Where the Shadows Lie

by Michael Ridpath

  There was some discussion with Rannveig about providing the British police with the paperwork they required to grant a search warrant for Jubb’s house and computer. The detective Baldur had sent to Yorkshire had spoken to Jubb’s neighbours. Jubb was a bit of a loner, often on the road with his lorry. His passion for The Lord of the Rings was well known. A former girlfriend, now married to someone else, said he was an intelligent man, obsessive, but not violent in the least. No help there, no leads.

  Throughout all of this, Baldur did not look at Magnus once.

  Until after the meeting, when he beckoned Magnus to follow him to his office. He slammed the door behind him.

  ‘I do not like being undercut!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that I don’t like you going to the Commissioner behind my back and telling him we should be sending people to California.’

  ‘He asked my opinion. I gave it to him,’ said Magnus.

  ‘This is exactly the wrong time to divert resources away from the main thrust of the investigation.’

  ‘When do I go?’ asked Magnus.

  Baldur shook his head. ‘You’re not going. Árni is on his way. He left last night.’

  ‘Árni! Alone?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t afford to spare more than one detective.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Oh, you are far too valuable,’ said Baldur, his voice laden with irony. ‘Besides, Árni has a degree from the States. And he speaks good English.’

  ‘And what should I do?’

  ‘You can look for a ring,’ Baldur said, smiling grimly. ‘That should keep you busy.’

  As soon as he was back at his desk, Magnus called Árni. The young detective was at JFK, waiting for his connecting flight to San Francisco. Although it was very early morning in New York, Árni sounded wide awake. He was really excited. Magnus just managed to calm him down enough to suggest a line of questioning for Isildur. Threaten him with conspiracy to murder unless he explained what Steve Jubb was really doing in Reykjavík.

  Árni seemed to take it in, although Magnus had little confidence in his ability to get Isildur to divulge anything he didn’t want to.

  ‘By the way,’ Magnus asked, ‘did you check out Birna and Pétur’s alibis yesterday?’

  ‘They’re good,’ said Árni. ‘I checked with Birna’s lover and the hotel in Kópavogur. I also spoke to the managers at Pétur’s three clubs. They all saw him on that night.’

  Magnus wasn’t surprised. But he knew how important it was in an investigation to check and double check everything. ‘Well, good luck,’ he said.

  ‘Can I bring you back anything?’

  ‘No, Árni. Just a full confession from Lawrence Feldman.’

  Magnus turned to his computer and logged on. He was convinced that Baldur was wrong to downplay the importance of Isildur or Lawrence Feldman or whoever the hell he was. He would continue looking for the ring, or a ring, and hope that Árni came back with something useful.

  He checked his e-mails.

  There was one from Colby.

  Magnus,

  Last night one of your big ugly friends broke into my apartment and attacked me. He put a gun in my mouth and asked me where you were. I said you were in Sweden and he went away.

  He scared the shit out of me.

  I’m gone. They won’t find me. You won’t find me. No one knows where I am, not my family, not my friends, not the people at work, not the cops, and I’m definitely not telling you.

  Magnus, you have screwed up my life and nearly gotten me killed.

  Rot in hell wherever you are. And don’t ever EVER talk to me again.

  C.

  There was a short e-mail accompanying it.

  Hello Magnus,

  Sorry about the delay in forwarding this – I was out of the office yesterday. I’m checking it out.

  Agent Hendricks

  Magnus stared at the screen. Emotions flooded over him, leaving him gasping for air. Drowning.

  Anger at the scumbag who had done this to Colby. At Williams for not protecting her. At Colby herself for not understanding that it wasn’t his fault.

  Anger with himself for letting it happen.

  Guilt, because of course it was his fault.

  Powerlessness, stuck in Reykjavík, thousands of miles away.

  Guilt again, because in the last twenty-four hours he had thought very little about Colby, had almost forgotten her when she was in the greatest of danger.

  He slammed his fist hard on his desk. There were only a couple of detectives in the room, but they both turned to stare.

  At least Colby hadn’t said where he really was. Although at this point he didn’t care. At this point he thought of jumping on a plane to Boston, finding Pedro Soto personally and blowing him away. Why should he lurk cowering away in Iceland? He wasn’t a coward.

  He tapped out an angry e-mail to Deputy Superintendent Williams, via Agent Hendricks, telling him what had happened and asking him where the hell the protection that he had promised Magnus was.

  If the Boston PD couldn’t protect Colby, then Magnus would fly over and do it himself. It wasn’t as if he would be allowed to do anything useful in Iceland.

  Ingileif waited in Mokka, toying with a latte. She liked the café, one of the oldest in Reykjavík, on the corner of Skólavördustígur and Laugavegur. Small, wood panelled and cosy, it was famous both for its waffles and for its clientele: artists, poets and novelists. The walls acted as a kind of rotating art exhibition for local artists, changing once a month. In March it had been her partner from the gallery’s turn.

  There was a newspaper lying on the table, but she didn’t pick it up. It had been a good afternoon – she had sold six vases worth several hundred thousand krónur. But she had also had an awkward conversation with one of her partners about the delay in payments due from Nordidea.

  She hadn’t exactly lied, but she hadn’t exactly told the truth, either.

  The whole business with the saga and Agnar’s death had made her think again about her father. She could clearly remember the last morning she saw him. He had been walking out of the house with his rucksack when he had paused, turned and kissed her goodbye. She could remember what he was wearing – his blue anorak, his new lightweight hiking boots. She could remember the smell of him, the mints he used to like to suck. She also remembered her feelings of irritation towards him because he had forbidden her to sleep over at her friend’s house the night before. She hadn’t really forgiven him that dreadful morning.

  There were all those questions now swirling around the death of Agnar, but there had been very few about her father. In Iceland, a man stumbling to his death in a snowstorm was an all too common occurrence, a feature of Icelandic life over the centuries.

  Perhaps there should have been more questions. Perhaps there should be more questions now.

  ‘Hi, Inga!’

  The other patrons of the café stared at the man who addressed her, but only for a couple of seconds, before returning to their conversations and their newspapers. Icelanders were proud of their ability to let famous people get on with their lives in public. Although of course there was only one truly famous Icelander, and that was Björk, but the people of Reykjavík let her go as she pleased in their town.

  ‘Tómas! How good to see you!’ She stood up and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘Hang on a moment,’ said the man. ‘Let me get myself a coffee. Do you want another?’

  Ingileif shook her head and her companion went up to the counter to order a double espresso. His features were very familiar to Ingileif: the round glasses, the buck teeth, the bulging cheeks, the thinning brushed-back mousy hair. Partly, it was true, this familiarity was from seeing him once a week on TV, but it was also the result of a childhood spent together.

  He returned to her table. ‘How’s things?’ he said. ‘I went into your gallery the other day. I missed you, but you have some lovely stuff. It must sell well.’
<
br />   ‘It does,’ said Ingileif.

  ‘But?’ Tómas had noticed the doubt in her voice. He was perceptive like that.

  ‘Too well,’ Ingileif admitted. ‘Our biggest customer went bust last month and they owe us a lot of money.’

  ‘And the bank isn’t being much help?’

  ‘You’re right there. A couple of years ago they were throwing money at us, and now they can’t get it back fast enough. They gave us one of those foreign currency loans that just keeps on growing.’

  ‘Well, good luck with that,’ said Tómas. ‘I’m sure you will thrive.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Ingileif smiled. ‘How about you? Your show seems to be going very well. I love the way you skewered the British Ambassador last week.’

  Tómas smiled broadly, his cheeks bunching up like a squirrel’s. ‘He deserved it. I mean, using anti-terrorist legislation to grab our country’s biggest bank. It was bullying, pure and simple. How would the British like it if the Americans did the same thing to them?’

  ‘And that banker the week before. The one who paid himself a four-million-dollar bonus three months before his bank went bust.’

  ‘At least he had the grace to come back to Iceland to face the music,’ Tómas said. ‘But that’s the problem, you see. I won’t get any more bankers on the show for a while, or ambassadors for that matter. I have to tread a fine line between being disrespectful to please the viewers and not being too aggressive so that I scare the guests away.’

  He sipped his espresso. Fame suited him, Ingileif thought. She had always liked him, he had a warm approachable sense of humour, but he used to be a bit shy, lacking in self-confidence. Now he was a household name, some of that shyness had disappeared. Not all of it though. That remained part of his charm.

  ‘You heard about Agnar Haraldsson?’ Tómas asked, peering at Ingileif closely through his glasses.

  ‘Yes,’ she said simply.

  ‘I remember you and he had a bit of a thing going.’

  ‘We did,’ Ingileif admitted. ‘Big mistake. Actually, it was probably only a little mistake, but a mistake none the less.’

  ‘It must have been a bit of a shock? His death. I mean I was shocked and I scarcely knew the guy.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ingileif, her voice suddenly hoarse. ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘Have the police been in touch?’

  ‘Why should they be?’ Ingileif asked. She could feel herself reddening.

  ‘It’s a big case. A big investigation. They have, haven’t they?’

  Ingileif nodded.

  ‘Are they getting anywhere? Hasn’t there been an arrest?’

  ‘Yes. An Englishman. They think he was involved in some dodgy deal with Agnar. But I don’t think they have much evidence to prove it.’

  ‘Had you seen him recently?’

  Ingileif nodded again. Then when she saw Tómas’s raised eyebrows, she protested. ‘No, not that. He’s married, and he’s sleazy. I have better taste than that.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Tómas. ‘You’re way out of his league.’

  ‘That’s so kind of you to say,’ said Ingileif with mock politeness.

  ‘So what were you talking to him about?’

  For a second Ingileif considered telling Tómas all about the saga. It would all come out in the open soon anyway, and Tómas was such an old friend. But only for a second. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘I’m curious. It’s been all over the papers.’

  ‘It’s not for your show, is it?’

  ‘Good God, no.’ Tómas saw his denial wasn’t strong enough. ‘I promise. Look, I’m sorry if I have been too direct with my questions. It’s become a habit.’

  ‘It must have,’ said Ingileif. Tómas had always had the ability to get people to confide in him. He seemed harmless and he seemed interested. But something told Ingileif to be careful. ‘Just a social call,’ she said. ‘Like this.’

  Tómas smiled. ‘Look, I have to go. I’m having a party on Saturday, do you want to come?’

  ‘Will it be as wild as your parties used to be?’ Ingileif said.

  ‘Wilder. Here, let me give you the address. I moved a few months ago.’ And he took out a business card emblazoned with the logo of RUV, the state broadcaster, and wrote down his home address, somewhere on Thingholtsstraeti.

  As he left the café, drawing one or two surreptitious stares after him from the customers, Ingileif couldn’t help asking herself a simple question.

  What the hell was all that about?

  Vigdís accepted the cup of coffee and began to sip it. It was her fifth of the day. Interviewing people in Iceland always involved lots of drinking coffee.

  The woman opposite her was in her late thirties, wearing jeans and a blue sweater. She had an intelligent face and a friendly smile. They were sitting in a handsome house in Vesturbaer, a smart area of Reykjavík just to the west of the city centre. The family Range Rover blocked the view to the quiet street outside.

  ‘I’m sorry to take more of your time, Helena,’ Vigdís began. ‘I know you have answered plenty of questions from my colleagues. But I would like to go through everything that you can remember from the day of the murder, and the couple of days before. Any tiny little detail.’

  It was Helena and her family who had been staying in one of the other summer houses on the shore of Lake Thingvellir and whose children had found Agnar’s body. After speaking to Helena, Vigdís planned to visit her husband in the office of his insurance company on Borgartún.

  ‘By all means. I’m not sure there is much else I can tell you.’

  But Helena frowned as she finished the sentence. Vigdís noticed it.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Um … It’s nothing. It’s not important.’

  Vigdís smiled, coaxing. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ she said. She showed Helena the pages of her notebook, covered with neat handwriting. ‘This book is filled with unimportant stuff. But just a little of it will turn out to be very important.’

  ‘My husband didn’t think we should mention it.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Vigdís.

  Helena smiled. ‘Oh, well, you decide. Our five-year-old daughter, Sara Rós, told us this story at breakfast yesterday. My husband is convinced it’s a dream.’

  ‘What was the story?’ asked Vigdís.

  ‘She says that she saw two men playing in the lake at night.’

  ‘Lake Thingvellir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That sounds interesting.’

  ‘The thing is Sara Rós makes up stories. Sometimes it’s to get attention. Sometimes it’s just for fun.’

  ‘I see. Well, I think I should speak to her. With your permission, of course.’

  ‘All right. As long as you bear in mind that she might have made the whole thing up. You’ll have to wait until she gets back from kindergarten.’

  ‘No,’ said Vigdís. ‘I think we had better talk to her now.’

  The kindergarten that Helena’s daughter attended was only a few hundred metres away. The principal grudgingly gave up her office to Vigdís and Helena and went to fetch the girl.

  She was a typical Icelandic five-year-old. Bright blue eyes, pink cheeks and curly hair that was so blonde it was almost white.

  Her face lit up when she saw her mother and she curled up next to her on the sofa in the principal’s office.

  ‘Hello,’ said Vigdís. ‘My name is Vigdís and I am a police officer.’

  ‘You don’t look like a policeman,’ said Sara Rós.

  ‘That’s because I am a detective. I don’t wear a uniform.’

  ‘Do you come from Africa?’

  ‘Sara Rós!’ her mother interjected.

  Vigdís smiled. ‘No. I come from Keflavík.’

  The little girl laughed. ‘That’s not in Africa. That’s where the airport is when we go on holiday.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Vigdís. ‘Now, your mummy said you saw something last week at your summer house
by the lake. Can you tell me about it?’

  ‘My daddy says that I am making it up. He doesn’t believe me.’

  ‘I believe you,’ said Vigdís.

  ‘How can you believe me when you haven’t heard what I am going to say?’

  Vigdís smiled. ‘Good point. I tell you what. You tell me the story, and I’ll tell you whether I believe you or not at the end.’

  The girl glanced at her mother, who nodded. ‘I woke up and it was the middle of the night. I wanted to go to the toilet. When I came back I looked out of my window and I saw two men playing in the lake just outside the professor’s house. They were splashing about a bit. Then one of them got tired and fell asleep.’

  ‘Were they both splashing?’

  ‘Hm,’ said the little girl, thinking hard. ‘No they weren’t. One of them was splashing and the other one was all floppy.’

  ‘And did the man fall asleep in the water, or on the lake shore?’

  ‘In the water.’

  ‘I see. What did the other man do?’

  ‘He got out of the lake and then he got in his car and he drove away.’

  ‘Did you see what the man looked like?’

  ‘Of course not, silly. It was dark! But I think he had his clothes on, not a swimming costume.’

  ‘What about the car? Did you see the colour of the car?’

  The girl giggled. ‘I said it was dark. It was night time. You can’t see colours in the dark.’

  ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘Yes, I am quite sure. And I know it’s true because I saw the man asleep in the lake the next day when Jón and me went down there to play. Except then he was dead.’ The little girl went quiet.

  ‘Did you tell anyone about this?’ Vigdís asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because nobody asked me.’ She looked straight at Vigdís with her bright blue eyes. ‘Well, I told you my story. Do you believe me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Vigdís. ‘Yes, I do.’