‘The reason Steve Jubb killed Agnar.’
‘What do you mean?’
Magnus reported what he and Árni had found at the summer house and his subsequent interview with Ingileif. Baldur listened closely, his long face drawn, lips pursed.
‘Did you get this woman Ingileif ’s prints?’ Baldur asked.
‘No,’ said Magnus.
‘Well, bring her in and take them. We need to see if those are the missing set at the scene. And we should get this authenticated.’ He tapped the typescript in front of him.
He raised his fingers into a steeple and touched his chin. ‘So, this must be the deal they were discussing. But that still doesn’t explain why Agnar was killed. We know that Steve Jubb didn’t get a copy of the saga. We didn’t find it in his hotel room.’
‘He could have hidden it,’ Magnus said. ‘Or mailed it the next morning. To Lawrence Feldman.’
‘Possibly. The Central Post Office is just around the corner from the hotel. We can check if anyone remembers him. And if he sent it registered mail, there will be a record of it, as well as the address it was sent to.’
‘Or perhaps the deal went bad? They had a fight about the price.’
‘Until they had the original saga in their possession, Feldman and Jubb would want Agnar alive.’ Baldur sighed. ‘But we are getting somewhere. I’ll have another go with Steve Jubb. We’ll get him back from Litla Hraun tomorrow morning.’
‘May I join you?’ Magnus asked.
‘No,’ said Baldur, simply.
‘What about Lawrence Feldman in California?’ Magnus said. ‘It’s even more important to speak to him now.’ Magnus could feel Árni stiffening in anticipation behind him.
‘I said, I would think about it, and I will think about it,’ said Baldur.
‘Right,’ said Magnus, and he made for the door of Baldur’s office.
‘And Magnus,’ Baldur said.
‘What?’
‘You should have reported this before you saw Ingileif. I’m in charge of the investigation here.’
Magnus bristled, but he knew that Baldur was right. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
Árni went to fetch Ingileif and bring her in to the station to be fingerprinted. Magnus called Nathan Moritz, a colleague of Agnar’s at the university who had been interviewed earlier by the police. Moritz was at home, and Magnus asked him to come into the station to look at something. The professor sounded doubtful at first, but when Magnus mentioned it was an English translation of a lost saga about Gaukur and his brother Ísildur, Moritz said he would be right over.
Moritz was an American, a small man of about sixty with a neat pointed beard and messy grey hair. He spoke perfect Icelandic, which wasn’t surprising for a lecturer on the subject, and explained that he was on a two-year secondment to the University of Iceland from the University of Michigan. They slipped into English, when Magnus admitted that he was operating under a similar arrangement.
Magnus fetched him a coffee and they sat down in an interview room, the typescript from the summer house in front of Magnus. Moritz had brought his own exhibit, a big hardback book. He was so excited he could barely sit still, and he ignored his coffee.
‘Is that it?’ he said. ‘Gaukur’s Saga?’
‘We think so.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘It seems to be an English translation that Agnar made.’
‘So that’s what he was working on!’ Moritz said. ‘He was beavering away at something for the last few weeks. He claimed that he was commenting on a French translation of the Laxdaela Saga, but that sounded strange. I’ve known Agnar for years, worked with him on a couple of projects, and he was never one to bother himself unduly over deadlines.’ Moritz shook his head. ‘Gaukur’s Saga.’
‘I didn’t know it existed,’ said Magnus.
‘It doesn’t. Or at least we didn’t think it did. But it used to. Look.’
Moritz opened up the book in front of him. ‘This is a facsimile of the Book of Mödruvellir, from the fourteenth century, one of the most important collections of the sagas. There are eleven of them in all.’
Magnus walked around the table and stood behind Moritz’s shoulder. Moritz leafed through the book, each brown page a faithful copy of the vellum of the original manuscript. He paused at an empty page on which were written only a couple of faded lines. Indecipherable.
‘There is a big gap between Njáls Saga and Egils Saga. No one could read this line until the invention of ultra-violet light. Now they know what it says.’ Moritz quoted from memory. ‘“Insert here Gauks Saga Trandilssonar; I am told that Grímur Thorsteinsson Esq has a copy.”’ He turned to Magnus and smiled. ‘We knew that there once was a Gaukur’s Saga, but we thought it had been lost, like so many others. Gaukur is mentioned once, very briefly in Njáls Saga; that he was killed by Ásgrímur.’
‘When you read the saga, you will find out how,’ said Magnus with a smile, returning to his seat. The Book of Mödruvellir must have been the instance of the saga’s existence that Ingileif had mentioned.
‘The other place he crops up in is extraordinary,’ Moritz said. ‘There are some Viking runes in a tomb in Orkney, graffiti really, which were discovered in the nineteenth century. The runes claim that they were carved by the axe once owned by Gaukur Trandilsson of Iceland. So the man really did exist.’
Moritz looked at the sheaf of papers in front of Magnus.
‘And that’s the English translation? May I read it?’
‘Yes. Although you will have to use gloves and you will have to read it here. We need to give it to our forensics people before it can be copied.’
‘Do you know where the original is?’
‘Yes, I do. There are only scraps of the original vellum, but there’s an excellent seventeenth-century paper copy. We can show it to you tomorrow. Of course, we can’t be sure what we’ve found is genuine. We need you to authenticate it.’
‘With pleasure,’ said Moritz.
‘And keep this confidential. Don’t say a word to anyone.’
‘I understand. But don’t let your forensic people handle either document without my supervision.’
‘Of course,’ said Magnus. ‘If the saga is genuine, how much would it bring?’
‘It’s impossible to say,’ Moritz replied. ‘The last medieval manuscript on the market was sold by Sotheby’s in the nineteen sixties to a consortium of Icelandic banks. It had belonged to a British collector. Of course this time around the banks haven’t got any money, nor has the Icelandic government.’ He paused. ‘But for this? If it is authentic? There will be plenty of willing buyers outside Iceland. You’re talking millions of dollars.’
He shook his head. ‘Many millions.’
*
As Magnus returned to his desk, Árni was waiting for him, looking excited.
‘What is it? Did Ingileif’s fingerprints match?’
‘No. But I’ve heard back from Australia.’
‘The Elvish expert?’
Árni handed Magnus a printout of an e-mail.
Dear Detective Holm,
I have been able to translate most of the two messages you sent me. They are in Quenya, the most popular of Tolkien’s languages. The translations are as follows:
1. I am meeting Haraldsson tomorrow. Should I insist on seeing the story?
2. Saw Haraldsson. He has (??). He wanted much more money. 5 million. We need to talk.
Note – I could not find a translation for the word ‘kallisarvoinen’, which I have marked (??).
It has been a pleasure to find that my knowledge of Quenya has finally been of practical assistance to someone!
Kind Regards
Barry Fletcher
Senior Lecturer
School of Languages and Linguistics
University of New South Wales
‘Well, the first message is pretty clear. The second was sent at eleven p.m., the night of the murder, right?’ Magnus said.
&nb
sp; ‘That’s right. As soon as Jubb got back to the hotel having seen Agnar.’
‘No wonder he needed to talk, if he had just pushed a dead body into the lake.’
‘I wonder what the kallisar— whatever-it-is word means?’ Árni asked.
Magnus pondered it for a moment. ‘Manuscript? “He has the manuscript.” That would make sense.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Árni.
‘What do you mean?’
‘That doesn’t sound right to me. It sounds as if Agnar has something else. Something he wants more money for. That Jubb wants to speak to Isildur to discuss whether he should pay for it.’
Magnus sighed. His patience was running low. ‘Árni! We know Agnar died that night. This message explains he was holding out for a lot more money. So Jubb killed him and he needed to speak to the boss once he had done it. Simple. Happens in drug deals back home all the time. Now, let’s show this to Baldur. He’s going to want to discuss this with Jubb.’
Árni followed Magnus to Baldur’s office. It didn’t seem quite that simple to him, but Árni was used to being wrong on police matters. He had learned the important thing was not to make too much of a fuss over his mistakes, and not to let them get him down.
Vigdís drove up the winding road to Hruni. It had taken her nearly two hours to get there from Reykjavík; a long way to go just to tick off a name on a list. But Baldur had insisted that every appointment in Agnar’s diary should be investigated, and so now it was time to check the mysterious entry Hruni.
She passed two or three cars coming the other way, and then she rounded a bend and came upon the valley in which Hruni nestled. As Rannveig had said there was nothing there apart from a church and a rectory beneath a crag. And a view over the meadows to distant mountains.
The Sunday service must just have finished. There were three cars parked on the gravel apron in front of the church. Two of them drew away as Vigdís came to a stop. In front of the church two figures, one very large, one very small, were in deep discussion. The pastor of Hruni and one of his parishioners.
Vigdís hung back until the conversation had finished and the old lady, her cheeks flushed, hobbled rapidly to her small car and drove off.
The pastor turned towards Vigdís. He was a big block of a man, with a thick beard and dark hair flecked with grey. For a moment she felt a flash of fear at his sheer size and power, but she was re-assured by the clerical collar around his neck. Bushy eyebrows rose. Vigdís was used to that.
‘Vigdís Audarsdóttir, Reykjavík Metropolitan Police,’ she said.
‘Really?’ said the man in a deep voice.
Vigdís sighed and took out her identification. The pastor examined it carefully.
‘May I have a word with you?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ said the pastor. ‘Come into the house.’ He led Vigdís into the rectory through to a study cluttered with books and working papers. ‘Please sit down. Would you like a cup of coffee, my child?’
‘I’m not a child,’ said Vigdís. ‘I’m a police officer. But yes, thank you.’
She moved a pile of yellowing journals off the seat of a sofa and on to the floor. As she waited for the pastor to return, she examined his study. Open volumes sprawled over a large desk and books lined the walls. Any bare patches were adorned with old prints of various scenes from Icelandic history: a man on the back of a seal or a whale in the sea; a church tumbling down, no doubt Hruni itself; and three or four etchings of Mount Hekla erupting.
Through the window Vigdís could see the modern-day church of Hruni, red and white, spick and span, nestled among ancient gravestones and scrappy trees.
The pastor returned with two cups of coffee, and lowered himself into an old chintz armchair. It creaked with his weight. ‘Now, how can I help you, my dear?’ His voice was deep and he was smiling, but his eyes, deep-set and dark, challenged her.
‘We are investigating the death of Professor Agnar Haraldsson. He was murdered on Thursday.’
‘I read about it in the papers.’
‘We understand that Agnar visited Hruni quite recently.’ Vigdís checked her notes. ‘The twentieth. Last Monday. Did he come to see you?’
‘He did. It was in the afternoon, I think.’
‘Did you know Agnar?’
‘No, not at all. That was the first time I had met him.’
‘And what did he want to discuss with you?’
‘Saemundur the Learned.’
Vigdís recognized the name, although history had not been her strongest subject at school. Saemundur was a famous medieval historian and writer. Come to think of it, it was Saemundur who was on the back of the seal in the print on the wall of the study.
‘What about Saemundur the Learned?’
The pastor didn’t answer for a moment. His dark eyes assessed Vigdís. She began to feel uncomfortable. This wasn’t the usual discomfort she felt when Icelanders stared at her as a black woman, that she was used to. This was something else. She was beginning to wish that she had brought a colleague to accompany her.
But Vigdís had been glared at by all kinds of unsavoury characters before. She wasn’t going to let a mere priest disconcert her.
‘Do you believe in God, my child?’
Vigdís was surprised by the question, but was determined not to show it. ‘That has no relevance to this inquiry,’ she said. She didn’t want to cede control of the interview to this man.
The pastor chuckled. ‘I’m always amazed by how officials always avoid that simple question. It’s almost as if they are ashamed to admit they do. Or perhaps they are ashamed to admit they don’t. Which is it in your case?’
‘I’m a police officer. I am asking the questions,’ Vigdís said.
‘You’re right, it’s not directly relevant. But my next question is this. Do you believe in the devil, Vigdís?’
Despite herself, Vigdís answered. ‘No.’
‘That surprises me. I thought your people would be comfortable with the idea of the devil.’
‘I think if there is part of me that is superstitious, it’s the Icelandic half,’ said Vigdís.
The pastor laughed, a deep rich rumble. ‘That’s probably true. But it’s not superstition, or at least it’s more than that. The way people believe is different in Iceland than in other countries, it has to be. We can see good and evil, power and peace in the country-side all around us. Not just see it, we hear it, smell it, feel it. There is nothing quite like the beauty of the midday sun reflecting off a glacier, or the peace of a fjord at dawn. But as a people we have also experienced the terror of volcanic eruption and earthquake, the fear of becoming lost in a winter blizzard, the bleak emptiness of the lava deserts. You can smell the sulphur in this country.
‘Yet even in the most barren lava fields we notice those first little signs of life through the ice and the ash. The mosses nibbling at the lava, breaking it down into what will become fertile earth in a few millennia. This whole land is creation in progress.’
The pastor smiled. ‘God is right here.’ He paused. ‘And so is the devil.’
Despite herself, Vigdís was listening. The slow deep rumble of the pastor’s voice demanded her attention. But his eyes unsettled her. She felt a surge of panic, a sudden desire to bolt out of the study and run as far and as fast as she could. But she couldn’t move.
‘Saemundur understood the devil.’ The pastor nodded to the print on the wall. ‘As you know, he was taught by Satan at the School of Black Arts in Paris. According to legend, he tricked the devil on many occasions, once persuading him to change into the shape of a seal and carry him back from France to Iceland. Yet he was also Iceland’s first historian, perhaps its greatest historian. Although the work itself has been lost we know the saga writers used and admired his history of the Kings of Norway. A fine man. I have devoted my life to studying him.’
The pastor indicated a row of twenty or so thick exercise books on a shelf right next to the desk. ‘It’s a long, slow process. But
I have made some interesting discoveries. Professor Agnar wanted me to tell him about them.’
‘And did you?’ Vigdís managed to ask.
‘Of course not,’ said the pastor. ‘One day all this will be published, but that day is still many years away.’ He smiled. ‘But it was gratifying that at last a university professor recognized that a mere country priest could make a contribution to this nation’s scholarship. Saemundur himself was a priest at Oddi, not far from here.’
‘How long did this conversation take?’
‘Twenty minutes, not more.’
‘Did Agnar mention an Englishman named Steve Jubb to you?’
‘No.’
‘What about a woman named Ingileif Ásgrímsdóttir? She comes from Flúdir.’
‘Oh, yes, I know Ingileif,’ the pastor said. ‘A fine young woman. But no, the professor didn’t mention her. I didn’t know he knew her. I believe she studied Icelandic at the university, perhaps she was one of his students?’
Vigdís knew that there were one or two more questions she really should ask, but she was desperate to get out of there. ‘Thank you for your time,’ she said, getting to her feet.
‘Not at all,’ said the pastor. He stood up and held out his hand.
Before she could stop herself, Vigdís took it. The pastor held her hand tightly in both of his. ‘I would love to speak to you more about your beliefs, Vigdís.’ His voice was both calm and authoritative at the same time. ‘Up here at Hruni you can begin to understand God in a way that is impossible in the big city. I can see that you have an unusual background, but I can also see that you are an Icelander at heart, a true Icelander. It’s a long drive back to Reykjavík. Stay a while. Talk to me.’
His large hands were warm and strong, his voice was soothing and his eyes were commanding. Vigdís almost stayed.
Then summoning a strength of will from somewhere deep within herself, she pulled her hands away, turned and stumbled out of his house. She hurried to her car at just short of a run, started it and accelerated away from Hruni back towards Reykjavík, breaking the speed limit all the way.
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