Майкл Ридпат - The Wanderer

Thelma nodded. ‘Because I have had Ingólfur Sveinsson on the phone.’ Ingólfur was the Minister of Justice, Magnus knew. ‘Margrét, the Minister of Culture, has told him how important this documentary will be for Iceland; they expect it to be shown all over the world. She says it is vital that Einar and Eygló go to Greenland to film it before the weather turns bad.’

Magnus was impressed at how quickly someone had been working. He thought it unlikely it was Einar — he had seemed too distracted. Probably Suzy Henshaw or Eygló or both of them together. That might have explained the Commissioner’s presence in Thelma’s office.

‘But surely if they are suspects in a murder investigation, that must take precedence?’

‘That’s what I told the minister, and that’s what he says he told Margrét Sveinsdóttir. And if you need to keep them in the country, I’ll make sure you can — I’ll get the Commissioner involved if necessary.’

‘But?’

‘If it turns out that neither of them is a real suspect, it will be harder to defend the decision not to let him go.’

‘I see. Sveinsson? Sveinsdóttir?’

Thelma smiled. ‘Yes, the Minister of Justice is the Minister of Culture’s younger brother.’

‘That figures.’ And Magnus had thought Boston’s city politics was incestuous.

‘Have you ever been to Greenland, Magnús?’

‘No.’

‘Well, the only direct flights from there are to Reykjavík and Copenhagen, so it will be difficult for Einar to skip town. Maybe you can work something out informally with the Greenlandic and Danish police to keep an eye out for him. We have good contacts.’

‘Maybe.’

‘So?’

Magnus thought a moment. Einar was always the more likely suspect than Eygló, and he was pretty sure now that Einar hadn’t killed Carlotta. Although he wouldn’t be surprised if Einar still hadn’t told them everything, the man wasn’t about to say anything more now. The police would have to search elsewhere for answers.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll let them go to Greenland.’

But as he left Thelma’s office, he was not looking forward to telling Vigdís.

‘What exactly is that?’ said Professor Beccari, eyeing Eygló’s dessert.

‘Skyr. It’s made from milk — it looks and tastes a bit like yoghurt. Try it. It’s good, especially with berries.’

Eygló picked up a spare spoon from the place setting next to her, and offered it to the Italian.

He recoiled. ‘I’ve been warned about your Icelandic delicacies. Rotten shark. Rams’ testicles.’

‘Don’t worry. The testicles taste much better when they are mushed up like this and added to the skyr.’

‘There are rams’ testicles in that?’

Eygló nodded. ‘Only a teaspoon or so. Try it. Be brave.’

The challenge to the professor’s courage was too much for him to resist, so he took the spoon and tasted the skyr.

‘That’s actually not too bad. A bit bitter.’

‘You can add sugar and cream if you want.’

‘It doesn’t really have rams’ testicles in it?’ said Beccari.

Eygló grinned. ‘No. Or at least I don’t think so.’

‘Einar seems distracted,’ said Beccari, nodding at an empty plate. Einar and the others had just left the table, leaving Eygló and Beccari, and Ajay by himself a few places away.

They were having an early lunch in the hotel before filming at Ingjaldshóll, a few kilometres away, in the afternoon. The atmosphere had been tense. The crew knew that the police’s questioning was focused on Einar, but with the exception of Suzy, who had been encouraging, they had avoided asking him about it.

He had looked miserable. As well he should, thought Eygló. She was still confident that he had nothing to do with Carlotta’s death, but she thought he had no one to blame but himself for being implicated. And why had he thought it a good idea to bother her the night before? He had been genuinely distraught and her soft heart had gone out to him. He had insisted he just wanted comfort from her; she had insisted he sleep with his underpants on. But he should never have knocked on her door and she should never have let him in.

But she would have to wait for a good opportunity to talk to him in private. At least the others did not yet realize that she herself was now a suspect.

Damn Einar! It was all his fault.

‘Is he a suspect for the murder, do you think?’ Beccari asked.

‘He shouldn’t be, unless the police are complete morons,’ said Eygló. ‘He was with me and Suzy for most of the evening, and I saw him later on in the street.’

‘So Carlotta was killed by a stranger?’ Beccari asked.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Eygló. ‘I presume so. We don’t get many murders here in Iceland, especially not of tourists.’ She finished her skyr. ‘Don’t worry. The police will find whoever it is. They’ll have to — no one wants our tourists murdered: they are far too important to our economy.’ She was trying hard to sound confident and she thought she was succeeding.

‘Can I get you a coffee?’

‘That would be nice,’ said Eygló.

The professor signalled to the waitress. He was wearing a pale yellow cashmere sweater and his pink scarf even indoors; Eygló was wearing a T-shirt. As so often in the last couple of years, she marvelled at how she was rubbing shoulders with such an august historian, almost as an equal. She was pleased to see that he was lingering. Certain middle-aged men liked her company. She was willing to take advantage of that, especially since none of the others were around.

Besides, she had something she needed to ask him, and she needed to warm him up first.

Start with flattery. ‘I read Thought, Light and New Worlds, ’ she said. ‘I thought it was absolutely brilliant.’ And actually she had. Both read it and admired it. Beccari had achieved the historian’s holy grail of putting across ideas that were both original and complex in an entertaining way. The sixteenth century wasn’t her period, but there had been so many glowing reviews in the press that she had decided to ask for the book for Christmas two years before. Her mother had given it to her, and she had devoured it.

‘I’m glad,’ said the professor, with a total lack of surprise or even pleasure at the praise. Eygló found the arrogance a little off-putting, but he probably had earned it more than Einar.

‘You know you are a very good TV presenter,’ said Beccari. ‘You really make the subject come alive. And you have a certain Nordic charm that gives your words a real power.’

Eygló blushed at the compliment. She didn’t know whether he was simply returning her flattery, whether he was hitting on her, or whether he believed what he said to be true. She decided to believe the latter.

Professor Beccari was one of the most renowned historians in the world. His words meant something. Her former colleagues back at York or the University of Iceland might think she was a lightweight, but who were they when compared to Professor Marco Beccari?

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You must have done loads of television stuff yourself?’

‘Not really,’ said Beccari. ‘I usually avoid it. I used to suffer from that common suspicion among we academics toward popularizing history. Dumbing it down. Distorting the truth to make it entertaining rather than accurate. Slaughtering nuance.’

Eygló winced inwardly. She noted how the ‘we academics’ excluded her. She wanted to argue, to explain that her enthusiasm for history was perfectly genuine, and there was nothing wrong in sharing it. But she kept her cool.

‘ Used to suffer?’ she said. ‘You have changed your mind?’