‘I suppose not.’
‘Well,’ Hallgrímur said. ‘When you get to Reykjavík, remember what I told you.’ He glanced at Hildur, who looked away. ‘In the church, when we were kids. Do you remember?’
‘I remember,’ said Benedikt. ‘I remember very well.’
‘And you will keep your word?’
‘I always keep my word.’
‘Good,’ said Hallgrímur. He kicked his horse on.
‘Oh, Halli,’ said Benedikt.
Hallgrímur paused. ‘Yes?’
‘Do you remember what I said in the church?’
Hallgrímur frowned. ‘No. No, I don’t.’
Benedikt smiled and went back to his scything.
Hallgrímur hesitated and then rode off. Hildur approached her brother. ‘What was all that about?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘Was it something to do with Dad?’
‘Really, Hildur, you don’t want to know.’
Hildur did want to know, but she knew there was no point in pushing her brother. He was stubborn in his own way.
‘I’m glad that boy won’t be our neighbour any more,’ she said.
‘So am I,’ said Benedikt. ‘So am I.’
Sunday, 20 September 2009
Magnus put the cup of coffee down on the nightstand inches from Ingileif’s head and climbed into bed beside her. As he sipped from his own mug, he studied her back. Her fair hair was spread over the pillow and her shoulders were moving up and down in a tiny shallow rhythm. She had a cluster of faded freckles above one shoulder blade that formed the shape of a crescent – he had never noticed them before. He felt an urge to lean over and run his hand down her spine, but he didn’t want to disturb her.
He smiled. He was lucky to wake up next to someone like her.
As though she could feel his eyes upon her, Ingileif stiffened, grunted and rolled over, blinking.
‘What time is it?’ she said.
‘Just after nine.’
‘That’s a bit early for a Sunday, isn’t it?’
‘I need to get going soon. I’ve got to go back up to Grundarfjördur.’
Ingileif sat up, her back against the pillow, and sipped her coffee. ‘Again?’
‘Now we know Harpa saw Óskar in London over the summer it’s all the more important to check up on her boyfriend. If he’s there. I’ll call the police up there to make sure he’s at home before I set off.’
‘Can I come? We could go for a walk afterwards. I could see Bjarnarhöfn, if only from a distance. Or we could go talk to Unnur about Benedikt Jóhannesson. If you want to, of course.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Magnus.
‘Oh, come on. You supported me last spring when I was trying to come to terms with what I learned about my father’s death. I’d like to do the same for you.’
The idea of going anywhere near Bjarnarhöfn again didn’t thrill Magnus. Ingileif may be right, perhaps it would be more bearable if she accompanied him.
‘You have to promise to leave me alone to interview Björn.’
‘I promise.’
Magnus smiled. ‘All right. Let me check with the Grundarfjördur police and then we’ll go.’
The sun was shining out of a pale blue sky as they drove north. Ingileif put a Beethoven symphony on the car’s CD system, great music for driving through the Icelandic countryside, she said. She was right. Magnus had little knowledge of classical music, but Ingileif was a good guide.
Páll, the constable in Grundarfjördur, had confirmed that although there were no lights on in the house, Björn’s motorbike was in his driveway as was his pickup truck. Magnus asked the constable to keep a discreet watch on the house until he got there. If Björn left home, Magnus wanted to know where he was going.
As they descended the north side of the mountain pass down towards Breidafjördur, Magnus pointed out the Berserkjahraun and Bjarnarhöfn.
‘Is that a little church there, down by the sea?’ Ingileif asked.
‘Yes. It’s tiny,’ Magnus said. ‘Not much more than a hut.’
‘It’s cute. And why is it called Bjarnarhöfn?’
‘It’s named for Björn the Easterner,’ Magnus said. ‘The son of Ketill Flat Nose, and the first settler in the area.’
‘I remember,’ said Ingileif. ‘But it’s a long time since I’ve read the Saga of the People of Eyri.’
Ingileif had studied Icelandic Literature at university, and knew the sagas almost as well as Magnus. ‘And this is where the Swedish berserkers cut their path?’
‘Yes. You can still see the cairn where they were buried.’
‘Cool. Let’s stop there on the way back.’
‘Maybe,’ said Magnus.
Ingileif detected the note of caution in his voice. ‘Does your grandfather still live at the farm?’
‘He does. My uncle Kolbeinn farms the place now, but my cousin said that Grandpa still lives there with Grandma.’
‘And you don’t want to bump into him?’
‘No. I don’t.’
They drove on to Grundarfjördur. Magnus pulled over on the shore of the sheltered fjord a kilometre outside town and called Constable Páll. The sun glimmered off the quiet grey waters of the sheltered fjord.
Páll answered on the first ring. Apparently Björn had driven his pickup truck down to the harbour, and was working on a boat down there. Magnus drove through town and pulled up outside the police station, which was only a few metres away from the harbour. Páll was waiting for him, in uniform.
Magnus introduced Ingileif. ‘I’ll just go for a walk around town,’ she said. ‘Give me a call when you’ve finished.’
Magnus was glad to have the constable with him. He was still in a legal limbo-land, since he hadn’t yet graduated from the police college, and he wanted Páll to take notes. If Björn gave them any useful evidence, he didn’t want it questioned by a defence lawyer.
Páll was very happy to oblige.
There were a few boats of various sizes in the harbour. For a small town it had some serious fishing industry – several large buildings for processing the fish, a market, storage sheds and numerous empty pallets guarded by fork-lift trucks.
And the whole thing was watched over by the tower of rock that was Kirkjufell. In Iceland it was difficult to believe that such features were just random movements of geology. Icelandic mountains had personality and purpose. This church of rock completely overshadowed the white building with the little cross on a hill above the town. It was as if it provided the town’s inhabitants with not just physical shelter but spiritual strength as well.
Páll led Magnus towards a fishing boat tied up against the quay, Bolli. ‘Hello, Siggi!’ he shouted. ‘May I come on board?’
Two men in thick sweaters poked their heads out of the cabin. One was an overweight balding forty-five, the other was lean and in his early thirties.
Björn, no doubt.
Páll greeted the older man and asked if they could have a word with Björn. Björn stepped off the boat and joined them on the quay. ‘A new navigation system,’ Björn said. ‘I was just helping Siggi install it, but it keeps crashing. I swear these days you need to know as much about computers as about engines to keep a boat running.’
They sat on a wall, a short distance from the boat, the captain peering at them curiously from the cabin window. A couple of seagulls landed on the quay a few feet away, hoping for scraps.
‘So what’s this about?’
‘We want to ask you some questions about Gabríel Örn Bergsson and Harpa Einarsdóttir.’
‘Harpa told me you had been talking to her,’ Björn said.
‘Oh, have you seen her recently?’
‘Yes. I went down to Reykjavík a couple of days ago. You left her quite upset.’
‘It’s unavoidable in these circumstances,’ Magnus said. ‘Are you and she together?’
‘You could say that. I go down to see her whenever I can. She comes up here sometimes. I like her. I like her a lot.’