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  ‘Let me guess,’ said Sharon. ‘One of yours didn’t.’

  ‘My father was an American soldier of some kind at Keflavík air base. I never met him. My mother never talks about him. But because of him people don’t believe that I am who I am.’

  ‘I believe you are an Icelander, Vigdís,’ Sharon said. ‘A very nice Icelander. And a good copper. That’s important, you know.’

  ‘Have you ever been to America?’ Ingileif asked. They were all speaking English now.

  ‘Not yet.’ Vigdís tried and failed to suppress a smile.

  Ingileif noticed. ‘But?’

  ‘I’m going next week. Tuesday. To Nýja Jórvík. New York.’

  ‘What are you going to see?’ Árni asked.

  ‘Who are you going to see?’ Ingileif corrected him.

  ‘A guy,’ Vigdís admitted.

  ‘Not an American, surely?’ said Magnus.

  ‘No, an Icelander,’ said Vigdís. Her smile broadened. ‘He’s the brother of an old friend from Keflavík. He works for a TV company. I met him when he was visiting his family here over the summer.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Piper.

  ‘How are you going to deal with the language issues?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘She’ll be OK,’ said Árni. ‘As long as she stays drunk all the time, she can speak English.’

  ‘I’ll have to think about that,’ said Vigdís. ‘You’re right, it’s an important point of principle.’

  A phone chirped from somewhere. Everyone glanced at each other, then Sharon reached into her bag. ‘Hello.’

  She listened and straightened up. ‘This is DS Piper,’ she said, carefully. Magnus felt sorry for her. It was always tough getting a call from the station when you had had a few.

  ‘Yes, Charlie is my son… You are holding him for what?… Tooting police station?… He did what to an officer?… Did you call my husband?… The problem is I’m not in the country at the moment, I’m in Iceland… If I were you I would lock him up and throw away the key.’ She hung up.

  ‘Trouble at home?’ asked Ingileif.

  ‘Charlie is in trouble again. He thinks he can rely on me to bail him out, literally. But not this time. This time he’s going to get what’s coming to him.’ She leaned back into the bench and closed her eyes.

  Her phone rang again. She ignored it. ‘Is she asleep?’ said Ingileif.

  Magnus picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Can I speak to my mum?’ It was a young male voice.

  ‘She’s kinda busy right now,’ said Magnus, glancing at the woman lolling opposite him.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ the voice shouted. ‘Are you shagging my mum? I want to speak to her!’

  ‘One moment.’ He put his hand over his phone. ‘Sharon? It’s your son.’

  Sharon opened her eyes. ‘You know what? Tell him I’ll talk to him in the morning.’ She closed her eyes again.

  ‘Night, night, Charlie,’ Magnus said. ‘Sleep well.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  May 1940

  THE SUN WAS shining over Ólafsvík as Benedikt rode Skjona out of the town back towards Hraun. He had been representing his family at his cousin Thorgils’s confirmation – his mother couldn’t afford to spend the time away from the farm.

  The talk in Ólafsvík had been all about the invasion of Iceland the previous week by the British. Opinion was divided. Some people thought it was better to be invaded by the British than the Germans. Others saw no reason why Iceland couldn’t be left alone, they had no part in a war fought on a continent a thousand kilometres away. But everyone was hoping for a boom to match that of the Kaiser’s war. Fish, wool and lamb prices were already rising, and people thought that with the British around, Icelandic exports would be protected.

  Of course no one had actually seen a British soldier. They were all two hundred kilometres away in Reykjavík. Benedikt smiled to himself. He could imagine Hallgrímur preparing himself to fight off any British invaders that tried to cross the lava field to Bjarnarhöfn.

  Hallgrímur and Benedikt, now aged sixteen and fourteen, barely spoke any more. They were polite to each other, especially in front of others from their respective families, but they had stopped playing together that winter. Gunnar, Hallgrímur’s father, was a frequent visitor to Hraun. He was a good neighbour to Benedikt’s mother, in particular helping fix things around the farm. He was careful to teach Benedikt while he worked. Benedikt hated these times. He knew that there were a lot of important skills he could learn from Gunnar, but he could not bear to treat his neighbour like a helpful uncle.

  He preferred talking to Hallgrímur’s mother, but she was much less often seen at Hraun.

  Benedikt rode Skjona down to the beach, and set off at a gallop. Horse and rider thrilled as they splashed through the surf and the black sand. A few kilometres in front of them rose Búland’s Head, a massive shoulder of rock and grass that jutted out into the sea. A broad cloud draped the top of the mountain, and seemed to be slipping down towards the water.

  Benedikt rode back to the road and the bridge over the River Fródá. This was where Thurídur had lived, the beautiful woman whom Björn of Breidavík had wooed a thousand years before. The same Björn who had defied the great chieftain Snorri, and who had ended up in America amongst the Skraelings.

  But Benedikt’s father hadn’t escaped. He was still lying at the bottom of Swine Lake, or at least his bones were.

  And neither Benedikt nor Hallgrímur had told anyone what they had heard that day.

  Benedikt knew that his father had been wrong to betray his mother, but he didn’t hold that against him. His mother had been robbed of her husband, which was much worse. She was a tough woman, and she had coped well. Widowhood was common in Iceland, many husbands lost their lives at sea, a few on the fells. There were four children and Benedikt and Hildur, his elder sister, had done all they could to help her. But Benedikt was not a natural farmer like Hallgrímur, or like his father.

  It was all Gunnar’s fault.

  It was funny, for the couple of days that he had been staying with his aunt and uncle in Ólafsvík, he had forgotten about Gunnar. The rage, which constantly seemed to be churning within his breast, had disappeared.

  But now, seeing the River Fródá, the scene of that other seduction so many centuries ago, it had returned.

  He felt apprehensive as he began to climb the path up the edge of Búland’s Head. The sunshine was behind him now, and the base of the cloud only a few metres above.

  He remembered the first time he had ridden that path around Búland’s Head. It had been with his father, the summer before he died, and they had been visiting his aunt’s family in Ólafsvík. Benedikt had been scared to death. There were all kinds of stories that drifted around Búland’s Head. Trolls who threw travellers into the sea. Criminals who were hanged there, witches who were stoned. But what was really scary wasn’t the stories, but the path itself, an impossibly narrow ledge cut into the side of the mountain, hundreds of metres above the sea.

  There was a story about a father and son, who lived on either side of the head, who had argued and become bitter enemies. One day they both met while riding around the headland. Neither gave way and each passed the other at a trot; miraculously neither one slipped. Afterwards, they discovered that the silver buttons that each wore at the side of their trousers had been torn off.

  There was a stone on the other side that Benedikt had tapped for luck on his way out. He wished there was one on this side that he could tap on the way back.

  The path wound higher and higher. Mist swirled all around them, pressing in on horse and boy in a clammy, silent grip. He was now so high up that he could no longer hear the surf on the rocks below. Just the clopping of hoofs on stone, and the trickle of water on rock all around him. He hoped to God he didn’t come across someone approaching from the other direction.

  There was nothing much he could do, apart from concentrating on keeping his balance. It was all
up to Skjona, and she had picked her way over this route several times before.

  The path rose inexorably. They came to a section where it had completely worn away. Skjona’s hoof loosened a stone that clattered down to the sea below. The mare paused, snorting, planning her route.

  And then Benedikt heard a sound. Hoofs. A boulder jutted out about ten metres ahead and in a moment a horse and rider appeared.

  ‘Hello, there!’ the rider called.

  Benedikt recognized the voice. Gunnar.

  ‘Is that Benni?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  Gunnar kicked on his horse who picked his way through what remained of the path and paused a couple of metres in front of Skjona.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Gunnar asked, his voice friendly.

  ‘I’ve just been to my cousin’s confirmation in Ólafsvík.’

  ‘Ah, yes, your mother told me about that. Thorgils, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘All right, son,’ Gunnar said. ‘This is going to be a bit tricky.’

  Benedikt winced. He hated it when Gunnar called him ‘son’. Fear fed his anger.

  ‘Get Skjona to go backwards. It’s not far. Just a few metres and we will be able to pass.’

  ‘But she won’t be able to see,’ Benedikt protested. ‘She’ll fall.’

  ‘No she won’t. She’ll be fine. Just take it slowly. Don’t scare her.’

  But Benedikt was paralysed with fear. ‘I can’t. You’ll have to go back yourself.’

  ‘That won’t work,’ said Gunnar. ‘I have much further to go than you. Come on. It’s only five metres. If we try to pass right here, one of us will fall.’

  Suddenly, Benedikt knew what he had to do. He summoned up his courage and tugged gently at the reins. Skjona pinned back her ears, but shuffled backwards. Another stone rattled loose down the cliff until it was lost in the cloud.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Gunnar, his voice calm, encouraging. ‘That’s it, Benni. She’s doing fine. You’re nearly there.’

  And indeed Skjona and Benedikt were back on the path proper. It was just wide enough for two horses to pass.

  ‘All right, hold still,’ said Gunnar. Gently he urged his own horse on. Slowly he passed Benedikt on the outside.

  For a moment Benedikt hesitated. He knew what he did or didn’t do in the next two or three seconds would change his life.

  He freed his left foot from his stirrup. Placed it gently on the flank of Gunnar’s horse.

  And pushed.

  Saturday, 19 September 2009

  He parked the vehicle at the foot of the hill, lifted the shapeless canvas bag off the front seat next to him, and set off up the side of the fell along a sheep track.

  He was three kilometres from the nearest minor road, four kilometres from the nearest farm, neither of which he could see. He was a long way from any human being, out of sight, out of earshot.

  He looked up the lush green flank of the fell. It was still dark, but the edges of the clouds gathering around its upper slopes were tinged with a bluish shade of grey. There was a breeze, but it wasn’t as strong as the day before. He hoped it would be calmer where he was going, and that he would be able to see.

  Ten minutes later he was in the cloud. A further twenty minutes and he was out of it again. He was scrambling downhill into a valley, with steep sides but a flat strip of marsh grass running along next to a stream. Isolated. Quiet. And sheltered from the wind. Perfect.

  It was definitely dawn now, although the sun was hidden by layers of roiling cloud. He paused and slid the bag off his shoulder. An unseen golden plover emitted a series of peeps nearby.

  He unzipped the bag and lifted out the rifle, a bolt-action Remington 700. It was three years since he had fired it, and he was out of practice. He spotted a patch of dryish grass next to a stone, and laid the rifle to rest there. Then he took the empty petrol container out of the bag and paced out one hundred and twenty-five metres along the side of the stream. The elevation had dropped a few metres that far downstream, so he looked for a likely boulder on which to place the container so that it would be at about the same height as the stone. Then he returned to the rifle.

  Tomorrow, he would only get one chance. He would be using a similar rifle, the same model, but not the same weapon. The ammunition was the same, he had checked that, 7 mm Remington. They had examined Google Earth to estimate the range, somewhere between one hundred and one hundred and fifty metres. At two hundred metres the bullet should go pretty much where he aimed it. At one hundred and twenty-five, there would be about a six centimetre rise, meaning he would have to aim a little low, only a little. Six centimetres was not much when compared to the size of a man’s chest.

  Since he would be firing an unfamiliar rifle with no time to check that it was zeroed in correctly, he had decided not to use a scope. Plus a scope could get banged about and knocked off zero while the weapon was being concealed. So, open sights. Keep it simple, fewer things to go wrong.

  It had been easy with the handgun, even though he had never fired one before that evening. At two metres he couldn’t miss the banker. Everything had been prepared perfectly then: the plan, the weapon, the motorbike. He hoped the preparation would work out as well this time. There was no reason to believe it shouldn’t.

  He lay down on the grass, rested the rifle on the stone, and aimed at the petrol container. Then he lowered the barrel a touch to allow for the rise, and gently squeezed the trigger. He felt the familiar kick in his shoulder, heard the shot echo around the little valley, but saw rock splinter just below the container. A pair of golden plovers took to the air, complaining loudly.

  He cursed. He had overcompensated for the rise. He operated the bolt mechanism. Aimed. Fired again. This time the container leapt backwards off the boulder on to the ground beneath. He aimed, fired again. Again the container jumped. And again. And again.

  He smiled. He could do this.

  ‘That was quite a night,’ said Sharon. Magnus and she were sitting in the conference room nursing cups of strong black coffee. She looked like death. ‘It’s a while since I’ve had a night like that.’

  ‘Traditional Icelandic Friday night,’ Magnus said. ‘Or at least half of one.’

  ‘Half of one?’

  ‘Yeah. We went home at about one, I think. A lot of people don’t finish until four or five.’

  ‘Young people,’ Sharon said. ‘Oh, hi, Vigdís. You don’t look too bad.’

  ‘Gódan daginn,’ said Vigdís with a smile. She was carrying her own cup and took a seat with them. ‘Og takk fyrir sídast.’

  Sharon laughed. ‘Oh, I get it. It’s like last night never happened, is it?’

  Vigdís glanced at Magnus. ‘Já.’

  ‘That means “yes”,’ said Magnus. ‘Where’s Árni?’

  ‘He’s got the weekend off,’ Vigdís said.

  ‘Was it my imagination, or was my son arrested last night?’ Sharon asked.

  ‘I think he was,’ said Magnus.

  Sharon winced. ‘Can you remember what police station he was at? Did I say?’

  Magnus shook his head.

  ‘Toot,’ said Vigdís.

  ‘Tooting? What the hell was he doing in Tooting?’

  Baldur appeared at the door. ‘Sergeant Sharon? Magnús? Come to my office.’

  Baldur was insistent that Sharon had uncovered all she was going to in Iceland, and Sharon herself couldn’t really argue. So Magnus agreed to give her a lift back to her hotel, and pick her up in a couple of hours to take her out to the airport.

  Baldur pulled Magnus aside and told him that he should go back to the police college on Monday morning unless anything new cropped up from London. Vigdís could do the remaining work on Sharon Piper’s list of Óskar’s contacts. Magnus protested, but he got nowhere.

  It wasn’t far at all from police headquarters to the Hotel Reykjavík, Sharon could easily have walked it. As Magnus pulled up outside he took a decision.

 
; ‘Sharon, pack your bag and bring it down here. I think we should leave early for the airport. There’s someone I want you to see.’

  ‘OK,’ said Sharon, her curiosity aroused. ‘I’ll be ten minutes. I need to ring my husband to make sure Charlie is all right.’

  A quarter of an hour later, Magnus was driving along the ring road that skirted the city centre towards Seltjarnarnes. He told Sharon all about Harpa and Gabríel Örn and his suspicions about Gabríel Örn’s death. He also told her about Harpa’s dalliance with Óskar in London.

  ‘Why didn’t you mention any of this before?’ said Sharon. She sounded offended that Magnus hadn’t trusted her.

  ‘Baldur didn’t want me to,’ Magnus said. ‘He figures there’s no connection. He wants to make sure there is no connection. And Gabríel Örn Bergsson’s death is firmly filed under suicide. It’s politics. Even in this country politics intrudes in police work.’

  He explained the background, the pots-and-pans revolution, the fear of violence, the sense of relief that there hadn’t been any, the unwillingness to rewrite history and admit that there had.

  ‘I get it,’ said Sharon. ‘So then I suppose the question becomes why are you telling me all this?’

  ‘It may be nothing,’ Magnus said. ‘In which case you can just forget it. But if there is a real link it’s important that you know about it in case you come across something in London that fits. I want to nail whoever it was who killed Óskar.’

  ‘OK,’ Sharon said. ‘Let’s meet Harpa.’

  The bakery where Harpa worked was on the corner of Nordurströnd, the road that ran along the shore. The wind had died down from the previous day, but there was a chill in the air, and the warmth of the bakery was welcoming. Harpa was one of two women behind the counter, both wearing red aprons and with their hair tied up under white hats.

  She tensed when Magnus walked in.

  ‘Do you have a moment, Harpa?’ Magnus asked.

  ‘I’m busy,’ said Harpa, glancing at the woman next to her. ‘Can’t you see I’m working?’

  ‘Would you like me to talk to your boss?’ Magnus said.