Authors: Michael Ridpath
‘He’s got a clinic this morning,’ Gabrielle said. ‘I know Villi called him earlier this morning and they were talking about getting her to see a specialist in Reykjavík. Ingvar is surprised she has deteriorated so fast.’
‘But he’s hardly spoken to her!’ said Aníta. ‘How could he know how bad she was before?’
‘He said he’d come over later.’
‘I hope so,’ said Aníta. ‘I mean, I know he’s wary about treating his own family, but his mother really needs his help.’
Gabrielle nodded. ‘He understands that now. Villi told him so this morning. Anyway, how are you? I thought you were bearing up well last night at dinner, but you don’t look so good this morning.’
‘I don’t feel it,’ said Aníta.
Gabrielle reached over and took Aníta’s hand. Her fingers were surprisingly cold, but Aníta appreciated the gesture.
‘When this is over, you and Kolbeinn should spend a week in our flat in Paris.’
Aníta smiled. ‘That’s kind of you, but you know we can’t leave the farm.’ Although actually the idea of running away abroad at that very minute sounded attractive.
‘That’s a shame,’ said Gabrielle. ‘Maybe later in the year. At least we’ll be able to keep it now.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Aníta.
‘The bank was all set to take it back. We had a big euro mortgage on it when we bought it, and after the crash we’ve had a lot of trouble keeping up with the payments on our flat and our place in Stykkishólmur.’
‘Oh. I didn’t realize.’ Aníta had assumed that they were fairly well off, especially since Ingvar was a doctor.
‘Yes. That’s why Ingvar and his father fell out last year. Ingvar asked for some money and Hallgrímur said no.’
‘I’d noticed Ingvar had seen less of him recently,’ said Aníta. ‘I wondered why. But then Hallgrímur had a pretty strange relationship with all of his sons.’
‘You’re telling me. In some ways Ingvar seemed almost to hate him. He wanted to keep his distance. And yet Hallgrímur had this power over him. It was irresistible. I mean, we had the whole of Iceland to live in and we chose Stykkishólmur. Ingvar did very well at medical school and was a star in Paris. He could have been a top surgeon at the National Hospital in Reykjavík by now. But we are here. Ingvar always says it’s because he loves the area, but the reality is he couldn’t tear himself away from his father. It’s unhealthy.’
‘He seemed to take Hallgrímur’s death pretty well. They all did, apart from Tóta.’
‘Don’t be so sure. You know Ingvar; he always seems so cool and detached, never lets anyone see what he’s thinking, even me. But he’s a mess. He couldn’t sleep last night. I woke up in the middle of the night to find him sobbing. He got up and drank half a bottle of brandy. He
never
does that.’
Aníta had never really liked Ingvar. She respected him, but thought him too cold, too arrogant. She expected more warmth from a family member; even Hallgrímur could be warmer than Ingvar. In fact, the doctor took after his mother more; ever since Aníta had first known her, Sylvía had seemed permanently detached from everything. It had always struck
Aníta as odd that a doctor could appear so little moved by humanity. She was glad, in a way, that Ingvar’s father’s death had had an effect. But Gabrielle was right: it
was
an unhealthy relationship.
‘That burn on Ingvar’s face wasn’t really an accident, was it?’ Aníta said.
Gabrielle glanced at Aníta conspiratorially and shook her head. ‘Ingvar won’t tell me what really happened, but I know his father had something to do with it. I’ll bet he threw boiling water at his face when he was a little kid. And none of them are allowed to talk about it. Even now.’
‘Villi was the smart one,’ said Aníta. ‘Escaping to Canada.’
‘Yes. Although I sometimes get the feeling that Hallgrímur’s power stretched over the Atlantic.’
‘So why did Ingvar ask him for the money?’ said Aníta. ‘Hallgrímur was always going to say no, wasn’t he?’
‘He shouldn’t have done,’ said Gabrielle. ‘Considering Ingvar was responsible for Hallgrímur making all that cash in the first place.’
‘All what cash?’ Aníta said. She was vaguely aware that there was some arrangement between Hallgrímur and his sons about who should have what, which had led to Kolbeinn taking over the farm, but she had never troubled to find out the details.
‘You know Hallgrímur had a small quota in Stykkishólmur?’
‘Yes,’ said Aníta. ‘But didn’t he sell it?’
In the early 1980s fisherman had been given the windfall of a ‘quota’ or proportion of the total Icelandic fishing catch. This could be transferred, and many of the smaller fishermen, especially the part-time ones like Hallgrímur, had sold theirs to fishing companies for useful lump sums.
‘He did. And Ingvar helped him invest it. He did spectacularly well. You remember Óskar Gunnarsson, the chairman of Ódinsbanki, who was killed last year?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, Ingvar is good friends with Óskar’s uncle who lives in
Stykkishólmur. He gave Ingvar a tip that Ódinsbanki shares were going to soar. Ingvar told Hallgrímur and he made several times his money on them.’
‘But didn’t all the banks go bust?’
‘Not before the uncle told Ingvar to sell.’
‘So how much does Hallgrímur have then?’
‘I don’t know precisely. Probably a couple of hundred million krónur.’
‘No!’ Aníta blinked. She hadn’t thought at all about Hallgrímur’s will. She hadn’t even thought about what would happen to the farm, which she knew still belonged to Hallgrímur. ‘Does Kolbeinn know this?’
‘Probably not,’ said Gabrielle. ‘I know Hallgrímur wanted to keep their success a secret from everyone, including Sylvía and his other sons. And I have no idea how it will all be split up. But you can see why it was reasonable for Ingvar to ask his father for some of the cash he had made him.’
‘Yes, I can,’ said Aníta.
‘Anyway. At least we should be able to keep the flat. Which is a great relief to me. I love Iceland, but I need that place in Paris to stay sane.’
‘I should tell Kolbeinn this,’ Aníta said.
‘Actually, it’s probably best if you don’t,’ said Gabrielle. ‘He’ll find out very soon himself, won’t he? And it would be bad if he discovered it from me. I don’t want to create tension between the brothers if Ingvar hasn’t told Kolbeinn. I probably shouldn’t have told you. It will only be for a few days. As soon as they look at Hallgrímur’s bank statements it should all be clear.’
‘If they weren’t burned,’ said Aníta.
‘In which case, they’ll ask the bank for them,’ said Gabrielle.
‘OK, I’ll pretend I don’t know when Kolbeinn finds out,’ said Aníta.
‘Thanks,’ said Gabrielle. ‘Now, I should go. And leave the housework alone for now. Give yourself a break. You Icelandic women don’t know how to relax.’
Aníta tried not to laugh. Relax? No chance. But she appreciated her sister-in-law’s friendship.
‘Why don’t you come over for a ride tomorrow morning?’ she said.
Gabrielle smiled. ‘Would you like the company?’
‘Yes, I would,’ said Aníta. She couldn’t be sure, but there was probably less chance of meeting Marta if she had a chattering Frenchwoman with her. ‘I would really like it.’
Árni was waiting for Vigdís when she arrived at Café Roma. It was around the corner from the police station and one of Árni’s favourite haunts. Vigdís was amazed at how many of their pastries he could stuff into his mouth and still remain so skinny. He was wearing his sling.
‘How’s the shoulder?’
‘Hurts a bit. I’ve taken some painkillers.’
‘Shouldn’t you be resting it?’
‘A man’s gotta type what a man’s gotta type,’ Árni said in American English.
Vigdís didn’t precisely understand what Árni had said, but she laughed anyway. You had to laugh with Árni. He was tall and weedy and painfully thin, famous within the department for his cock-ups, but he was brave. There was no doubt Árni was brave, even when it came to typing.
‘Sorry about Davíd,’ he said.
‘Yeah. He’s trying to get on a flight tomorrow,’ Vigdís said. ‘It will only give us a couple of days, but that’s better than nothing. Have you heard anything about Magnús?’
‘No. Apparently Adam from Keflavík has been put on the case. I know him pretty well. I thought I’d give him a call.’
Vigdís knew Adam a little too and doubted he would be helpful. The rules on this one would be clear: don’t talk to Magnus’s colleagues. Adam was ambitious and he wouldn’t want to break the rules on a high-profile case.
‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ she said.
‘Can’t hurt to try,’ said Árni.
Vigdís shrugged. ‘I guess not. But be subtle about it.’ Fat chance of that, she thought.
‘Also, I spoke to my sister last night,’ Árni said. His sister, Katrín, was Magnus’s landlady, who shared the small house in Njálsgata with him. ‘You know Magnús’s brother Ollie was staying there?’
‘Yes,’ said Vigdís.
‘Apparently he left early yesterday morning, saying he was going to the farm where he grew up. A schoolteacher friend was taking him. Then Magnús rushed off after him.’
‘That’s interesting,’ said Vigdís. ‘That must be Bjarnarhöfn. Maybe I’ll go and talk to her this morning. See if I can find out who this schoolteacher is. Also, I thought I would see if Ingileif is still in Reykjavík. I know she was planning to fly back to Germany, but her flight will have been cancelled because of the ash cloud. Magnús might have told her something useful. And I had another thought.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘A few months ago Magnús asked me how to get hold of an old file: Benedikt Jóhannesson’s murder in 1985. Do you remember that one?’
Árni looked blank. Vigdís had studied it at police college, and she would bet Árni had too. She’d also bet he had forgotten it.
‘A writer who was murdered at his home in Vesturbaer,’ she said. ‘Stabbed. They never found the murderer.’
Árni shook his head, unable to remember. ‘So why would Magnús want to read that?’
‘Good question,’ said Vigdís. ‘Which is why I suggest you dig it out.’
‘OK,’ said Árni. ‘I’ll see if I can get hold of it this morning. We’ll talk later.’
As they got up to leave, Árni paused. ‘Oh, there is one thing I should mention. A guy called for Magnús last week. Some American detective. He said he had some lab results.’
‘Interesting,’ said Vigdís. ‘Do you know what sort of results?’
‘The guy wasn’t specific.’
‘And what did Magnús say when you told him?’
‘Um…’ Árni’s Adam’s apple started bobbing.
‘Árni! You forgot to tell him, didn’t you?’
‘There was a lot going on,’ Árni protested. ‘We were in the middle of a case. It didn’t seem relevant.’
‘Árni! You are a moron.’
Árni winced. He didn’t show any signs of disagreeing.
‘Call this detective back after lunch. Find out what the tests were and why Magnús wanted them.’
They went their separate ways, with Vigdís muttering under her breath about the idiot she had to work with.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
T
HE WARMTH AND
the fragrant smell of hay and wool enveloped Aníta as she entered the large barn where they kept the ewes over the winter. The sheep, bellies swollen with unborn lambs, shifted and shuffled as they saw her. A gentle bleat rippled through the flock.
Aníta loved it in the barn, especially at this time of year. They kept the building scrupulously clean with hoses and a mucking-out machine, much easier than the old-fashioned hours with rake and fork. But it was the air of expectancy that hovered over the mass of warm wool that she felt was so delicious. A maternal mixture of excitement and nervousness, magnified four hundred times. One area of the barn had been kept clear for the lambing stalls. In a week or so, that section would be bustling. No one on the farm would get much sleep, but Aníta didn’t mind. It was worth it for the joy of seeing the newborns twitch and flutter into the world.
Except when she lost a ewe, especially if it was an older beast whom she had got to know over several years, or one of the
forystufé
, the hardy, intelligent leader-sheep who steered the rest of the flock over the mountains and kept them out of trouble.
She waded into the flock, recognizing the different animals, all of which the family had named. Móses, one of the rams, had broken into the ewes’ field the previous autumn. He hadn’t been there long before he was discovered, and so far there was no sign of any early pregnancies. Aníta checked a couple of the ewes that
she had spotted earlier that had seemed particularly restless, but no sign of any activity yet.
Good. The last thing any of them needed right then was to be up all night worrying about the sheep. The longer they could delay that the better. In fact, Aníta fervently hoped that the murder investigation would be tied up by the time the first lamb was born.
Perhaps it already was. The police had taken Magnus away after all. Could he really be a killer? Aníta thought not, but she didn’t really know him. He did come from a world of gangs and guns and killing, and she knew that Hallgrímur had loathed him.
She stood among the rippling pond of wool and thought about what Gabrielle had said. Aníta had watched enough cop shows on TV to know that without realizing it, Ingvar’s wife had let slip that her husband had a motive for murder. Now Hallgrímur had died, Ingvar would get his hands on some of the old man’s millions. It was strange to think that Hallgrímur was so rich, but not at all strange to hear that he had hidden it from his family.
That
made perfect sense.
Perhaps Aníta should tell the fat detective what she had heard? She would be betraying Gabrielle’s trust, and could get Ingvar into trouble. For all she knew, Gabrielle or Ingvar could have told the police about Hallgrímur’s investments, and even if they hadn’t, the detective would find out about it sooner or later. Aníta couldn’t believe that the doctor had murdered his father. Yet if Ingvar
had
killed the old man, then of course he should be arrested. And if he hadn’t, it should be easy for him to prove it. There was also Magnus to consider; Ingvar’s guilt would prove his innocence.