Michael Ridpath - 66 Degrees North

Magnus knew he couldn’t be a hundred per cent sure of their discretion, but Páll was a policeman and they seemed decent enough.

‘No problem,’ said Sara, with a smile. ‘Although you can imagine how much the town would love this gossip. Stay and have some lunch with us. I’ve made some soup. I’m sure there is enough for two more.’

THE SOUP WAS indeed tasty; lamb and vegetables. Páll and Sara had two noisy but good-humoured kids and both Magnus and Ingileif enjoyed the good-natured warmth. Páll had to take the boy to basketball practice, so they left soon after the meal was over.

‘So, what do you think of that story?’ Ingileif asked. ‘Do you think your great-grandfather was pushed?’

Magnus smiled. ‘It’s the classic question, isn’t it? Did he fall or was he pushed? In this case I suppose it’s possible he was pushed. But who by?’

‘It must have been Benedikt himself.’

‘Or someone he knew well. A brother? I can’t believe he would as much as admit to it in a story.’

‘Perhaps he had to get it out of his system somehow,’ Ingileif said. ‘After all, that chapter in Moor and the Man is clearly about Gunnar.’

‘It could all be a coincidence,’ Magnus said.

‘You’re a cop. You don’t believe in coincidences, surely?’

‘Actually, I do,’ said Magnus. ‘In real life coincidences happen. You have to keep an open mind.’

‘So are we going to see Unnur? Find out if she has read that short story?’

‘I’ll give her a call,’ said Magnus.

Unnur agreed to meet them in an old restaurant in Stykkishólmur. It was a warm, cosy place, but empty apart from a Spaniard and an Icelander talking to each other about fish in English. There was a good view of the harbour, where a ferry was gathering speed as it headed off towards the West Fjords.

Unnur was waiting for them with a cup of coffee. Magnus introduced Ingileif.

‘I didn’t want to meet at the house this time,’ Unnur said. ‘My husband is at home, and I haven’t told him about the stuff with your father. I’m not proud of it: I’d rather he didn’t know.’

‘I understand,’ said Magnus. ‘But don’t worry. Like I said on the phone, we won’t talk about that.’

‘You read the chapter in Moor and the Man ?’ Unnur asked.

‘I did,’ Magnus said. ‘You think that shows that Gunnar killed his neighbour?’

‘Yes. I’m pretty sure. As you can imagine there was a lot of gossip around here when the book came out. It didn’t take long for someone to spot the similarity. I was still working in Reykjavík at the time, but it was all the conversation of family visits.’

‘Do you know what Benedikt said about it?’

‘Oh, he denied it, but no one believed him. I think he was surprised that people had made the connection. And of course your grandfather said it was all nonsense. As you can imagine, he was angry about the whole thing. It was my aunt who convinced me that there was something in it.’

‘Your aunt?’

‘Yes. My uncle’s wife. She was also Benedikt’s older sister. She lived at Hraun at the time.’

‘And she confirmed the story?’

‘No,’ said Unnur. ‘She wouldn’t say anything. She just gave this kind of knowing smile.’

‘Did you know Benedikt?’

‘Only vaguely. We met once or twice at some of the larger family gatherings. A nice guy, very clever, rather quiet. His mother had sold the farm at Hraun and moved into town here. She used to own a clothes shop. I can just about remember it. She died some time in the sixties. But you said you have found another story?’

‘Yes. Ingileif remembered it. Do you own any of his short-story collections?’

‘No,’ Unnur said.

‘Well, there’s one called “The Slip”,’ Ingileif said. She summarized the story for Unnur, who listened closely.

‘I see,’ she said. ‘I seem to remember that Gunnar fell off a cliff somewhere, didn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ said Magnus. ‘On Búland’s Head. And he was riding a horse at the time. That was something my grandfather did tell me.’

‘And you are suggesting that someone pushed him? Benedikt?’

‘Possibly. In the book the boy is taking revenge for the rape of his sister. In this case it would be for the murder of his father.’

Unnur mulled it over. ‘It is possible, I suppose. I can’t imagine Benedikt killing anyone. It’s all ancient history now, isn’t it?’

‘Perhaps not so ancient,’ Magnus said. ‘Remember Benedikt was murdered himself. In 1985.’

‘But that was a burglar,’ Unnur said.

The three of them sat in silence, thinking it all through.

Unnur shuddered. ‘This is creepy. Three deaths. Over, what, fifty years? From the nineteen thirties to the nineteen eighties.’

‘Is your aunt still alive?’ Ingileif asked.

‘Yes. But I doubt she would tell you anything.’

‘You never know with old people,’ Ingileif said. ‘Sometimes they are happy to talk when the people they are talking about are no longer with us.’

‘It’s important,’ said Magnus.

‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ said Unnur. ‘Well, let’s go and see her. She lives just around the corner.’

They left the restaurant and followed a small street that rose behind a fish factory. They came to a tiny house, that looked like an illustration out of a children’s book. It was clad in corrugated iron, painted a bright green with a red roof. A series of elfish knickknacks adorned the windows. Unnur rang the bell. Above the door was a white plaque upon which the year 1903 was carefully painted in black, with purple flowers winding around the numbers.

Unnur’s aunt Hildur was a tiny woman with a crooked back, bright blue eyes and a sharp mind. Her face lit up when she saw her niece. She led them through to an over-heated and over-furnished sitting room, with landscapes on the walls, and little Icelandic flags sprouting up among various elves, seals, trolls and birds on every surface. Unnur was sent to the kitchen to fetch some coffee, there was some brewed.

Hildur picked up some knitting. ‘It’s for my great-grandson,’ she said. ‘He’ll be two next week, and it’s for his birthday, so please don’t mind me if I keep working.’

She held up an almost completed tiny lopi sweater, with an intricate pattern of blue and white crossing chest and shoulders in concentric circles.

‘That’s beautiful,’ said Ingileif with enthusiasm.

The old lady grunted, but she was clearly pleased.

Unnur returned with the coffee. ‘This is Magnús Ragnarsson, aunt. Hallgrímur’s grandson.’

Immediately Hildur’s blue eyes fastened on Magnus, warmth replaced by suspicion.

‘I lived with my grandparents at Bjarnarhöfn for four years when I was a boy,’ Magnus said. ‘It wasn’t a happy time in my life.’

‘I imagine it wasn’t,’ said the old woman.

‘You know my grandfather, I take it?’

‘Of course,’ said Hildur. ‘We were neighbours until I was about twenty. We lived at Hraun. I have tried to avoid him since then.’

‘You don’t like him?’

‘No. I don’t. Benni and he used to be great friends when they were little, but I thought he bossed Benni around a bit. They grew apart as they got older.’

‘I don’t like him either,’ said Magnus. The old lady was shocked. Loyalty to grandparents was a given in Icelandic society.

‘Do you remember my great-grandfather?’ Magnus said. ‘Gunnar.’

‘Yes,’ said Hildur.

‘What was he like?’

Hildur didn’t answer straight away. ‘He was a bad man,’ she said eventually.

‘A very bad man,’ Magnus said. ‘He killed your father, didn’t he?’