Sea of Stone

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘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

  THE 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, a
nd 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.

  There was no doubt that the right thing to do was to tell the police. But if she did that, Gabrielle would never forgive her. If Ingvar was guilty, that wouldn’t matter, but if he was innocent, which he probably was, it most certainly would. Maybe there was a way of informing the police anonymously? The police always used anonymous informants on TV. But that was in London or New York; she wasn’t sure her anonymity could be preserved successfully in somewhere as small as Stykkishólmur.

  She left the barn, the two dogs at her heels. She had lots to do, but she wanted to check how Grána was. She had left the mare earlier that morning sweating in the paddock on the other side of the farm close to Cumberland Bay. She crossed the yard. The forensics van was parked outside the burned-out cottage; a technician in overalls was taking photographs of the exterior of the building. A couple of hundred metres out in the lava field, along the dirt road approaching the farm, she saw a group of cars parked precariously along the verge and half a dozen people staring towards her, some with equipment, held back by a policeman and some tape.

  The press.

  She was glad the police had kept them off the farm; she really didn’t want to speak to them.

  Villi was in the yard, standing by the pickup, looking lost. He waved to her. She couldn’t help smiling when she saw him, and waved back a little too enthusiastically. She went over to him.

  ‘Do you know where the fence posts are? Kolbeinn needs a couple of new ones. They seem to have moved since the last time I saw them thirty years ago, which isn’t really surprising.’ He laughed his deep rumbling laugh.

  ‘Just in that shed behind the tarps,’ Aníta said, pointing behind him. ‘There’s a whole pile.’

  ‘I looked in there, but I must have missed them,’ said Villi. ‘Thanks.’ He moved up close to her, too close, and touched her arm. For a moment she met his warm brown eyes. Then she broke away from him and hurried off towards the horses’ paddock.

  Why had she done that? Smiled at him? Let him come so close? Why had he come so close? They had agreed to keep their distance. And until now Villi had done so. He hadn’t visited Iceland for four years.

  He was in his sixties, for God’s sake, and she was nearly fifty; this teenage flirtation was so stupid!

  Yet for three days, four years before, it had meant everything to her.

  It was August. Villi had just retired from the Canadian mining company that had employed him for twenty-five years, and had agreed to teach a semester at Reykjavík University. He had arranged to stay for a week at Bjarnarhöfn before term started. But, as he was driving there from the airport, Kolbeinn was taking their father in the other direction to hospital in Reykjavík for an emergency heart operation.

  Villi decided to stay one night at Bjarnarhöfn with Aníta and the children and his mother, and then go down to Reykjavík the following afternoon to see his father in hospital. Aníta had been pleased to see him; she had always liked him and his company made a nice change. His mother, as usual, had seemed almost indifferent.

  After lunch, Villi had asked if he could ride one of the horses up the fell. Aníta offered to come with him.

  It was a gorgeous August afternoon, warm with only the slightest of breezes. As their horses climbed the flank of the fell behind the farm, they could see for miles: the bluish grey mountains of the West Fjords on the other side of Breidafjördur, the extraordinary yellow, brown and green towers of volcanic rock thrown up around the Berserkjahraun, Swine Lake lapping against the cliffs of rumpled lava, and over to the east the scattered white buildings of Stykkishólmur.

  They talked. And talked. Aníta was very happy with her life on the farm, and her friends around Stykkishólmur. She had never regretted turning her back on the tumult of her life in Reykjavík, but she suddenly found herself craving the conversation of a wider world. Villi had a raft of fascinating stories to tell about his adventures with the mining company. And he was interested in her. Not in her life at the farm, but the time she had spent in Reykjavík, playing her flute, working in the record shop. She found herself talking about the series of unsuitable men who had invaded her life back then. Unsuitable, but interesting, dangerous even. She told Villi things she had never told Kolbeinn, both because he had never asked and because she had never wanted to.

  Villi was a lot like Kolbeinn: honest, dependable, strong. But he was smarter. And, amazingly, he seemed to understand her better.

  They arrived back at the farm to hear that Hallgrímur wouldn’t need to be operated on after all and would be returning to Bjarnarhöfn the following day, so Villi decided to stay on. The next morning, Aníta suggested another ride, with a picnic. Villi asked her to bring her flute. Sylvía ignored them.

  The weather held. They went further and higher than they had the previous day, to a sheep’s byre near the summit of the fell. Beside it was a grassy hollow with a view across the mountains to the peak of Snaefellsjökull itself. They sat and ate their sandwiches facing the beautiful white dome of snow with its tiny rock question mark right at the summit.

  Aníta played her flute. It was at least a year since she had last picked up the instrument, and it took a few minutes to warm up. But she played Telemann, her favourite composer, and was amazed how she could remember the notes. Villi sat and listened, smiling at her. His smile did something to her playing. Her heart sang in time to the music.

  Eventually she put down her flute. He reached over and kissed her. They made love, their naked skin chilled by the gentle breeze, but caressed by the sunshine. A pair of golden plovers peeped their support.

  Afterwards, as she lay in his arms, she ran her hands over his chest, so similar yet so different to Kolbeinn’s.

  ‘You know, I’ve never done that before,’ she said.

  ‘Of course you have,’ said Villi.

  ‘No, I mean had sex with another man. Since I married Kolbeinn.’

  Villi didn’t reply. He just stroked her hair.

  ‘You know it doesn’t feel wrong. Up here, it doesn’t feel wrong.’

  But it was wrong, and it certainly felt wrong when Kolbeinn returned with Hallgrímur the next day. Villi and Aníta did a really good job of treating each other naturally, with casual amiability. Aníta was certain Kolbeinn had not noticed anything. Sylvía? Who knew about Sylvía? She seemed to treat Villi with mild disapproval, but that was
no change from when he had first arrived. No one knew how much Sylvía saw of what went on around the farm. No one knew because Sylvía never told anyone anything. Secrets were safe with Sylvía.

  Aníta managed to get hold of Villi alone a couple of hours before he left. They walked down to the little church. She could see in his eyes that he sensed her emotions.

  ‘That was about the best afternoon of my life,’ Villi said.

  Despite her resolution to be stern with him, Aníta couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘But I know it shouldn’t happen again,’ Villi went on. ‘I understand that. I’ll keep my distance. It will be very difficult for me, but I will do it. I don’t want to ruin your life.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Aníta. She felt an urge to kiss him, but resisted it. Her fingers twitched with the desire to touch him, to hold his hand, but she clenched them. He did understand, she knew it. And she was relieved.

  To Kolbeinn’s dismay, Villi never came up to the farm again the whole time he was in Reykjavík, although Hallgrímur drove down to see him once, leaving Sylvía behind. It was easier, when Villi wasn’t around, not exactly to forget what had happened, Aníta could never do that, but to keep it in a compartment, somewhere way up there on the fell, where it could stay safely out of her life. She was appalled at herself for sleeping with her husband’s brother. But she knew she could never have betrayed him with anyone from the area. It was only because Villi came from a different country, a different continent, that she had been able to do it.

  Sometimes, Aníta took Grána up the hill to that spot to remember. But she had never played her flute since.

  She stood by the paddock and Grána trotted over to see her. The mare seemed much calmer, yet still relieved to see her mistress. Aníta whispered nothings in her ear and patted her neck.

  ‘Aníta!’

  She turned to see the fat detective waddling over towards her, with a shorter, younger man at his elbow.

  ‘Aníta, can we have a word?’