Terrorism.
His phone rang. ‘Magnús.’
‘Hey, Magnus, you’ve gone all Icelandic.’
‘Ollie! How the hell are you? I got your call yesterday. Sorry I didn’t get back to you.’
‘No problem. How is the land of our ancestors? Still bubbling away?’
‘I guess so. I’ve yet to see my first volcanic eruption. But the hot tubs are nice.’
‘How’s the course going?’
‘OK,’ said Magnus. ‘Although I’m working on a real live case at the moment.’
‘Someone jerked off in the skyr?’
‘Nice.’
‘Sorry. Hey, you know it was Dad’s birthday yesterday?’
‘Huh?’ Magnus sat up. ‘Was it? Yeah, I guess it was.’ He felt a twinge of guilt. He’d forgotten.
‘Yeah. He’d be sixty. I can’t imagine him at sixty, can you?’
‘I can, actually,’ said Magnus, smiling. His father had been in his mid-forties when he died. His fair hair had been turning quietly grey. The smile lines around his eyes had been deepening. ‘Yeah, I can.’
‘I’ve been thinking about him a lot recently.’
‘So have I,’ said Magnus. He took a deep breath. Ollie had a right to know, or as much of a right as Magnus.
Magnus talked for twenty minutes, telling his brother about Sibba and Unnur. And then about their grandfather’s reaction to Ragnar leaving their mother. And then about the deaths of the families of Bjarnarhöfn and Hraun over the years: Benedikt’s father, their great-grandfather Gunnar, Benedikt himself.
‘Christ!’ said Ollie. ‘So you think Grandpa might have had something to do with Dad’s murder?’
‘I don’t know yet. Unnur says definitely not. I need to do some more digging.’
‘Don’t,’ said Ollie.
‘What do you mean, don’t?’
‘I just don’t want you to.’
‘But I have to know! We have to know.’
There was silence on the phone.
‘Ollie?’
‘Magnus.’ Magnus heard his brother’s voice crack. ‘I’m asking you, man. I’m pleading with you. Just don’t go there.’
‘Why not?’
‘Look, you’re obsessed, Magnus. And that was cool when you were asking questions in America. But I can’t handle you dredging up all that shit in Bjarnarhöfn again. That’s buried and it’s buried for a reason.’
‘Ollie?’
‘I’ve spent most of my life, over twenty years, trying to forget that place, and you know what? I’ve just about done it. So as far as I am concerned it should stay forgotten.’
‘But Ollie-’
‘And if you do find stuff out, just don’t tell me about it, OK?’
‘Look, Ollie-’
‘Bye, Magnus.’
Five minutes later, the phone rang again. It was Ingileif, asking him round to her place. She would cook dinner.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked when he got to her flat. ‘Something’s wrong.’
‘Just got a phone call from my brother.’
‘What’s up with him?’
‘I told him what we found out over the weekend. About our father. And grandfather.’
‘And?’
‘And he wants to think about it even less than I do.’
Magnus could see Ingileif about to say something and thinking the better of it. ‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Sorry,’ Ingileif said. ‘I can see it’s a sensitive subject for you. And your brother. I can live with that.’
‘Good.’
Ingileif was frying some fish. ‘I got an offer today,’ she said.
‘What kind of offer?’
‘You remember Svala? From the gallery?’
‘Yes. Didn’t you say she has moved to Hamburg?’
‘That’s right. She’s teamed up with some German guy. They are selling Scandinavian stuff. Their gallery has only been open a couple of months, but she thinks it will do well.’
‘Even in the recession?’
‘Apparently. And Germany isn’t as badly screwed as Iceland is. They are coming out of it there.’
‘Lucky them.’
‘Yes. Anyway, she wants me to join them. As a partner. She’s told this German guy that I am just what they need for the business to take off.’
‘Hmm.’ Ingileif had her back to Magnus. ‘Sounds like a good opportunity. But what about the gallery here?’
‘I’d miss it. But the prospects have to be much better in Germany.’
‘Do you speak any German?’
‘A bit. Enough to get me started. I could pick it up pretty quickly if I’m living there.’
Magnus felt his body tense. ‘So are you going?’
Ingileif didn’t answer as she scooped the fish on to plates, and placed them on the table. They sat down.
‘No,’ she said.
‘No? Why not?’
She leant over and kissed him. Deeply. ‘Because of you, stupid.’
There wasn’t much Magnus could say to that. He smiled.
‘How’s the case going?’ she asked. ‘Any new suspects?’
‘A couple,’ Magnus said. ‘Do you know Sindri Pálsson?’
‘That old windbag? Yes, I do.’
‘Why am I not surprised? But he can’t be a client.’
‘Oh, no. He’s part of Iceland’s version of a liberal intelligentsia. He shows up to book launches. Exhibitions. He’s a nice guy, despite all the “world-is-ending” crap.’
‘He seems to believe that violence is the only way to destroy capitalism.’
‘He’s all talk. He’s a big pussy cat. You don’t think he killed Óskar, do you?’
‘We think he might be involved.’
‘No,’ Ingileif said. She paused, thinking. ‘No. He’d never kill anyone. I can always ask him.’
‘I already have,’ said Magnus.
‘Yes, but he might tell me.’ Ingileif chewed her fish. ‘I’m serious. I’m pretty sure he fancies me. In fact I’d say he fancies anyone under the age of thirty – and Magnús, as you know, I am still under the age of thirty.’ Ingileif was twenty-nine and three-quarters. ‘He’d tell me if I asked him in the right way.’
‘And I’m serious,’ Magnus said. ‘It would screw up the investigation.’
‘Oh, don’t be so bureaucratic. It would be kind of fun. I could solve your case for you.’
‘No, Ingileif,’ Magnus said. ‘No.’
Several hours later, they were lying in Ingileif’s bed. Magnus couldn’t sleep. He was facing away from her. He could sense she was awake also.
He felt her touch his shoulder.
‘Magnús?’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you thinking about Bjarnarhöfn?’
‘Yes.’
She tugged at his shoulder so he rolled over on to his back. She kissed his lips gently. ‘Tell me. If you want to.’
‘OK.’ Magnus swallowed. ‘OK. I will.’
And so he told her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
January 1986
Magnus slipped out of the farmhouse into the cold fresh air, and stumbled through the snow towards the sea. He had to be alone.
It was night. They had just eaten and Grandpa was giving Óli a lecture about wetting his bed.
Christmas hadn’t been so bad. The boys’ uncle, aunt and cousins had visited from Canada to the delight of their grandfather. Grandpa had entered one of his phases of exuberant high spirits. There was Christmas cheer everywhere. The Yule Lads had come, placing little gifts in Magnus and Óli’s shoes.
Christmas Eve dinner was a feast to remember: ptarmigan, browned potatoes fried in butter and sugar, which were Magnus’s favourite, followed by leafbread and ice cream. Magnus received an American police car with sirens and flashing lights from his Canadian uncle and aunt. A touch babyish perhaps, but he liked it. Óli, for the first time for months, seemed to be actually enjoying himself.
Then, as Magnus knew it would, things had soured. Óli got scared again and had started wetting his bed. Just after New Year the relatives had left, leaving the boys alone in the farmhouse with their grandparents.
And Grandpa was in an evil mood.
Magnus trudged past the little church down to the sea and sat on a stone. He scanned the familiar isolated lights, which burned nearly all day at this time of year, when dusk and dawn brushed in the gloom of midday. The bright lights of the farmhouse behind him. The lights at Hraun on the other side of the lava field. The lighthouse on one of the islands in the fjord. The bobbing winks of fishing boats returning to Stykkishólmur.