Magnus felt for her, and for her two children. Whatever Agnar’s sins, whatever his infidelities, he hadn’t deserved to die.
Yet another family blown apart by murder. Magnus had seen so many over the course of his career. And he did all he could for each and every one of them.
Of course she hadn’t seen any bloody ring. He searched the house for possible hiding places, but found nothing. At eight o’clock he left, taking the bus back to the centre of Reykjavík. He hadn’t yet been allocated the use of a police-owned car, and he had left Árni behind.
His conversation with Baldur had shaken him. He understood Baldur’s point, that was the trouble. He couldn’t figure out how Steve Jubb could have murdered Agnar and disposed of his body without getting his feet dirty.
But he just couldn’t accept that Jubb had gone to see Agnar about a secret multi-million dollar deal, and then Agnar had been murdered for some totally unrelated reason a couple of hours later.
His intuition told him that just didn’t make sense. And, like Baldur, he trusted his intuition.
He stopped off at the Krambúd convenience store opposite the
Hallgrímskirkja, and bought himself a Thai curry to heat up. When he got back to Katrín’s house, he shoved it in to the microwave.
‘How are you feeling?’
He turned around to see the landlady of the house making her way to the refrigerator. She was speaking English. She took out a
skyr
and opened it.
‘So so.’
‘Quite a night last night.’
‘Thank you for getting me into bed,’ said Magnus. He meant it, although he would rather have avoided the subject. He had had enough humiliation for one day.
‘No problem,’ said Katrín smiling. ‘You were very sweet. Just before you went to sleep you gave me a cute little smile, and said “You’re under arrest.” Then you fell asleep.’
‘Oh, Jeez.’
‘Don’t worry. You will probably have to do the same for me one day.’
She leaned back against the fridge, eating her yoghurt. She had a couple fewer studs in her face than she had the first night Magnus had met her. She was wearing black jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with an image of a wolf’s jaws. The microwave pinged and Magnus extracted his dinner, tipped it out on to a plate, and began to eat. ‘I don’t usually get that drunk.’
‘I really don’t mind. Just as long as you are careful where you throw up. And you clean it up afterwards.’
Magnus grimaced. ‘I will. I promise.’
Katrín examined him. ‘Are you really a policeman?’
‘Matter of fact I am.’
‘What are you doing in Iceland?’
‘Helping out.’
Katrín ate some more of her
skyr.
‘You see, the thing is, I don’t like my little brother spying on me.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Magnus. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not officially a signed-up member of the Reykjavík Metropolitan Police. I’m not going to tell anyone what you’re up to.’
‘Good,’ said Katrín. ‘I saw you going into Ingileif’s gallery yesterday.’
‘Do you know her?’
‘A bit. Is she suspected of something?’
‘I can’t really tell you that.’
‘Sorry. Just curious.’ She waved her spoon in the air. ‘I know! Is it Agnar’s murder?’
‘I really can’t say,’ Magnus said.
‘It is! A friend of mine went out with him when she was at university. I saw him the other day in a café, you know. The Café Paris. With Tómas Hákonarson.’
‘Who’s he?’ Magnus asked.
‘He has his own TV show.
The Point
it’s called. Gives politicians a hard time. He’s quite funny.’
They ate in silence for a minute. Magnus knew he should write the name down, but he was too tired, he couldn’t be both-ered.
‘What do you think of her?’ he asked.
Katrín put down the yoghurt and poured herself some orange juice. Magnus noticed that there was a tiny blob of
skyr
on the ring jutting out of her lip. ‘Ingileif? I like her. Her brother’s a bastard, though.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He won’t let me sing in his clubs any more, that’s why,’ said Katrín, anger in her voice. ‘He owns the hottest places in town. It’s not fair.’
‘Why did he ban you?’
‘I don’t know. I had some really successful gigs. It’s only because I missed a couple, that’s all.’
‘Ah.’ From what he had seen of Pétur he wasn’t surprised that he was tough on unreliable acts.
‘I like her, though.’
‘Ingileif?’
‘Yeah.’ Katrín lit up a cigarette and sat down opposite him. ‘I’ve even bought some of the stuff in her gallery. That vase, for instance.’
She pointed to a small twisted glass vase with a dirty wooden spoon in it. ‘Cost a bomb, but I kind of like it.’
‘Do you think she’s honest?’ Magnus asked.
‘Is that a cop talking?’
Magnus shrugged.
‘Yes, she is. People like her. Why? What’s she done?’
‘Nothing,’ Magnus said. ‘Do you know Lárus Thorvaldsson?’
‘The painter? Yes, a little. He’s a friend of Ingileif’s too.’
‘A good friend?’
‘Nothing serious. Lárus has lots of girls. You know where you are with him, if you see what I mean. No hassle.’
‘I think I do,’ said Magnus. It was pretty clear that Katrín knew him in much the same way Ingileif did.
Katrín looked at him closely. ‘Are you asking that as a cop, or do you have some other interest?’
Magnus put down his fork and rubbed his eyes. ‘I really don’t know.’ He picked up his empty plate, rinsed it off and stuck it in the dishwasher. ‘I need sleep. I’m going to bed.’
B
ALDUR SEEMED
TO have a new lease of energy at the morning meeting as he doled out tasks to his detectives. He passed on the report from the forensics lab about the mud on Steve Jubb’s shoes, and explained that they needed to widen their investigation. Speak to everyone they had interviewed one more time. Interview new people: anyone who might conceivably have seen another visitor to Agnar, the people who sold Agnar drugs, his students, his former girlfriends, his colleagues, his friends, his wife’s friends, neighbours, everyone.
There was some discussion with Rannveig about providing the British police with the paperwork they required to grant a search warrant for Jubb’s house and computer. The detective Baldur had sent to Yorkshire had spoken to Jubb’s neighbours. Jubb was a bit of a loner, often on the road with his lorry. His passion for
The Lord of the Rings
was well known. A former girlfriend, now married to someone else, said he was an intelligent man, obsessive, but not violent in the least. No help there, no leads.
Throughout all of this, Baldur did not look at Magnus once.
Until after the meeting, when he beckoned Magnus to follow him to his office. He slammed the door behind him.
‘I do
not
like being undercut!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that I don’t like you going to the Commissioner behind my back and telling him we should be sending people to California.’
‘He asked my opinion. I gave it to him,’ said Magnus.
‘This is exactly the wrong time to divert resources away from the main thrust of the investigation.’
‘When do I go?’ asked Magnus.
Baldur shook his head. ‘You’re not going. Árni is on his way. He left last night.’
‘Árni! Alone?’
‘Yes. I can’t afford to spare more than one detective.’
‘What about me?’
‘Oh, you are far too valuable,’ said Baldur, his voice laden with irony. ‘Besides, Árni has a degree from the States. And he speaks good English.’
‘And what should I do?’
‘You can look for a ring,’ Baldur said, smiling grimly. ‘That should keep you busy.’
As soon as he was back at his desk, Magnus called Árni. The young detective was at JFK, waiting for his connecting flight to San Francisco. Although it was very early morning in New York, Árni sounded wide awake. He was really excited. Magnus just managed to calm him down enough to suggest a line of questioning for Isildur. Threaten him with conspiracy to murder unless he explained what Steve Jubb was really doing in Reykjavík.
Árni seemed to take it in, although Magnus had little confidence in his ability to get Isildur to divulge anything he didn’t want to.
‘By the way,’ Magnus asked, ‘did you check out Birna and Pétur’s alibis yesterday?’
‘They’re good,’ said Árni. ‘I checked with Birna’s lover and the hotel in Kópavogur. I also spoke to the managers at Pétur’s three clubs. They all saw him on that night.’
Magnus wasn’t surprised. But he knew how important it was in an investigation to check and double check everything. ‘Well, good luck,’ he said.
‘Can I bring you back anything?’
‘No, Árni. Just a full confession from Lawrence Feldman.’
Magnus turned to his computer and logged on. He was convinced that Baldur was wrong to downplay the importance of Isildur or Lawrence Feldman or whoever the hell he was. He would continue looking for the ring, or a ring, and hope that Árni came back with something useful.
He checked his e-mails.
There was one from Colby.
Magnus
,
Last night one of your big ugly friends broke into my apartment and attacked me. He put a gun in my mouth and asked me where you were. I said you were in Sweden and he went away.
He scared the shit out of me.
I’m gone. They won’t find me. You won’t find me. No one knows where I am, not my family, not my friends, not the people at work, not the cops, and I’m definitely not telling you.
Magnus, you have screwed up my life and nearly gotten me killed.
Rot in hell wherever you are. And don’t ever EVER talk to me again.
C.
There was a short e-mail accompanying it.
Hello Magnus
,
Sorry about the delay in forwarding this – I was out of the office yesterday. I’m checking it out.
Agent Hendricks
Magnus stared at the screen. Emotions flooded over him, leaving him gasping for air. Drowning.
Anger at the scumbag who had done this to Colby. At Williams for not protecting her. At Colby herself for not understanding that it wasn’t his fault.
Anger with himself for letting it happen.
Guilt, because of course it
was
his fault.
Powerlessness, stuck in Reykjavík, thousands of miles away.
Guilt again, because in the last twenty-four hours he had thought very little about Colby, had almost forgotten her when she was in the greatest of danger.
He slammed his fist hard on his desk. There were only a couple of detectives in the room, but they both turned to stare.
At least Colby hadn’t said where he really was. Although at this point he didn’t care. At this point he thought of jumping on a plane to Boston, finding Pedro Soto personally and blowing him away. Why should he lurk cowering away in Iceland? He wasn’t a coward.
He tapped out an angry e-mail to Deputy Superintendent Williams, via Agent Hendricks, telling him what had happened and asking him where the hell the protection that he had promised Magnus was.
If the Boston PD couldn’t protect Colby, then Magnus would fly over and do it himself. It wasn’t as if he would be allowed to do anything useful in Iceland.
Ingileif waited in Mokka, toying with a latte. She liked the café, one of the oldest in Reykjavík, on the corner of Skólavördustígur and Laugavegur. Small, wood panelled and cosy, it was famous both for its waffles and for its clientele: artists, poets and novelists. The walls acted as a kind of rotating art exhibition for local artists, changing once a month. In March it had been her partner from the gallery’s turn.
There was a newspaper lying on the table, but she didn’t pick it
up. It had been a good afternoon – she had sold six vases worth several hundred thousand krónur. But she had also had an awkward conversation with one of her partners about the delay in payments due from Nordidea.
She hadn’t exactly lied, but she hadn’t exactly told the truth, either.
The whole business with the saga and Agnar’s death had made her think again about her father. She could clearly remember the last morning she saw him. He had been walking out of the house with his rucksack when he had paused, turned and kissed her goodbye. She could remember what he was wearing – his blue anorak, his new lightweight hiking boots. She could remember the smell of him, the mints he used to like to suck. She also remembered her feelings of irritation towards him because he had forbidden her to sleep over at her friend’s house the night before. She hadn’t really forgiven him that dreadful morning.