3

Gústi’s house was little more than a run-down shack on the edge of town next to the river. For someone involved in the construction industry, he had spent very little time on his own dwelling. Outside, paint was peeling on the concrete walls and the roof was rusting. Inside, there was a hole in the ceiling.

Tómas had the key he had taken from Gústi’s body. Magnus and Tómas walked slowly through the small house, made up of two bedrooms (one little more than a closet), a kitchen, a living room and bathroom. It was clear that Gústi’s wife was long gone. The bed was unmade, there were coffee cups and the signs of an early breakfast by the sink. The surfaces in the bathroom were covered in a layer of brown scum.

Gústi liked vodka. There were four bottles in the house, three of them empty. He also liked Manchester United. The posters tacked to the walls showed teenage enthusiasms; a programme from a match against Blackburn Rovers at Old Trafford ten years before had pride of place in his bedroom, next to a giant poster of a semi-naked Icelandic model Magnus had never heard of.

Magnus poked around: bills; payslips from the construction company; fishing gear; lots of tools, many of them in bad condition; an old desktop computer with an ancient screen in the bedroom; no notes of any interest; an address book, in which most of the dialling codes were local. Magnus checked the room for photographs. Icelandic homes were full of family photographs; Icelanders had large families and usually everyone had to be represented. But not in Gústi’s house.

‘Where is his wife?’ asked Magnus.

‘In Ísafjördur,’ said Tómas. ‘With his kids.’

‘Any other family in town?’

‘Just a brother. They didn’t really get on.’

Magnus grunted. They should interview the wife. Spouses were always suspects, even long-gone ones. Although somehow Magnus suspected no one was going to inherit very much from Gústi.

Magnus went back into the bedroom. He glanced at the computer. Next to it was a small stand-alone webcam. Magnus picked it up. It looked new, certainly newer than the other equipment.

‘Tómas, can you get a warrant for us to impound the machine?’ he said.

‘Why don’t we just check it out now?’ said the constable, reaching for the on switch.

‘No,’ said Magnus. ‘If this does become a murder investigation we need to be sure that evidence is gathered by the book.’ Back in Boston too many cases had gone wrong because someone somewhere had screwed up the chain of evidence.

‘Are you sure? I’ll have to go to the magistrate in Ísafjördur.’

Magnus glanced again at the webcam. ‘Best do it,’ he said. ‘After we have seen Arnór.’

They found Arnór at the harbour next to a small blue fishing boat named Bragi. He was wrestling with a net. He was a broad-shouldered man of about forty, unshaven, with dark thinning hair. He had the rock-hard face of a man who had spent a couple of decades battling the North Atlantic.

He stood up and wiped his hands on his overalls. ‘I heard about Gústi,’ he said. ‘I expected a visit from you. Come on board.’

He led them into the boat’s small cabin and they sat on benches crammed around a little table. It was only marginally warmer than the quay outside.

‘I didn’t kill him,’ Arnór said.

Magnus took out his notebook. ‘You appreciate I have to ask you some questions.’

‘I just told you – I didn’t kill him. That’s really all you need to know.’

‘Tell me what you did this morning. From when you woke up.’

Arnór stared at Magnus. Magnus stared back. The fisherman rolled a cigarette and lit it. He had big strong hands, and he looked as if he was about to crush the roll-up as he held it between thumb and forefinger. He took a deep drag. Magnus waited. Eventually Arnór spoke. ‘The alarm went off at six. I got dressed, loaded some tackle on to my pickup, checked the computer and went down to the café at the harbour. Had breakfast with some of the guys.’

‘What time was that?’ Magnus asked.

‘About seven, I guess. I’m not sure.’

‘And who was there?’

Arnór gave Magnus and Tómas five names, all of which were known to Tómas.

‘Who else lives with you?’ Magnus asked.

‘My wife and two kids.’

‘Did they see you get up?’ Family members could always lie, of course, but then they could also tell the truth.

‘Nah. Whenever my wife hears the alarm she just rolls over. She doesn’t start work until nine. And the kids don’t get up for school until after seven. I’m often up early and they just ignore me.’

‘OK,’ said Magnus. ‘Now tell me about Gústi.’

‘I didn’t kill him,’ repeated Arnór.

‘That may be so, but you didn’t like him?’

‘He was a bastard. A lying, sneaking bastard.’ Arnór launched into a long disquisition on what a lying, sneaking bastard Gústi had been since the days when they had both been to school together. Magnus let him talk.

‘What happened last Saturday?’ he asked when Arnór had eventually finished. ‘You two had a fight. Why?’

‘Haven’t I given you enough reasons why?’ Arnór asked.

‘Yes, but why last Saturday in particular?’

Arnór took a drag on his cigarette. ‘There was a guy from Grindavík in here last week. Helgi. We don’t know each other well. He was in the café and I was talking to him, just chatting, you know. A couple of other guys were there as well. We were talking about quotas and me being busted last year. I mentioned my suspicions that Gústi had told someone in the ministry lies about me. Anyway, Helgi said his brother worked in the ministry and that he knew that the tip-off had come from someone living in Bolungarvík. It was proof that it was Gústi. Not that I needed it, I’d known all along, but Gústi had always denied it.’

Arnór was scowling. ‘The ministry investigated me, you know. They cleared me in the end, but if they had found me guilty it would have been all over for me. I can barely keep Bragi afloat as it is. A ban or a fine would have been the last straw.’

Magnus nodded. If Arnór had taken any loans out on his boat, he would be suffering from the credit crunch like most other Icelanders. It wouldn’t take much to put him out of business.

‘So I confronted him. We were both drunk. We both ended up outside. Trouble was I was too far gone to do him real damage. And then Tómas locked us up.’

‘Do you deny you threatened to kill Gústi?’ Magnus asked.

Arnór frowned. ‘No I don’t. And to be honest, that evening I felt like it. But not the next morning. And not this morning, either.’

Magnus examined the fisherman closely. He sounded convincing, but there was no doubt he had a motive.

‘Are you arresting me?’ Arnór asked.

‘No,’ said Magnus. ‘Not as long as you promise to stay in port tomorrow.’

‘I was planning to go out fishing tomorrow morning,’ said Arnór. ‘Just for the day.’

‘Got the handcuffs, Tómas?’ Magnus said.

Tómas reached for his belt.

‘All right, all right,’ Arnór grumbled. ‘I’ll be around tomorrow if you need me.’

‘Arnór?’ Magnus asked.

‘Yes?’

‘If you didn’t kill Gústi, do you have any idea who did?’

‘Sure,’ said Arnór.

‘Who?’

The fisherman grinned. ‘Got to be the hidden people, hasn’t it? They hated Gústi even more than I did.’

Magnus and Tómas checked with three of the local fisherman who had had breakfast with Arnór. They confirmed that he had come in at about seven, as did the owner of the café. Then the two policemen went on to Arnór’s house. His two teenage daughters were back from school and claimed they had heard nothing that morning, but their mother was still working at the petrol station.

It took less than five minutes to get there. Arnór’s wife was a small, businesslike woman with her dark hair tied up neatly in a bun, who confirmed that she had no idea when her husband had woken up. As a fisherman’s wife she had long ago learned to roll over in bed when the alarm went off, but she assured Magnus that although her husband hated Gústi he was incapable of killing him or anyone else.

There was no doubt that Magnus and Tómas’s questions rattled her, as they should. Arnór could have got up at six and left the house just before seven as he claimed. Or he could have left much earlier.

If it was Arnór who had started the landslide at just before six-thirty, there was time for him to return to town and the harbour for breakfast with his buddies. Just.

Things did not look good for the fisherman. Magnus and Tómas decided to ask some more questions the following morning, and then bring him in.

Tómas drove off to Ísafjördur to get the warrant from the magistrate there to search Gústi’s computer and also Arnór’s house and boat, leaving Magnus at the police station. He spent half an hour writing up his notes. He had almost finished when there was a knock at the door.

‘Hi!’ It was Eyrún. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Just about finished for the evening.’

‘Are you staying at the guesthouse?’

‘I am. I’m just going there now.’

‘Do you want to join us for dinner?’ Eyrún asked.

‘I’d love to,’ said Magnus.

‘OK. Bring your bag and I’ll drop you at the guesthouse afterwards.’

It wasn’t far to Eyrún’s house, and the Mayor talked the whole way. Magnus recognised the road. They pulled up into the small driveway of a neat white concrete house with a lime green corrugated metal roof.

‘Do you know Arnór?’ he asked. ‘Arnór Hafsteinsson, the fisherman? He lives just over there.’ He pointed to a smaller house two doors down on the other side of the street. Lights were blazing inside.

‘Yes I know him. And his family. He’s your prime suspect, I suppose?’

‘He didn’t like Gústi very much.’

‘He certainly didn’t,’ said Eyrún. ‘But he’s a good man. His girls babysit for us.’

‘You didn’t happen to see him this morning, did you, about six-thirty?’

‘No. I left very early to go to a meeting in Patreksfjördur. My husband might have done. He often takes the dog out about then.’

She led Magnus to her front door and opened it. ‘Hi!’ she yelled.

‘Mama!’ came the answering cry, and much scampering of feet as two children, a boy and a smaller girl cannoned into her, quickly followed by a black Labrador. She fussed over them and introduced them to Magnus. The boy was called Pétur, and was aged seven, the girl, Lára, was four and the dog was called Prins. The girl in particular was angelic, with curly hair so fair it was almost white, bright blue eyes and a wide smile. Clearly her mother’s daughter.

Magnus became aware of a presence further down the hallway. The kids let go of their mother and stood still. Eyrún’s smile changed down a gear from joy to something else. Compassion perhaps. Or impatience. Or both. Even the dog’s tail stopped wagging.

‘This is my husband, Davíd.’

Magnus held out his hand to the dark-haired man with a scrappy beard who was staring at him. He was lean with a square jaw and high cheekbones. His eyebrows were knitted together in a twisted furrow in the shape of a question mark, which gave him a pained expression. An uncomfortable couple of seconds passed before he took Magnus’s hand and shook it briefly.

‘Darling, this is Sergeant Magnús, the detective from Reykjavík I told you about. I’ve invited him to dinner.’

‘Good, good,’ said Davíd.

‘You didn’t happen to see Arnór this morning when you were taking Prins for a walk, did you?’ Eyrún asked.

‘Yes,’ said the man.

Magnus smiled encouragingly at him. ‘Oh, good. What time was that?’

‘About six-twenty. He was loading up his pickup truck. When I came back ten minutes later he was still at it.’

‘Are you sure of the time?’ Magnus asked.

‘Quite sure.’ He turned on his heel and disappeared into a room off the hallway and shut the door.

‘Yes, well,’ said Eyrún, clearly a little embarrassed by her husband’s brusqueness. ‘That would make sense. Davíd has a routine – he takes the dog out for ten minutes about the same time every day. So he probably did get the time right.’

‘That’s very useful,’ said Magnus. Very useful indeed. It meant there was no chance that Arnór was two kilometres away starting a rock fall.

‘Come through and join me in the kitchen,’ said Eyrún. ‘It’s only spaghetti, I’m afraid. Would you like some wine?’

Magnus sat at the dining table while Eyrún poured out two glasses of red wine and busied herself at the stove. While on the outside the house looked like any other in Bolungarvík, inside it was furnished in the ultra cool minimalist fashion of the most stylish houses in the capital. The furniture looked Danish and expensive, and Magnus recognized an abstract seascape at least six-foot wide that adorned one white wall. Magnus’s former girlfriend had run a gallery in Reykjavík, until she had disappeared to Hamburg a couple of months before, and although hers wasn’t Magnus’s world, some of it had sunk in.

‘Do you think Gústi was murdered? Couldn’t it just have been an accident?’

‘It could have been,’ said Magnus. ‘But we found some objects at the scene, buried under the rocks.’

‘What kind of objects?’

‘A stuffed toy. A lamp. Some money.’

‘Strange,’ said Eyrún. ‘What were they doing there?’

‘Could have been bait,’ said Magnus. ‘Or possibly some weird gift for the hidden people. Either way, Gústi went over to take a look.’

‘And started the landslide?’

‘Or had it started for him,’ said Magnus.

Eyrún shuddered. ‘Speaking of the hidden people, I saw you talking to Rós.’

‘Yes,’ said Magnus. ‘She had a lot to say.’

‘Some people in the village listen to her, but I think she’s a fraud,’ said Eyrún. ‘Or she might be kidding herself, as well as everyone else. There was an old lady who lived here called Sigga who people were convinced was a seer. You know, could see into the future?’

‘And could talk to the hidden people?’

‘That too. She died about a year ago. She was a sweet old woman, and everyone treated her with enormous respect. I think Rós saw herself as her disciple. She claims that Sigga taught her things. Personally, I doubt it. All the dreams about the hidden people started just after Sigga died: I put them down to attention seeking. Although the construction equipment really did break down. It drove the company nuts.’

‘Well, I was very polite to her,’ said Magnus. ‘With luck she’ll leave the investigation alone now.’

‘It was she who insisted on that apology ceremony on Sunday. She somehow managed to get the pastor involved. I had to be there, as Mayor. You know Gústi tried to ruin it? Drove a digger right into the crowd. I had to persuade him to leave. Gústi didn’t have much time for Rós or the hidden people.’

‘I bet he didn’t,’ said Magnus.

Eyrún shouted to her husband and children and they all gathered around the dinner table. She chatted to her children about school and nursery and Magnus talked basketball with Pétur. Throughout all this, her husband ate silently at one end of the table, the question mark etched permanently into his brow. Eyrún and the kids ignored him, although Magnus was very aware of his presence.

Eventually, Eyrún let the children leave the table and poured Magnus and herself another glass of wine. Her husband wasn’t drinking.

‘Nice kids,’ said Magnus to Davíd.

Davíd grunted in response.

‘Thank you,’ said Eyrún. ‘They seem to have adjusted pretty well to life in Bolungarvík.’

‘And you?’ Magnus asked.

Eyrún glanced at her husband, who didn’t respond. ‘It’s been harder than we expected. Summer was great: there are some gorgeous places around here, and we are well out of the rat race. But the winter is difficult. And the wind blows in from the Atlantic, it never stops. You think the weather in Reykjavík is bad, you should try Bolungarvík. What about you? Tómas called you the “Yankee detective”. Do I detect an American accent?’

Magnus knew that he had established a bit of a reputation for himself in his eight months attached to the Icelandic police force, but he hadn’t realised it had reached as far as Bolungarvík.

‘I hope not,’ said Magnus. ‘I’m working on losing it. Yeah, I was born in Reykjavík, but I’ve lived in Boston for a while. And I do find it difficult to adjust to Iceland. On the one hand I feel that I am finally back in my home country, on the other I feel like a foreigner. Everyone seems to know each other, they all have their in-jokes. Maybe I am more of an American than I realised.’

‘Why did you go to America in the first place? Followed your parents?’

‘My father. He was a university lecturer in mathematics and he got offered a job in Boston. At first, I stayed here with my mother and grandparents. When she died, my brother and I went over to join my dad in America.’

Magnus found himself talking about the difficulties of being an Icelandic adolescent in an American high school, how speaking Icelandic with his father and reading the sagas were the only link to his home country. Then he told Eyrún about his father’s murder in a small town on Boston’s south shore and his determined but unsuccessful efforts to solve the crime when the police couldn’t. How he had joined the Boston Police Department as a result, rather than going to law school.

Eyrún was a good listener. She refilled the wine glasses, emptying the bottle. Although Magnus glanced at her husband at first, who was listening impassively, he soon forgot he was there. Magnus was relaxing in the company of an elegant, beautiful woman in this little piece of über cool Reykjavík.

‘Will you please stop flirting with my wife?’

Magnus turned, shocked by the interruption, to see Davíd staring at him. His brow was twisted, his eyes shining.

‘Davíd!’ Eyrún exclaimed.

Magnus felt a flash of anger, but he controlled it. This guy was clearly not stable. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said simply. ‘I didn’t mean to flirt. We were having a nice conversation, that’s all.’

‘I can see the way you are looking at her. I’m no fool. And Eyrún, why are you encouraging him?’

‘I’m not encouraging him!’ Eyrún snapped. Then, with a visible effort, she softened her voice. ‘Look, darling, Magnus is our guest. We should make him feel at home.’

‘I know how you want to make him feel at home.’

Eyrún reddened, but held her tongue.

Magnus pulled himself to his feet. He wanted to slug the guy. He wanted to slug him real bad.

A humourless smile had crept across Davíd’s face. Magnus turned to Eyrún.

‘Don’t Magnús,’ she said.

‘Why don’t you?’ said Davíd. ‘Go into a man’s home. Drink his wine. Flirt with his wife. And then attack him.’

A little voice of reason whispered to Magnus that beating up the Mayor’s spouse was not a good career move, no matter if he explicitly asked for it.

‘Thank you for a lovely dinner, Eyrún,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll be going now.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Eyrún.

‘Sure. Go right ahead,’ said Davíd.

‘Just to the door,’ said Eyrún.

‘Are you going to be OK?’ asked Magnus as she gave him his coat in the hallway.

‘Oh, he won’t touch me,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry about that. I should never have asked you. Davíd has been particularly bad these last couple of days.’

‘Is he sick?’ Magnus asked.

‘I think so,’ said Eyrún. ‘And I’m glad you realise it. He would never have done that a year ago. Even six months ago. I hoped leaving Reykjavík would help him. He used to work in a bank, but then he had a breakdown during the kreppa. He said he wanted to go somewhere quiet and this seemed the perfect place. And it was until a couple of months ago. Jealousy is his most recent thing, he doesn’t seem to be able to get it out of his mind. Which is absurd in a place like this.’

‘Can you take him to see someone?’

‘Out here? You must be kidding. But it’s a good idea; I’m beginning to think we should return to Reykjavík, but I’d feel really bad abandoning this job. And of course, it’s terrible for the children.’ She touched his sleeve. ‘Thanks for being so understanding. I shouldn’t have exposed you to all this. Look, I’m sorry I can’t give you a lift to the guesthouse, but I’d better stay here.’

‘I understand. And thanks for dinner.’

‘Not at all. I enjoyed it,’ she said. She smiled. ‘It was nice to talk to someone.’

The cold air bit into Magnus’s cheeks as he stepped out into the street. Bolungarvík at nine o’clock in the evening was dead. The wind had diminished to a stiff breeze, but not before it had ripped away the clouds overhead, revealing a clear night sky splattered with a million stars.

Magnus decided to walk through the town rather than go straight to his guesthouse. Icicles dangled from the corrugated eaves of the houses. He headed for the church on a low hill just on the edge of the village, threading his way through the soft pools of yellow thrown down by the street lights on to the snow. A traffic light blinked green, yellow and red, unnoticed by any passing car.

He felt sorry for Eyrún. No doubt a year or two ago she and her husband had appeared the perfect couple living the Icelandic dream: two high-paying jobs, lots of stylish stuff in a stylish house in Reykjavík, two beautiful kids. And now they were trapped in their own private hell. He could imagine how moving out of the fast city had seemed like a good idea, but it had clearly been a mistake.

Had it been a similar mistake for him to move to Iceland? He had enjoyed being a homicide detective in Boston. Over there, there were real murders, and they came thick and fast. And Magnus had relished clearing them up. He was good at it too. He smiled as he imagined what his old boss at the Homicide Unit, Deputy Superintendent Williams, would have thought of him chasing elves through the darkness and the snow. They would have loved that back in Schroeder Plaza, he wouldn’t have heard the end of it.

He still had the problem of what the hell to tell Baldur: whether to declare this a full murder investigation. He really didn’t want to get that call wrong. If he summoned reinforcements from Ísafjördur and Reykjavík and Gústi’s death turned out to be no more than an accident, he would look a total idiot. In an absurd way, the talk of elves and hidden people had raised the stakes. The bear and the lamp were suspicious, but he wasn’t convinced of Arnór as a suspect. He would sleep on it, ask some more questions and decide the following morning.

He crossed the bridge over the river and climbed up to the church. Below him the buildings of Bolungarvík huddled tightly together for warmth and security. Above the village towered the massive snow-covered rock of the mountain, and beyond that the wild North Atlantic tossed and churned. To the south he could make out the dark scars of previous landslides on the flanks of the fells. A streak of green caught Magnus’s attention as it fluttered and swished across the ridge of mountains on the other side of the fjord. The northern lights.

It was cold, it was bleak. The sun didn’t shine. There were no trees. Yet the mountains, the sea, the sky, seemed to be alive: swirling, shifting, shimmering as the stars, the moon and the aurora brushed them in a shifting palette of yellow, white and green illumination. And if the landscape was alive, then it had purpose and it had power.

It reminded him of his grandfather’s farm on the Snaefells Peninsula a little to the south where Magnus and his brother had spent four miserable years after their father had left Iceland. He shuddered. Those were years Magnus wanted to forget.

That had seemed lonely. But this, this seemed even lonelier.

People shouldn’t live here. No wonder those that did were driven crazy like Davíd, or crushed by the land itself like Gústi. They should leave it to the trolls and the elves.

What had Baldur called this place? The edge of nowhere.

Magnus shivered again and set off back into town to the guesthouse. The sooner he sorted out Gústi’s death and got back to Reykjavík the better.