‘Why do I like you, Vigdís?’ he said. ‘I mean, all you have said to me is “I don’t understand” and “Are you a murderer?”.’
‘That does not work?’ said Vigdís slowly in English. ‘I thought that was a good speech. Perhaps that is why I do not have lots of boyfriends.’
‘Because you accuse them of being murderers? No, that’s not a good line.’
‘It works with you, I think.’ Although Vigdís scarcely ever spoke English, it turned out that she could do it better than she expected.
‘Yes. That’s true,’ said Martin.
‘Do you like me because I am black?’ said Vigdís. She found herself looking at Martin with suspicion. The answer was important.
‘Because you are black? Why?’
‘I do not know.’ She paused, searching for the English word. ‘Curiosity?’
‘I am curious about you. But not because you are black.’
‘You are curious about me? About what?’
‘I suppose I am curious about what a nice girl like you is doing in a dump like this, working for a moron like that detective inspector.’
‘Moron?’
‘Idiot.’
‘Ah.’ Vigdís paused. Why not answer the question? ‘I like order. I like things to be done just so. I do not like it when some people just take everything and leave other people with nothing. I feel I am protecting Icelandic society. And that is good.’ She looked at Martin. ‘Does that sound stupid?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘But your boss is a moron.’
Vigdís laughed. ‘My boss is a moron,’ she agreed. She shivered.
Slowly Martin put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her towards him. She could feel the warmth of his body through his coat. She felt like a teenager sneaking out of one of those summer village dances. It was nice. She had another pull of vodka and passed it to Martin.
He kissed her.
It was a long kiss. A kiss of exploration. A warm kiss.
She heard the rattle of stones behind and above her. About thirty metres away she saw the tall, lean and sweaty figure of Inspector Ólafur staring down at them.
‘Oh shit!’ Vigdís said in Icelandic.
‘Scheisse!’ said Martin.
Vigdís put her head in her hands.
‘I take it this is not good,’ said Martin, moving away from her. Vigdís didn’t answer. When she looked up, Ólafur had set off back to town.
‘This is not good,’ said Vigdís. ‘I am sorry, Martin. I am just as stupid as Ólafur. More stupid. I must go.’
She set off down the hillside, clutching her bottle of vodka. She went straight up to her hotel room, finished the bottle and tried to get to sleep. It took her a long time.
Then she was wakened by a gentle knock.
‘Who is it?’ she called. No answer, just another knock.
Wearing pants and a T-shirt, she opened the door a crack, fearing that it would be Ólafur deciding the middle of the night was the right time to reprimand her.
But it wasn’t Ólafur.
For a moment she was going to send him away. But then she thought, screw it. If she was in deep trouble, she may as well enjoy it while she had the chance. She smiled.
‘Come in, Martin.’
Chapter five
Vigdís made sure she was at Ólafur’s morning meeting to discuss the case in plenty of time. He glared at her as he arrived. The meeting was inconclusive. There was no forensic evidence linking Alex or Martin to the shooting — none whatsoever. They hadn’t found a gun that the two men could conceivably have used. The autopsy on Halldór carried out in Reykjavík had retrieved the bullet in his skull, as Edda had guessed. It was a .22 calibre. That was good news: if they found a rifle that they suspected may have shot him, ballistics analysis should confirm it.
The forensics team had copied the hard disk from the two tourists’ laptops and transmitted the downloaded information to the lab in Reykjavík for analysis. The previous afternoon Vigdís had told Edda to make sure the technicians checked on Martin’s online activities between three and six o’clock on the day of the murder. As always it was frustrating that she couldn’t just open up the laptop to check for herself, but it was against protocols, and unless everything was done strictly according to those protocols, any evidence they did find could be thrown out in court.
After the meeting, Ólafur went outside to talk to the press. The polar bear killing made a good news story not just in Iceland but also overseas, and Ólafur did not enjoy admitting that he had released the two suspects.
Once the conference was over, he grabbed Vigdís.
‘Outside. Now.’
They walked around the side of the police station to a patch of concrete overlooking the harbour at the back. No one but the seabirds could see them.
‘What were you doing, Vigdís?’
‘I’m sorry, Ólafur,’ Vigdís mumbled.
‘How long has this been going on for? How long have you known him?’
‘I met him yesterday in the police station.’
‘And when did you first kiss him?’
‘Just then. You saw me.’
Ólafur’s anger seemed to have left him. He seemed genuinely perplexed.
‘Why? Why, Vigdís? I don’t understand. You must know that snogging suspects is not professional behaviour?’
‘I know,’ said Vigdís.
Suddenly the consequence of what she had done hit her. Somehow, out in the wilderness, away from her mother and the police station and her day-to-day life, she had thought that her actions would not matter in the real world of Reykjavík policing. But it would. She would be disciplined. She may end up back in uniform, or even losing her job entirely.
But she wouldn’t beg.
‘I will have to report this,’ Ólafur said.
‘I understand,’ said Vigdís.
‘I am going to get Reykjavík to send a replacement out for you. In the meantime, I want you to stay clear of Martin Fiedler. In fact, you are off the case. As soon as your replacement arrives, you go back to Reykjavík.’
Magnus drove up to the University of Iceland campus on the hill overlooking Reykjavík City Airport. He was curious about Vigdís’s case, and eager to help her. He would love it if it was her who made the breakthrough and not Baldur’s old buddy Ólafur.
He found the building that housed the politics department and tracked down the office of Dr Árndís Húbertsdóttir, Gudrún’s tutor, a friendly woman in her forties. With the students away, she wasn’t teaching, and she was happy to talk to Magnus.
‘I was so sorry to hear about Gudrún’s father,’ she said. ‘I knew her mother had died several years ago. Poor girl.’
‘Do you know her well?’
‘I take an interest in my students, so I know her a little, but you can never really have much of an idea about their life outside the university. She is a good student, with a real interest in politics.’
‘As an academic subject, or as an activist?’ Magnus asked.
‘Both, really. She is politically engaged. Most of the students are here, and most of them to the left.’
A question struck Magnus. ‘Is she interested in animal rights, do you know?’
‘Yes, she is,’ said Dr Árndís. ‘Very much so. Save the whales. Stop experimenting on rats...’
‘And stop shooting polar bears the moment they arrive in Iceland?’
‘And that, too. In fact, I’m sure that’s why she left a couple of days before the end of term. She asked my permission. She said her father was ill. I believed her; she’s an honest girl, or at least I thought she was. But then I saw that a polar bear had been shot in her home town, and that the mother may be loose in the area, and I thought: I bet she has gone home to try to find it. By that time it was too late to stop her.’