Authors: Michael Ridpath
‘We’re just having dinner,’ Aníta said. ‘Can we answer your questions tomorrow?’
The man frowned and then smiled. ‘Oh, I’m not with the police,’ he said. ‘My name is Jóhannes. Jóhannes Benediktsson. My family came from Hraun, just over the lava field.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Come in. Would you like some food?’
The phone had been ringing and they had had a couple of visits already from Hallgrímur’s old cronies. Perhaps this man was one of them, although Aníta didn’t recognize him at all.
Aníta introduced the man to the family around the table. Kolbeinn looked perplexed, but Ingvar seemed to register who the stranger was. ‘You’re Benedikt Jóhannesson’s son, aren’t you? The writer?’
‘That’s right. I apologize for disturbing you, and I won’t stay long. I’m on my way back to Reykjavík, but it’s very important that I speak to you all first. It’s about Hallgrímur’s death. His murder.’
There was silence around the table as they all stared at him. Aníta gave the man a seat and he sat down.
‘First, let me say how sorry I am. I didn’t know Hallgrímur. Indeed, I have never met him. But he was part of your family. And that’s why I have to talk to you.’
He looked around the table, checking that he had got all their attention.
‘Krissi, can you leave us now?’ Aníta asked.
‘No, let him stay,’ commanded Jóhannes. ‘It’s important that all generations are here.’
Krissi stayed, eyes wide, eager to hear what the stranger had to say. Aníta didn’t mind being contradicted. The stranger had a natural authority, and she wanted to hear him out too. Even the dogs’ ears were pricked.
‘I’ve spent some time researching my family,’ Jóhannes went on. ‘And through those researches I have learned a lot about your family. We have both suffered a number of untimely deaths. This is just the most recent.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Villi.
‘The first was in 1934,’ said Jóhannes. ‘At least, I think it was the first. My grandfather, also called Jóhannes, who was the farmer at Hraun, disappeared suddenly one afternoon. No one knew why or where he had gone. Perhaps he fell into the sea. There was a rumour he disappeared to America. But he left his wife without a husband and his children without a father.’
‘I remember that,’ said Sylvía, her eyes brighter than they had been all day. ‘My brothers helped with the search.’
‘My father wrote a novel called
Moor and the Man
in 1985, just before he died,’ said Jóhannes. ‘In it he describes how one farmer murders a neighbour because he has been having an affair with his wife. The affair and then the murder, or at least the disposal of the body, is witnessed by two small boys.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Villi. ‘Are you suggesting that our grandfather murdered yours?’
‘I know that Hallgrímur read
Moor and the Man
and that he was upset by it,’ Jóhannes said. ‘You must have known that.’
‘He hated that book,’ said Sylvía. ‘Did you write it?’ she asked Jóhannes.
‘No. It was my father, Benedikt.’
‘Oh, I see. No, Hallgrímur didn’t like that book at all.’
‘That doesn’t prove that our grandfather killed anyone, though,’ said Kolbeinn.
‘No,’ said Jóhannes. ‘It merely suggests it. Let’s go on to 1940. Your grandfather, Hallgrímur’s father Gunnar, rode to Ólafsvík for supplies. He had to go by Búland Head, which in those days was traversed by a treacherously narrow path. His horse slipped and he fell into the sea.’
‘We know that,’ said Kolbeinn. ‘We’ve all heard how our grandfather died.’
‘Yes. But you might not have known that my father was also
coming back from a confirmation in Ólafsvík that day. He said he never saw Gunnar. He was an honest man, and so everyone believed him.’
‘So?’
‘My aunt says that my father was indeed an honest man. Which is why he wrote about what had happened in a short story called “The Slip”, once again written just before he died.’
‘What happened in “The Slip”?’ asked Krissi, who was listening in rapt attention.
‘A boy is riding along a cliff edge. He passes a man whom he believes has raped his sister. He pushes man and horse into the sea.’
There was a stunned silence around the room.
‘And now you think Gunnar raped your aunt?’ said Villi.
‘No. This was fiction. What I am suggesting is that your grandfather Gunnar killed my grandfather because he was having an affair with Gunnar’s wife. Then my father…’ Jóhannes hesitated. He swallowed. ‘Sorry. My father pushed Gunnar off the cliff at Búland Head.’
‘But you have no proof?’ said Ingvar.
‘That’s right,’ said Jóhannes. ‘No proof. Now let’s move on to 1985.’ Suddenly the man’s confidence stumbled. He took a drink of water.
‘At this point, my father Benedikt knew he had a brain tumour. He thought he had only one year to live. He chose not to tell his family, but he did write the two pieces I have just told you about, the novel and the short story. Your father, Hallgrímur, read them. He didn’t like them.’
‘He didn’t like them at all,’ said Sylvía.
Jóhannes flashed the old lady a quick smile. She seemed to be taking it all in.
‘But my father didn’t die of his brain tumour. One evening, just after Christmas in 1985, Benedikt was murdered in his house in Reykjavík. Stabbed once in the back and twice in the chest by an intruder. I found his body. The police never discovered who did it. I’m sure you heard about it.’
Even Aníta remembered that one. She was in Reykjavík herself at the time, where it was all over the papers, and back home in Stykkishólmur they were talking about nothing else. Benedikt was a local boy, he had made good, they were all proud of him and shocked at his death.
‘You don’t think our father did that?’ said Kolbeinn.
‘I don’t know,’ said Jóhannes. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. There’s no proof.’
The Hallgrímssons exchanged glances; Aníta could feel the hostility to this stranger building around the table. But she wanted to hear more. The man’s sincerity seemed genuine to her.
‘In 1996, Hallgrímur’s son-in-law, Ragnar, was murdered in America in exactly the same way as my father had been killed,’ Jóhannes continued.
‘That must be a coincidence,’ said Villi.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps,’ said Jóhannes. ‘I’m not sure how that fits in, if at all. Do any of you have any ideas?’
His question was met by blank stares around the table.
‘Anyway,’ Jóhannes went on. ‘That brings us on to 2010. Today. This morning, to be precise. When Hallgrímur was murdered. And that’s why I’m here.’
‘You think there’s a connection?’ Ingvar asked.
‘I think there might be,’ Jóhannes said. ‘More importantly, some of you might think there might be.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Ingvar.
‘I mean that we may have a family feud here, between my family of Hraun and your family of Bjarnarhöfn. Stretching from 1934 to 2010. I’m a schoolteacher, I’ve been teaching saga literature all my adult life. I know how dangerous these feuds can be. They can be passed down from generation to generation. And I think this one should stop. Now. Today. And we should all agree on that.’
‘Well, I don’t believe that there’s any connection,’ said Villi.
‘That’s good,’ said Jóhannes. ‘But I’m pretty sure your father did.’
Kolbeinn was frowning. ‘What about you?’ he said.
‘Following through the logic of what you are saying, it’s you who is most likely to have killed Hallgrímur. Or someone from your family.’
‘I know. But it wasn’t me. I’ve told the police where I was when Hallgrímur was murdered. I have a brother and a sister, but I haven’t discussed any of this with them.’
‘Did you tell the police what you’ve just told us?’ asked Villi.
‘No, it didn’t seem relevant.’
Ingvar snorted. ‘Sounds relevant to me.’
‘I will tell them if they ask me. I don’t intend to hide it,’ Jóhannes added.
‘Is that why Magnús came up here?’ asked Aníta.
Jóhannes turned to her. ‘Probably. I discussed all this with Magnús and his brother Ólafur last week in Reykjavík. Magnús is still determined to discover who killed his own father, and he thinks there is a link with my father’s death. Perhaps he’s right, perhaps he’s wrong. I don’t know.’
‘Do you think Magnús could have killed Dad?’ Kolbeinn asked.
‘I’ve no idea. What I’m not trying to do here is the police’s job. I don’t care about murders in the past. I want to stop any more deaths in the future. And I want you to help me with that.’
‘What about Óli?’ asked Kolbeinn. ‘The police said he called Dad this afternoon.’
‘Yes. He was with me,’ said Jóhannes. ‘So I know he didn’t kill Hallgrímur.’
‘So you say,’ said Kolbeinn.
Jóhannes shrugged. ‘I suppose I’m here to declare peace between our two families. Will you accept my offer?’
The Hallgrímssons exchanged glances. Ingvar cleared his throat. ‘Jóhannes, I can see you are a romantic at heart,’ he said. ‘But I think you have let your imagination run away with you. The Icelanders stopped feuding centuries ago. No one here even knew who you were before this evening, let alone wanted to start a feud to the death. Now, will you leave us alone? You are distressing my mother.’
All eyes turned to the old lady, who looked confused and was twisting a piece of bread on her lap. She was almost on the point of tears. ‘I’m sure Hallgrímur can explain all this,’ she said uncertainly.
Jóhannes frowned, opened his mouth, but thought better of whatever he was going to say.
‘Tóta? Can you get
Iceland Idol
from last year on your laptop?’ Aníta asked.
‘Yes,’ said Tóta. ‘But I’ve seen it.’
‘I know you like to see them several times,’ said Aníta, staring straight at Tóta. The girl was smart; surely she would know what Aníta was asking of her.
Tóta hesitated, about to kick up a fuss, then glanced at her grandmother. ‘Sure, Mum. Amma, would you like to come and watch it with me? It’s nice to have company.’
‘
Iceland Idol
?’ Sylvía said. ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s quite my kind of programme at all. But if you want the company.’ She slowly followed her granddaughter through to the living room. There was something about that particular show that fascinated the old lady, although she would never admit it to anyone.
Jóhannes stood up to leave. ‘All right. I’ve said my piece. Here, let me write down my number.’ He had noticed a list pad on a dresser next to the table, and scribbled his name and number next to a half-formed shopping list. ‘But remember: as far as I am concerned, this feud is over.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
T
HERE WAS A
stunned silence after the man had left.
‘He’s a nutter, right?’ said Kolbeinn.
‘Not a complete nutter,’ said Aníta. ‘He seemed pretty sane to me.’
‘I can remember your father getting worked up about those two books,’ said Gabrielle. She spoke Icelandic perfectly, but with a strong French accent that Aníta rather liked. ‘You were in Canada, Villi, but you remember that, don’t you, Kolbeinn?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t always listen to Dad,’ he said.
‘Your mother remembered them,’ said Aníta.
‘Who knows what Mum remembers,’ said Kolbeinn.
‘No.’ Aníta stood her ground. ‘She wasn’t making that up. And I’m sorry to say it, but I can imagine your father carrying on his own little feud.’
There was silence round the table. They knew she was right.
‘Well, if there was a feud going on, perhaps this guy Jóhannes is just trying to get the final word,’ said Kolbeinn.
‘What do you mean?’ said Aníta.
‘He kills Dad. Then tells us there was a feud but it’s all over. So we don’t take our revenge.’
‘He said he told the police where he was when Hallgrímur was killed,’ pointed out Aníta.
‘Maybe. We don’t know that,’ said Kolbeinn.
‘You’re jumping to conclusions,’ Aníta said.
‘I’m not saying he did it. I’m just saying we should consider the possibility.’
‘So what are you suggesting?’ Aníta said. ‘You all take revenge on him?’
‘If it turns out he is guilty, I know what Dad would do,’ Kolbeinn said.
‘But that’s the whole point!’ said Aníta, frustration with her husband boiling over. ‘So does Jóhannes. He knows what your father would do. But your father isn’t here now. We can make our own decisions.’
‘Of course we can make our own decisions,’ Kolbeinn snapped.
Aníta struggled to control herself. This was not a fight she wanted to pick with her husband on this night of all nights.
‘Aníta’s right, Kolbeinn,’ said Ingvar. ‘And although I still think Jóhannes is imagining things, he’s right too. We don’t want to start some kind of family war about it. And we should tell the police what Jóhannes told us.’
‘Why?’ said Kolbeinn. ‘Jóhannes didn’t.’
‘Because the police need to have all the information they can if they are going to figure out who killed Dad.’
Kolbeinn shrugged.
‘Do you think Magnús killed Hallgrímur?’ Aníta said. ‘I scarcely know him, but I do know Hallgrímur hated him. What is he like?’
‘I remember him when he was here as a kid,’ said Kolbeinn. ‘I was still married to Thórunn then. It’s true Dad gave him a hard time sometimes. But he took it well. Not like his little brother. Óli had no backbone.’
‘Dad gave Magnús more than a hard time,’ Ingvar said. ‘Remember all those “accidents” he had at the farm? The bruises. The stitches. The broken arm. I didn’t look at any of them myself, but at the hospital they were pretty sure they weren’t accidents.’ He turned to Aníta. ‘So, yes, I suspect Magnús bore a grudge against Dad. But whether he did anything about it is up to the police to find out.’
Aníta glanced surreptitiously at the purple burn on Ingvar’s face. It was supposedly the result of an accident when he was a boy, the details of which no one would explain.
Kolbeinn began to speak, but Aníta missed what he said. She thought she could hear something behind her. A murmuring. Angry whispers. She turned around, but she couldn’t see anything.
She tried to focus on the conversation, which had moved on to the competence or otherwise of the local police. But she felt cold. A charge seemed to run through her body. She was sure there was someone behind her.