Tomas 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,’ Tomas 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?’ Tomas 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 Tomas’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 Tomas. ‘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 Tomas all about the saga. It would all come out in the open soon anyway, and Tomas 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.’ Tomas 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. Tomas 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.’
Tomas 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 cafe, 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?
Vigdis 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 Reykjavik 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,’ Vigdis 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, Vigdis planned to visit her husband in the office of his insurance company on Borgartun.
‘By all means. I’m not sure there is much else I can tell you.’
But Helena frowned as she finished the sentence. Vigdis noticed it.
‘What is it?’
‘Um… It’s nothing. It’s not important.’
Vigdis 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 Vigdis.
Helena smiled. ‘Oh, well, you decide. Our five-year-old daughter, Sara Ros, told us this story at breakfast yesterday. My husband is convinced it’s a dream.’
‘What was the story?’ asked Vigdis.
‘She says that she saw two men playing in the lake at night.’
‘Lake Thingvellir?’
‘Yes.’
‘That sounds interesting.’
‘The thing is Sara Ros 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 Vigdis. ‘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 Vigdis 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 Vigdis. ‘My name is Vigdis and I am a police officer.’
‘You don’t look like a policeman,’ said Sara Ros.
‘That’s because I am a detective. I don’t wear a uniform.’
‘Do you come from Africa?’
‘Sara Ros!’ her mother interjected.
Vigdis smiled. ‘No. I come from Keflavik.’
The little girl laughed. ‘That’s not in Africa. That’s where the airport is when we go on holiday.’
‘That’s right,’ said Vigdis. ‘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 Vigdis.
‘How can you believe me when you haven’t heard what I am going to say?’
Vigdis 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?’