Meltwater (Fire and Ice)

by Michael Ridpath

  Magnus had another beer in 46. It tasted good. When he had first arrived in Iceland the year before, he had obliterated long hours in the Grand Rokk, and he really felt like doing it again. He knew it was dangerous: he had had problems in the past in the States, especially right after his father had been murdered. His mother had died an alcoholic. And there was something about Reykjavík which welcomed heavy drinkers.

  A crowd of a dozen kids entered the bar at the beginning of their Friday night out, laughing and shouting, already well oiled. The bar was filling up rapidly. His mood contrasted sharply with the increasingly upbeat crowd, so he left. He grabbed a large hot dog on the walk home.

  There was a note waiting for him on the kitchen table. Hey Magnus. Gone to Faktory to see Katrín sing. Meet us there. Ollie

  Magnus certainly wasn’t in the mood for that. Although Katrín had a certain dramatic presence on stage, her voice was mediocre, and Magnus found it embarrassing to watch her. And even if she were Björk, Magnus wouldn’t want to go out to see her that evening, especially at Faktory, the bar that had taken over the site of the good old Grand Rokk. But he felt guilty that he hadn’t seen his brother since the previous lunchtime at the Culture House. He pulled out a pen and scribbled: Sorry, long frustrating day and I’m beat. See you tomorrow morning. M.

  But as he wrote it, Magnus knew he wouldn’t. He would be up early to go into the police station, and Ollie would be tucked up with Katrín. Ollie was supposed to be going back to the States on Sunday, volcano permitting. Magnus would have to find a way to spend time with him before then.

  He went up to his room, pulled out a half-full bottle of J&B and poured himself a drink. He thought about what Vigdís had said about Ingileif. She was right. She was dead right. He should tell Ingileif what he thought of their relationship, what he expected of her.

  He pulled out his phone and dialled her number. She didn’t pick up.

  Of course she didn’t. Good thing really, his thoughts weren’t coherent enough to have a serious conversation with her.

  He flopped back on his bed and stared at his wall. He had more to add to it after his conversation with Jóhannes Benediktsson the day before. More importantly, he needed to speak to the Commissioner about the similarities between Benedikt’s case and his own father’s death. But that would have to wait. Both he and the Commissioner had a busy few days ahead of them, what with Freeflow and the Church of Iceland.

  He undressed and crawled into bed. It had been good to talk to Vigdís. He liked her. Suddenly he was struck by a thought. What had she said? ‘There are plenty of other women in Iceland, you know?’ Was she coming on to him?

  He smiled at the idea. She was cute. Very cute.

  He imagined what she would do if he brought her back to his room. How she’d take the wall.

  Actually, she would take it very well. She understood him, she wouldn’t be surprised, she wouldn’t ridicule him. In fact she would be right in front of it asking him questions, shifting things around.

  His brain stopped whirling and he fell asleep, thinking of long black limbs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Saturday 17 April 2010

  THE OH-SO-FAMILIAR images shuffled in front of Erika’s eyes. She recognized every building, every vehicle, every figure as it jumped and danced under the fire of the Israeli soldiers. She knew the Hebrew words as spoken by the Israelis, she knew their chuckles, she knew every comma and period of the subtitles. Yet the video still moved her. The callousness of those doing the firing, the innocence of their victims, and in particular the bullets thudding into the body of Tamara Wilton, still shocked her.

  The three minutes were up, the credits rolled and her screen went black.

  She sat back. It was good. It was very good. It was the best thing that Freeflow had done.

  The bastards in that helicopter would pay. Their superiors who tried to pretend that what she had seen had never happened would pay. And perhaps the next time that the soldiers of a civilized nation decided to do something barbaric, they would think again.

  Perhaps. That was the best Freeflow could hope for.

  She leaned back. Everyone in the house was gathered around the computer. Their eyes switched from the screen to her.

  She closed her eyes. Opened them. And smiled.

  ‘We’re done,’ she said. Then she leaned forward and typed: okay apex we’re done.

  Franz and Dúddi whooped and gave each other high fives. Dieter grinned broadly. She leant over and hugged him. She hugged all of them.

  She glanced down at the words that had appeared on her screen.

  i’m not sure we are. i’m still not sure about the helicopter noise.

  She groaned and typed: enough, apex. just be quiet. and consider yourself hugged. Then she minimized the screen. ‘Well done, guys,’ she said. ‘That was really good work. I’m proud of you. The whole world should be proud of all of us.’

  ‘And so they will,’ said Viktor. He had arrived at the house an hour or so before. He wanted to be there at the end.

  ‘And thanks for all your help, Viktor,’ Erika said.

  ‘The Modern Media Initiative didn’t work quite like it should,’ said Viktor. ‘Once it’s on the statute books later this year, things will be better.’

  ‘Given what happened to Nico, I’d say it was very useful in protecting us,’ said Erika. ‘Anywhere else we would have been shut down while the police trampled all over us.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Viktor. The atmosphere in the house was deflated, as they were reminded of their former colleague. And in Viktor’s case, his niece.

  ‘So what happens now?’ asked Zivah, after a pause.

  ‘Dieter and Apex send the video out to our partners: the Washington Post, Reuters, the Guardian, Der Spiegel. And to Tamara’s sister. I fly out to Glasgow and we give the press conference tomorrow morning in London.’

  ‘That’s when we publish?’ Zivah asked.

  ‘That’s when we publish.’

  ‘And when do we get out?’ Zivah’s voice quivered. Erika had spoken to her at length the night before, tried to calm her down. She thought she had succeeded, at least partially.

  ‘As soon as flights open up,’ said Erika. ‘And I’ve no idea when that will be. Sorry, Zivah.’ Apex had refused a wholesale assault on Icelandair’s reservation system to grab seats for the three other foreign members of the team: Franz, Zivah and Dieter. Erika knew it was unfair, but now everything was done, she couldn’t wait to get out of the house herself.

  ‘You sure we don’t have to tell the cops I’m leaving the country now?’ Erika asked Viktor.

  ‘I’m sure they’d like to know. They won’t be expecting it with the ash cloud. Give me a call when you are boarding the plane, and I’ll inform them. But there’s nothing they can do to stop you.’

  ‘Thanks, Viktor. I know my flight’s not till two o’clock, Dúddi, but do you think we could leave earlier? Maybe go to the Blue Lagoon? I could use a long hot soak.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Dúddi, with a broad grin. ‘And don’t worry, guys, I’ll look after you until you can escape. We’ll go out tonight. You guys deserve a Saturday night in Reykjavík.’

  ‘Do you think it’s safe, Erika?’ asked Dieter.

  For a second Erika hesitated. But she was too tired to worry. ‘Of course it’s safe, Dieter. I’ve got to get to the airport somehow, and this Blue Lagoon thing will be full of tourists. I’ll be fine.’

  The conference room was full. The Commissioner was even present this time: the involvement of the late Bishop had raised the political stakes to the point where he had to keep himself informed. But Chief Superintendent Thorkell ran the meeting.

  Magnus started off going through new developments in the Nico Andreose investigation. The ruling out of some of the Canadian and Italian tourists, the introduction of a possible Dutch and Belgian angle through the Suzuki Vitara and Ásta’s to-do list. He mentioned for the first time that he had had a message from Apex which sugges
ted Dieter might be jealous of Nico.

  Edda presented some of the evidence from the Vitara found parked in Árbaer, the same one that had been rented for cash by the Dutchman. There were plenty of fingerprints, and they had made a match with one of the many sets in the church. They were still analysing fibres from the driver’s seat to see if they matched the single fibre found on the stone by the volcano. But they couldn’t get DNA samples to Sweden for analysis until the ash cloud died down.

  ‘The prints sound like a pretty conclusive link to me,’ said Magnus. ‘The assailant rented a car similar to that seen on the volcano, and was in the church the night Ásta died. Did you check for a Jaap Peters on the Icelandair flight on Sunday, Árni?’

  ‘Yes. No luck.’

  ‘But none of that explains the link with the Bishop,’ said Baldur.

  ‘Perhaps that was just another leak,’ said Magnus. ‘To add to the long list of people Freeflow has pissed off.’

  ‘Can you bring us up to date with your investigations into that?’ Thorkell asked Baldur.

  Baldur spoke for fifteen minutes. No one in the Church had admitted anything, but it was pretty clear that the late Bishop had done quite a lot of things that he shouldn’t have done to quite a lot of women. Magnus could see the Commissioner frowning. This was going to be a major political headache for him. Magnus hoped to God that he wouldn’t try to tell the police to look the other way. Nothing screwed up a murder investigation more than powerful people trying to shut down particular lines of inquiry, and succeeding.

  Except that in this case, Magnus had the feeling Ásta’s leak had nothing to do with her death. He tried to make the point, but Baldur was having none of it.

  As Magnus and Baldur left the meeting, a uniformed constable was waiting for them. ‘We’ve got someone to see you downstairs,’ he said. ‘A pastor.’

  Egill looked distinctly uncomfortable as they led him into an interview room.

  ‘Had a bad night’s sleep?’ asked Baldur.

  Egill nodded nervously.

  ‘What do you want to tell us?’

  Egill ran his fingers through his thinning hair. He looked at Magnus. ‘You remember that you asked me yesterday whether information given to a priest should remain confidential even if it relates to a crime, and I told you it should?’

  ‘Yes, I remember that,’ said Magnus.

  ‘It’s been a central tenet of all Christian sects for centuries, as I’m sure you are aware. The Catholics have the sanctity of the confessional, but the principles apply more widely.’

  ‘I see,’ said Magnus.

  ‘Well, this business with our former Bishop made me think overnight about the rights and wrongs of keeping quiet when you see something illegal – not that I know anything at all about him.’

  ‘No,’ said Magnus. Baldur was sitting in silence, although Magnus was sure he would have his own views on the matter. The important thing now was to let Egill talk, and Baldur knew it.

  Egill smiled. ‘Ironically, that was exactly what Ásta wanted to ask me about. Whether she should talk to you about what someone had told her.’

  ‘What did you say?

  ‘I advised her not to. Especially since the person who had spoken to her was doing so in the belief that because she was a priest the knowledge would go no further.’

  ‘Did she take your advice?’

  ‘She seemed to disagree with it. She wasn’t sure. Although she didn’t tell me she was going to, I am not at all surprised that she went into the church to pray for guidance.’

  Why the hell did you not tell us this yesterday? was what Magnus wanted to shout at the priest. But he didn’t. ‘How much did she tell you about this . . . individual?’ he asked calmly.

  ‘Very little. She told me very little on purpose. It sounded like this person had made some kind of confession to her.’

  ‘Did she give you any clue what about?’

  ‘No. Not at all. But she did say that the crime was a serious one.’

  ‘What about the sex of this person? Did Ásta use the words “he” or “she”?’ Baldur asked.

  ‘Good question,’ said Egill. He closed his eyes, trying to remember. ‘She said “he”. I’m sure she said “he” just once, as in, “He asked me for my assurance that I wouldn’t tell anyone.”’ He nodded, more firmly this time. ‘It was definitely a he.’

  ‘Was there any indication that this person might have been involved with the Church in any way?’ Baldur asked. ‘A fellow clergyman, perhaps?’

  ‘No,’ Egill replied firmly. ‘None at all.’

  They spent ten more minutes asking the same questions in different ways, but without getting any different answers. Both detectives refrained from yelling at their witness. Magnus badly wanted to, and he was sure Baldur felt the same way.

  ‘That bastard should have told us this right away,’ muttered Baldur as they left the interview room. ‘All this crap about confidentiality of the confession. What about “Thou shalt not kill”? And “Thou shalt help the police find the killer”?’

  Magnus sympathized. ‘I wonder who it was who confessed to Ásta?’ he said.

  ‘And what they confessed,’ said Baldur. ‘I’ll bet you it had something to do with that pervert the Bishop.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Magnus.

  ‘Baldur!’ Árni was approaching them along the corridor, looking flushed.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Baldur.

  ‘We’ve found the murder weapon. The candlestick.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Right next to Raudavatn.’ Raudavatn, or Red Water, was a tarn about a kilometre from the church in Grafarholt.

  ‘Things are beginning to move,’ said Baldur. ‘Are you coming, Magnús?’

  ‘No, I’ll stay here,’ said Magnus. He appreciated Baldur including him, but although things were moving he wanted to stop rushing around.

  He wanted to think.

  Once Baldur had gone, he too left the building and walked down towards the bay. The sky was clear and it was cold, with a gentle breeze blowing in off the water from the north. He crossed the busy Saebraut and walked a little way along the shore to the Viking ship sculpture. He sat down, hunched in his jacket against the cold, and stared out over the bay.

  The Snaefells Glacier way in the distance was hidden in its own little cloud, but Mount Esja was clear. Its upper reaches were daubed in a dribbling of white snow, and the cliffs below glowed a pale yellow in the low morning sunlight. A hundred and fifty kilometres over to the east, beyond the mountains, lurked Eyjafjallajökull, lobbing ash miles up into the sky and over towards northern Europe.

  There was no sign of it at all in Reykjavík. The air was fresh and clear and crisp.

  Magnus took a deep breath, and let his mind drift back to the case. There were so many lines of inquiry and they all pointed in different directions. He went back through them. The unknown assailant on the volcano; the black Suzuki Vitara rented to a non-existent Dutchman; Mikael Már and his French business associate; the Heathrow café receipt; the Gaza video and the Israelis it would annoy. Then there were all the other people Freeflow had antagonized: the Chinese; the Zimbabweans; the Belgians; the Italians; the German bank; the American college fraternities and God knew who else. Then there was Nico and his various betrayals, to his wife and to his mistress. Dieter’s supposed infatuation with Erika. The Italian, Israeli and Canadian tourists they had tracked down. And finally there was Ásta’s note about Dumont, and her threat to reveal a scandal at the Church of Iceland.

  The whole investigation hadn’t been a process of elimination; it had been a process of multiplication.

  But why had Ásta died? It seemed she had heard what amounted to a confession. From whom?

  It could, of course, be someone the police didn’t know about yet, a member of the Church of Iceland, perhaps. Much more likely, it was someone involved in Freeflow. The list wasn’t very long: Franz, Zivah, Dieter, Dúddi. Viktor perhaps.

  Or Erika
. Erika was interesting. She was right at the centre of all the betrayals.

  But she was the target. Erika was always the target.

  A pair of terns wheeled and dived a few yards ahead of Magnus, sleek and graceful.

  OK. So which of the Freeflow team could be linked to the tangle of leads that had emerged over the previous few days? A link that Ásta had possibly noticed.

  He stared out across the bay into the cool breeze.

  Then it came to him.

  He stood up and turned back to the office. The more he thought about it, the more sure he was. His steps quickened until he broke into a run.

  He burst into the Violent Crimes Unit and dived for his phone.

  ‘Magnús,’ Vigdís began. ‘Baldur wants to talk to you about the murder weapon—’

  Magnus held up his hand to silence her as he checked his notes for Mikael Már’s phone number. He dialled it.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Mikael Már, it’s Magnús from the Metropolitan Police. Do you have your friend Monsieur Joubert’s telephone number in France?’

  ‘Er, OK,’ said Mikael Már, clearly taken aback by the urgency in Magnus’s voice. ‘It’s right here. One moment.’

  He took less than twenty seconds to find it, but Magnus’s fingers were drumming. Vigdís and Árni stared at their boss.

  ‘Here it is.’ Mikael Már read out the digits and Magnus wrote them down.

  A moment later, Magnus was dialling France.

  ‘Joubert,’ said a voice.

  ‘Monsieur Joubert? Parlez-vous anglais?’ asked Magnus.

  ‘Yes, yes, I do,’ said the voice uncertainly, with a heavy French accent.

  ‘My name is Sergeant Magnus Jonson. I am with the Reykjavík Metropolitan Police and I would like to ask you one quick question. It’s about the man that you and Mikael Már spoke to on the Fimmvörduháls volcano last Monday.’ Magnus forced himself to speak slowly so that the Frenchman would understand him.

  ‘Ah, yes. Mikael Már told me there had been a murder at about the time we were there.’

  ‘That’s right. I believe the man you talked to spoke French?’