Michael Ridpath - Where the Shadows Lie

*

As Magnus returned to his desk, Arni was waiting for him, looking excited.

‘What is it? Did Ingileif’s fingerprints match?’

‘No. But I’ve heard back from Australia.’

‘The Elvish expert?’

Arni handed Magnus a printout of an e-mail.

Dear Detective Holm,

I have been able to translate most of the two messages you sent me. They are in Quenya, the most popular of Tolkien’s languages. The translations are as follows:

1. I am meeting Haraldsson tomorrow. Should I insist on seeing the story?

2. Saw Haraldsson. He has (??). He wanted much more money. 5 million. We need to talk.

Note – I could not find a translation for the word ‘kallisarvoinen’, which I have marked (??).

It has been a pleasure to find that my knowledge of Quenya has finally been of practical assistance to someone!

Kind Regards

Barry Fletcher

Senior Lecturer

School of Languages and Linguistics

University of New South Wales

‘Well, the first message is pretty clear. The second was sent at eleven p.m., the night of the murder, right?’ Magnus said.

‘That’s right. As soon as Jubb got back to the hotel having seen Agnar.’

‘No wonder he needed to talk, if he had just pushed a dead body into the lake.’

‘I wonder what the kallisar- whatever-it-is word means?’ Arni asked.

Magnus pondered it for a moment. ‘Manuscript? “He has the manuscript.” That would make sense.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Arni.

‘What do you mean?’

‘That doesn’t sound right to me. It sounds as if Agnar has something else. Something he wants more money for. That Jubb wants to speak to Isildur to discuss whether he should pay for it.’

Magnus sighed. His patience was running low. ‘Arni! We know Agnar died that night. This message explains he was holding out for a lot more money. So Jubb killed him and he needed to speak to the boss once he had done it. Simple. Happens in drug deals back home all the time. Now, let’s show this to Baldur. He’s going to want to discuss this with Jubb.’

Arni followed Magnus to Baldur’s office. It didn’t seem quite that simple to him, but Arni was used to being wrong on police matters. He had learned the important thing was not to make too much of a fuss over his mistakes, and not to let them get him down.

Vigdis drove up the winding road to Hruni. It had taken her nearly two hours to get there from Reykjavik; a long way to go just to tick off a name on a list. But Baldur had insisted that every appointment in Agnar’s diary should be investigated, and so now it was time to check the mysterious entry Hruni.

She passed two or three cars coming the other way, and then she rounded a bend and came upon the valley in which Hruni nestled. As Rannveig had said there was nothing there apart from a church and a rectory beneath a crag. And a view over the meadows to distant mountains.

The Sunday service must just have finished. There were three cars parked on the gravel apron in front of the church. Two of them drew away as Vigdis came to a stop. In front of the church two figures, one very large, one very small, were in deep discussion. The pastor of Hruni and one of his parishioners.

Vigdis hung back until the conversation had finished and the old lady, her cheeks flushed, hobbled rapidly to her small car and drove off.

The pastor turned towards Vigdis. He was a big block of a man, with a thick beard and dark hair flecked with grey. For a moment she felt a flash of fear at his sheer size and power, but she was re-assured by the clerical collar around his neck. Bushy eyebrows rose. Vigdis was used to that.

‘Vigdis Audarsdottir, Reykjavik Metropolitan Police,’ she said.

‘Really?’ said the man in a deep voice.

Vigdis sighed and took out her identification. The pastor examined it carefully.

‘May I have a word with you?’ she asked.

‘Of course,’ said the pastor. ‘Come into the house.’ He led Vigdis into the rectory through to a study cluttered with books and working papers. ‘Please sit down. Would you like a cup of coffee, my child?’

‘I’m not a child,’ said Vigdis. ‘I’m a police officer. But yes, thank you.’

She moved a pile of yellowing journals off the seat of a sofa and on to the floor. As she waited for the pastor to return, she examined his study. Open volumes sprawled over a large desk and books lined the walls. Any bare patches were adorned with old prints of various scenes from Icelandic history: a man on the back of a seal or a whale in the sea; a church tumbling down, no doubt Hruni itself; and three or four etchings of Mount Hekla erupting.

Through the window Vigdis could see the modern-day church of Hruni, red and white, spick and span, nestled among ancient gravestones and scrappy trees.

The pastor returned with two cups of coffee, and lowered himself into an old chintz armchair. It creaked with his weight. ‘Now, how can I help you, my dear?’ His voice was deep and he was smiling, but his eyes, deep-set and dark, challenged her.

‘We are investigating the death of Professor Agnar Haraldsson. He was murdered on Thursday.’

‘I read about it in the papers.’

‘We understand that Agnar visited Hruni quite recently.’ Vigdis checked her notes. ‘The twentieth. Last Monday. Did he come to see you?’

‘He did. It was in the afternoon, I think.’

‘Did you know Agnar?’

‘No, not at all. That was the first time I had met him.’

‘And what did he want to discuss with you?’

‘Saemundur the Learned.’

Vigdis recognized the name, although history had not been her strongest subject at school. Saemundur was a famous medieval historian and writer. Come to think of it, it was Saemundur who was on the back of the seal in the print on the wall of the study.

‘What about Saemundur the Learned?’

The pastor didn’t answer for a moment. His dark eyes assessed Vigdis. She began to feel uncomfortable. This wasn’t the usual discomfort she felt when Icelanders stared at her as a black woman, that she was used to. This was something else. She was beginning to wish that she had brought a colleague to accompany her.

But Vigdis had been glared at by all kinds of unsavoury characters before. She wasn’t going to let a mere priest disconcert her.

‘Do you believe in God, my child?’

Vigdis was surprised by the question, but was determined not to show it. ‘That has no relevance to this inquiry,’ she said. She didn’t want to cede control of the interview to this man.

The pastor chuckled. ‘I’m always amazed by how officials always avoid that simple question. It’s almost as if they are ashamed to admit they do. Or perhaps they are ashamed to admit they don’t. Which is it in your case?’

‘I’m a police officer. I am asking the questions,’ Vigdis said.

‘You’re right, it’s not directly relevant. But my next question is this. Do you believe in the devil, Vigdis?’

Despite herself, Vigdis answered. ‘No.’

‘That surprises me. I thought your people would be comfortable with the idea of the devil.’

‘I think if there is part of me that is superstitious, it’s the Icelandic half,’ said Vigdis.

The pastor laughed, a deep rich rumble. ‘That’s probably true. But it’s not superstition, or at least it’s more than that. The way people believe is different in Iceland than in other countries, it has to be. We can see good and evil, power and peace in the country-side all around us. Not just see it, we hear it, smell it, feel it. There is nothing quite like the beauty of the midday sun reflecting off a glacier, or the peace of a fjord at dawn. But as a people we have also experienced the terror of volcanic eruption and earthquake, the fear of becoming lost in a winter blizzard, the bleak emptiness of the lava deserts. You can smell the sulphur in this country.