Sea of Stone

by Michael Ridpath

  He was still supposed to see out the term. And he was determined if there was one thing he did in the weeks left to him, it would be to bring the sagas alive to all of his students.

  He was reading ‘The Tale of Thorsteinn Staff-Struck’. The piece was off-syllabus, but so what? It was a short saga, less than a dozen pages, but it recounted the feud between two neighbouring farms, Sunnudal and Hof. Thorsteinn, the son of the farmer from Sunnudal, had been struck by the staff of a worker from Hof and had been reluctant to take any action in revenge. But Thorsteinn was goaded on by his old and blind father, and blood flowed.

  There was a fault line running between Sunnudal and Hof in the tenth century, just like there was between Hraun and Bjarnarhöfn in the twentieth. And probably the twenty-first.

  Jóhannes was coming to one of his favourite passages. He lowered his voice, combining menace with weakness as Thorsteinn’s aged father spoke these words to Thorsteinn: ‘I would rather lose you than have a coward for a son.’

  Was that what Hallgrímur’s father had said to Hallgrímur, he wondered? Indeed, Jóhannes remembered how as a child he had once asked his own father why people today didn’t take revenge as they used to in the sagas, and been told: ‘Sometimes they do.’

  Jóhannes was immensely proud of his father, whom he considered one of the greatest novelists Iceland had produced, certainly better than that rambling, self-important communist, Halldór Laxness. His father had shown him what was important in life: education, literature, truth, moral self-confidence. In his own novels, and in his response to the sagas they read together, Benedikt had recognized that there was a place for revenge, even in modern Iceland.

  Jóhannes realized that his pause for effect had become much more, and he looked up to see his class’s reaction.

  The children were transfixed. But standing listening with them, at the back of the classroom, was a very fat man wearing a baggy suit.

  Inspector Emil.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Jóhannes said, lacing the question with disapproval. He had worked hard to build the magic; an interruption would disperse it in seconds.

  The man pushed past the desks towards him. Jóhannes glared at him, raising his bushy white eyebrows. Jóhannes’s eyebrow-enhanced glares could stop a child dead in his tracks, and usually had the same effect on adults.

  But not this time.

  ‘Jóhannes, I would like you to come down to the police station with me.’ The combined intake of breath from the class was audible. ‘I have some questions I want to ask you about the murder of Hallgrímur Gunnarsson.’

  Adam and Páll made their way towards Páll’s patrol car parked outside Stykkishólmur police station. They were going to pick up Ollie at the small hotel near the harbour where he was staying. Adam’s phone rang.

  ‘Adam.’

  ‘It’s Aníta from Bjarnarhöfn. I have something I would like to discuss with you. I think it might be related to Hallgrímur’s murder.’

  Adam thought for a second. Ollie could stew in a cell for a bit. It would do him good, get him in the right frame of mind. But Adam wanted to be there when Ollie was picked up, see his reaction. Then he would go on to Bjarnarhöfn.

  ‘All right. I’ll be with you in an hour or so.’ He hung up and turned to the mustachioed constable. ‘Let’s go.’

  Ollie looked down over the cliff edge to a small beach. It was just around the headland from the harbour. A few boats were pulled up on the sand to the grass above the high-water mark. There was very little he remembered from his childhood in Stykkishólmur, but he had the feeling he had been in that exact spot before.

  It was amazing how little he recalled of his life before the age of ten. There were things at the farm that his conscious brain had tried to black out, but what was extraordinary was how good a job his unconscious had done of obliterating everything. He had been to school in the town, he’d had friends, but he could scarcely remember them. There was a tall, thin boy with buckteeth, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember his name. Maybe the two of them had stood on that cliff together twenty-odd years before.

  He clambered down the cliff path and perched on a rock a few feet away from the tiny waves nibbling at the sand.

  He was scared. So scared. And it was just getting worse.

  Uncle Villi just never left him alone. Wherever he went, whatever he did, Uncle Villi would pop up with his veiled threats. And Ollie believed the threats. There were a lot of dead bodies to back them up: Benedikt Jóhannesson, his own father, Afi.

  Ollie had the feeling that Uncle Villi was losing patience with him. And when that happened, Ollie would be added to the list.

  He couldn’t wait to get on that plane on Thursday. That is, if the police let him go. The police had to let him go by then, surely?

  Ollie felt the panic rise in him. Maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe Uncle Villi would get him first. He had to get out of this damn town somehow!

  Could he hire a car? Stykkishólmur was far too small to have an Avis or a Hertz, but there must be some guy in a gas station somewhere who would rent him a car. And then what? He could drive into the empty interior of Iceland where no one would find him.

  He wished Jóhannes was still around. He would know where to hide out, all the places from some damn saga. Who was that outlaw – Gretel the Strong? Something like that.

  His eyes fell on the boats. One of them, a twelve-foot skiff, had an outboard motor attached. Perhaps he could just get in that and head out over the Atlantic. The States were thousands of miles away. Greenland was too cold. How about Ireland? How far was Ireland? He had no idea.

  He was being ridiculous. He had puttered around the coast of Maine in a motorboat in the past, but he wouldn’t survive a night in an open boat in the North Atlantic.

  He hopped off his rock and climbed back up the cliff path. He wished he could talk to Magnus. This was the kind of situation where he really needed his older brother to help him out. Magnus would figure out something. But Magnus had his own problems. The police had taken him away, God knows where. He would be little use to Ollie.

  Besides, Ollie had a different fear when it came to Magnus. Not a physical fear, but a fear that his elder brother would one day find out what Ollie had really done.

  A short distance beyond the cliff top, Ollie was back in town. As he approached the hotel, he saw a large police four-wheel-drive draw up right outside. A uniformed officer with a big moustache accompanied by a smaller man in jacket and jeans jumped out and strode in through the entrance.

  It was clear they were coming for Ollie.

  Ollie halted and took a deep breath. Keep calm. Tell them nothing. Tell himself he had nothing to hide and then hide it.

  When Ollie had been interviewed before, the knowledge that the big schoolteacher was in the same building had helped calm him, and he had managed to keep quiet. But Jóhannes was gone now and Ollie was in much worse shape. His nerves were frayed. He could almost feel the fear and the panic mingling like an unhealthy fuel mixture deep inside him, combining, expanding, ready to explode.

  If the police hauled him back to the station he would tell them everything, he knew it, he could feel it.

  And that would be bad. That would be very bad indeed.

  Ollie turned on his heel and jogged back towards the cliff path. He scrambled down to the cove, which was still empty. He dragged the skiff down to the water and waded after it. Once it bobbed free of the sand, he jumped in.

  It was several years since he had piloted a motorboat, but the engine looked familiar. He pulled the cord. A cough and then nothing. He tugged again. Still nothing.

  He sat facing the engine, studying it, trying to remember. The shift lever was in neutral and the throttle on ‘start’. He recognized the primer bulb and squeezed it. He spotted a knob that was almost certainly the choke. Pulled it all the way out. Tugged at the cord.

  Success!

  He pointed the boat out into the fjord.

  ‘How are you doing, Magnus
?’

  Sibba examined her cousin, sitting across from her in the interview room at Number One House in Litla-Hraun. He had shaved and he looked clean. He seemed calm.

  ‘I’m OK, Sibba. I get time to think in here, which is good. Not much exercise, just one hour a day walking around a little yard. But the prison staff are pretty friendly.’

  ‘Do you need some more clothes? I can get some from your house if you like.’

  ‘Yeah. That would be good. Just jeans and T-shirts. And underwear.’ Magnus grinned. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘That’s what lawyers are for,’ said Sibba with a small grin. ‘Sorting underwear. I do it for the children; I can do it for you. No word from our friend Emil?’

  ‘No, nothing. He is letting me stew while he builds a case. He knows I’ll say nothing anyway.’

  ‘I’ve been in touch with Vigdís,’ Sibba said. ‘She has offered to help.’

  ‘I know. I told her not to,’ said Magnus.

  ‘Why?’ Sibba asked.

  Magnus hesitated, considering his answer. ‘She’s better off staying out of it. I don’t want to bring her down with me.’

  ‘She doesn’t care. I get the impression she would do almost anything for you.’

  ‘Precisely. Is Davíd here? Her boyfriend?’

  ‘No. His flight was cancelled again.’

  ‘Poor Vigdís.’

  Sibba nodded. ‘She did tell me that a detective called Jim Fearon from Duxbury called Árni a few days ago to say that he had some lab results for you.’

  Magnus leaned forward, and for the first time Sibba saw interest flickering in his eyes.

  ‘Really? Did he give them to Árni?’

  ‘No. Fearon insisted on talking to you directly. Then Árni called him back and said you were in jail. Fearon said in that case he would only release the results through official channels.’

  ‘Árni said what! Why did he do that?’

  Sibba shrugged. ‘I think he thought Fearon would be more likely to tell him the results.’

  ‘Idiot!’

  ‘I called Fearon myself. Said I was your lawyer. No dice. We only get the results the official way or not at all.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m not surprised. Fearon is actually retired, so he probably shouldn’t have seen the results himself. He will have gotten a buddy to request them for him. So now he’s trying to cover himself and his buddy.’

  ‘So the question is, should we go through official channels? I could tell Emil I knew the results existed. Then he could send an Interpol blue notice. The Duxbury police would probably release them. I’ve no idea how long it would take.’

  Magnus mulled it over.

  ‘Of course, as a defence lawyer I’m wary of asking for evidence when I don’t know where it will lead,’ Sibba said.

  ‘Meaning?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘Meaning will it incriminate you?’

  Magnus didn’t answer her, or at least didn’t answer that question. ‘Thinking about it, we don’t tell Emil, at least for now. I’d love to know what those results are, but don’t forget if the Icelandic police do get them they are not required to disclose them to us until the three weeks from my arrest are up. And I doubt very much that Emil would disclose them. So let’s wait a couple of weeks. Then maybe we tell him.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Sibba asked.

  Magnus nodded.

  ‘This is so frustrating, Magnus. Here I am supposed to be defending you, but you won’t give me anything to go on!’

  ‘I know,’ said Magnus. ‘And I’m sorry. But I’m not saying anything. Not to the police, and not even to you.’

  Aníta tightened the girth under Sól, the horse that Gabrielle liked to ride. She checked her watch: it was twenty past nine. Gabrielle was late, but then Gabrielle was always late. Aníta didn’t mind. She was nervous about the call she had just made to the police. She knew it was the right thing to tell them about the postcard of Sylvía’s she had found the night before. She wasn’t sure herself what it meant. That was part of why she had called them. She would rather they figured it out than her. She was afraid of what would emerge.

  She heard a car approaching along the dirt track to the farm and saw it was Gabrielle’s. The press had gone. It had been sensible after all to talk to them the day before; now they had no reason to hang around at the farm. She could tell from the morning paper that they were still interested in the case, but they were bugging the police in Stykkishólmur. Luckily the volcano had kept the story off the front page.

  Gabrielle pulled up close to the horses. Aníta was surprised to see that she wasn’t wearing her riding boots. Then she saw her face.

  Gabrielle was not happy.

  ‘Aníta!’ she said. ‘You told the police, didn’t you?’

  Aníta stepped away from Sól to face her sister-in-law. This was going to be difficult.

  ‘Yes. Yes I did, Gabrielle. And I’m sorry.’

  ‘What do you mean, you are sorry? I asked you not to tell anyone!’ Gabrielle looked over her shoulder towards the cottage where forensics technicians were still at work, and a police constable was reading the paper in his car. They were too far away to hear anything, but Gabrielle lowered her voice to an angry whisper anyway. ‘When I said, “Don’t tell Kolbeinn”, I didn’t mean, “Do tell the police”.’

  ‘I know. But the more I thought about it, the more I was sure it was important evidence. I had to tell them. And I asked them not to say where the information came from when they spoke to Ingvar. Did they tell him it was you?’

  ‘No. But whatever you may think about Ingvar, he’s no dummy. He knew it was me. And he was angry. I can’t say I blame him. I trusted you and you let me down.’

  ‘But if he’s innocent, it won’t matter.’

  ‘Of course he’s innocent, you fool! It turns out that Hallgrímur lost all the money that Ingvar made him. So there’s nothing! We’ll have to sell the flat in Paris after all.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry. Look, Gabrielle, I really am sorry. Do you want to come riding with me after all?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Gabrielle turned back to her car, muttering something in French.

  Aníta watched Gabrielle’s car speed out of the farmyard, scattering a couple of chickens on the way. One of the forensics technicians stopped and stared, then turned towards Aníta. The policeman had put his newspaper down to see what was going on.

  Aníta guessed that it was as much the fact that there was no money left as Aníta’s betrayal that had upset Gabrielle. Of course Gabrielle was correct; Aníta had been foolish to expect the police to keep the source of their information from someone as smart as Ingvar. But she still thought she had done the right thing. She just should have figured out a better way of doing it.

  And what about the postcard she had found? What trouble would that cause? More, probably. Well, that was their problem, the whole damned family’s, including Gabrielle.

  Aníta unsaddled Sól, but decided to take Grána out herself. Marta didn’t hold quite the terror that she had the day before. The woman in the lava field might be creepy, but she wouldn’t actually hurt Aníta.

  Sylvía emerged from the chicken shed and stared at her. Aníta waved, but the old woman’s expression didn’t change. Thank God Ingvar had finally promised to come and fetch his mother that afternoon.

  As she hoisted herself up on Grána, Aníta thought about the old woman and the postcard. She wasn’t surprised that Sylvía had hoarded it and not told anyone about it. There was a lot that Sylvía must have seen over the years that she hadn’t talked about. From when her own children were small. From when Magnus and Óli were staying at the farm. Other things that Aníta couldn’t even guess at.

  Aníta had noticed a change in Sylvía in recent years. A slow change. It had coincided with Sylvía beginning to attend church. She had always shown up for the occasional service at the little church at the bottom of the farm, but a couple of years before she had begun to go to the big church at Stykkishólmur, at first eve
ry couple of months or so, and then more frequently. Aníta also occasionally found her just sitting in the Bjarnarhöfn church, staring at the old altar painting, the one of the Last Supper that was supposed to have been given by grateful Dutch sailors who had been shipwrecked nearby. Was she praying? Or just thinking? Was there a difference? Aníta didn’t know.

  During that time Aníta got the impression that Sylvía was trying to become more involved in the family around her. She seemed a little less aloof. It was partly because of that that Aníta had decided to pass on the enigmatic message from her grandmother: ‘Open your eyes and see what is in front of you.’ Aníta had no idea what it meant, but Sylvía had. And she had taken it seriously, not doubting Aníta for a moment.

  Sylvía had known Aníta’s grandmother when she was alive. She had spoken very little about her, but she did say that she was always worth listening to. That she knew things.

  Aníta and Grána headed along the edge of the lava field. Which brought Aníta back to the warning she had received the night before. The instruction to leave Bjarnarhöfn first thing in the morning. It was already past that time.

  How could she ignore such an explicit warning? But on the other hand, how could she follow it? Kolbeinn was right: there was a barn full of pregnant ewes to think about.

  Aníta passed the point where she had seen Hallgrímur’s mother the previous day. There was nothing; just a pair of ravens wheeling among the twisted fingers of lava. It was a clear day and she could see over the Berserkjahraun to the farm of Hraun on its knoll. The family who had lived there for the last seventy years had had nothing against the inhabitants of Bjarnarhöfn, but the family before that? The family of Jóhannes, and Benedikt and the other Jóhannes?