‘She might have been telling the truth about that, but we think she was lying about other stuff,’ said Magnus.
‘What other stuff?’
‘She was very coy about Agnar,’ said Vigdís. ‘My hunch is there was more going on there than she let on.’
‘We’ll go back and talk to her in a couple of days,’ said Magnus. ‘See if her story sticks.’
‘Any progress on Isildur?’ Baldur asked.
‘Yes,’ said Magnus. ‘I found someone calling himself Isildur on a
Lord of the Rings
forum on the Internet. I got hold of his e-mail details and asked a buddy of mine in the States to check him out.’
‘Are you sure it’s the same one?’
‘We can’t be absolutely sure, but it looks highly likely to me. This man is obsessed with magic rings and Icelandic sagas, just like Steve Jubb.’
Baldur grunted.
Magnus went on. ‘His name is Lawrence Feldman and he lives in California. He has two houses, one in Palo Alto and one in Trinity County, which is two hundred and fifty miles north of San Francisco. That’s where the e-mail message came from.’
‘Two houses?’ said Baldur. ‘Do we know if he is wealthy?’
‘He’s loaded.’ Although Johnny hadn’t been able to pull the
police files on Feldman, if indeed there were any, he had found plenty of stuff on the Internet about him. ‘He was one of the founders of a software company in Silicon Valley, 4Portal. The company was sold last year, and each of the founders walked away with forty million bucks. Feldman was only thirty-one. Not bad going.’
‘So he could easily afford an expensive lawyer,’ said Baldur.
‘And a room at the Hótel Borg for Steve Jubb.’
‘OK. We need to get this guy’s police record, if he has one,’ said Baldur. ‘Can you do that?’
‘I could, but it’s probably easier if the request came from the Reykjavík police,’ said Magnus. ‘More official, fewer favours called in.’
‘We’ll organize that,’ said Baldur.
‘But I could go see him,’ Magnus said.
‘In California?’ Baldur looked doubtful.
‘Sure. It would take a day to get there, a day to get back, but I might get him to tell me what he and Jubb are up to.’
Baldur frowned. ‘We don’t know for sure that this is the same Isildur that Steve Jubb is working for. And anyway, he won’t talk. Why should he? Steve Jubb isn’t saying anything, and we have him in custody.’
‘Depends how I ask him.’
Baldur shook his head. ‘It will cost money. I’m not sure I can get authorization for a trip that will probably be a waste of time. Haven’t you heard of the
kreppa?
’
It was impossible to spend more than a few hours in Iceland without hearing about the
kreppa
. ‘Just an economy fare and perhaps one night in a motel,’ Magnus said. He looked at the bodies around the table. ‘You’re putting a whole lot of resource into this investigation. An airplane ticket won’t make much difference.’
Baldur glared at Magnus. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, giving Magnus the distinct impression that he wouldn’t.
‘OK,’ Baldur continued, addressing the group. ‘It looks like someone calling himself Isildur was behind the negotiations with
Agnar. If this Lawrence Feldman was that man, he had the cash to back a significant deal.’
‘But what could they have been negotiating over?’ said Vigdís.
‘Something to do with
The Lord of the Rings
?’ Magnus said. ‘Or the Saga of the Volsungs, maybe. I read it again last night. A magic ring plays an important part in both books. There’s a theory that Tolkien was inspired by the
Volsung Saga
.’
‘All the old copies of the saga will be in the Árni Magnússon Collection at the University of Iceland,’ said Baldur. Árni Magnússon was a Danish-educated antiquarian who travelled around Iceland in the seventeenth century gathering up all the sagas he could find. He transported them to Denmark, but they were returned to Iceland in the 1970s, where they were housed in an institute bearing the great collector’s name. ‘Are you saying Agnar had stolen a copy?’
‘He might have switched it for a facsimile,’ suggested Vigdís.
‘Perhaps,’ said Magnus. ‘Or perhaps he had some wacko theory that he was selling to Isildur. Maybe he was going to do some research for him.’
Baldur frowned and shook his head.
‘It could be narcotics,’ Rannveig said. ‘I know it’s boring, but in Iceland, if it’s an illicit deal, it’s nearly always drugs.’
There was silence for a moment around the table. The assistant prosecutor had a point.
‘Was there anything in Agnar’s papers suggesting what this deal could be?’ Rannveig asked.
‘No, I checked most of them myself,’ Baldur said. ‘Apart from those e-mails on his computer, there is nothing about a deal with Steve Jubb. And the files on his laptop are all work related.’
‘What was he working on?’ Magnus asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean what was he researching when he died?’
‘I’m not sure he was researching anything. He was marking exam papers. And translating a couple of sagas into English and French.’
Magnus leaned forward. ‘Which sagas?’
‘I don’t know,’ Baldur said, defensively. He clearly didn’t appreciate being interrogated in his own meeting. ‘I didn’t read through all his working papers. There are piles of them.’
Magnus restrained himself from pushing the point. He didn’t want to put Baldur’s back up any more than he had to. ‘Can I take a second look? At his working papers, I mean.’
Baldur stared at Magnus, making no attempt to hide his irritation. ‘Of course,’ he said drily. ‘That would be a good use of your time.’
There were two places to look: Agnar’s room at the university, or the summer house. There would be more papers at the university, and it was closer. On the other hand, if Agnar had been working on something relevant to Steve Jubb it was likely to be at the summer house where it would be available for his meeting.
So Árni drove Magnus out to Lake Thingvellir. ‘Do you think Baldur will let you go to California?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. He didn’t seem excited by the idea.’
‘If you do go, can you take me with you?’ Árni glanced at Magnus sitting in the passenger seat and noticed his hesitation. ‘I did my degree in the States so I am familiar with US police procedures. Plus, California is my spiritual home.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know. The Gubernator.’
Magnus shook his head. Árni would be demanding a personal interview with Arnold Schwarzenegger next. Besides, Magnus would rather approach Lawrence Feldman in his own way without his Icelandic puppy at his heels. ‘We’ll see.’
Deflated, Árni drove over the pass beyond Mosfell Heath and down towards the lake. It wasn’t actually raining, but there was a stiff breeze that ruffled the surface. Their approach was watched by a posse of sturdy Icelandic horses from the farm behind the cottages, their long golden forelocks flopping down over their eyes.
Magnus noticed a boy and a girl playing by the shore of the lake – the boy was about eight, the girl much smaller. Again, only the one summer house with the Range Rover was occupied. Agnar’s property was still a crime scene, with yellow tape fluttering in the wind and a police car parked outside, in which sat a solitary constable reading a book.
Crime and Punishment
by one F.M. Dostojevskí, it transpired. Magnus smiled. Cops everywhere liked to read about crime; it wasn’t surprising that the Icelanders had a more literary approach to it than their American counterparts.
The policeman was glad of the company and let Magnus and Árni into the house. It was cold and still. Fingerprint dust covered most of the smooth surfaces, adding to the sense of desolation, and there were chalk marks around the traces of blood on the floor.
Magnus examined the desk: drawers full of papers, most of them printouts from a computer. There was also a low cupboard just to the left of the desk, in which more reams of paper lay.
‘OK, you check out the cabinet, I’ll check out the desk,’ Magnus said, slipping on a pair of white latex gloves.
The first bundle he examined was a French translation of the
Laxdaela Saga
, on which were scribbled comments in French. These only covered the first half of the manuscript. Magnus had learned some French at school, and he guessed that Árni had been correcting or commenting on the work of another translator, probably an Icelandic-speaking Frenchman.
‘What have you got, Árni?’
‘
Gaukur’s Saga
,’ he said. ‘Have you ever heard of it?’
‘No,’ said Magnus. That wasn’t necessarily a surprise. There were dozens of sagas, some well-known, some much less so. ‘Wait a minute. Wasn’t Gaukur the guy who lived at Stöng?’
‘That’s right,’ said Árni. ‘I went there when I was a kid. I was scared out of my wits.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Magnus. ‘My father took me there when I was sixteen. There was something really creepy about that place.’
Stöng was an abandoned farm about twenty kilometres north of
the volcano, Mount Hekla. It had been smothered in ash after a massive eruption some time in the middle ages, and had only been rediscovered in the twentieth century. It lay at the end of a rough track which wound its way through a landscape of blackened destruction: mounds of sand and small outcrops of lava twisted into grotesque shapes. When Magnus read of the apocalypse, he thought of the road to Stöng.
‘Let me take a look.’
Árni handed the manuscript to Magnus. It was about a hundred and twenty crisp, newly printed pages, in English. On the cover were the simple words: ‘Gaukur’s Saga, translated by Agnar Haraldsson’.
Magnus turned the page, scanning the text. On the second page he came upon a word that brought his eyes to an abrupt halt.
Ísildur.
‘Árni, look at this!’ He flicked rapidly through more pages. Ísildur. Ísildur. Ísildur. Ísildur.
The name cropped up several times on each page. Ísildur wasn’t a bit player in this saga, he was a main character.
‘Wow,’ said Árni. ‘Shall we take it back to headquarters to get forensics to look at it?’
‘I’m going to read it,’ Magnus said. ‘Then forensics can take a look.’
So he sat down in a comfortable armchair, and began to read, passing each page carefully to Árni as he finished with it.
Í
SILDUR AND GAUKUR
were two brothers who lived at a farm called Stöng. Ísildur was strong and brave with dark hair. He had a hare lip and some people thought he was ugly. He was a skilled carver of wood. Gaukur, although two years younger than Ísildur, was even stronger. He had fair hair and was very handsome, but he was vain. He was an expert with a battleaxe. Both brothers were honest and popular in the region.
Their father, Trandill, wanted to pay a visit to his uncle in Norway and to go on Viking raids. Their mother had died when the boys were small, so Trandill sent them to a friend, Ellida-Grímur of Tongue, to be fostered. Ellida-Grímur agreed to manage the farm at Stöng in Trandill’s absence. Ellida-Grímur had a son, Ásgrímur, who was the same age as Ísildur. The three boys became fast friends.
Trandill was away for three years, spending the summers raiding and trading in the Baltic and in Ireland, and the winters with his uncle, Earl Gandalf the White, in Norway.
One day a traveller returning to Iceland from Norway arrived at Tongue with a message. Trandill had been killed in a fight with Erlendur, Earl Gandalf’s son. Gandalf was willing to pay the compensation that was due to Trandill’s sons, and to hand over the inheritance if one of the brothers would come to Norway to collect it.
When Ísildur was nineteen, he decided to travel to Norway to visit his great uncle and claim his inheritance. Gandalf and his son
Erlendur welcomed him with great warmth and hospitality. Gandalf said that Erlendur had killed Trandill in self-defence when Trandill had attacked him in a drunken rage. The other men at the court who had witnessed Trandill’s death agreed that this was the case.
Ísildur decided to spend the summer on Viking raids with Erlendur. They went to Courland and Karelia in the East Baltic. Ísildur was a brave warrior and won much booty. After many adventures, he returned to the house of Gandalf a wealthy man.
Ísildur told Gandalf that he wanted to return to Iceland. Gandalf gave Ísildur the compensation he was owed for his father’s death, and also Trandill’s treasure. But the night before Ísildur was due to set sail, Gandalf said he had something else to give him. It was locked in a small chest.
Inside was an ancient ring.
Gandalf explained that Trandill had won the ring on a raid in Frisia when he had fought the famous warrior chieftain, Ulf Leg Lopper. Ulf Leg Lopper was ninety years old, but he appeared to be no older than forty and he was still a fearsome fighter. After a long struggle, Trandill felled him. He saw the ring on Ulf Leg Lopper’s finger and chopped the finger off.
Despite the fact that he was dying, Ulf Leg Lopper smiled. ‘I give you thanks for relieving me of my burden. I found this ring in the River Rhine seventy years ago. I have worn it every day since then. During that time I have won great victories and wealth in battle. Yet although I wear the ring, I feel that the ring owns me. It will bring you great power, but then it will bring you death. And now I can die, in peace at last.’