Petur’s eyes met Magnus’s. Petur knew that Magnus had given up trying to reach him.
He closed his eyes, his grip slipped and he fell without a cry. His body was whisked along the top of the spate and over the rim of the waterfall.
Within two seconds he was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Magnus saw Ingileif standing next to her brother’s white BMW four-wheel-drive, with the snow-covered mountain rising above her.
He pulled up beside her and got out of his car.
‘You’re late,’ she said. Her face was pink in the cold, her eyes shining.
‘Sorry.’
‘Never mind. I’m glad you came.’
Magnus smiled. ‘I’m glad you asked me.’
‘I thought you might have gone back to America.’
‘Tomorrow. Although everyone in the police department thinks I’ve already left.’
‘So where are you staying?’
‘I can’t really tell you.’
Ingileif frowned. ‘I would have thought that by now you would have trusted me.’
‘Oh, no. It’s not that. Let’s just say I’ve learned the hard way that the fewer people who know where I am the better.’
There was a remote possibility that Soto would send out a replacement for the hit man who had shot Arni, so the Police Commissioner had decided to let everyone think that Magnus had flown back to Boston. Actually, he had sent Magnus to stay with his brother at his farm an hour and a half to the north of Reykjavik. It was a beautiful spot, on the edge of a fjord, with outstanding views. And the Commissioner’s brother and his family were hospitable.
Nobody had heard anything from Colby. That was a good sign. All she had to do was lie low for a couple more days.
‘So, what do we do now?’ Magnus said, staring up at Mount Hekla rising above them.
‘Climb it, of course.’
‘Dare I ask why?’
‘What kind of Icelander are you?’ Ingileif said. ‘It’s a lovely day, so we’re going up a mountain. Don’t you want to?’
‘Oh, I’d like to,’ said Magnus. ‘Is it difficult?’ He had borrowed boots from the farmer, and he was more or less properly dressed for the occasion.
‘It’s easy in summer. It will be more difficult now. This early in May there’s still a lot of snow about, but we’ll manage. Let’s go.’
So they set off up the side of the volcano. It was a glorious day, the sky was clear and cold and there was already a magnificent view stretching out behind them. The snow lay on lava and pumice, and was actually easier underfoot than the black rock and stone. Magnus felt good. The air was crisp, the exercise was invigorating, and it was nice to have Ingileif beside him. Or ahead of him. She set a rapid pace, which Magnus was happy to follow.
‘How’s your friend?’ she asked as they paused to catch their breath and admire the view. ‘The one who was shot?’
‘Arni is doing well, thank God. They say he’s going to make a full recovery.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Ingileif said. Ahead of them was the blackened valley of the River Thjorsa, and beyond that the broad plain through which the Hvita ran. And beyond that more mountains.
‘So you’re going tomorrow?’ Ingileif said.
‘That’s right.’
‘Are you coming back?’ There was something a little hesitant in the way she asked the question.
‘I don’t know,’ said Magnus. ‘At first I was dead set against it. But the Commissioner has asked me to stay. I’m thinking about it.’
And he was thinking about it, seriously. Partly he felt a sense of obligation – gratitude for what the Commissioner and Arni had done for him. But also the seed of suspicion that had planted itself in his mind on the road up the Thjorsardalur three days before was nagging at him. The suspicion that the answers to his father’s murder might lie in Iceland rather than the streets of Boston.
As he had anticipated, the seed had taken root. It was growing. It wasn’t going to die away now.
‘If it makes any difference,’ Ingileif said. ‘I’d like you to.’
She looked at him, smiling shyly. Magnus felt himself grinning back. He noticed the nick on her eyebrow, already so familiar. It was strange how he felt that he knew her so well, as though it was much longer than ten days since he had first interviewed her in her gallery.
‘Yes. That makes a difference.’
She moved closer to him, reached up and kissed him, long and deep.
Then she broke away. ‘Come on, we’ve still got a long way to go.’
As they ascended, the mountain became stranger. There was no single neat round cone at the top of Mount Hekla. Rather, a series of old craters from previous eruptions dotted the ridge. Sulphurous steam rose out of fissures, narrow cracks in the mountain. The snow became thinner, the bare patches more common. As Magnus put his hand on the bare black lava, he realized why. It was warm. Underneath, and not very far underneath, the volcano was bubbling away.
When they reached the top, the view was extraordinary, as Iceland stretched all around them: broad rivers, craggy mountains, slow, powerful glaciers.
‘It’s amazing to think of the three brothers climbing this a thousand years ago,’ Magnus said. ‘You know, Isildur, Gaukur and Asgrimur.’
‘Yes.’
Magnus looked around. ‘I wonder where the crater they were trying to throw the ring into was then?’
‘Who knows?’ Ingileif replied. ‘My father used to fret about that. Needless to say, I first came up here with him. The mountain has rearranged itself many times since their day.’
‘What are you going to do with the saga now? Are you going to sell it?’
Ingileif shook her head. ‘We’re going to give it to the Arni Magnusson Institute. But before then, I’m going to let Lawrence Feldman have it for a year in return for enough money to bail out the gallery. Birna will get her share, of course.’
‘That’s a neat idea.’
‘Yes. It was Lawrence’s, but it looks like everyone can live with that. I think he feels guilty.’
‘As he should.’ Magnus thought about all that had happened over the previous two weeks. He wondered whether they would ever find the ring. Petur’s body had not turned up yet, apparently it could be days or weeks before it would be spat out by the water-fall. He rather hoped that somehow the ring would stay there, at the bottom of Gullfoss.
But he couldn’t say any of this to Ingileif. That was her brother down there, after all.
‘Let’s go,’ Ingileif said. She set off down the mountain to the left of the path they had used on the way up. The snow was thin or non-existent, the ground was so warm. She skirted an old crater and stopped by a small spiral of steam, coming out of a crack in the ground.
‘Careful!’ Magnus said. The snow and lava on which she was standing looked precarious. There was a strong smell of sulphur in the air.
Ingileif pulled something out of her pocket.
‘What’s that?’ asked Magnus.
‘The ring.’
‘The ring? I thought Petur had it!’
‘He gave it to me. I think he hoped it would change my mind.’
‘But you didn’t tell anyone that!’
‘I know.’
Magnus was only a few feet from Ingileif. He longed to examine the ring, the cause of so much pain and anguish over the last couple of weeks. What did he mean, couple of weeks? The last millennium. ‘What are you going to with it?’
‘What do you think?’ said Ingileif. ‘I’m going to toss it into the mouth of hell, just like Tolkien suggested my grandfather do. Just like Isildur wanted to do.’
‘Don’t do that,’ said Magnus.
‘Why not? It’s the right thing to do.’
‘Why not? Because it’s one of the most significant archaeological discoveries this country has ever seen. I mean, is it real? Haven’t you wondered that all along? How old is it? Did Hogni or someone hide it eighty years ago? Or is it really centuries old? Or even older, perhaps it really did come from the Rhine at the time of Attila the Hun. Don’t you see? These are fascinating questions, even without the Tolkien connection. And they can all be answered by archaeologists.’