Sea of Stone

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘I’m signed up for two years,’ said Magnus. ‘How’s Soto?’

  ‘Pedro Soto’s still in Cedar Junction, and will be for a long time. The Dominicans up in Lawrence have gone quiet, at least for now. But it turns out Soto has a little brother with big ambitions, so that might change.’

  ‘Figures.’ You took one out and two more popped up in their place. That was the problem with the war on drugs. ‘They didn’t touch Colby, did they?’

  ‘No. She hid out in the woods somewhere for a month. Smart girl. She should be safe now. But you may want to watch your back while you’re over here. Soto’s kid brother could be into revenge. It’s not the same urgency as when they wanted to stop you testifying, but you never know.’

  You never knew. Revenge was as powerful a motive on the streets of Boston as it had been in the farms of the Snaefells Peninsula a thousand years ago.

  Or perhaps today.

  ‘You want to come back early?’ Williams said.

  ‘Is there room for me? I hear things are tight.’

  ‘You’re a good detective. We need more like you, so yeah, there’s room for you. Do you want me to haul your ass back here?’

  Magnus hesitated. It had felt good to walk back into the homicide unit, say hi to his buddies, watch the guys working the phones, listen to the banter. He felt more at home here than he realized.

  Yet he had given his word to Snorri. Did that matter much these days?

  Yes, it probably did.

  ‘Think about it,’ Williams said, watching his confusion. ‘How long you in Boston?’

  ‘Just a couple days.’

  ‘Well, give me a call before you head back. Maybe we can work something out.’

  As he walked out of the police headquarters into Schroeder Plaza, Magnus’s cheeks were bitten by the cold air and kissed by the gentle January sun. The sky was a brilliant winter blue, a blue that you never saw in Iceland. The piles of snow on the sidewalks were just beginning to fray at the edges. Magnus’s eyes were dazzled by the sun bouncing off the brilliant white. He should have brought his shades.

  There was no getting around it: the weather in Iceland was crap. When he had left Reykjavík, it was raining. And at this time of the morning it would still be dark.

  His head was pounding. They had drunk way too much for a Sunday night. Magnus had paced himself, but Stu had knocked back chaser after chaser. Magnus was staying with him and Donna at their little house in Braintree. She had not been impressed when they had shown up at midnight. Magnus had helped Donna put Stu to bed.

  ‘It’s just since Jason was shot,’ Donna had said. ‘He’s not normally like this. He blames himself.’

  I bet he does, thought Magnus. Good cops blamed themselves when bad things happened. You couldn’t help it.

  Magnus had slept badly; he knew he would. It wasn’t just the drink. He had shot and killed two men in his police career, neither of them innocent, both of them armed. In his waking moments, Magnus wished he had shot them more quickly. But when he was asleep… When he was asleep they died again in agonizing, tedious slow motion.

  He knew a little drug store in the Back Bay, near where he and Colby used to live. It was only a mile away. Magnus jumped into his rented car and drove over there, parking right outside. He recognized the clerk, but she didn’t recognize him as he bought some Tylenol. Rather than get right back into his car, he thought he’d take a short walk.

  He found himself strolling over to his old apartment building. Well, not his, Colby’s. A cop could never afford to live in the Back Bay, but Colby could, with her job as a legal counsel at a successful medical instrument company on Route 128. OK, so it wasn’t his, but he had lived there for a year. He stood on the sidewalk, remembering.

  There had been good memories.

  ‘Magnus?’

  He turned at the familiar voice. There she was, wearing her favourite coat and pulling a small suitcase behind her.

  Colby.

  ‘I thought you’d be at work?’

  She smiled and laughed. ‘Well, that’s nice. Wanted to make sure you missed me?’

  Magnus winced. ‘You weren’t real happy with me last time we spoke.’

  ‘You mean after I’d gotten shot at and you wanted to kidnap me and take me to Iceland?’

  ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘And then a psycho broke into this apartment and threatened me?’

  ‘Yes. And that.’

  ‘And I had to take off into the woods in Maine to make sure the psycho and his friends couldn’t find me?’

  ‘Well, there’s that as well.’ As well as the fact Magnus had refused to marry her. For most people, that would come down the list a bit, but nor for Colby.

  Colby laughed. ‘You’re right. I was furious. I’m still furious. But I’m also cold. Shall we grab a coffee at Starbucks? I’ll just drop this case in the lobby.’

  Magnus noticed she hadn’t invited him into her apartment. Their apartment. Her apartment. He was tempted to just say no, to walk away, but she seemed better disposed towards him than he expected. Also, he’d noticed a large sapphire ring on her left hand.

  ‘Sure,’ he said.

  The Back Bay was crawling with Starbucks, and they went to the closest, just a block away. ‘So why aren’t you at work?’ Magnus asked as they were standing in the line. ‘Playing hooky?’

  ‘I was supposed to be flying to Atlanta today, but the meeting just got cancelled, so I thought I’d drop my stuff back home before going back to the office. They won’t miss me for an hour or so. How about you? Have you moved back to Boston?’

  ‘Just here for a couple of days. Now I’m one of Reykjavík’s finest.’

  Colby laughed. ‘You must be so proud.’

  For a moment Magnus bristled, but Colby’s brown eyes were shining.

  ‘I am,’ he said. And in some ways that was true.

  They took their lattes over to a table. Colby asked him about life in Iceland. To Magnus’s surprise, she seemed genuinely interested. He had tried to take her there with him on several occasions, but she had refused, citing the bad weather. But it was clear she had been listening more attentively than he gave her credit for. She was a smart woman.

  She was also attractive. He had forgotten how attractive she was, especially when, like now, she was so animated, talking, smiling, teasing.

  The coffee was long finished when Magnus pushed his mug to one side. ‘I’d better be going. And you have a job to get to.’

  ‘It’s been great to see you,’ Colby said. ‘It would be a shame not to see you again before you go back. Are you around tonight?’

  ‘I was planning to spend that with my brother,’ Magnus said. ‘And I’m flying back tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Oh. OK,’ Colby said, leaving the invitation hanging there.

  ‘What would he think?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The guy who gave you that ring.’

  Colby glanced down at her fingers quickly and then put her left hand under the table. ‘Oh, that’s Richard. Richard Rubinstein. You remember him?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Magnus.

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Colby sighed. ‘I don’t think Richard and me is going to work out.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Magnus.

  ‘Yeah.’ Colby shrugged. Looked down at her coffee. Then glanced quickly up at Magnus through a strand of curly dark hair. ‘Do you want to take a look at the apartment? I’ve got some new curtains from Crate & Barrel. I think you’ll like them.’

  Magnus smiled. Thought. Then stopped thinking.

  ‘You know me. A sucker for new curtains.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Monday, 19 April 2010

  IT WAS CHAOS at Keflavík Airport. Vigdís had never seen it so full. The ash cloud was drifting back and forth across Northern Europe, occasionally opening up patches of airspace above Norway and Scotland. France, Germany, England and much of Central Europe was closed. Ironically, Keflavík itself remained open
, protected by the prevailing wind pushing the ash to the south. It was a nightmare for the airlines: their schedules were a mess and all their aircraft were in the wrong place. The Icelandic staff were answering questions patiently. This was the kind of crisis Icelanders were good at, thinking on their feet.

  Vigdís had checked Davíd’s flight on the Internet before setting off to the airport but there had been no information on its status. She joined a small crowd peering at a monitor, and picked out Davíd’s flight from New York.

  Cancelled.

  Vigdís felt her eyes sting. Her phone vibrated in her jeans pocket. A text.

  Flight delayed then cancelled. Shall I try again tomorrow? D.

  She texted back immediately: Yes. Please try again. I really want you to come.

  She pushed through the crowds back to her car. She was surprised at how disappointed she was. She liked Davíd, liked him a lot, but they were not that close. They hadn’t had the chance to be. That was the problem.

  Finally the right guy had come along, and she hadn’t been able to see him because of her stupid job and the stupid volcano. She liked her job, but she needed a personal life too. A relationship. Something.

  She drove back towards home. She considered dropping in on her mother, making sure she was awake and ready to go to her work in the café. But she couldn’t face it. There would be a row. She would feel even worse. Her mother would just have to look after herself.

  So, work it was. She picked up her phone and called the station. To her surprise, Árni answered.

  ‘You’re in early,’ she said. It was not yet eight o’clock.

  ‘There’s a lot to do,’ said Árni. ‘Has Davíd landed?’

  ‘Flight cancelled,’ said Vigdís. ‘I thought I’d come in and help you out.’

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ said Árni. ‘I know you were looking forward to seeing him.’

  Vigdís considered denying it. She wasn’t big on emotion at work, but Árni meant what he said, and she appreciated it.

  ‘Thanks. What’s happening with Magnús? They said on the radio a farmer had been murdered in the Stykkishólmur area, but they didn’t give any details.’

  ‘They’ve arrested him,’ said Árni.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’

  ‘The gossip is they’ve got a good case.’

  ‘Jesus. There’s no way he did it, you know that, Árni?’

  ‘Yeah, I know it. Hey, Vigdís?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Maybe you shouldn’t come in. I won’t tell Baldur your boyfriend hasn’t shown up. Maybe you should do some digging yourself? See if you can help Magnús.’

  Vigdís stared out at the open road cutting through the brown rubble of the lava field ahead of her. At least that would take her mind off Davíd. ‘Magnús told me pretty explicitly to back off,’ she said.

  ‘Of course he did,’ said Árni. ‘He’s a stubborn bastard. But you know what he would do if you or I were in a similar fix?’

  ‘I do.’ Vigdís smiled.

  ‘Tell you what. I’ll sneak out of here and meet you at Café Roma at nine-thirty. We’ll figure out how we can help him.’

  It was a cool, moist morning. Aníta walked her mare Grána through the farmyard past the singed cottage. The building looked intact, the roof seemed to have held, although the window frames of the living room and kitchen were blackened. A smell of wet, stale smoke seeped through the damp air.

  That was going to be one hell of a mess to clear up.

  She waved at the constable, cosy in his police car, sipping the cup of coffee she had brought him earlier.

  She touched Grána’s flanks and the mare speeded up to a tölt, the unique gait, a kind of smooth trot, of the Icelandic horse. Aníta wanted to get out of there, into the open.

  She was badly shaken. Hallgrímur’s murder. The fire. And then seeing Hallgrímur himself the night before.

  Like a lot of Icelanders, Aníta could see things. See people. Dead people. Ghosts.

  She wasn’t proud of it. In fact, it scared the hell out of her. It hadn’t at first. Her grandmother, her mother’s mother, had died suddenly when Aníta was one. Apparently her mother had been very ill in the first few months of Aníta’s life, and her amma had cared for the baby. And after she died, she cared for her granddaughter still.

  When Aníta’s parents caught their three-year-old daughter talking to someone invisible, at first they thought she had an imaginary friend. But it soon became clear that the little girl was conversing with her grandmother. They kept this knowledge within the family, and as Aníta grew older, the visits from her grandmother became rarer.

  Until one night when Aníta was twelve, her grandmother told her to warn her cousin Sindri not to go out on the fishing boat that day. Sindri was four years older than Aníta, a good-looking and popular boy in Stykkishólmur, and another one of Aníta’s amma’s grandchildren. So Aníta got up very early the next morning and rode her bike into town, down to the harbour where Sindri was preparing his friend’s father’s fishing boat to go out for the day. There was a brisk wind, and black clouds lurked on the western horizon, but then there were nearly always dark clouds lurking on the horizon.

  Sindri was joking with the men. He was a tall, strapping sixteen-year-old who looked to Aníta more like a man than a boy.

  He didn’t know about Aníta’s gift. What could she say to him? How could he possibly believe she was anything but a silly girl? What if the others went out on the boat, Sindri stayed behind, and nothing happened? She would feel so stupid. Humiliated. There is little a twelve-year-old girl fears more than extreme embarrassment. All the other kids would know, everyone would know. The teasing would unbearable.

  Also, although Aníta had no doubts that she was talking to her grandmother, she wasn’t sure that the old lady’s warning was based on reality. She was a bit of a worrier, Aníta’s grandmother, always fretting that she should be careful.

  So Aníta turned and pedalled back to her farm.

  Sure enough there was a storm. And Sindri was washed overboard.

  Aníta told no one of her grandmother’s warning, but the old lady was very angry with her. And the guilt was unbearable. She stopped eating, stopped doing her homework, her parents grew worried, but she never explained.

  As she grew up, Aníta kept her talent quiet. Every Icelandic town had its ‘seers’, and Stykkishólmur was no exception. Women who spoke to hidden people, men who could look into the future. Aníta had no intention of becoming one of their number. On the winter of her fourteenth birthday, her friends became obsessed with the Ouija board, but Aníta wanted nothing to do with it, even though they all assured her she would be certain to get through to ‘the other side’.

  Her grandmother appeared with much less frequency. There had been a couple of warnings, which Aníta now heeded, and a message for Sylvía. Aníta had told Kolbeinn of her skill, and Sylvía when necessary. Both of them had accepted it, and kept the knowledge to themselves.

  But last night was the first time Aníta had seen a ghost who was not her grandmother, and she didn’t like it. At all. She had no desire to see Hallgrímur ever again.

  The horses found it difficult to pick through the lava field, so Aníta rode along the edge of the Berserkjahraun, with the great lump of Bjarnarhöfn Fell rising above her. To her left, the clouds hovered above the tossing sea of lava and moss, frozen in cold anger. A raven hoisted itself into the air, croaking as it did so, soon to be joined by its mate. On the other side of the lava field, the farm of Hraun squatted on top of its knoll, and far in the distance she could see the holy bump in the landscape that was Helgafell.

  It was good to be out in the fresh air. There was plenty to worry about when she got back to the farm, Sylvía top of the list. Aníta had left her preparing to go out to see to the chickens, which was Sylvía’s normal early-morning routine. Sylvía was still remarkably strong for her age, unlike her husband whose energy had declined over the last few months. Perhaps Aníta had mad
e a mistake? Perhaps Sylvía would set alight the chicken shed, or rather the chicken shipping-container. The metal wouldn’t burn, but the straw would. Or even worse, she might return to the farmhouse and set fire to the kitchen. But Kolbeinn was out in the farmyard; he would notice if something went wrong.

  No, Aníta shouldn’t have left her mother-in-law alone. Sylvía was going to be a problem.

  Aníta noticed a figure ahead hunched on a stone a few metres in to the lava field. It was a woman, with her back to her. She was wearing a long skirt, and a headscarf. She was dressed like an old lady, but she didn’t look old.

  Grána drew nearer.

  ‘Hello?’ Aníta called.

  The woman turned. She had long plaited blonde hair, like Aníta. But she was quite a bit younger, probably in her mid-thirties, with clear features. She looked familiar to Aníta, but at first Aníta couldn’t place her. Tears streamed down the woman’s cheeks.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Aníta said, nudging Grána towards the edge of the lava field. The mare didn’t want to move.

  ‘It’s Jóhannes. He killed Jóhannes.’

  ‘Jóhannes?’ Aníta said. ‘Who is Jóhannes?’ But of course she knew.

  ‘Jóhannes from Hraun.’ The woman waved an arm vaguely in the direction of the farm on the other side of the Berserkjahraun.

  Aníta recognized the woman. She had seen her face staring out of photographs in Hallgrímur’s cottage. It was Marta: Hallgrímur’s mother, Gunnar’s wife, her husband’s grandmother.

  Aníta’s first instinct was to turn Grána around and bolt for home, but the woman didn’t look threatening. She just looked broken-hearted.

  ‘Who killed Jóhannes, Marta?’ Aníta asked.

  The woman didn’t seem to be surprised that Aníta knew who she was.

  ‘My husband,’ she said. ‘Gunnar. And I have to pretend that I don’t know what happened to him. All the neighbours go looking for him up in the mountains, when all the time he is at the bottom of Swine Lake! I know that and Gunnar knows that. But he still goes out with them.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Aníta. And it was true, she felt a burst of sympathy for this woman sitting a few metres away from her. A woman who had been dead for forty years. Aníta looked across the lava field to the farm of Hraun, standing proud on its knoll.