‘She looks upset,’ Krissi said.
‘I bet she is,’ said Aníta. She left the cakes and rushed outside, trotting over to the cottage through the rain. The dogs followed her.
Sylvía was a small, tough woman in her mid-eighties, with short grey hair. Her expression was usually one of disapproval, but for once she looked distressed. Aníta hurried over and put her arm around the old woman’s shoulders.
‘The policeman says I can’t see Hallgrímur,’ she said. ‘Where is he?’
‘I think he’s in the church, Sylvía.’
‘But he can’t be. There is no service there today. Besides, Hallgrímur never goes to church.’
‘Is that where you were, Sylvía?’ Aníta asked. ‘At church?’ In the last year or so Sylvía had started to go to church with increasing frequency. There was only one service a month at Bjarnarhöfn, given by the pastor at Helgafell, and she had started attending that. Now she often went into the new church at Stykkishólmur.
‘Yes, dear. Why won’t the policeman let me into my house?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Aníta.
The fat detective was waddling towards them from the church. Aníta beckoned to him. ‘Can my mother-in-law go in?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said the inspector. ‘It’s a crime scene. Can you take her over to the farmhouse? I want to have a word with her.’
‘How long will it be a crime scene?’ Aníta asked. ‘The church I can understand, but Sylvía lives here.’
‘We have to wait for forensics. It can be a slow old job. They might not release the cottage until tomorrow. She’ll probably have to sleep at the farmhouse tonight.’
‘Can she at least get her stuff? She’ll need things for the night.’
‘Yes, she can get those later. And in fact, I’d like her to check the cottage to make sure nothing is missing. But we must wait until forensics are set up here, OK? I’d also like to have a word with you in a few minutes. I need to understand a bit more about your family.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Aníta. She turned to her mother-in-law, who was dripping in the steady rain. ‘Come back to the farmhouse, Sylvía. Let’s get you dry. The policeman says you will have to stay with us tonight.’
‘Does he indeed? And Hallgrímur too?’
Oh, God, thought Aníta. She had been afraid that this would happen; half expected it, even. She suspected that her mother-inlaw was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. She was a stubborn old bird at the best of times. If she didn’t want to accept that Hallgrímur had been murdered, it would be difficult to persuade her. She glanced at the detective, who was watching the old woman closely. He seemed to understand what was going on.
‘I’m afraid Hallgrímur is dead, Sylvía,’ Aníta said as kindly as she could.
‘Nonsense, dear. I expect he has gone into town for something. He’ll be back soon.’
‘No, Sylvía. You need to understand. He’s been killed. In the church.’
‘But he doesn’t go to church,’ said Sylvía, confusion written all over her face. ‘I told you that.’
Aníta was suddenly aware of the large damp figure of Kolbeinn at her shoulder. He opened his arms, pulled his mother into his broad chest and rocked her, tears in his eyes.
Emil drove the twenty kilometres from Bjarnarhöfn to Stykkishólmur alone. He appreciated the time to think. And it would allow him to stop for five minutes for a hot dog at the petrol station on the edge of town.
Aníta had given him some useful background on Hallgrímur’s family. It was clear that he was a nasty old man; indeed, it seemed likely that he had been a nasty young man. He had also publicly rejected his grandson Magnus. He had been upset at the death of his alcoholic daughter and clearly hated Magnus’s father.
That wasn’t so unusual. Icelanders had lots of children, their extended families were big, and in any big Icelandic family there was always someone who made trouble. But that didn’t mean that they were murdered.
Dr Ingvar had speculated that a possible cause of the murder was someone banging Hallgrímur’s head repeatedly against the floor of the church. It was soft pine, but Hallgrímur was an old man: it wouldn’t take much to kill him. Blows to the head with a blunt instrument were still a possibility, but no likely blunt instruments had been found. All would be clearer at autopsy, which would take place in Reykjavík the following morning.
Magnus had discovered the body. It was beginning to look as if he had disrupted the crime scene intentionally. Edda, the head of the forensics team, would give Emil a much better idea of that in a few hours. It may well be that they would find enough forensic evidence to pin the crime on Magnus, but somehow Emil doubted it. Magnus had involved himself so thoroughly in the crime scene that it would be difficult to prove that he was anything but a thoughtless, blundering bystander.
No, Emil needed a motive. He needed to find out more about Sergeant Magnús Ragnarsson.
Emil had had a difficult time with Hallgrímur’s wife. She refused to accept her husband’s death. She had been to church at Stykkishólmur, and Hallgrímur had been fine when she had left, doing his Sudoku puzzles. He must have gone off to see a friend or to choir practice. After much cajoling from her son Kolbeinn, the three of them had checked the cottage. Sylvía didn’t seem to think that anything had been taken, but it was hard to be sure. There was a Sudoku book lying open on a table in the living room. Kolbeinn had checked the church: there was nothing missing from there either. So a surprised burglar, although not to be ruled out entirely, was looking unlikely.
Stykkishólmur police station was a modern white office block surrounded by car park, between the post office and the Bónus supermarket as you came into town. Half of the building was the magistrate’s offices, and the other half the police regional headquarters.
Chief Superintendent Rúnar was waiting for him. ‘Do you want to speak to Magnús now?’
‘No,’ said Emil. ‘Let me talk to his brother first.’
‘OK. But he doesn’t speak Icelandic,’ Rúnar said. ‘I’ve got an interpreter standing by.’
Emil raised his eyebrows. ‘All right.’
That was a pain in the arse. Emil was proud of his English, but in cases with foreign nationals where both the police officers and the witnesses spoke English, an interpreter was required for an official statement.
The interpreter was a young teacher from the primary school just down the road. He followed Emil and Constable Páll into the interview room where Ollie was waiting. The Stykkishólmur police had sensibly kept him away from his brother.
Ollie was a thin man with fine features, curly fair hair and a couple of days of stubble. He looked tense.
Emil smiled as he sat down. ‘Good afternoon, Ollie,’ he said in English. ‘Do you want some more coffee?’ He nodded to Ollie’s half-full Styrofoam cup.
Ollie shook his head. ‘No, but I’d like a smoke.’
‘Sorry, Ollie. Not allowed these days.’
Ollie’s fingers drifted to his coffee cup and he began to fiddle with it.
‘Since I understand you don’t speak Icelandic, we need an interpreter,’ Emil said. ‘I’ll ask the questions in Icelandic, and although I’ll probably understand your answers, we need it translated for the record.’ He nodded to a recorder. ‘This interview is being taped.’
‘OK,’ said Ollie, swallowing.
‘Can I confirm that your name is Ólafur Hallgrímur Ragnarsson?’ Emil switched to Icelandic, with the interpreter translating.
‘Er, no. At least not any more. It’s Oliver Hallgrimur Jonson. At least that’s what it says on my United States passport, and I don’t have an Icelandic one. My father was Ragnar Jónsson, but he found it too complicated that Magnus and me had different last names to him, so he figured we should all be Jonson. And I’ve always been happy to stick with that.’
‘I see. Date of birth?’
‘February second, 1978.’
‘Address?’
‘Five six one Stant
on Street, Medford, Massachusetts, USA.’
‘OK. And how long have you lived in America? You were born in Iceland, right?’
‘Yes, I was born here. In Reykjavík. I moved to the States when I was ten. That’s about twenty years ago. As you can see I’ve forgotten all my Icelandic. This is the first time I have been back.’
‘Really? And how long have you been in the country?’
‘I flew in Wednesday. Stayed with my brother in Reykjavík. I was due to fly back this afternoon, but I guess I’m going to miss my flight.’
‘Sorry about that.’ Emil smiled. ‘But I’m sure you can understand.’
‘I guess,’ said Ollie.
‘So where were you this morning at about ten-thirty?’
‘When my grandfather was killed? You don’t think I did it, do you?’
‘I have to ask the question, Ollie. Of you and everyone else.’
Ollie nodded. Swallowed. ‘I, er, I was at a place called Arnarstapi, something like that. It’s further along the peninsula. I was with Joe, Jóhannes. He wanted to show me a cliff walk there. And the glacier. It was pretty cool.’
‘I see. So it was a tourist excursion. Is Jóhannes a friend of yours?’
Ollie shook his head. ‘I only met him a couple of days ago. We were actually coming up here to talk to my grandfather. But we were too early on a Sunday morning to disturb him, so Jóhannes wanted to show me the sights. Then I called Grandpa to tell him we wanted to see him, and that’s when I heard he was dead.’
‘I see. Why did you hang up? And why didn’t you answer the phone when Páll here called you back?’
‘I was shocked. I didn’t know what to do. But when I thought about it a bit, I did call the police back.’
‘I see.’ Emil observed Ollie calmly. ‘Are you always this nervous?’
Ollie shrugged. ‘Sometimes.’
‘You don’t like talking to cops?’
Ollie laughed. ‘It depends on the circumstances.’
‘When we check your criminal record, what will we find?’ Emil asked.
Ollie smiled ruefully. ‘A couple of minor drug busts. Possession. I was questioned a couple years back about mortgage fraud, but they had nothing on me. They might keep records of that kind of thing, I don’t know. But I’m not an international master criminal.’
Emil laughed at Ollie’s attempt at humour. ‘So why, after twenty years, did you suddenly want to see your grandfather?’
Ollie took a deep breath. ‘That’s a very good question.’ He hesitated, drinking some of his coffee. ‘Neither Magnus nor I liked our grandfather. He gave us a real tough time at Bjarnarhöfn, especially me. That’s why I wanted to come here to be interviewed rather than there, the place still gives me the creeps. But after our father was murdered—’
Emil sat up. ‘Murdered? I heard he had died, but I didn’t know he was murdered.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ said Ollie. ‘In 1996. I was the one who discovered his body.’ He winced. ‘It was in a house we were renting on the South Shore. Of Boston. As you can imagine, it freaked me out. Freaked us both out. Magnus became obsessed with trying to figure out who did it. He was twenty, I guess, at college, but he nosed around asking questions. I figure that’s why he became a cop.’
‘And did they catch the murderer?’
‘No,’ Ollie said. ‘He’s still out there somewhere. And Magnus is still looking for him. Which is why I came to Iceland.’
‘You were here to help him?’
‘No. No, not at all. I was here to try to persuade him to stop. You see, he thinks there is a link between our grandfather and our father’s death, and since he’s been back in Iceland, he’s been asking questions.’
‘Was your grandfather in Boston when your father was killed?’
‘No. Magnus says he has never left Iceland. Doesn’t even have a passport. But there was another murder, here in Iceland, which had the same, what do you call it – MO?’
Emil nodded.
‘Yeah, MO. Some guy called Benedikt something or other. He was a famous author. He was killed in 1985 in Reykjavík.’
‘Benedikt Jóhannesson? I remember that,’ Emil said. ‘I helped out on that investigation.’
‘And you didn’t find the killer either, did you?’
‘No,’ said Emil. ‘Didn’t Benedikt come from up here somewhere?’
‘Exactly right. He lived at Hraun when he was a kid. The farm on the other side of the lava field from Bjarnarhöfn. He and my grandfather were neighbours when they were kids.’
‘OK,’ Emil said. ‘That’s a link, but a weak one.’
‘It gets stronger, at least according to Magnus,’ Ollie said. ‘Back to the MO. Benedikt was stabbed in the back once and twice in the chest by someone who was right-handed. Dad was killed in the exact same way. So Magnus thinks the two crimes must be linked. And he thinks the link must be Grandpa.’
‘But you don’t?’
‘I didn’t. I mean it could be a coincidence, right? I thought that this was just Magnus’s obsession and I wanted him to stop it. Anything that brings back that place does my head in. At first he listened, but then he said he was going to carry on regardless. So I came over here to try to persuade him not to. Which is where I met Joe.’
‘Jóhannes?’
‘Jóhannes Benediktsson. The schoolteacher. Benedikt was his father. In fact, Joe discovered his dead body as well. Back in 1985. Magnus turned him up from somewhere and we both met him last week. He has read all his father’s books many times, and he thought that they implied there was a feud between our two families, with Grandpa right in the middle of it. A feud going right back to the 1930s.
‘Magnus lapped this up, of course, but I was sceptical. But the more I thought of it, the more I thought Joe might have a point. So I went around to his house a couple of days ago and we talked about it. We figured we may as well go right up to Bjarnarhöfn and ask Grandpa straight. I could never have done that myself, I’m still scared of the guy, but with Joe I thought I could do it. So we drove up this morning.’
‘I see,’ said Emil. ‘But why go with Jóhannes? Why not with your brother?’
‘Well, that’s what I thought of doing first,’ said Ollie. ‘Naturally. But Magnus is kind of weird about all this stuff. And I’d have had to admit to him I had changed my mind. He’s a cop, and so he might have suddenly come over all official. So that didn’t work. But I suddenly thought, wait a minute, maybe I could come up here with Joe? And so here we are.’
‘And what was Magnús doing here?’
Ollie blew air through his cheeks. ‘I’ve no idea. He made some big arrests yesterday, to do with that tourist who got killed on the volcano. I didn’t see him. And we left early this morning, Joe and me.’
‘So he might have been seeing Hallgrímur for the same reason you were?’
‘He might,’ said Ollie. ‘I don’t know. Have you asked him?’
‘I will.’ Emil leaned forward. ‘Ollie? Do you think your brother could have killed your grandfather?’
‘No!’ said Ollie. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Magnus has devoted his whole life to finding murderers, not murdering other people.’
‘Maybe that’s what he was doing? He had found his murderer, the murderer of his father. And he was bringing him to justice?’
Ollie frowned. ‘No,’ he said, uncertainly. ‘No way. Not Magnus.’ He leaned backwards, folding his arms and shaking his head. ‘Uh uh.’
They sat there, detective and witness, for half a minute. Ollie maintained his pose of denial. Emil thought, his fingers caressing the wart on his neck.
‘Ollie?’ he said.
‘Yeah?’
‘What time did you leave Reykjavík this morning?’
‘About seven-thirty.’
‘It takes about two, maybe two and a half hours to get from Reykjavík to Bjarnarhöfn. If you didn’t want to disturb Hallgrímur on a Sunday morning, why did you leave
Reykjavík so early?’
Ollie frowned some more. ‘Er…’
Emil waited as Ollie floundered. Eventually he thought of something.
‘I don’t know. Joe just said he would pick me up at seven-thirty. It’s his country. I just did what I was told.’
‘I see,’ said Emil. ‘That will be all for now. Thanks for your cooperation.’ He nodded to Páll, who turned off the recorder. Páll and the interpreter would have the job of writing up a statement and then translating it into English for Ollie to sign.
‘Can I go now?’ Ollie asked. ‘I’ve missed my flight, but I’d like to go to Keflavík and try to get myself on another one.’
‘We’ll need you to hang around to sign the statement,’ Emil said in English. ‘And good luck with the airport. I saw pictures on the news and it looked like a zoo. Most of the flights have been cancelled and no one knows whether they are coming or going. But I think I would prefer you stayed in Stykkishólmur, at least for another day or so. In fact, I’ll take your passport. You are a material witness in a murder investigation.’ He held out his hand.
Reluctantly, Ollie reached into his jacket and handed his passport over.
CHAPTER SIX
EMIL STUDIED THE man in front of him.
Magnus was a different prospect to his brother. Taller, broader, tougher. Where Ollie had seemed nervous, Magnus now looked composed, fit and alert. His steady blue eyes returned Emil’s appraising glance.
‘I’ve just spoken to your brother,’ Emil said.
‘Is he here?’ Magnus asked.
‘Yes. But I can’t let you see him.’
‘I understand,’ said Magnus. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said he didn’t like your grandfather much. Apparently neither of you did.’
Magnus didn’t respond.
‘He told me about how you had spotted a connection between your father’s death and the murder of Benedikt Jóhannesson.’
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