Michael Ridpath - Where the Shadows Lie

Mordor. Where the shadows lie.

A large black bird swooped down and alighted on a fence post only feet from the car. It opened its beak and croaked accusingly. It cocked its head on one side and seemed to be staring right at Feldman with one eye. A raven. The damn bird was weirding him out.

Feldman had elected to remain in the car, while Kristjan Gylfason, the lawyer he had hired to represent Gimli, had gone into the prison to fetch him. The stories the big red-haired policeman with the flaw-less American accent had told Feldman about the prison still unsettled him.

A man emerged from a nearby building. He was a big guy, six-foot six, with long fair hair, a beard and a barrel chest, wearing blue overalls, and he was coming right towards the Mercedes. One of those depraved shepherds Feldman had heard about, no doubt. Feldman reached for the door lock, and was relieved to hear the comforting electronic clicks as he depressed it. The guy in the over-alls caught sight of him in the car, gave him a curt nod and a wave, and climbed into a Toyota pick-up.

At last he saw the smooth besuited figure of Kristjan emerge from the prison entrance, accompanied by a big man in a blue tracksuit, his stomach protruding in front of him. Feldman reached over, unlocked the door and pushed it open.

‘Gimli!’

Gimli flopped into the back seat with a grunt. ‘How you doin’?’ he said.

Feldman hesitated. This was the first time he had ever met Gimli in the flesh, but he felt he knew him so well. He was overcome with emotion. He leaned forward clumsily to give him a hug.

Gimli sat still. ‘Steady on, mate,’ he said. He had a pronounced Yorkshire accent.

Feldman broke away.

‘How was it?’ Feldman asked. ‘In there? Was it really bad?’

‘It were all right. Food’s OK. Mind you, the telly in this country is crap.’

‘What about the other prisoners? Did they treat you OK?’

‘Didn’t talk to them,’ Gimli said. ‘I kept meself to meself.’

‘That was wise,’ said Feldman. He looked closely at Gimli, trying to figure out if he was lying. Feldman would understand if he didn’t want to be too specific about his prison experiences.

Gimli shifted uncomfortably under Feldman’s stare. ‘Thanks for your help, Lawrence. With Kristjan and everything.’

‘Not at all. And please call me Isildur. I’ll call you Gimli.’

Gimli turned towards Feldman, raised an eyebrow and shrugged. ‘Fair enough. I didn’t tell them anything, you know. Although they seemed to have figured a lot of it out theirselves. They found out about the saga, and the ring, for instance, but it weren’t me what told them.’

‘Of course not,’ said Feldman, instantly guilty about how much he had told the police under much less pressure.

Kristjan started the car and drove out of the prison grounds and back towards Reykjavik. Feldman was glad to get out of there. He glanced at his companion. Jubb was bigger than he imagined: because of his nickname Feldman had assumed someone shorter. But this Gimli shared a tough solidity with his namesake from Middle Earth. A good partner.

‘You know, Gimli, we might have missed Gaukur’s Saga, but we could still find the ring. Do you want to help me?’

‘After all that’s happened here?’ Gimli asked.

‘Of course, I’d understand if you didn’t,’ said Feldman. ‘But if we found it, we could share it. Split custody of it. Seventy-five, twenty-five.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean you get to keep it twenty-five per cent of the time. Three months in every year.’

Gimli stared out of the window at the brown plain. He nodded. ‘Well, I’ve gone through so much, I may as well get something from it.’

‘Deal?’ Feldman held out his hand.

Gimli shook it. ‘How do we start?’

‘Did Agnar give you any indication at all where the ring might be?’

‘No. But he was pretty confident he could get his hands on it. Like he knew where it was.’

‘Excellent. Now, when the police questioned you, did they ask you about anyone in particular?’

‘Yes, they did. A brother and sister. Peter and Ingi-something Asgrimsson. I’m pretty sure they must be the ones who were selling the saga.’

‘All right. All we have to do is find them. Kristjan? Can you help us?’

‘I haven’t been listening to your conversation,’ said the lawyer.

‘We need to track down a couple of people. Can you help?’

‘I don’t think that would be wise,’ said Kristjan. ‘If I need to defend you in the future, the less I know the better.’

‘I get it. Then can you recommend a good investigator? Someone who is willing to bend the rules a bit to find out what we need?’

‘The kind of investigators we use would never do that kind of thing,’ Kristjan said.

Feldman frowned.

‘So who would you not recommend, then?’ asked Steve Jubb. ‘You know, who should we steer clear of?’

‘There’s a man called Axel Bjarnason,’ said Kristjan. ‘He’s well known to stray on the wrong side of the law. I would stay well clear of him. You’ll find his name in the phone book. Under “A”, we list people under first names in this country.’

It took Magnus a while to requisition a car for the journey to Hruni, and it wasn’t until after lunch before he rolled up outside the gallery on Skolavordustigur to pick up Ingileif. It would take a little less than two hours to get to Hruni, but there should be time to get there, speak to the pastor and return to Reykjavik that evening.

She was wearing jeans and an anorak, her blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She looked good. She also looked pleased to see him.

They drove out of Reykjavik under a broad dark cloud, the suburbs of Grafarvogur and Breidholt, a lesser grey, stretching out beside them. As they climbed up the pass to the south-east, lava and cloud converged, until suddenly they crested the final rise and a broad flood plain sparkled in the sunshine beneath them. The plain was scattered with knolls and tiny settlements, and bisected by a broad river, which ran down to the sea, through the town of Selfoss. Closer by, steam rose in tall plumes from the boreholes of a geothermal power station. Immediately below were the vegetable greenhouses of Hveragerdi, heated by spouts of hot water shooting up from the centre of the earth. There was a touch of sulphur in the air, even inside the car.

A thin band of white edged the black cloud hovering above them. Ahead, the sky was a pale, faultless blue.

‘Tell me about Tomas,’ Magnus said.

‘I’ve known him for about as long as I can remember,’ Ingileif said. ‘We went to elementary school together in Fludir. His parents separated when he was about fourteen, and he moved with his mother to Hella. He’s totally different to his father, a bit of a joker, charming in his way, although I never found him attractive. Quite smart. But his father was always disappointed in him.’

She paused as Magnus manoeuvred around a particularly steep bend down the hill, swerving slightly to avoid a truck coming up the other way.

‘We drive on the right in this country,’ Ingileif said.

‘I know. We do in the States too.’

‘It’s just you seem to prefer the middle of the road.’

Magnus took no notice. He was in perfect control of the car.

‘Tomas bummed around after university for a bit,’ Ingileif continued. ‘Then did some journalism and suddenly fell into this show he does: The Point. He’s perfect for it. The producer who spotted him must be a genius.’

‘When was that?’

‘A couple of years ago. I think it’s gone to his head a bit. Tomas always liked to drink, do drugs, but his parties have the reputation for being pretty wild.’

‘Have you been to any?’