Where the Shadows Lie fai-1 Page 12

  Magnus walked around the table and stood behind Moritz’s shoulder. Moritz leafed through the book, each brown page a faithful copy of the vellum of the original manuscript. He paused at an empty page on which were written only a couple of faded lines. Indecipherable.

  ‘There is a big gap between Njals Saga and Egils Saga. No one could read this line until the invention of ultra-violet light. Now they know what it says.’ Moritz quoted from memory. ‘“Insert here Gauks Saga Trandilssonar; I am told that Grimur Thorsteinsson Esq has a copy.”’ He turned to Magnus and smiled. ‘We knew that there once was a Gaukur’s Saga, but we thought it had been lost, like so many others. Gaukur is mentioned once, very briefly in Njals Saga; that he was killed by Asgrimur.’

  ‘When you read the saga, you will find out how,’ said Magnus with a smile, returning to his seat. The Book of Modruvellir must have been the instance of the saga’s existence that Ingileif had mentioned.

  ‘The other place he crops up in is extraordinary,’ Moritz said. ‘There are some Viking runes in a tomb in Orkney, graffiti really, which were discovered in the nineteenth century. The runes claim that they were carved by the axe once owned by Gaukur Trandilsson of Iceland. So the man really did exist.’

  Moritz looked at the sheaf of papers in front of Magnus.

  ‘And that’s the English translation? May I read it?’

  ‘Yes. Although you will have to use gloves and you will have to read it here. We need to give it to our forensics people before it can be copied.’

  ‘Do you know where the original is?’

  ‘Yes, I do. There are only scraps of the original vellum, but there’s an excellent seventeenth-century paper copy. We can show it to you tomorrow. Of course, we can’t be sure what we’ve found is genuine. We need you to authenticate it.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ said Moritz.

  ‘And keep this confidential. Don’t say a word to anyone.’

  ‘I understand. But don’t let your forensic people handle either document without my supervision.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Magnus. ‘If the saga is genuine, how much would it bring?’

  ‘It’s impossible to say,’ Moritz replied. ‘The last medieval manuscript on the market was sold by Sotheby’s in the nineteen sixties to a consortium of Icelandic banks. It had belonged to a British collector. Of course this time around the banks haven’t got any money, nor has the Icelandic government.’ He paused. ‘But for this? If it is authentic? There will be plenty of willing buyers outside Iceland. You’re talking millions of dollars.’

  He shook his head. ‘Many millions.’

  *

  As Magnus returned to his desk, Arni was waiting for him, looking excited.

  ‘What is it? Did Ingileif’s fingerprints match?’

  ‘No. But I’ve heard back from Australia.’

  ‘The Elvish expert?’

  Arni handed Magnus a printout of an e-mail.

  Dear Detective Holm,

  I have been able to translate most of the two messages you sent me. They are in Quenya, the most popular of Tolkien’s languages. The translations are as follows:

  1. I am meeting Haraldsson tomorrow. Should I insist on seeing the story?

  2. Saw Haraldsson. He has (??). He wanted much more money. 5 million. We need to talk.

  Note – I could not find a translation for the word ‘kallisarvoinen’, which I have marked (??).

  It has been a pleasure to find that my knowledge of Quenya has finally been of practical assistance to someone!

  Kind Regards

  Barry Fletcher

  Senior Lecturer

  School of Languages and Linguistics

  University of New South Wales

  ‘Well, the first message is pretty clear. The second was sent at eleven p.m., the night of the murder, right?’ Magnus said.

  ‘That’s right. As soon as Jubb got back to the hotel having seen Agnar.’

  ‘No wonder he needed to talk, if he had just pushed a dead body into the lake.’

  ‘I wonder what the kallisar- whatever-it-is word means?’ Arni asked.

  Magnus pondered it for a moment. ‘Manuscript? “He has the manuscript.” That would make sense.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Arni.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That doesn’t sound right to me. It sounds as if Agnar has something else. Something he wants more money for. That Jubb wants to speak to Isildur to discuss whether he should pay for it.’

  Magnus sighed. His patience was running low. ‘Arni! We know Agnar died that night. This message explains he was holding out for a lot more money. So Jubb killed him and he needed to speak to the boss once he had done it. Simple. Happens in drug deals back home all the time. Now, let’s show this to Baldur. He’s going to want to discuss this with Jubb.’

  Arni followed Magnus to Baldur’s office. It didn’t seem quite that simple to him, but Arni was used to being wrong on police matters. He had learned the important thing was not to make too much of a fuss over his mistakes, and not to let them get him down.

  Vigdis drove up the winding road to Hruni. It had taken her nearly two hours to get there from Reykjavik; a long way to go just to tick off a name on a list. But Baldur had insisted that every appointment in Agnar’s diary should be investigated, and so now it was time to check the mysterious entry Hruni.

  She passed two or three cars coming the other way, and then she rounded a bend and came upon the valley in which Hruni nestled. As Rannveig had said there was nothing there apart from a church and a rectory beneath a crag. And a view over the meadows to distant mountains.

  The Sunday service must just have finished. There were three cars parked on the gravel apron in front of the church. Two of them drew away as Vigdis came to a stop. In front of the church two figures, one very large, one very small, were in deep discussion. The pastor of Hruni and one of his parishioners.

  Vigdis hung back until the conversation had finished and the old lady, her cheeks flushed, hobbled rapidly to her small car and drove off.

  The pastor turned towards Vigdis. He was a big block of a man, with a thick beard and dark hair flecked with grey. For a moment she felt a flash of fear at his sheer size and power, but she was re-assured by the clerical collar around his neck. Bushy eyebrows rose. Vigdis was used to that.

  ‘Vigdis Audarsdottir, Reykjavik Metropolitan Police,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’ said the man in a deep voice.

  Vigdis sighed and took out her identification. The pastor examined it carefully.

  ‘May I have a word with you?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course,’ said the pastor. ‘Come into the house.’ He led Vigdis into the rectory through to a study cluttered with books and working papers. ‘Please sit down. Would you like a cup of coffee, my child?’

  ‘I’m not a child,’ said Vigdis. ‘I’m a police officer. But yes, thank you.’

  She moved a pile of yellowing journals off the seat of a sofa and on to the floor. As she waited for the pastor to return, she examined his study. Open volumes sprawled over a large desk and books lined the walls. Any bare patches were adorned with old prints of various scenes from Icelandic history: a man on the back of a seal or a whale in the sea; a church tumbling down, no doubt Hruni itself; and three or four etchings of Mount Hekla erupting.

  Through the window Vigdis could see the modern-day church of Hruni, red and white, spick and span, nestled among ancient gravestones and scrappy trees.

  The pastor returned with two cups of coffee, and lowered himself into an old chintz armchair. It creaked with his weight. ‘Now, how can I help you, my dear?’ His voice was deep and he was smiling, but his eyes, deep-set and dark, challenged her.

  ‘We are investigating the death of Professor Agnar Haraldsson. He was murdered on Thursday.’

  ‘I read about it in the papers.’

  ‘We understand that Agnar visited Hruni quite recently.’ Vigdis checked her notes. ‘The twentieth. Last Monday. Did
he come to see you?’

  ‘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 o
ne 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.

  Not hard. Impossible.

  Her friend Tracey had told her it was a waste of time to try to change boyfriends. An even bigger waste of time to go into a marriage with the aim of changing your husband. It just didn’t work.

  His decision to tell his Chief about the crooked detective was the last straw. It was all very honest and honourable, but it was dumb. Boston wasn’t nearly the nest of corruption it had been twenty years before, but people who took on the city establishment would never find themselves a part of it.

  In her own company, a manufacturer of medical instruments, there were times when they looked the other way, didn’t ask questions. You had to, if you wanted the company to succeed. Her job was to protect the company from the legal risks of doing business, not to purge the world of dishonesty.

  Magnus would never go to law school. He probably wouldn’t even make it any further up the ladder in the police department.

  A loser.

  Which was why when a slim, well-dressed lawyer with whom she had dealt the year before had bumped into her on the ‘T’ and asked her for a cup of coffee, she had said yes.

  And why when he had called her to ask her out to dinner, she had also said yes.

  His name was Richard Rubinstein. Cute, if a little too neat for her taste. Jewish, of course. She had googled him and discovered that he had just been made a partner of his downtown law firm. Which wasn’t necessarily important, but did mean he wasn’t a loser. And unlike almost everyone else she knew, he didn’t know Magnus, had never even heard of Magnus, didn’t know that she had had a boyfriend for the last three years.

  She was going to enjoy herself. But not with Magnus’s earrings.

  She unfastened them, replaced them with a pair of simple pearls, and headed out into the warm evening.