Майкл Ридпат - The Wanderer

‘All right,’ said Magnus, all sympathy for the professor disappearing. ‘But I don’t think the old lady will care very much about your threats.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she was murdered. On Friday morning in Reykjavík.’

Beccari seemed to realize he had gone too far. ‘Oh. That’s... that’s terrible. OK, look, I’m sorry. I’m sure you told me this in good faith. But that letter is authentic — I’m certain of it.’

‘Her name was Nancy Fishburn, ‘ Magnus said. ‘Did you know her?’

‘No. Wait — did she write a book on Gudrid?’

‘Yes, that’s her.’

‘I glanced at her book in the library. But I have never met her, no.’

Paulsen let Beccari go. ‘We’ll be in touch.

‘Sounds as if Rósa knew what was going to happen to her,’ she said once the professor had left.

‘I guess so,’ said Magnus. ‘Unless she was referring to her cancer? Eygló said Rósa told her it was killing her.’

‘That doesn’t sound right to me,’ said Paulsen. ‘It sounds to me as if she was expecting something more sudden.’

It sounded like that to Magnus too.

‘Einar must have threatened her,’ she said. ‘Perhaps there was a history of this? Maybe Einar had tried to kill her before. Or beaten her. Does that seem possible to you?’

‘Unlikely from what I’ve seen of their relationship.’

‘I don’t know about Iceland, but in this country you can never tell.’

‘No, that’s true of Iceland. And America.’ And pretty much anywhere else, Magnus suspected. You couldn’t tell what went on in anyone’s marriage, but you did know that there was more abuse than ever came to light. ‘But I’d have thought if he did threaten to kill her, it would be over something specific.’

‘Like he had just discovered she had murdered Carlotta? Or she had confessed it to him?’

Magnus nodded. ‘Maybe.’ He thought a moment. ‘I wonder if Professor Beccari would ever have mentioned it if Rósa had not been killed?’

‘I don’t know, but I’m glad he did,’ said Paulsen. ‘Now, let’s get to the prosecutor’s office.’

Back in Iceland, Róbert was arranging the warrant to search Rósa’s home and office and seize her computers. While Vigdís was waiting, she decided to take the opportunity to drive out to Akranes and see Emil.

He actually lived on a farm twenty kilometres to the east of the town. For a property owned by a retired policeman, Vigdís was surprised at how prosperous it looked: a new barn, dozens of horses grazing in paddocks bordered by smart wooden fences, a yard that was almost gleaming. The farmhouse itself — stained white concrete walls and a red metal roof — was noticeably tattier than its yard.

The door was answered by a tall thin woman of about sixty: Linda, Emil’s wife. Despite only having met Vigdís once or twice, she recognized her immediately; people usually did. She greeted her warmly and led her through to a living room, where Emil was sitting in an armchair facing the home meadow, reading that morning’s Morgunbladid .

‘Someone to see you, Emil.’

He looked up, his eyes betraying confusion. Vigdís was shocked at what she saw. The last time she had seen him, he had been a large, very large, man in his late fifties, with a thick moustache and several robust chins. The moustache had gone, and so had much of the fat, leaving loose folds of skin around a haggard face. There was still a tiny little paunch above his jeans, but his legs appeared stick thin. Although he would only be in his sixties, he looked ten years older.

Two walking sticks leaned against the armchair.

‘Hi, Emil,’ she said, approaching him with a grin and holding out her hand. ‘Vigdís.’

The confusion left Emil’s eyes and a smile brightened half of his face. One corner of his mouth stubbornly pointed downwards. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Vigdís! How lovely to see you. Forgive me if I don’t get up. Sit yourself down!’

Emil’s voice was slurred. Vigdís knew he had had a heart attack, but he had clearly suffered a stroke as well. She couldn’t help wondering what effect it had had on his brain. On his memory.

‘Can I get you some coffee?’ Linda asked.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, sitting on a chair next to Emil. ‘What a lovely farm you have here!’

Emil snorted. ‘It used to belong to Linda’s parents. Unfortunately we have been unable to keep it up, what with only my pension. We sold the farmland and the yard to some people from Reykjavík, but we managed to keep the house.’

That explained the difference between the well-kept yard and the run-down farmhouse.

‘How are you doing, Vigdís? Are you still in the Violent Crimes Unit? Or has it been reorganized again?’

Vigdís exchanged some departmental gossip with Emil, who said that the only policeman from Reykjavík whom he saw these days was Snorri — the Commissioner and a friend from his younger days. Emil asked about Magnus, and Vigdís told him he was back in Iceland.

‘Are you here on official business?’ Emil asked.

‘Semi-official,’ said Vigdís. ‘Do you remember a cop called Tryggvi Thór? Tryggvi Thór Gröndal?’

‘I certainly do,’ Emil said. ‘We worked together when I was at Hverfisgata. A good man. What about him? He went off to Africa, didn’t he? Is he back in Iceland?’

‘Yes, he is. He was the subject of an assault last week at his house in Álftanes. And then again a few days ago. He was quite badly beaten up.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Have you any idea who did it?’

‘No. He doesn’t want us to pursue it. In fact he claims the second assault was just a fall.’

‘I take it I’m not a suspect?’ he said with a lop-sided grin.

‘No,’ said Vigdís. ‘But we are trying to find out why he left the police force.’

Emil frowned and fiddled with one of the flaps of loose skin hanging around his neck. ‘Have you tried looking in his file?’

‘Yes. There is virtually nothing in it.’

Emil nodded and then closed his eyes. Vigdís waited. Just as she was beginning to fear that Emil had fallen asleep, his eyelids twitched open.

‘Hence your description of your business as “semi-official”?’

‘That’s right.’ Vigdís waited. ‘You said Tryggvi Thór was a “good man”. That’s a strange way to describe a corrupt cop.’

‘I never could believe Tryggvi Thór was a corrupt cop.’

‘So what happened?’

Linda came in with coffee and some little cakes. She sensed the tension in the room. ‘Are you all right, dear?’ she said.

‘Oh yes, yes,’ said Emil.

‘Don’t tire him out,’ Linda said to Vigdís, before retreating to the kitchen.

‘It was a long time ago,’ Emil said. ‘Tryggvi Thór was investigating a suspected case of fraud at an insurance company. He was just in the early stages. He said he had an inside source and he went to meet the guy by the Pearl.’ This was a prominent hot-water tower that overlooked the city from a wooded hill. ‘The guy gave him the information in a thick envelope bound with a couple of metres of strong packing tape. Tryggvi Thór tried to open it, but couldn’t. As he was struggling with it, he was arrested by two policemen.’

‘Arrested? Why?’

‘They had a tip-off it was a bribe. And sure enough, inside was half a million krónur in cash.’

‘That sounds like a set-up to me,’ said Vigdís.

‘It certainly does,’ said Emil. ‘That’s what Tryggvi Thór said and that’s what I think. But of course it depends how you tell the story.’

‘It should have been easy to check. Talk to the whistle-blower. Look for evidence of fraud at the company. Didn’t anyone do that?’