Michael Ridpath - 66 Degrees North

‘That’s right. It isn’t too far from my grandfather’s farm. It’s one of those places that has a bunch of folk tales attached to it. The road from Grundarfjördur to Ólafsvík runs along its edge. It used to be very narrow, and it’s still pretty scary, or it was in the nineteen eighties. Apparently my great-grandfather slipped and fell. He was riding his horse.’

‘But no one told you about him being suspected of killing anyone?’

‘No. But then my grandparents would be hardly likely to tell me. As you know, I lived with my father from the age of twelve and he never spoke about my mother’s family. Do you know anything about this guy Benedikt Jóhannesson?’

‘A bit. He wrote in the sixties and seventies. I think that might have been one of his last books.’

Magnus checked the front of the book. ‘Copyright 1985.’

‘There you are. Actually, he died about then. I think he might have been murdered. I’m sure he was. Hold on, let’s google him.’

Ingileif grabbed her laptop and after a certain amount of fiddling about they were on the Icelandic Wikipedia entry for Benedikt Jóhannesson. Born 1926, died 1985. He was born and brought up on a farm on the Snaefells Peninsula. He studied Icelandic at the University of Iceland and lived in Reykjavík. He published a dozen novels, the last of which was Moor and the Man , and several collections of short stories.

‘Those are quite good,’ said Ingileif. ‘I think I prefer them to the novels, although they are not as popular.’

They read on. ‘Look at that!’ exclaimed Ingileif, pointing to the section headed Death .

Magnus was a couple of lines behind her; he skipped a bit, and read the section. ‘Jeez.’

In 1985 Benedikt Jóhannesson was found murdered at his home in Reykjavík. The crime was never solved, but the police assumed it was a burglar.

‘There you are, Mr Detective,’ said Ingileif. ‘There’s something to get your teeth into.’

August 1942

HILDUR’S BACK ACHED as she raked up the hay. Her brother Benedikt was twenty metres away, laying low the tall lush grass with rhythmic sweeps of his scythe. Hildur glanced up towards Bjarnarhöfn Fell. A black cloud was gathering on the other side of the mountain, preparing to pounce. They had only harvested half of the home field, and time was running out if they were to get all of it in for the winter. Cutting the hay was the easy part. The difficulty was drying it and then keeping it dry. A row of haycocks behind her testified to their efforts so far.

She saw a figure on a horse picking its way along the Berserkjagata through the lava field. Hallgrímur. He was eighteen and although not tall, he was broadening out. Some of the younger girls in the region even found him attractive, much to Hildur’s disgust. She was surprised to see him pause as he passed her younger brother. Usually the two of them ignored each other.

‘Hello, Benni!’

Benedikt paused and straightened up. ‘Hello, Halli.’

‘What are you bothering to get the hay in for? I thought you’d sold the place?’

‘The new owner will need to feed his sheep this winter just like we do.’

‘Huh. He’s from Laxárdalur, isn’t he? Can’t he bring his own hay?’

Benedikt shrugged at the stupidity of the remark and made as if to go back to work.

‘I hear your mother has bought the clothes store in town?’ Hallgrímur said.

‘That’s right.’

‘So you will be selling ladies’ underwear?’

‘I’m going to school in Reykjavík. The Menntaskóli.’

‘That’s a bit of a waste of time, isn’t it? But I suppose your mother won’t need you at home any more once she sells the farm.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Well,’ Hallgrímur said. ‘When you get to Reykjavík, remember what I told you.’ He glanced at Hildur, who looked away. ‘In the church, when we were kids. Do you remember?’

‘I remember,’ said Benedikt. ‘I remember very well.’

‘And you will keep your word?’

‘I always keep my word.’

‘Good,’ said Hallgrímur. He kicked his horse on.

‘Oh, Halli,’ said Benedikt.

Hallgrímur paused. ‘Yes?’

‘Do you remember what I said in the church?’

Hallgrímur frowned. ‘No. No, I don’t.’

Benedikt smiled and went back to his scything.

Hallgrímur hesitated and then rode off. Hildur approached her brother. ‘What was all that about?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘Was it something to do with Dad?’

‘Really, Hildur, you don’t want to know.’

Hildur did want to know, but she knew there was no point in pushing her brother. He was stubborn in his own way.

‘I’m glad that boy won’t be our neighbour any more,’ she said.

‘So am I,’ said Benedikt. ‘So am I.’

Sunday, 20 September 2009

Magnus put the cup of coffee down on the nightstand inches from Ingileif’s head and climbed into bed beside her. As he sipped from his own mug, he studied her back. Her fair hair was spread over the pillow and her shoulders were moving up and down in a tiny shallow rhythm. She had a cluster of faded freckles above one shoulder blade that formed the shape of a crescent – he had never noticed them before. He felt an urge to lean over and run his hand down her spine, but he didn’t want to disturb her.

He smiled. He was lucky to wake up next to someone like her.

As though she could feel his eyes upon her, Ingileif stiffened, grunted and rolled over, blinking.

‘What time is it?’ she said.

‘Just after nine.’

‘That’s a bit early for a Sunday, isn’t it?’

‘I need to get going soon. I’ve got to go back up to Grundarfjördur.’

Ingileif sat up, her back against the pillow, and sipped her coffee. ‘Again?’

‘Now we know Harpa saw Óskar in London over the summer it’s all the more important to check up on her boyfriend. If he’s there. I’ll call the police up there to make sure he’s at home before I set off.’

‘Can I come? We could go for a walk afterwards. I could see Bjarnarhöfn, if only from a distance. Or we could go talk to Unnur about Benedikt Jóhannesson. If you want to, of course.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Magnus.

‘Oh, come on. You supported me last spring when I was trying to come to terms with what I learned about my father’s death. I’d like to do the same for you.’

The idea of going anywhere near Bjarnarhöfn again didn’t thrill Magnus. Ingileif may be right, perhaps it would be more bearable if she accompanied him.

‘You have to promise to leave me alone to interview Björn.’

‘I promise.’

Magnus smiled. ‘All right. Let me check with the Grundarfjördur police and then we’ll go.’

The sun was shining out of a pale blue sky as they drove north. Ingileif put a Beethoven symphony on the car’s CD system, great music for driving through the Icelandic countryside, she said. She was right. Magnus had little knowledge of classical music, but Ingileif was a good guide.

Páll, the constable in Grundarfjördur, had confirmed that although there were no lights on in the house, Björn’s motorbike was in his driveway as was his pickup truck. Magnus asked the constable to keep a discreet watch on the house until he got there. If Björn left home, Magnus wanted to know where he was going.

As they descended the north side of the mountain pass down towards Breidafjördur, Magnus pointed out the Berserkjahraun and Bjarnarhöfn.

‘Is that a little church there, down by the sea?’ Ingileif asked.

‘Yes. It’s tiny,’ Magnus said. ‘Not much more than a hut.’

‘It’s cute. And why is it called Bjarnarhöfn?’