Michael Ridpath: Where the Shadows Lie

‘All right,’ said Arni, in Icelandic. He looked disappointed not to be showing off his English skills.

‘Although I have no idea what “the Terminator” is in Icelandic.’

‘ Tortimandinn,’ said Arni. ‘Some people call me that.’ Magnus couldn’t resist a smile. Arni was on the weedy side of wiry. ‘OK, not many, I admit,’ said Arni.

‘Your English is very good.’

‘I studied Criminology in the States,’ Arni replied proudly.

‘Oh. Where?’

‘Kunzelberg College, Indiana. It’s a small school, but it has a very good reputation. You might not have heard of it.’

‘Uh, I can’t say I have,’ said Magnus. ‘So where to next? I’d like to join Baldur for the interview of this Steve Jubb.’

The first thing Magnus noticed was that Steve Jubb wasn’t American. He had some kind of British accent, from Yorkshire, it transpired; Jubb was a truck driver from a town called Wetherby in that county. He was unmarried, living alone. His passport confirmed he was fifty-one.

Magnus and Arni were watching the interview on a computer screen down the hall. All the interview rooms in Reykjavik police headquarters were installed with tape recorders and closed-circuit television.

There were four men in the interview room: Baldur, another detective, a young Icelandic interpreter and a big, broad-shouldered man with a beer belly. He was wearing a denim shirt open over a white T-shirt, black jeans and a baseball cap, under which peeked thin greying hair. A neat little grey beard on his chin. Magnus could just make out the green and red swirls of a tattoo on his forearm. Steve Jubb.

Baldur was a good interviewer, relaxed and confident and more approachable than he had been with Magnus earlier. He even smiled occasionally, an upward twitch of the corners of his lips. He was using the traditional cop’s technique, taking Jubb backwards and forwards through his story. Trying to get him to slip up on the details. But it meant Magnus was able to catch up on what Jubb had done that evening.

The interview was slow and stilted; everything had to be translated back and forth by the interpreter. Arni explained that this wasn’t just because Baldur didn’t speak good English – it was a requirement if anything said in the interview was to be admitted in court.

Jubb had plenty to explain, but he explained it well, at least at first.

His story was that he had met Agnar on a holiday to Iceland the previous year and had arranged to look him up on this trip. He had hired a car, the blue Toyota Yaris, and driven out to Lake Thingvellir. Agnar and he had chatted for a little over an hour and then Jubb had driven straight back to the hotel. The receptionist remembered his return. Since her shift ended at eleven, his timing was corroborated. Jubb hadn’t seen anything or anyone suspicious. Agnar had been friendly and talkative. They had discussed places in Iceland that Jubb should visit.

Jubb confirmed that he had drunk Coca-Cola and his host red wine. He had kept his shoes on in the summer house: his shoe size was ten and a half under the UK measurement system. Jubb wasn’t sure what that was in Continental sizes.

After half an hour of this Baldur left the room and found Magnus. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

‘His story holds up,’ Magnus replied.

‘But he’s hiding something.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘I think so too, but it’s tough to tell from in here, I can’t really see him. Can I speak to him face-to-face? Without the interpreter? I know anything he tells me won’t be admissible, but I might loosen him up. And if he lets something slip, you can zero in on it later.’

Baldur thought for a moment and then nodded.

Magnus wandered into the interview room and took the chair next to Jubb, the one that had been occupied by the interpreter. He leaned back.

‘Hey, Steve, how’s it going?’ Magnus said. ‘You holding up OK?’

Jubb frowned. ‘Who are you?’

‘Magnus Jonson,’ Magnus said. It seemed natural to slip back into his American name when he was speaking English.

‘You’re a bloody Yank.’ Jubb’s Yorkshire accent was strong and direct.

‘Sure am. I’m helping these guys out for a spell.’

Jubb grunted.

‘So, tell me about Agnar.’

Jubb sighed at having to repeat his story yet again. ‘We met a year ago in a bar in Reykjavik. I liked the bloke, so I looked him up when I came back to Iceland.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘This and that. Places to visit in Iceland. He knows the country pretty well.’

‘No, I mean what did you talk about that made you want to see him again? He was a university professor, you’re a truck driver.’ Magnus remembered Jubb’s unmarried status. ‘Are you gay?’ Unlikely, but it might provoke a reaction.

‘Course I’m not bloody gay.’

‘Then what did you talk about?’

Jubb hesitated, then answered. ‘Sagas. He was an expert, I’d always been interested in them. It was one of the reasons I came to Iceland.’

‘Sagas!’ Magnus snorted. ‘Give me a break.’

Jubb shrugged his broad shoulders and folded his arms over his belly. ‘You asked.’

Magnus paused, assessing him. ‘OK, I’m sorry. Which one is your favourite?’

‘The Saga of the Volsungs.’

Magnus raised his eyebrows. ‘Unusual choice.’ The most popular sagas were about the Viking settlers in Iceland during the tenth century, but the Saga of the Volsungs was set in a much earlier period. Although written in Iceland in the thirteenth century, it was a myth about an early Germanic family of kings, the Volsungs, who eventually became the Burgundians: Attila the Hun had a role in the story. It wasn’t one of Magnus’s favourites, but he had read it a few times.

‘OK. So what was the name of the dwarf who was forced to give his gold to Odin and Loki?’ he asked.

Jubb smiled. ‘Andvari.’

‘And Sigurd’s sword?’

‘Gram. And his horse was called Grani.’

Jubb knew his stuff. He might be a truck driver, but he was a well-read man. Not to be underestimated. ‘I like the sagas,’ Magnus said with a smile. ‘My dad used to read them to me. But he was Icelandic. How did you get into them?’

‘My grandfather,’ Jubb said. ‘He studied them at university. He used to tell me the stories when I was a lad. I was hooked. Then I found some of them on tape and I used to play them in the wagon. Still do.’

‘In English?’

‘Obviously.’

‘They are better in Icelandic.’

‘That’s what Agnar said. And I believe him. But it’s too late for me to learn another language now.’ Jubb paused. ‘I’m sorry he’s dead. He was an interesting bloke.’

‘Did you kill him?’ It was a question Magnus had asked all sorts of people during his career. He didn’t expect an honest answer, but often the reaction the question provoked was useful.

‘No,’ said Jubb. ‘Of course I bloody didn’t!’

Magnus studied Steve Jubb. The denial was convincing, and yet… The lorry driver was hiding something.

At that moment the door opened and Baldur burst in, followed by the interpreter. Magnus couldn’t conceal his irritation; he thought he was beginning to get somewhere.

Baldur was clutching some sheets of paper. He sat at the desk and laid them in front of him. He leaned over and turned a switch on a small console by the computer. ‘Interview recommences at eighteen twenty-two,’ he said. And then, in English, staring at Jubb: ‘Who is Isildur?’

Jubb tensed. Both Baldur and Magnus noticed it. Then he forced himself to relax. ‘I’ve no idea. Who is Isildur?’

Magnus asked himself the same question, although he thought the name sounded familiar from somewhere.