Plus he stuck out like a sore thumb. This country was so goddamned white. Not Caucasian, not creamy brown, but honest-to-goodness white. The people were so blonde their hair was almost white as well. No sign of a tan anywhere, and certainly not any brown skin.
Diego was used to blending in. If you thought about it, you would probably say he looked Hispanic, but he could have been Arabic or Turkish or even Italian with a tan, or a mixture of all of the above. In any American city he fit right in. Even when he had offed that stockbroker in the cute little town on Cape Cod, he hadn’t really turned heads. There were people that looked like him in every community in the US.
But not here.
Where were the goddamn Eskimos? They had black hair and brown faces. But they sure as hell didn’t live in this country.
This was stupid. He evaluated his options. He had called the police headquarters to ask if a Magnus Jonson worked there. He did, in the traffic department. But Diego was pretty sure that wasn’t the Jonson he was looking for.
So what was the next step? He could just walk in and ask if there was an American cop working at the station. He guessed that was the kind of thing that would have gotten around; if the guy he talked to didn’t know the answer he could probably find it out easily enough. Problem was, Jonson would hear someone had been asking about him. Diego didn’t want to tip off the target.
He could go back to the Lithuanians. He knew they had been paid well by Soto to help him out. He understood that in a small place like this they wanted to make sure that they weren’t associated with the hit, but surely they could put him in touch with a third party that could help him? A PI or a crooked lawyer. Someone who spoke Icelandic. Someone who was whitey-white.
He didn’t have much time. Jonson could be on a plane back to the States at any moment. Once there it would be easy for the Feds to keep him safe for the few days until the trial.
He was sitting in the coffee shop at the station, on his fifth or sixth cup, his eyes flicking between the two front entrances.
A big guy came out. A big guy with red hair.
That was him!
Diego left the half-empty cup of coffee and almost skipped out of the bus station.
To work.
Magnus headed up the hill towards the Grand Rokk. It was eight-thirty and he had the impression he wasn’t needed at the station any more that evening.
Baldur had been furious. Any positive thoughts he had held earlier about Magnus had been dispelled. Why hadn’t Magnus called Baldur as soon as he realized that Hakon was Tomas’s father? Why hadn’t he stayed with Hakon at Hruni and waited for reinforcements to arrest the pastor?
Why had he let Hakon get away?
While the rest of the Violent Crimes unit ran around like idiots, Magnus was left standing around with nothing to do. So he left.
The barman recognised him and poured him a large Thule. A couple of the regulars said hello. But he wasn’t in the mood for chat, however friendly. He took his beer to a stool in the corner of the bar and drank it.
Baldur had a point, of course. The reason that Magnus had waited until he returned to Reykjavik before telling him what Hakon had said was hardly noble. It was so that he and not Baldur would crack Tomas’s story.
Which he had done. He had solved the case. Discovered not only who had killed Agnar, but also what had happened to Ingileif’s father. The moment of victory had been sweet, but it had only lasted an hour.
There was a chance that Hakon had just driven out on an errand and he would be back in an hour or so. Or that he would be caught by the police. He was an easy guy to spot, it was a small country, or at least the inhabited parts of it were. Magnus wondered whether Hakon would hide in the backcountry, like the outlaws in the sagas, living on berries while he dodged the law.
A possibility.
There was no doubt about it, Magnus had screwed up.
At least that meant that the National Police Commissioner wouldn’t demand that he stay in Iceland for the full two years that he had originally expected. They would be glad to be rid of him next week.
And he would be glad to go.
Wouldn’t he?
It was true what he had said to Ingileif, the memories of his early life in Iceland were painful, made more so by the chance meeting with his cousin. And clearly things were not going well with Baldur. But there were things he liked about his brief time in Iceland. He did have an affinity with the country. More than that – it was a loyalty, a sense of duty. The pride that Icelanders felt for their homeland, their determination to work their butts off to make the place function, was infectious.
The Commissioner’s idea to recruit someone like Magnus wasn’t a bad one. The police officers he had met were smart, honest, hard working. They were good guys, even Baldur. They just lacked experience in big-city crime and that was something he knew he could help them with.
And then there was Ingileif.
He had no desire to go back to Colby, and he was quite sure that she had no desire to go back to him.
But Ingileif.
He had really screwed that up. She had a point, their relationship was more than a quick roll in the hay. How much more, Magnus didn’t know, and neither did she, but that didn’t matter, he shouldn’t have made it matter.
He ordered another beer.
He would try again. Say he was sorry. He wanted to see her again before he went home. She might just tell him to get lost, but it was worth the risk. There was nothing to lose.
He gulped down half his beer and left the bar.
Diego had found himself a good spot, in the smokers’ tent pitched outside in the front yard of the Grand Rokk. He had strolled in to get himself a beer at the bar, and had seen the big cop alone with his drink, absorbed in his own thoughts.
Perfect.
There was one problem; Diego’s car was still parked a couple of blocks from the bus station. He had followed Jonson on foot. There was no way that he was going to carry out the hit in daylight. He needed darkness to make good his escape.
But it was still light. He checked his watch. It was nearly nine-thirty. What was with this country? It was still only April, back home it would have gotten dark hours ago.
So he would follow Jonson. If he was still on the streets when darkness eventually fell he would do it then, otherwise he would follow him home and break in in the small hours of the morning.
Then he saw the big cop walk purposefully out of the bar, past the tent and out on to the street.
Diego followed.
Finally, it was getting dark, or at least dusk. Not quite dark enough. But if Jonson had a long walk before he got home, there might be a chance to do something. Diego would rather pump a couple of shots into Jonson’s head on a quiet street than lumber around in a strange house, with God knows who else there.
Magnus made his way to Ingileif’s house. There was a light on upstairs in her apartment. He hesitated. Would she listen to him?
There was only one way to find out.
He rang the bell at the side entrance of the house, which was where the stairs led up to her flat.
She answered the door. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘I’ve come to say I’m sorry,’ Magnus said. ‘I acted like a jerk.’
‘You did.’ Ingileif’s face was cool, almost expressionless. Not hostile, but certainly not pleased to see him.
‘May I come in?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Ingileif. ‘You did act like a jerk. But your basic point was correct. You are leaving Iceland in a couple of days. It doesn’t make sense for us to get more emotionally involved with each other.’
Magnus blinked. ‘I understand that. It was what I told you, after all, but much less tactfully. But…?’
Ingileif raised her eyebrows. ‘But?’
Magnus wanted to tell her that he really liked her, that he wanted to get to know her better, that it might not make sense but that it was the right thing to do, he knew it was the right thing to do. But her grey eyes were cold. No, they said. No.