‘Afternoon, officer,’ said Lawrence from the back seat.
‘And you are?’ Magnus asked the Icelander.
‘Axel Bjarnason. I’m a private investigator. I’m working for Mr Feldman.’
‘To do what?’
Axel shrugged.
‘He’s helping us with some research,’ Feldman said.
Magnus was about to tell them they were wasting their time, the church had been thoroughly searched and there was no ring there, when he thought better of it. Let them spend all day on this godforsaken heath in the mist.
‘Have any of you seen Ingileif Asgrimsdottir?’ he asked.
Axel’s expression of patient disinterest didn’t change. But he didn’t answer the question. Jubb frowned.
‘No, officer, we haven’t,’ Feldman said. ‘At least not today. We tried to speak with her yesterday, but she wasn’t real excited to see us.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Magnus. ‘If you do see her, let me know.’ He scribbled his number on to a piece of paper torn from his note-book and gave it to Feldman. ‘The pastor has just been found. Murdered. I’m pretty sure the guy who did it is after Ingileif right now.’
Feldman took the card. ‘We’ll be sure to call you,’ he said.
Magnus turned to look at the church, squatting beneath the crags in the mist. A raven descended out of the cloud and landed by the side of the road a few feet ahead. It strutted along, eyeing the two cars.
‘Enjoy your day,’ Magnus said, and jumped back into his vehicle. He sped off down the hill back to the main road.
He must have missed her coming the other way. Reykjavik. His best bet was Reykjavik.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Steve Jubb watched the cop’s car disappear over the hill. ‘You know this isn’t right.’
‘What isn’t right, Gimli?’ Feldman said.
‘For a start, my name isn’t Gimli, it’s Steve.’
‘We discussed this before. We should use our nicknames.’
‘No, Lawrence. My name isn’t Gimli, it’s Steve. Your name isn’t Isildur, it’s Lawrence. This isn’t Middle Earth, it’s Iceland. Lord of the Rings isn’t real, it’s a story. A bloody good story, but a story none the less.’
‘But Gimli, the ring could be in that church! The ring from the Volsung Saga. The ring that Tolkien wrote about. Don’t you realise how cool that is!’
‘Frankly, I don’t give a toss. That professor I spoke to only a week ago is dead. A vicar is dead. There’s a nutter running around somewhere out there who’s looking to kill a girl. A real live person, Lawrence, don’t you get that?’
‘Hey, look, it’s got nothing to do with us,’ said Feldman. He looked at Jubb suspiciously. ‘Or does it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, did you kill the professor?’ said Feldman.
‘Don’t be daft. Course I bloody didn’t.’
‘You say that, but I have no way of knowing whether you are telling the truth.’
‘Look. That copper out there is looking for Ingileif. We know where she is. We should tell him.’ Jubb took out his mobile phone. ‘Give me his number.’
‘No, Gimli. No.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed Jubb. He jumped out of the car, flung open the door to the back and hauled Feldman out. The little man tried to cling on to the seatbelt but Jubb broke his grip. Jubb clenched his fist. ‘Give me that number or I’ll smash yer face in.’
Feldman cowered on the ground and handed the big Yorkshireman the scrap of paper bearing Magnus’s number.
Jubb went round to the driver’s side. ‘Are you with me?’ he asked Axel.
‘The problem is, Steve, that bugging the girl’s car wasn’t strictly legal.’
Jubb didn’t wait to argue. He leaned in, grabbed the private investigator, and flung him into the road. He jumped into the driver’s seat and started up the engine. With Feldman and Axel hammering on the side of the car, he executed a quick three-point turn and sped off after the copper, striking Feldman a glancing blow on the legs with his bumper as he did so.
Magnus slowed as he reached the junction of the main road just south of Fludir. His cell phone chirped.
‘Hello?’
‘This is Steve Jubb. Just wait where you are! I’m right behind you.’
‘All right,’ said Magnus. He knew Feldman and Jubb had known more than they were saying, although he was surprised that they had decided to tell him what. ‘I’ll be waiting.’
Magnus pulled over to the side. Within two minutes he saw the private investigator’s car fly down the road towards him. It pulled in behind him, and Steve Jubb jumped out, carrying a laptop under his arm. Alone.
He climbed into the passenger seat next to Magnus.
‘Hang on,’ he said, switching on the laptop, and a receiver attached to it. ‘This will tell us where Ingileif is.’
‘Excellent,’ said Magnus. He put the car into gear and turned left, towards Reykjavik. That was by far the most likely direction and he wanted to catch her up. ‘Where are your friends?’
‘Tossers,’ muttered Jubb as he fiddled with the computer.
Magnus wasn’t exactly sure what a tosser was, but he was prepared to take Jubb’s word for it. ‘Thanks for coming to get me.’
‘I should have said something back there,’ Jubb said. ‘Should have told you everything back when you arrested me.’ He clicked a couple of keys. ‘Come on…’ he muttered.
‘So you bugged her car?’
Jubb just grunted and carried on tapping at the keyboard. ‘Here we are. She’s north of here. Way north of here. Turn around.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Course I’m bloody sure. Take a look.’
Magnus slowed and peered at the computer screen on Jubb’s lap. It displayed a map of south-west Iceland, and it showed a round circle moving north along a road on the other side of Fludir.
‘Where the hell is she going?’ Magnus asked. ‘There’s nothing up there, is there? Take a look at the map. There’s one in the glove compartment.’
Jubb pulled out a map. ‘You’re right, there’s not much north of here. A couple of glaciers, I think they are. The road goes right the way across the middle of the country.’
‘It’ll still be closed this time of year,’ Magnus said.
‘Wait a minute. There’s something here. Gullfoss? Do you know what that is?’
‘It’s a waterfall,’ said Magnus. ‘A massive waterfall.’
Petur pulled into the large car park. This early in the season, and in this weather, it was empty, apart from one tour bus.
He climbed out of his BMW. The enormous waterfall roared at him, unseen, from beyond the far side of the information centre. Tourists emerged along the pathway leading to the waterfall, cooing to each other about the majesty of what they had just witnessed. In five minutes they would be whisked away to the next stop on their tour, the geysers at Geysir, perhaps, or the Althing assembly grounds at Thingvellir.
Good, thought Petur.
Rather than heading straight down towards the waterfall, Petur turned left, upstream. There was now a maintained path leading up the low hill; in his childhood it had just been a narrow sheep track.
Just over the crest of the hill was a shallow hollow. It was here that Dr Asgrimur had liked to take his family for a picnic on sunny days. Tourists usually walked to the foot of the falls, or halfway up, or followed the gorge downstream. The hollow, above the falls, offered some privacy, even in the height of summer. The grass and moss, soft and springy, made a comfortable spot to sit, when things were dry.
At the beginning of May, in the mist, things were very wet and there was no sign of anyone. It was only a couple of hundred metres to the car park, but there was no chance of being seen or heard above the din from there.
Petur walked towards the river. The dull roar turned into a crescendo as the magnificent waterfall opened out beneath him. Its power was extraordinary. The Hvita flung itself down into the gorge in two stages, at each throwing up a thick curtain of spray. The resultant tumult was known as Gullfoss, which means ‘golden waterfall’, because of the tricks of light that low sunshine could play on the fine moisture suspended above the cauldron. In the right conditions rainbows danced gold and purple over the falls.