Michael Ridpath - Where the Shadows Lie

‘I’m sorry,’ said Magnus. ‘My father died when I was twenty. It’s rough.’

Ingileif smiled quickly. ‘Yes, it is. And although you think you have come to terms with it, you never really do. Especially when something like this happens.’

‘Do you think he was pushed?’ Magnus asked.

‘By Reverend Hakon? You mean, they both found the ring and the pastor pushed my father over the cliff to take it from him?’

Magnus shrugged. ‘You just said it. What do you think?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ingileif said. ‘The pastor and my dad were good friends. My dad had lots of friends, he was good with people, but Reverend Hakon wasn’t. I think Dad was probably the only true friend he really had. After Dad died the pastor sort of withdrew into himself and became really weird. His wife left him a couple of years later. No one in the village blamed her.’

‘Or it could simply be the reaction of someone who had just murdered his best friend,’ said Magnus. ‘I think I should go and see the Reverend Hakon tomorrow.’

‘Can I come?’ Ingileif asked.

Magnus raised his eyebrows.

‘It’s hard to explain,’ Ingileif said. ‘I need to find out what really happened to my father. It was a long time ago and I’ve tried to bottle it all up, but there are so many questions that I don’t have the answers to. Agnar’s murder has brought them all back. I’ve just got to find those answers if I’m going to get on with my life. Do you understand?’

‘Oh, I understand,’ said Magnus. ‘Believe me, I understand. I sometimes think I spend every day trying to answer those kinds of questions about my own father.’

He considered her request. It was certainly not part of the standard investigative procedure to take one witness along to interview another, just to satisfy her curiosity. ‘Yes,’ said Magnus, smiling. ‘That would be fine.’

Ingileif returned his smile. There was a silence that was and was not uncomfortable.

‘Tell me about your father,’ Ingileif said.

Magnus paused. Drank some wine. Glanced at the woman opposite him, her grey eyes warm now. It wasn’t standard investigative procedure. But he told her. About his early childhood, his parents’ separation, his own move to America to join his father. About his stepmother, his father’s murder and his failed attempts to solve it. And then about his recent discovery of his father’s infidelity.

They talked for an hour. Perhaps two hours. They talked a lot about Magnus, and then they talked about Ingileif. They finished the bottle of wine and opened another.

Eventually Magnus got up to leave. ‘So you still want to come with me to Hruni? To see the Reverend Hakon?’

‘I’d like to,’ said Ingileif, with a smile.

‘Good,’ said Magnus, putting on his coat. Then he froze. ‘Wait a minute!’

‘What?’

‘This pastor. This Reverend Hakon. Does he have a son?’

‘Yes. As a matter of fact I saw him only this morning. He’s an old friend of mine.’

‘And what’s his name?’

‘Tomas. Tomas Hakonarson. He’s a TV presenter now. He’s quite famous: you must know him.’

‘Yes,’ said Magnus. ‘As a matter of fact, I do know him.’

The street was cold and damp after the warmth of Ingileif’s flat. There was a light drizzle and a steady fresh breeze pushed the moisture against Magnus’s cheeks.

He knew he should go home, but Ingileif lived not far from the Grand Rokk.

Just one beer.

As he made his way along the higgledy-piggledy little streets, Magnus pulled out his phone. He should call Baldur, tell him that the man he had in custody was the son of the pastor who had accompanied the doctor in his search for the ring seventeen years before.

He didn’t have Baldur’s home number or the number for his cell phone. But if he called the station they could pass on the message.

Screw it. Magnus slipped his phone back in his pocket. It’s not as if Baldur would care. He wouldn’t actually do anything with the information. Magnus would tell him the following day, when he had actually spoken to the Reverend Hakon.

His phone rang. It was Arni.

‘I’ve just arrived in San Francisco,’ he said. ‘I got your message.’ The disappointment flowed unhindered the thousands of miles from California.

‘Sorry about that, Arni. I saw Isildur this morning at the Hotel Borg.’

‘Did he give you some good information?’

‘Yeah, he did. Not that your boss would care.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘He’s made another arrest. Some guy called Tomas Hakonarson.’

‘Not from The Point?’

‘That’s the guy.’

Arni whistled down the phone. ‘So what shall I do now?’

‘I guess you’d better come home. Your plane will probably turn right around and head back to New York. You’d better check they got a seat for you on it.’

‘Oh, shit,’ said Arni. ‘It feels like I’ve been on the plane for days already. I don’t think my body could stand another flight that long.’

Don’t be such a wimp, Magnus thought. But he took pity on his new partner. ‘Or you could just check into a hotel and listen to my message first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘Good idea. I’ll do that. Thanks, Magnus.’

‘No problem.’

‘And Magnus?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Keep at it. Don’t give up. You’ll get there.’

‘Night, Arni.’

As Magnus switched off his phone he thought about Arni’s last comment. He was pleased to be going home. But he didn’t like giving up. He hated the idea that he would leave Iceland with Agnar’s murder unsolved. To be brutally honest, he hated the idea of Baldur solving it just as much. Arni was right, he shouldn’t give up. He was looking forward to going to Hruni the next day with Ingileif. There was her father’s death to explain as well.

There was so much to explain. With a kind of weary inevitability, his mind drifted back to his own father’s death.

He paused outside the Grand Rokk and strode towards the pool of light emanating from the bar. The warmth of the chatter and the alcohol seeped out into the little front yard.

He went in.

Magnus was in a tight spot. He had already wasted three of the bad guys, but there were another two out there, at least. He was packing a Remington shotgun and a three fifty-seven magnum. The docks were dark. He heard a rustle.

He turned, saw a gun poke out from behind a container and loosed off two rounds from the Remington. A figure rolled out on to the tarmac, dead. Two more figures jumped him from close quarters; he shot one and then a message flashed up in the bottom corner of the screen. SHOULDER WOUND. He had to drop the gun. The grinning face of a hoodlum appeared in the screen, followed by the

business end of an MP5. ‘Make my day,’ the guy said and the screen went orange and then black. GAME OVER.

Johnny Yeoh swore and pushed his chair back from the screen. He had been playing Magnus’s career for five hours straight. Kopz Life was his favourite game, and he always called himself Magnus. That guy was just so cool.

Johnny wondered whether he should take the plunge and apply to join the police department for real. He was certainly smart enough. And he thought of himself as good under pressure. Sure, he wasn’t exactly big, but if you packed the right piece, what did that matter?

The buzzer sounded. He checked his watch: half-past midnight. He suddenly realized how hungry he was. He had ordered the pizza forty-five minutes before, although thanks to his total absorption in the game, it felt like only ten.

He buzzed the pizza guy into his building, and a minute later unlocked his apartment door to let him in.

The door slammed open and Johnny found himself pinned up against the wall of his living room, a revolver shoved down his throat. A light brown face with cool eyes stared at him, inches away. Johnny’s own eyes hurt as he crossed them, trying to focus on the gun in his mouth.