Meltwater (32 page)

Then she heard rapid footsteps behind her.

Ingileif ran her fingers over Magnus’s cheek. ‘What are you thinking?’

They were in his bed. They had both been good to their word and had managed a late dinner at the Laekjarbrekka restaurant in Bankastraeti. Magnus had driven there via the Kringlan Mall, which stayed open late on a Thursday, where he had bought the promised baseball bats, and delivered them to Thórsgata. Plus a softball.

‘I’m thinking I hope your plane is cancelled tomorrow.’

‘That’s not very nice.’

‘Oh, yes it is.’

Ingileif kissed him. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll be waiting with me in the terminal.’

‘No, I don’t suppose I will. I will drop you off at the airport if I can.’

‘Fat chance.’

‘You’re right,’ said Magnus. He did need to focus on the investigation: he had felt guilty leaving at seven that evening. And once that was done, he should have a conversation with Snorri about Benedikt’s murder.

There was another thing he wanted to do when the investigation was over. ‘Can I come and visit you in Hamburg?’

‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘To see you,’ Magnus said. ‘I’d like to see you again. Soon.’

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Ingileif. ‘That would be nice. Yes.’

Magnus could tell she didn’t mean it.

‘When?’ he asked, although he wanted to ask ‘why not?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. The summer’s quite busy.’

Magnus sat up in bed. ‘Ingileif. What are you saying?’

She sat up next to him. ‘Nothing,’ she said. She leaned over to kiss him and moved her hand down his stomach.

He pushed her away. ‘No, Ingileif. You don’t want me to come and see you in Hamburg. Why not?’

She straightened up and put her hands in her lap. Not looking at him she said: ‘It might not be a good idea.’

‘Why not?’

She took a deep breath. ‘Kerem wouldn’t like it.’

‘And who the hell is Kerem?’

‘Kerem is a friend of mine. He’s an artist.’

‘I thought so,’ Magnus said through gritted teeth. ‘I thought so. So who is this Kerem guy? And what kind of a name is Kerem anyway?’

‘It’s Turkish. But he’s German; he was born in Germany. We’re just friends, that’s all. I’m not hiding him: if you ever looked at my Facebook page you’d know all about him.’

‘Like you and me are just friends?’

‘Look, Magnús, we discussed this. I am not going to pry into your life if you don’t pry into mine. When I went to Hamburg we didn’t say we wouldn’t see other people. Quite the opposite.’

‘No, Ingileif, we didn’t discuss this. And you pry into my life all the time. Which I quite like, by the way. Does this Kerem know where you are right now?’

‘No,’ said Ingileif. ‘And he doesn’t have a right to know.’

‘Would he be happy if he did?’

‘Why are you always so damn American? Everyone has to be in a relationship or out of a relationship. Can’t you just enjoy life? Haven’t you had fun the last few days?’

Magnus lost it. ‘You’re using me, Ingileif, and I don’t like it!’

‘You don’t like it!’ Ingileif said, throwing the covers off the bed. ‘Fine! I’ll stop using you. See how you like that.’ She turned on the light and began to gather her clothes, putting each thing on as she found it.

‘Yeah,’ said Magnus. His voice had risen to a shout. ‘I don’t like it. And you know it’s wrong! That’s why you’re giving me all this righteous indignation.’

‘Go fuck yourself, Magnús,’ Ingileif said. ‘Because I sure as hell am not going to!’

The door slammed and she was gone.

Magnus flopped back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling.

‘Shit.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Friday 16 April 2010

M
AGNUS WOKE UP
early. Thoughts of Ingileif had been tumbling around his mind, and he felt as if he hadn’t actually slept. He realized he had time to get to Laugardalur swimming pool before going into the station and the morning meeting scheduled for eight-thirty. He needed the energy boost.

He listened to the radio as he got dressed. Ash had been falling heavily on the countryside near Eyjafjallajökull, blotting out the sun and closing roads. Farms were ruined; livestock had been shut indoors. It sounded as if the countryside Magnus had been driving through two days before had been turned into a post-apocalyptic nightmare of darkness and ash.

A man on the radio was talking about the Great Haze of the eighteenth century when the whole island had been covered in an ash cloud from the eruption of the volcano Laki. Summer failed to come for two years; three-quarters of the nation’s livestock died, as did a quarter of the human population, which was reduced to a mere 38,000. They had considered abandoning the island for Denmark. Europe and North America had been affected: subsequent poor harvests were said to have contributed to the French Revolution.

This eruption wasn’t quite that bad. Yet. But flights were cancelled for another day.

A quick drive to the pool and then he was undressing again. Was Ingileif right? Was Magnus just a conventional American hung up on high-school rules of dating?

Throughout their relationship, or whatever it was, Ingileif had maintained the initiative, keeping Magnus confused. She was always in control: she knew what was going on and he didn’t. He felt like a mug.

The open-air pool was already filling up. As Magnus left the changing rooms, the cold air bit into his skin, causing him to take a sharp breath. Goose bumps sprouted all over his arms. The temperature wasn’t that far above zero, probably three or four degrees.

He adjusted his goggles and plunged into the wonderfully warm water, and began to swim. In a minute he was in the rhythm.

Ingileif. Her anger the night before had been more than a little tantrum to keep him off balance. He knew her well enough to see that when she walked out, she meant it. She was seriously angry.

Another length.

A glimmer of understanding. She was angry with herself. She had perhaps intended to spend a couple of nights with Magnus for old times’ sake, for a bit of fun. But it had meant more than that to him and she could see it. She knew she was betraying him, hurting him, and she knew that it was wrong. So she had pulled away. Blaming him because she couldn’t blame herself.

So what was she going to do now? Go back to Kerem, whoever he was, the poor bastard.

Magnus swam faster. Understanding what Ingileif was doing didn’t change the basic fact. She was dicking him around. And he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.

He got out of the pool, the cold air now wonderfully refreshing on his glowing skin. A quick shower and then dressed.

He checked his phone. A message. Árni.

He called back. ‘Hi, Árni. What’s up?’

‘Where are you?’

‘In the pool. What is it?’

‘There’s been a homicide. Grafarholt. You’d better get there now. I’m on my way.’

‘Can’t Baldur deal with it?’ Magnus said. ‘I need to focus on the Andreose case.’

‘You’ll want to be there,’ Árni said. ‘Gudrídur’s church in Grafarholt.’

Magnus had a bad feeling. ‘Who’s the victim?’ he asked, although as he uttered the words he realized he knew the answer.

Ásta was lying face down in front of the altar, her blue eyes open. The back of her skull was a gory mess and there was a significant amount of dried blood on the tiles beside her. Baldur had just arrived and he and Magnus bent over the body.

‘Blow to the back of the head,’ said Baldur. He scanned the church. It was full of heavy loose metal objects – crosses, candlesticks, lecterns –although they all appeared to be in their proper places. Both he and Magnus were wearing forensic overalls, but Baldur took his gloves off to touch Ásta’s cheek.

‘Cool,’ he said. He tried to move the arm. Stiff. Rigor mortis had set in. Magnus was disconcerted at the potential contamination of the crime scene, but he didn’t say anything. Baldur was the boss; and after all it was Baldur’s DNA that would show up in the results.

‘Assuming the heating was on all night, then I’d say she’s been dead between eight and eighteen hours,’ the inspector said. ‘So that makes it between two-thirty yesterday afternoon and half past midnight? Obviously the pathologist will get a better idea once he checks her temperature.’

‘Sounds right,’ said Magnus. He could tell just by looking at her pale face that Ásta had been dead a few hours. The night before rather than that morning.

Magnus peered at Ásta’s fingertips without touching them – no obvious blood or skin under the nails. Her hands, wrists and the parts of her face he could see seemed free of cuts or bruising. ‘No sign of a struggle.’ He stood up, surveying the scene. ‘Someone crept up on her while she was in front of the altar, praying no doubt, and whacked her over the head. Probably kept the murder weapon.’

‘Who found the body, Árni?’ Baldur called. The detective was helping a uniformed constable fix tape across the entrance. He seemed to have got himself into a tangle.

‘The church’s pastor. He lives in a block of flats opposite. He saw lights on in the church this morning and came to investigate. He’s waiting outside.’

Magnus glanced at Baldur. ‘Let’s talk to him.’

The pastor was a man of about Magnus’s own age with wispy fair hair. His name was Egill and he was shaking.

Magnus and Baldur led him to a row of chairs at the entrance to the church, and sat him down. He repeated how he had found the body.

‘When did you last see Ásta alive?’ Magnus asked.

‘Last night. She lives very close to here. She isn’t formally attached to this parish, she doesn’t work for me or anything, but she is a member of the congregation. She’s lived around here for about six months, and I’ve got to know her quite well. She loves this church. It’s a shame we don’t have a paid place for her here, but you know how things are these days financially.’

Magnus nodded.

‘Well, she came to see me last night. She wanted some advice.’

‘About what?’

‘It was confidential.’

‘Of course it was confidential!’ Magnus said. He was losing his patience with people not telling him things. ‘It was also probably the reason why she died. Now what was it?’

The pastor swallowed. ‘She was worried about her career, basically. It’s become very difficult for priests to get parishes these days. She had been lucky to get six months covering for a woman on maternity leave. She was wondering whether she should try to go abroad to study for a couple of years in the hope that things would be better when she returned. She wanted my advice.’

‘Did you give it?’

‘I couldn’t give her much help,’ said the pastor.

‘There is no way that any of that could be a reason for her death, is there?’

The pastor swallowed again. ‘No,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘No,’ again, more clearly this time.

Magnus stared hard at him. The priest looked uncomfortable. Something was wrong. But how could worrying about getting a job in a church provide someone else with a motive to kill?

‘Did she mention Freeflow at all?’

‘No – at least not last night. I know she had been interested in the organization ever since they came to Iceland at the end of last year. But I did see the murder on Fimmvörduháls on the news. Did she have anything to do with that?’

‘She was up there with them when it happened,’ said Magnus. ‘It’s funny she didn’t mention it.’

The pastor shrugged. ‘I have just seen her this once since Sunday.’

‘A couple more questions,’ said Magnus. ‘Did you see anyone hanging around here last night? A stranger? Or anyone speaking to Ásta?’

‘No,’ said the pastor. ‘No. I didn’t.’

‘And what time was Ásta with you?’

‘I don’t know. Probably seven-thirty until about nine o’clock, something like that.’

‘Was the heating on all night? At about this temperature?’

‘Yes. Yes, it would have been.’

Important information for the pathologist, whose estimate of time of death would involve comparing the temperature of the body with that of the room in which it had been lying.

‘All right,’ said Magnus. ‘I’m sure we’ll have some more questions for you. But right now, can you please check the church? See if there is anything missing?’

‘You think they stole something?’

‘They might have done. More likely the murderer took away the murder weapon.’

The three of them went back into the church. It took the pastor a couple of minutes before he spotted it. ‘A candlestick.’ He pointed to one on a small table on one side of the entrance. It was made of brass and was about eighteen inches high. Its partner on the other side had gone, although the candle was lying in its place. The pastor reached out his hand to pick it up.

‘Don’t!’ said Magnus sharply. ‘This is a crime scene. Tidying up is not allowed.’

‘Yes,’ said the pastor. ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry.’ He shook his head and took a deep breath. ‘I liked Ásta. She was a good woman. A really good woman.’ He glanced at the figure still lying there in front of the altar. A photographer was snapping away, and Edda and one of her colleagues were crouched down near the body in their white forensic overalls, tweezers at the ready. The pathologist hadn’t arrived yet.