Michael Ridpath - Where the Shadows Lie

‘I guess so,’ said Diego.

‘Good. Now we take you to hotel and then you go to small airport in centre of city to hire car. There is bus station opposite police headquarters. I suggest you go there to watch.’

Arni was exhausted. It was amazing how sitting in one place for so long could be so tiring. He was very glad to be back in Iceland, although his body clock was completely confused.

He had been really looking forward to interviewing Isildur. He had planned all kinds of clever strategies to prompt him to finger Steve Jubb as the murderer. And he had hoped to see a bit of California – the drive to Trinity County had promised to be spectacular. He might even have got to see some giant redwoods. As it was he hadn’t even made it in to San Francisco, spending the night at an airport Holiday Inn and the following morning organizing the flight back, via Toronto.

He had never been to Canada before. Not impressed.

The only good thing was that he was whipping through The Lord of the Rings. He was on page 657 and going strong. It was a great book. And all the more interesting for having read Gaukur’s Saga.

Keflavik Airport was crowded – all the flights from North America arrived back in Iceland at the same time. Arni ignored his compatriots stocking up at the duty free shop and went straight through immigration and customs. As he came through the door into the main concourse, he spotted a man he recognized, Andrius Juska, stocky with short hair, a foot soldier in one of the Lithuanian gangs that sold amphetamines in Reykjavik. Arni only recognized him because he had tailed him for three days a couple of months before, while he was helping out the Narcotics Squad.

The ‘yellow press’, as Iceland called its popular newspapers, had whipped itself into a bit of a frenzy over Lithuanian drug dealers, seeing them on every street corner. The truth was that the majority of drugs in Iceland were sold by Icelanders. But the Police Commissioner in particular was concerned about the possible future spread of foreign drugs gangs, the main candidates being Scandinavian motorcycle gangs, and the Lithuanians. There was as yet no sign of Latino gangs, or Russians, but the police were all on the lookout for them.

Juska was holding up a welcome sign for a Mr Roberts. Arni slowed his pace to a saunter. As he did so a slim man with light brown skin approached the Lithuanian. From the reticence with which they greeted each other, it was clear that they had never met before.

Arni let his bag slip from his fingers, and then knelt down to pick it up. The two men were speaking English, the Lithuanian’s accent was heavy, the other man’s was American. Not educated American, street American. Arni took a good look. The man was about thirty, wearing a black leather jacket, and he looked as if he could handle himself. He most certainly did not look like your typical American tourist in Iceland.

Interesting.

‘Battle of Evermore’ rang out through the study as Hakon sat in his chair, eyes shut. The ring was on his finger as Led Zeppelin’s music washed over him.

He was excited. The more he thought about it, the clearer he understood his role in the plans of the ring. Sadly, he was not to be the one through which the ring would unleash its power on the world. But he had been chosen as the catalyst by which the ring would escape from a thousand years in the Icelandic wilderness and make its way back into the centre of the world of men.

An important role indeed.

The murder of Agnar, the arrest of Tomas, these were not everyday events. The police were getting closer, but now that did not worry the pastor unduly. It was preordained.

He listened to the haunting mandolin: ‘Waiting for the angels of Avalon’. His thoughts returned to who it was who would be chosen to bear the ring after him. Tomas perhaps? Unlikely, the more he thought of it. Ingileif? No. Although she had always been a strong-willed girl, she was the last person he could imagine being corrupted. The big red-haired detective? Possible. He had an American accent and he exuded an aura of power and capability.

For a moment Hakon wondered whether he should just give the detective the ring. But no, he couldn’t bring himself to do that.

The phone rang. The pastor turned down the music and answered. The conversation didn’t take long.

When he had finished, he glanced again at the ring. Should he replace it in the altar, or should he take it with him?

Events were picking up pace.

He turned off the stereo, grabbed his coat and went out to the garage, the ring still firmly on his finger.

A few kilometres south of Fludir, Magnus and Ingileif came to the mighty Thjorsa. This was the longest river in Iceland, carrying cold green-white water in a torrent from the glaciers in the centre of the country south towards the Atlantic Ocean. They turned left, following the road up the valley towards Gaukur’s old farm of Stong.

The river glistened in the sunlight. On the left, scattered farms and the occasional church nestled in the lee of the crags, many of them still covered in snow. Ahead, to the right, loomed Hekla. That morning the summit was draped with cloud, darker than the white puffs which smattered the rest of the pale sky.

At Ingileif’s direction, Magnus turned off the road and along a dirt track, winding up through the hills and into a small valley. His police-issued Skoda strained to maintain traction: the road was in poor condition and in places very steep. After a bone-rattling eight kilometres they finally came across a small white farm with a red roof nestling in the hillside at the head of its own little valley. Beneath the farm the obligatory lush green home meadow stretched down to a fast-flowing stream. The rest of the grass in the valley lurked brown and lacklustre, where it wasn’t still covered in snow.

Alfabrekka.

‘“How fair the slopes are”,’ Ingileif said.

Magnus smiled as he recognized the quotation from Njals Saga. He finished it: ‘“Fairer than they have ever seemed to me before”.’

As they pulled into the farmyard, a thin, sprightly man in his mid-fifties marched towards them, wearing blue overalls.

‘Good morning!’ he said, smiling broadly, his body almost quivering with the excitement of receiving visitors. ‘How can I help you?’

Bright blue eyes shone out of a pale and wrinkled face. Tufts of grey hair peaked out of his woolly cap.

Ingileif took the lead, introducing herself and Magnus. ‘My father was Dr Asgrimur Hognason. You may remember him. He fell to his death near here in 1992.’

‘Oh, yes, I do remember that, very clearly,’ the farmer said. ‘You have my sympathy, even so many years later. But let’s not stand around out here. Come inside and have some coffee!’

Inside, the farmer’s father and mother greeted them. The father, an impossibly wizened man, stirred himself from a comfortable armchair, while the mother busied herself with coffee and cakes. A stove warmed the living room, which was chock full of Icelandic knick-knacks, including at least four miniature Icelandic flags.

And a giant high-definition television screen. Just to remind them that they were truly in Iceland.

The younger farmer who had greeted them did most of the talking. His name was Adalsteinn. And before they could ask him any questions he told them about his parents, the fact that he himself was single, the fact that the farm had been in the family for generations, and particularly the fact that farming these days was tough, very tough indeed.

The coffee was delicious, as were the cakes.

‘Adalsteinn, perhaps you could tell me what happened the day you found my father?’ Ingileif interrupted.

Adalsteinn launched into a long description of how a frozen pastor had come to the door, and how he and his father had followed the pastor back to the place where Asgrimur had fallen. The doctor was definitely dead and very cold. There were no signs of a struggle or foul play, it was quite clear where he had fallen. The police hadn’t asked any particular questions suggesting they suspected anything other than an accident.