Майкл Ридпат - The Wanderer

The nearest town was Qaqortoq, thirty kilometres down the fjord towards the sea, and only reachable by boat or helicopter. That place only had five thousand inhabitants.

And just out of sight, behind the rock faces to the north and east, the second largest icecap in the world heaved, pushed and slowly slid, stretching back for thousands of kilometres towards the North Pole.

It may have seemed a place of safety to Erik the Red, but it certainly didn’t to Eygló.

She heard the panting of someone climbing up the hill to her left, and she tensed. She hoped it was Einar and not Tom or Rósa, but she was relieved when Professor Beccari’s bald head and pink scarf appeared.

‘Do you mind if I join you?’ he asked.

‘No, please do,’ said Eygló. ‘It’s quite a view.’

The professor squatted down beside her. He was wrapped up warmly, even though it was fourteen degrees, hot for Greenland. His pink scarf peeked out of his windcheater.

‘You’ll be OK tomorrow,’ he said.

‘I hope so,’ said Eygló. ‘I feel so unprofessional!’

Beccari grinned. ‘It is your unprofessionalism that is your secret. Don’t lose it.’

‘Thank you,’ said Eygló. Although she had always wanted to be taken seriously as a proper academic, she knew Beccari was right.

‘It’s probably the shock of the murder of that poor woman. You were the one who found the body, weren’t you?’

Eygló nodded. ‘It was a shock. It still is.’

‘Is that why everyone is so miserable?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, it’s not just you. It’s Einar and his wife. What’s she doing on this trip? It seemed like he wasn’t expecting her to come, and he doesn’t seem happy that she’s here.’

‘I don’t think he is,’ said Eygló. It was true: Einar looked absolutely miserable.

‘I don’t know how to put this,’ Beccari said, ‘and of course it’s none of my business, but it seems as if there is the classic tension between a man, his wife and a — how shall I say? — a beautiful female friend.’

‘That’s me, right?’ said Eygló.

Beccari shrugged and waggled his hand in what Eygló assumed was an assenting motion.

Damn right it was none of his business, she thought. It was clear that despite his august status, Professor Beccari was a natural gossip who had spotted sources of tension and wanted to find out more. But at least he was being honest in his curiosity.

‘It’s not that straightforward,’ she said. ‘There is nothing going on between me and Einar. There might have been once, many years ago, but not now.’

‘Does Rósa understand that?’ Beccari asked.

‘Not sure,’ said Eygló. ‘I’ve seen you talking to her in the last couple of days. What do you think?’

‘I don’t know. I feel she is sad and she is angry, but I haven’t asked her why. She is an intelligent woman. Well read. And she knows her history. I enjoy talking to her.’

Rósa was very intelligent, and could be charming if she wanted to. She was also unlikely to be overawed even by someone with Professor Beccari’s ego.

‘I wish she would just go back to Iceland,’ Eygló said.

Beccari didn’t answer.

‘It’s good to have seen where this wampum was found,’ Beccari said. ‘Einar was very convincing that it was real.’

‘Einar is convincing.’

‘But is he right?’ Beccari asked. ‘You seemed to have had your own doubts earlier?’

‘No, not really doubts,’ said Eygló. Certainly while she was in Greenland she was not going to question the wampum, or the letter. She was going to remain a true believer and get out of Greenland alive.

Beccari looked at Eygló closely, and then smiled. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

They sat in silence for a minute or two.

‘I think I will leave this evening,’ he said.

‘Don’t go.’

Beccari raised his eyebrows in surprise.

‘It’s good to have you here,’ Eygló said. Although it was hard to imagine Professor Beccari actually protecting her, the presence of someone unconnected with the madness of Carlotta and her death was reassuring. With him around, she just felt safer.

‘I’ve seen what I came for: Brattahlíd. And I would like to see a couple of other places in Greenland before I go back to the States. I’ll take the helicopter to Qaqortoq this evening and stay there. It sounds interesting.’

Eygló had visited the town once on her previous trip to Brattahlíd. It was picturesque on the surface, a jumble of multicoloured houses tumbling down three hillsides to the sea, but she had remembered sensing an undercurrent of bored desperation.

‘Yeah, it’s pretty,’ she said. ‘But we are heading up to the Western Settlement once we have finished here. You would enjoy that.’

‘I don’t have time for that, and you must admit your colleagues are not very congenial travel companions at the moment. Good luck with the rest of the filming. I am sure you will be brilliant.’ He reached over to pat her hand, and then stood up to leave.

Eygló let him go. There were still twenty minutes till the boat left, and she wanted solitude.

‘Eygló?’

She turned in panic as she recognized the voice. It was Rósa. Where the hell had she come from?

Rósa sat down next to her, right next to her so they were almost touching. Rósa was a big woman. Eygló tensed.

‘Eygló. We need to talk.’

Vigdís made her way to Ward Three of the National Hospital in Reykjavík. She was very familiar with the layout; a police officer was a regular visitor to hospitals one way or another. She asked at the nurse’s station which bed was Tryggvi Thór’s.

She was busy with all the activity following Nancy Fishburn’s murder and she didn’t have time for this. Fortunately, the hospital wasn’t far from the hotel where Nancy had died, and so she could slip away for half an hour. The crime scene was being processed, witnesses were being interviewed, reports were being written, but Magnus was right: all the answers lay in Greenland.

As she approached his bed, she saw a man she recognized standing next to it. He was in his fifties, tall, with close-cropped brown hair turning to grey and a thin red beard: Jakob Ingibergsson, the famous businessman who had cut quite a dash before the financial crash, and whose companies were still operating.

Tryggvi Thór obviously had friends in high places.

The businessman saw her hovering, and said a swift goodbye to Tryggvi Thór before leaving, ignoring her as he brushed past her.

Tryggvi Thór’s head was bandaged and a large rose of purple blood vessels blossomed on his cheek. Sharp brown eyes stared out at her from his ravaged face.

‘You’re Vigdís, aren’t you?’ he said before she had a chance to introduce herself. ‘Magnús’s pal?’

‘That’s right,’ said Vigdís.

‘I don’t know what you’re doing here. I told your colleague it was just an accident.’

‘Magnús asked me to check up on you. Can I sit down?’ Vigdís indicated the grey plastic chair next to his bed.

‘No.’

Vigdís sat on it anyway. It was still warm from the millionaire businessman’s arse. Magnus had warned her Tryggvi Thór would be difficult. She was sure she could handle him.

‘Róbert told me that you slipped and fell,’ she said, taking out her notebook. ‘Can you tell me exactly what happened?’

‘I slipped and fell.’

Vigdís gave him one of her ‘don’t bullshit me’ looks. She had several. ‘You expect me to believe that? Only a few days after you were attacked at home?’

‘Yes, I do.’ They stared at each other for a couple of moments. ‘OK. I don’t remember exactly what happened. I think I must have fainted as a result of the head injury earlier this week, and I hit my head as I fell.’