?’ It was Árni. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Yes?’ Magnus was on his guard. Árni looked uncomfortable, as if he was about to own up to a screw-up.

But that wasn’t it.

‘Do your brother and my sister have something going on?’

‘I don’t know, Árni. Whenever I look for him, he seems to be in Katrín’s bed. Maybe he just gets tired a lot?’

‘Very funny. I’m not sure he’s a good influence on her.’

Magnus laughed out loud. ‘
He’s
not a good influence on
her
?’

‘Yeah. You know. She is my sister.’

Magnus considered telling Árni about Katrín’s recent flirtation with lesbianism, about the smell of weed that often hung about the house when he got up in the morning, about her homecomings on a Saturday or Sunday morning, out of her head on drink and probably other substances, in the company of God knows who.

But he didn’t. He knew that one of the reasons Árni had suggested Magnus as a lodger was so that he could keep an eye on his sister, but although Magnus had seen a lot, he had never told Árni any of it. It didn’t say much for Árni’s detection skills that he thought his sister was just a nice girl who dressed a little weirdly.

But Magnus liked his housemate just the way she was.

‘Yes, you’re right to be concerned, Árni,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a word with Ollie.’

He had switched cars. He felt vulnerable in the Vitara, which he had left in a residential street in a suburb a few kilometres from the middle of town, and got himself a silver Ford Focus. He was parked on the eastern side of the Hallgrímskirkja church, the other side from Thórsgata. He had stopped shaving and bought himself a black woolly hat with a little Icelandic flag on the front – not much of a disguise, but it might help.

He had the engine on, partly to keep him warm – it could be pretty cold in Iceland in April – and partly to ensure he could pull out quickly. He had positioned himself so that the car he was waiting for would drive straight past him.

And there it was: an old dirt-encrusted Peugeot. It was easy to keep in sight as it followed the highway to the east through Reykjavík’s commercial suburbs, over the Ellidaá River, past the new port and then finally off on to a smaller road into a settlement of newly built apartment blocks perched on a hill.

The signs suggested the suburb was called Grafarholt.

The car drove on and parked outside a modern block of flats opposite a rectangular white building that seemed to be some kind of church – a large black cross adorned one wall. He found a spot in the car park of the neighbouring block which gave him a view. The young female priest climbed out of the car and rang a bell – not her own flat then. She waited a few moments before the door was opened by a tall man in his thirties wearing a sweater. The priest disappeared inside with him.

It was almost dark when she reappeared. She ignored her car, and walked rapidly towards the church, head bent, shoulders hunched. He watched as she pulled out some keys and let herself inside.

Ásta was distraught. Her conversation with Egill, the pastor of Gudrídur’s church, hadn’t really helped.

There was only one thing to do.

She let herself into the church and turned on the lights. She loved the place. It had a warmth and peace and spiritual tranquillity, which seemed extraordinary for a building so new. The room in which the congregation sat was a simple rectangular space, but it was dominated by the glass eastern wall.

The lights were on in the church’s little white-walled garden behind the window, red being the dominant colour. Egill changed the colours according to the ecclesiastical calendar. The altar was very simple, but behind it loomed the silhouette of the cross in the garden.

She knelt to pray. She would stay there all night if need be.

Time passed; she was not sure how much time. A feeling of serenity slipped over her, like a gentle down blanket.

She knew what she had to do.

She heard a bang behind her. Someone was coming into the church. She hoped it was Egill and not one of the parishioners. She would like to pray with him.

But it was no one.

She stared up at the altar, the cross, admiring its simple beauty.