Michael Ridpath - 66 Degrees North

There was silence in the room, apart from the ticking of a clock, which seemed suddenly very loud. ‘I believe he did,’ said Hildur eventually. ‘I had no idea when I was a child. He used to come over to our farm often after Father disappeared. He helped my mother out around the place, he was a good neighbour. But all the time he knew that he had killed her husband.’ She shuddered.

‘How did you find out? Did Benedikt tell you?’ Magnus fought to keep the excitement out of his voice. He didn’t want to spook her.

Hildur glanced at her audience. For a moment Magnus thought Ingileif might be right, that Hildur might decide that there was no point in keeping the secret any longer. But then she shook her head. ‘I can’t tell you. Some secrets go beyond the grave.’

‘Have you read your brother’s story “The Slip”?’ Magnus asked.

The old lady smiled knowingly. ‘Yes. Yes, I have.’

‘Do you think that your brother might have pushed Gunnar over the edge at Búland’s Head? In revenge for what Gunnar had done to your father?’

‘Let’s just say that on the day Gunnar fell into the sea, Benedikt was returning from Ólafsvík. He claimed he never saw Gunnar. Everyone believed him. Benedikt was an honest boy.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘In fact he was an honest adult. He had to tell the truth somehow, in the end.’

‘I understand,’ said Magnus with a smile. ‘And thank you.’ He stood up to leave. ‘I know it happened a long time ago, but I am very sorry about your father.’

A tear suddenly appeared in the old lady’s eye. ‘So am I.’

Ingileif got her way. Despite Magnus’s reluctance, they stopped by the Berserkjahraun on the way back. They parked the Range Rover just below the farm of Hraun, on the eastern side of the lava field, the opposite side to Bjarnarhöfn.

Hraun was much as Magnus remembered it, with several large outbuildings, and a couple of small houses in addition to the main farmhouse. Circular bales of hay in white plastic lined the home meadow, on which round woollen balls of sheep grazed. Magnus and Ingileif headed into the lava field, and a few metres in they found the Berserkjagata, the ‘Berserkers’ Street’. It was a footpath cut into the rock, only a few inches wide.

‘I thought it would be bigger than this,’ said Ingileif.

‘If you think it was made by two men cutting into solid rock, it’s big enough,’ Magnus said. ‘And it made it much easier to walk to Bjarnarhöfn.’

‘Show me the cairn.’

The path wound through the twisted rock, down into hollows and up again. Autumn in Iceland has its own beauty. Not as striking, perhaps, as the change of leaves in Massachusetts, but the heather and grasses turn to gold and orange, and the bilberry leaves to a deep red. Peaceful.

They caught glimpses of the little Hraunsvík, the ‘Lava Bay’ between the two farms, where the lava flow had spilled into the sea. Two eider drakes in their black and white finery patrolled the cove. Magnus wondered whether the inhabitants of Bjarnarhöfn still collected their mates’ dun-coloured down every summer after the ducklings had left their nests. Beyond the bay, flat islands dotted Breidafjördur, familiar to Magnus from fishing trips in the farm’s skiff.

‘It’s quite hard to take in,’ said Magnus. ‘Jóhannes. Gunnar.’

‘Sounds like you’ve got yourself your very own family feud,’ Ingileif said. ‘It’s fascinating really. Just like the old days. Arnkell and Thórólfur and Snorri and – who was the other one – Björn of Breidavík?’

‘That’s him,’ said Magnus. ‘It does sound a bit like that.’

‘What do you think of Benedikt’s murder? Do you think it is connected?’

‘It must be a possibility,’ Magnus said. ‘Burglars don’t usually murder people in Iceland, although of course it can happen. I’ll pull out the police file next week and take a look.’

‘At least your grandfather wasn’t involved.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ Magnus said. ‘He would be right there for a family feud.’

‘You mean he could have killed Benedikt?’

‘Possibly. Once I take a look at the file it will be clearer.’

‘You really don’t like him, do you?’

Magnus didn’t answer.

They reached the cairn nestling in a hollow, a flat mound of stone big enough to contain two large men.

‘This is it?’ Ingileif said. ‘Wow. And do they really think the berserkers are inside?’

‘They dug it up a hundred years ago,’ Magnus said. ‘There are two skeletons buried there. Apparently they are not particularly tall, but they were powerfully built.’

Ingileif stopped and looked around at the wondrous stone shapes. ‘This must have been a great place to play as a kid.’

‘Yes. Although Óli was scared of it. Grandpa told him the berserkers were still roaming around.’

‘But not you?’

Magnus took a deep breath. ‘I tried not to let my grandfather scare me. I didn’t always succeed.’

Ingileif glanced at him. Magnus could tell she wanted to ask him more.

Suddenly he needed to leave. ‘Let’s go.’

‘No. I’d like to walk a bit further.’

‘Come on.’ Magnus turned on his heel and strode rapidly along the path back to the car. He didn’t look behind him until he reached it. Ingileif was struggling to catch up.

Wordlessly, Magnus started the engine and drove off.

They passed a spot where a road peeled off to the right. ‘Is that the way to Bjarnarhöfn?’ Ingileif asked.

Magnus didn’t answer.

The track became narrow, with a ten foot drop on either side into the rocky waves. A car approached kicking up dust, an old station wagon. Magnus pulled over as close as he could to the side of the track, leaving enough room for the other car to pass.

The car stopped a few feet ahead. It flashed its lights and sounded the horn.

An old man was behind the wheel.

‘Oh, Christ,’ said Magnus in English.

There was really nowhere for Magnus to go, unless he tried to reverse the Range Rover a hundred yards back down the track.

‘Come on, you old git,’ Ingileif said good-naturedly. ‘There’s plenty of room.’

The ‘old git’ edged forward until he pulled parallel with Magnus. Magnus recognized the broad weather-beaten face, the angry blue eyes. The wrinkles were deeper, the grey wiry hair thinner, but it was the same man.

Magnus stared straight ahead.

The man lowered his window. ‘Can’t you pull over further, you selfish bastard!’ he shouted. Then, ‘Magnús?’

Magnus put the car into gear and accelerated along the track, almost driving the large vehicle over the edge.

‘Jesus!’ said Ingileif. ‘Was that him?’

‘Of course it was him,’ said Magnus.

‘And he recognized you?’

‘You heard him say my name.’

The car lurched and skidded through the lava until it hit the main road. Magnus turned to the right up the pass over the mountains.

‘Slow down, Magnús!’ Ingileif said.

Magnus ignored her.

Ingileif stayed quiet as Magnus threw the car around the bends up the hill. But after they had crested the head of the pass, the road on the other side was straighter.

‘What did he do to you, Magnús?’ she asked.

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘But you have to.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Yes, you do, Magnús!’ Ingileif said. ‘You have to face up to it some time. You can’t just bury it.’

‘Why not?’ Magnus said. He could feel the anger in his voice. ‘Why the fuck not?’

Ingileif’s eyes widened at Magnus’s tone. But she didn’t back down. Ingileif didn’t do backing down. ‘Because otherwise it will eat away at you for the rest of your life. Just like it has for the last twenty years. You told me it was your father’s murder that bothered you, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?’