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  Ollie didn’t believe in ghosts. At least not in America. But here, in the mists and loneliness of Iceland, how could he not believe in ghosts? How could he believe that now Hallgrímur was dead he would just rest quietly?

  Jóhannes was slowing to cross the cattle grid at the entrance to the farm.

  ‘Turn around,’ Ollie said.

  ‘No, Ólafur, we have discussed this,’ Jóhannes said. ‘You have to talk to the police.’

  ‘Stop the car, then,’ Ollie said, pulling the handbrake.

  Jóhannes’s car skidded on the dirt track and nearly went into a ditch.

  ‘You idiot!’ Jóhannes yelled. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  At that moment a police four-wheel-drive approached them from the farm. It slowed to pass. Ollie caught a glimpse of the large figure in the back seat. Magnus. They exchanged glances for an instant, and then the police car went on its way.

  ‘Shit! That was my brother,’ Ollie said. ‘They’ve arrested him.’

  ‘It looks like it,’ said Jóhannes.

  ‘Look, Joe. If they interview me at Bjarnarhöfn, I’ll screw it up. This place terrifies me. Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘And go where?’

  ‘I’ll call them,’ Ollie said. ‘I’ll tell them I’ll meet them at the police station in Sticky Town or whatever it’s called. They won’t argue. Seriously, man, I can’t handle this place.’

  Jóhannes hesitated, examining Ollie. ‘OK. We’ll go on to Stykkishólmur. You call the police. I’ll go slow, give them time to do whatever they’re going to do to your brother before we get there.’

  Detective Vigdís sighed as she straightened the piles of paper on her desk. She glanced at her computer screen. There were virtual piles much bigger than those in the police servers.

  Murder always generated paper. Computers hadn’t made things better. They had just made it easier to produce more paper, cutting and pasting, copying, merging, collating, printing multiple copies. Computers could produce sheets of paper, but they couldn’t read them. You needed poor dumb detectives for that.

  The case had involved the murder of one of the volunteers for Freeflow, a bunch of Internet activists. Thanks to Magnus, and Árni, it was pretty much wrapped up. Except for the paperwork.

  Ordinarily, Vigdís would have been up for it. She was diligent and hard-working, and she understood that careful preparation of a case was vital if the suspect was to be put away. But at that precise moment she should have been in Paris with her boyfriend. He had got there, but the volcano, and the case, truth be told, had kept her in Reykjavík. He hadn’t been happy.

  Where the hell was Magnus? Árni had a reasonable excuse – he had been injured making the arrests – but it was unlike Magnus not to be in bright and early. He was good at the paperwork. As he never ceased to tell them, in murder cases in the United States, you had to be.

  Her phone rang. She picked it up. ‘Vigdís.’

  ‘Hey, Vigdís, how are you?’

  Her heart leapt. ‘Davíd! Where are you?’

  ‘New York.’

  ‘So you got out of Paris?’

  ‘Got someone to drive me to Madrid and caught a flight from there. And I’m jet-lagged to hell.’

  ‘At least you can get to Chicago, then.’

  Davíd was Icelandic but he worked for a TV company in New York. Last time he and Vigdís had spoken he had made a big deal about a conference in Chicago he was speaking at, and how important it was not to miss it.

  ‘Uh… the conference is cancelled. We were expecting a lot of people from Europe and they couldn’t make it.’

  Vigdís felt the anger rise inside her. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Hey, Vigdís, I’m sorry. Truly I am.’

  The anger melted away. ‘Yeah, well, I’m sorry I never got to Paris.’

  ‘Am I forgiven?’ Davíd said.

  Vigdís laughed. ‘Only if I am.’

  ‘Good. Because I could get on a flight to Reykjavík tonight, I think. Would that be a good idea? It would only be for a couple of days. Can you still get time off?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Magnus had insisted that she take the vacation days she had originally booked, even when the Freeflow case had erupted. But without Árni, Magnus would need her. Where was he, anyway?

  Davíd caught her hesitation. ‘Can’t you just hurry up and solve that murder case today?’ he said.

  ‘Actually, we’ve done that,’ said Vigdís. ‘It’s the clear-up. Look, I’ll see what I can do and call you back in an hour or so.’

  ‘OK, but be quick. I don’t want to lose the seat.’

  She put the phone down and sighed.

  ‘Who was that?’

  She looked up. There was Árni, her young colleague, his arm in a sling. He was tall and painfully thin, with dark hair, a hyperactive Adam’s apple and a ready grin.

  ‘Davíd,’ Vigdís said. ‘He wants to get on a flight to Reykjavík tomorrow. But if I can’t get time off, he won’t come.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be on vacation anyway, aren’t you?’ said Árni. ‘Magnús and I will cope. Where is he, by the way?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Vigdís. ‘Are you sure? What about your arm? Can you type?’

  ‘It’s my shoulder,’ said Árni. ‘I’ll be fine. I’m sure Magnús will be too. Go ask Baldur.’

  Vigdís grinned at Árni. ‘OK, I’ll have a go,’ she said and headed for Baldur’s small office.

  Baldur was a detective inspector and head of the Violent Crimes Unit, for which Vigdís and Árni both worked. Technically Magnus reported directly to the National Police Commissioner’s office, but in practice he had a desk in the unit. He, Vigdís and Árni made a pretty good team.

  Vigdís knew that Baldur had initially opposed her appointment to the unit. It was only partly because she was a woman. It was mostly because she was black. In Baldur’s eyes it was inconceivable that a black woman could investigate a crime in whiter-than-white Iceland.

  The Commissioner had disagreed and forced Vigdís on the reluctant inspector. Vigdís had worked hard; she didn’t want to let down the Commissioner’s confidence in her. And she had earned Baldur’s grudging respect. She was diligent and quick-thinking. She had a particular knack for finding connections in piles of unrelated information. He also liked the fact that her English was even worse than his own.

  He listened to her carefully. ‘Are you sure Árni can cope?’ he asked.

  ‘Quite sure,’ said Vigdís.

  Baldur had a thin, lugubrious face. He smiled so quickly that Vigdís nearly missed it. He was just about to speak when the phone rang. ‘Baldur.’

  He listened a moment, and then straightened up. ‘Yes, Snorri, just one moment.’ Snorri was the Commissioner. Baldur nodded. ‘OK, Vigdís. That’s fine. But do as much as you can today.’

  Vigdís smiled again and left Baldur to the Commissioner.

  She called Davíd right back and told him to book flights. After they had hung up, she turned to her colleague. ‘Thanks, Árni. I owe you one.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Árni. Then his smile disappeared as he glanced over Vigdís’s shoulder.

  She turned. Baldur was standing there looking grimmer than usual, and Baldur usually looked pretty grim.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s Magnús. He’s being held at Stykkishólmur police station.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Árni. ‘What for?’

  ‘Murder. His grandfather.’

  ‘Murder!’ said Vigdís. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘The victim was found dead at his farm this morning.’

  ‘Well, Magnús can’t have murdered him,’ said Árni. ‘He was here in Reykjavík.’

  ‘No, he wasn’t,’ Baldur said. ‘It was Magnús who found the body.’

  ‘Is he under arrest?’ Vigdís asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Árni. ‘If it’s the Dumpling investigating, they’ll never pin anything on him.’


  ‘The Dumpling is sharper than he looks,’ said Vigdís. ‘I worked a case with him last year, a rape in Borgarnes.’

  ‘Emil is just a lump of lard,’ said Baldur. ‘I remember when he was a detective here. But he’s best buddies with the Big Salmon.’ The Big Salmon was Snorri, the Commissioner.

  ‘Whatever. They won’t pin anything on Magnus because he’s innocent,’ said Vigdís. ‘Wait. They don’t want us to investigate him, do they?’

  ‘No. The Commissioner is confident Emil can lead the investigation. He’s going to get him some support from Keflavík. So it will be up to Emil to decide whether Magnus is really innocent.’

  ‘Of course he’s innocent,’ said Vigdís. Baldur’s suggestion that he might possibly not be angered her. She knew that Baldur resented the foreign interloper in his team with his big-city smart-arse American crime techniques, but you had to stand by your colleagues.

  Which was no doubt why the Commissioner had insisted on someone from outside Reykjavík to investigate.

  ‘The evidence doesn’t look good so far,’ said Baldur.

  ‘What have they got?’ Árni asked.

  ‘I’m not allowed to discuss the case with you.’

  Vigdís rolled her eyes. Then why had he mentioned the evidence? Just to wind them up? Baldur could be a real jerk sometimes.

  ‘And in fact the Commissioner was very clear that none of us should communicate with Magnús until this is sorted out. Is that understood?’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Árni in English as Baldur left the room. ‘I didn’t know Magnús was going up there.’

  ‘Nor did I,’ said Vigdís.

  ‘There’s no way he’s guilty?’ asked Róbert, another detective in the unit who had been listening in.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Vigdís. ‘But that puts paid to my vacation. I can’t leave all this with you, Árni.’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ said Árni. ‘Our suspects are in jail on remand, no one’s going anywhere for the next few days. Besides.’

  ‘Besides what?’ said Vigdís.

  ‘If you have a few spare moments, since you are not on duty, you might be able to help Magnús.’

  ‘Huh. Yeah, you’re right.’ She tapped on her keyboard, picked up the phone and dialled a number from her computer screen.

  ‘Who are you calling?’

  ‘Stykkishólmur police station,’ said Vigdís.

  Árni raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, hello,’ said Vigdís, to the woman who answered the phone. ‘Can I speak to Chief Superintendent Rúnar?’

  She waited a moment. ‘Rúnar? This is Detective Vigdís Audardóttir from Reykjavík Violent Crimes Unit. I understand you have my boss there. Can I speak to him?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Vigdís, I can’t allow that.’

  ‘I won’t discuss your case,’ said Vigdís. ‘But we made some arrests yesterday in a murder investigation, and I really need to check something with him.’

  There was a pause. ‘All right. Just a moment.’

  She couldn’t quite hear Rúnar’s instructions to Magnus, but a few seconds later she heard his familiar strong voice on the phone. ‘Hey, Vigdís, what’s up?’

  ‘Sorry, I know you’re busy,’ said Vigdís.

  ‘Actually I’m sitting here twiddling my thumbs. Rúnar said you had a question on the Freeflow case?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Vigdís glanced at the top sheet of paper on her pile, a forensic report, and asked something pointless about it.

  Magnus realized it was pointless but answered it anyway.

  ‘Thanks, Magnús,’ Vigdís said. ‘By the way, Davíd’s flying into Keflavík tomorrow morning, so I’m taking my couple of days off. Árni’s out of hospital, so he can cover for me.’

  ‘That’s great,’ said Magnus. ‘I’m sure I’ll be back at the station tomorrow. They’ve got to ask me the questions, but once I’ve answered them they’ll let me go.’

  ‘Do you want me to help you?’ Vigdís said. ‘Check something out? Get you a lawyer? I can come up and see you.’

  ‘No,’ said Magnus. ‘I’m quite all right here. Don’t worry about me; it’ll sort itself out. Have a great couple of days.’

  ‘But Magnús—’

  ‘Vigdís. I said drop it.’ Magnus’s tone was stern to the point of being offensive. ‘Do you understand me?’

  ‘Magnús—’

  But Magnus’s voice was replaced by the chief superintendent. ‘Detective Vigdís, I think you have finished here.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Vigdís. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Didn’t want your help, huh?’ said Árni as she replaced the receiver.

  Vigdís nodded.

  ‘He’s a stubborn bastard.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Vigdís. ‘He certainly is.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘YOU DON’T CARE that he’s dead, do you?’

  ‘Tóta, dear, that’s a horrible thing to say.’ Aníta was taking a batch of small cakes out of the oven. She was also brewing a new pot of coffee. There were a lot of people around, lots of coffee to drink and cakes to eat, and besides, baking was a favourite displacement activity for Aníta when she was upset.

  Tóta was fifteen, and pretty, if in a slightly tarty way. Long blonde hair, a snub nose, pouting lips in a chubby face. She and her mother had shared a love of horses since soon after Tóta could walk, but for the last twelve months, horse rides had become more rare – only if the weather was good and Tóta was in the mood. Tóta had grown, her softness rearranging itself around her body in a way that interested boys. And she was interested in them.

  Which was fine. There had been boys in Aníta’s teenage years and men when she had gone down to high school in Reykjavík when she was sixteen. So many men. Such awful men, frankly. It was one of the major reasons she had returned to the Snaefells Peninsula. She hoped Tóta wouldn’t make the same mistakes she had. But she could see that already Tóta would make mistakes; she was determined to do so, if only to anger her mother.

  Tóta was sitting at the kitchen table, flipping through a magazine and waiting for the cakes. ‘You hated him.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Well, you hardly ever said anything to him.’

  ‘We had a lot of respect for each other.’ By which Aníta meant they had kept their own distance.

  Hallgrímur had doted on Tóta, frequently commenting that she reminded him of Margrét, his lost daughter. Aníta had never known Margrét, who had died before Aníta had married Kolbeinn, so she had no idea how true this was. Kolbeinn went along with it, but Aníta suspected that this was just to keep his father happy.

  There was the sound of pounding on the stairs and Krissi barged in. ‘Hey, Mum, are they ready yet? I’m starving.’

  He was tall for a twelve-year-old, which was good for basketball, but he wasn’t used to his own size yet, and had developed a tendency towards clumsiness. He was also becoming surly, but in a much more withdrawn way than Tóta. But at that moment he had pink cheeks and a wide grin on his face, like a little eight-year-old. Aníta felt a huge desire to hug him. So she did. He didn’t resist.

  ‘He’s not sad either,’ Tóta said.

  ‘What about?’ asked Krissi, innocently.

  ‘Afi, idiot. Someone murdered him. Probably our psycho cousin. And you don’t care.’

  Krissi looked serious for a moment. ‘Of course I care,’ he said, glancing at his mother.

  ‘Yes, of course he does, Tóta,’ said Aníta, although actually she suspected Tóta was right. And although Tóta had shed tears, Aníta wasn’t sure how sad she really was, either.

  But the manner of Hallgrímur’s death really was shocking. Murder. His blood spilled on the wooden floor of the little church. It was not the way for an old man to die, not even Hallgrímur.

  Another death at Bjarnarhöfn. Another ghost. So many ghosts.

  ‘So that was Cousin Magnús?’ said Tóta. Magnus had spent some time with them in the kitchen before the police h
ad whisked him away. Tóta had been little more than a baby the last time he had visited Bjarnarhöfn briefly. ‘He’s pretty hot.’

  ‘Yuk,’ said Krissi. ‘He’s your cousin!’

  ‘I know,’ said Tóta. ‘I was just saying. Anyway, he’s really old.’

  Tóta had a point, thought Aníta. In fact, she had warmed to Magnus as they had waited in the kitchen for the police. She doubted that he had really murdered Hallgrímur, but she didn’t regret telling the police what she had seen. She was one hundred per cent sure that Magnus was washing up that mug in Hallgrímur’s kitchen.

  And the enmity that Hallgrímur felt towards his grandson was obvious. When Magnus had visited Bjarnarhöfn immediately after his father’s death, Aníta had done her best to welcome him. He was only twenty then, too young to lose both his parents. But Hallgrímur had wanted nothing to do with him and had forbidden Aníta from even asking him to stay for dinner. So Magnus had found a room in a hotel in Stykkishólmur and then gone back to America. If he had intended to effect some reconciliation with his Icelandic family, he had failed.

  Kolbeinn, as usual, had taken his father’s side. There were three brothers – Vilhjálmur, Kolbeinn and Ingvar – and then Margrét, Magnus’s mother. Vilhjálmur, or Villi as he was known to his family, had emigrated to Canada sometime in the 1970s. Ingvar had gone to Reykjavík to become a doctor, and then to France before returning to Stykkishólmur. Kolbeinn had stayed put and run the farm. Someone had to.

  Kolbeinn was nearly fifteen years older than Aníta, and she was his second wife, his first having run off with a fisherman from Akureyri. He was tall, strong and steady, if unimaginative. Aníta had married him on the rebound from the string of imaginative disasters she had dated in Reykjavík. But she didn’t regret her decision. After nearly twenty years she loved him still.

  He was out fixing fences, preparing for the lambing season. The ewes were all indoors at the moment, but once they began lambing they would be let outside into the meadows around the farm, volcanic ash permitting. That was only two weeks away. Lambing was hard work, but totally absorbing, and the distraction would be welcome.

  ‘I think Amma is here,’ said Krissi, pointing out of the window. Indeed, her car, a small silver Opel, was parked next to Magnus’s green Range Rover outside her cottage and she was talking to the policeman standing guard there. There were even more people milling about than before; the forensics team from Reykjavík had arrived. It was raining.