‘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.’
Vigdis 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 Vigdis. 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 Vigdis 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?’
Vigdis 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,’ Vigdis said.
‘You’re right, it’s not directly relevant. But my next question is this. Do you believe in the devil, Vigdis?’
Despite herself, Vigdis 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 Vigdis.
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, Vigdis 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?’ Vigdis 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 Asgrimsdottir? She comes from Fludir.’
‘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?’
Vigdis 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, Vigdis took it. The pastor held her hand tightly in both of his. ‘I would love to speak to you more about your beliefs, Vigdis.’ 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 Reykjavik. Stay a while. Talk to me.’
His large hands were warm and strong, his voice was soothing and his eyes were commanding. Vigdis 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 Reykjavik, breaking the speed limit all the way.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Colby admired her new summer dress in the mirror in the bedroom of her apartment in the Back Bay. She had bought it at Riccardi’s on Newbury Street the previous Sunday. A splurge but it looked good. Simple. Elegant. Classy. It looked especially good with the earrings. Earrings that Magnus had given her for her last birthday.
Magnus.
No matter how hard she tried, and she tried real hard, she kept on thinking of Magnus.
Where was he now? In Iceland? Stuck in the rain in some godforsaken rock in the middle of the North Atlantic. He had been ridiculous to think that she would give up her job for weeks, possibly months, to join him there.
As if he would give up his job for the couple of hours it would take to go see a movie with her.
But at least he was safely out of the country. She knew that he lived in a dirty, dangerous world, but that world had never imposed itself on her until the other evening in the North End when they had been shot at. Magnus had claimed that they were both still in danger. But she was sure that the more distance she put between him and her the safer she would be.
She fingered the earrings. Sapphires ringed with diamonds. Big-ticket items for a cop’s salary. They really were beautiful.
Of course she had nearly made a mistake, a big mistake, in pressing him to marry her. She was very glad he had said no.
It wasn’t that she didn’t find him attractive. Quite the contrary. She loved to pull herself tightly into his broad chest. She loved the sense of latent power and danger that hovered around him. He could be frightening when he lost his temper, but she even loved that about him. He was smart too, a great listener, and she could spend all evening just talking to him. He wasn’t Jewish, but she could deal with that, even if her mother had problems with it.
The trouble was, he was a loser. And he always would be.
It was the job, of course. With his degree from Brown he could have done much better than police work, as she had frequently pointed out to him. But he never would. He was obsessed with the job, with solving the murder of one deadbeat after another. Often Magnus was the only person anywhere who cared who had shot whom. She knew it all had to do with his father, but all that knowledge did was make her realize how hard it would be to change him.