They studied a folder of notes and maps, most of which were in Dr Ásgrímur’s handwriting, which showed guesses of where the ring might be hidden. There were also notes and letters from Hákon, the pastor. They dealt with various folk tales he had researched. There were several pages on the story of Gissur and the troll sisters of Búrfell, which was a mountain close to Gaukur’s farm at Stöng. There was also a mention of a story about a shep-herd girl named Thorgerd who ran off with an elf.
‘Do you have elves in America?’ Ingileif asked.
‘Not as such,’ said Magnus. ‘We got drug dealers, we got pimps, we got mobsters, we got crooked lawyers, we got investment bankers. No elves. But if we ever do have any problems with elves in the South End, I know right where to come for help. We could do an exchange with the Reykjavík Metropolitan Police.’
‘So you didn’t hear any stories about them when you were a kid?’
‘Oh, yes, especially when I was living with my grandparents in Iceland. My dad was more into sagas than elves and trolls. But I do remember asking him about them.’ Magnus smiled at the memory. ‘I guess I was fourteen. We were hiking in the Adirondacks. That
was my favourite thing, hiking with my dad. My brother wouldn’t come, so it was just me and him. We spoke nothing but Icelandic to each other for a whole week. We talked about everything.
‘I can remember exactly where we were, on the shore of Raquette Lake. We were eating a sandwich sitting on a rock that looked like a troll. Dad told me how the Icelanders would have invented a long involved story about it. Then I asked him whether he believed in elves.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He kind of dodged the question. So I pressed him on it. He was a mathematician, he spent all his life dealing in proofs, there was no proof that elves existed.
‘So he gives me a long lecture about how although there is no proof that elves exist there is equally no absolute proof that they don’t. So science can’t answer the question. He said although he didn’t believe in elves, he was too much of an Icelander to deny their existence, and if I ever lived in Iceland I would understand.’
‘And now you live in Iceland, do you believe in them?’
Magnus laughed. ‘No. What about you?’
‘My grandmother saw hidden people all the time,’ Ingileif said. ‘Back in a rock near the farm where my mother was born. In fact a hidden woman came to her the night before my mother’s birth. They were planning to call Mum Boghildur, but the hidden woman said that unless my grandmother named her Líney the baby would die young. So that’s how my mother became Líney.’
‘Better than Boghildur,’ said Magnus. ‘The hidden woman had taste.’
‘Here, look,’ said Ingileif, pointing to a map with notes and arrows scrawled across it. ‘This is where they were heading for the weekend my father died.’ A cave was marked near a stream about ten kilometres away from the abandoned Viking farm at Stöng.
Ingileif’s cell phone rang. As she answered Magnus could hear an agitated male voice, although he couldn’t hear it well enough to recognize it.
‘That was my brother,’ Ingileif said when the call was over. ‘Apparently the two foreigners who were trying to buy the saga showed up at Neon. An American and an Englishman. They were asking about the ring. Pétur sent them packing.’
‘You’d think they would have the sense to leave all that alone.’
‘That’s certainly Pétur’s opinion,’ said Ingileif. ‘He warned me they’ll be looking for me too. He doesn’t want me to tell them anything.’
‘Will you?’
‘No. And they’re not buying the saga at any price, if we ever do get the chance to sell it. Pétur is adamant about that, and I agree with him.’ She checked her watch. ‘It’s nearly seven o’clock. The pastor should be back by now. Shall we go and check?’
They drove back up to Hruni, but there was no answer when they rang the doorbell. The pastor’s car was still in the garage. They looked up around the hills and the valley to see if they could spot a solitary walker. The sun, lower now, produced a soft, clear light, that seemed to pick out every detail of the landscape, and lit the snow on the distant mountains with a pinkish glow. A pair of ravens whirled in the distance, their croaking borne over the grassland by the breeze. But there was no sign of a human being anywhere.
‘What time does it get dark?’ Magnus asked. ‘Nine-thirty?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ingileif. ‘About that, I guess. It’s getting later and later these days.’
‘Are you hungry?’
Ingileif nodded. ‘I know a place in the village we can get something to eat.’
‘Let’s do that. We can come back here afterwards.’
‘And then drive back to Reykjavík?’
Magnus nodded.
‘We could do that,’ said Ingileif. ‘Or …’ She smiled. Her grey eyes danced under her blonde fringe. She looked delectable.
‘Or what?’
‘Or we could see him in the morning.’
Magnus woke with a start. He was sweating. For a moment he didn’t know where he was. He looked across the room at an unfamiliar window, blue-grey moonlight behind the thin curtains.
A hand touched his forearm.
He turned to see a woman lying in bed next to him. Ingileif.
‘What is it, Magnús?’
‘A dream, that’s all.’
‘A bad dream?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘No, it’s OK.’
‘Magnús, I want to know about your bad dreams.’ She pulled herself up on one elbow, her breasts shadows in the weak light seeping in from the curtains. He could make out a half smile of concern. She touched his cheek.
So he told her. About the dream, the 7-Eleven, O’Malley, the dopehead. And about the alleyway, the garbage cans, the fat bald guy, and the kid, the kid who Williams had said had just died.
She listened. ‘Do you get these dreams a lot?’
‘No,’ Magnus said. ‘Not until very recently. That second shooting.’
‘But they were trying to kill you, weren’t they, those two men?’
‘Oh, yeah. I don’t feel guilty about it at all,’ said Magnus. ‘At least, not while I’m awake.’ He slammed his fist into the mattress. ‘It doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know why I let it bother me.’
‘Hey, you killed someone,’ Ingileif said. ‘You were absolutely right to do it, you had no choice, but you feel bad about it. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t, and you
are
human, even if you think you are a big tough cop. I wouldn’t like you if you weren’t.’
And she snuggled up into his chest. He pulled her tightly to him.
They kissed.
He stirred.
Afterwards she fell right back asleep. But Magnus couldn’t. He lay still, on his back, staring up at the ceiling.
She was right about the dreams, of course. He should expect them, accept them. The idea lulled him.
But then he thought of Colby, hiding out somewhere, God knows where, fearing for her life. Shouldn’t he feel guilty about her?
He glanced over to Ingileif, her eyes closed, breathing gently in and out through half-open lips. Even in the gloom he could make out the nick in her eyebrow.
Colby had made it pretty clear that there was little chance of salvaging their relationship. In fact, a one-night-stand with a beautiful Icelandic girl was a perfectly sensible way to get over her. Much better than getting blind drunk and winding up in jail. Trouble was, looking at Ingileif lying beside him, it didn’t feel like a one-night stand at all. He really liked her.
Really
liked her.
And for some stupid reason that made it a much worse betrayal of Colby.
After driving back from Hruni they had stopped at the only hotel in Flúdir. It turned out to have a very good restaurant. They had eaten a long leisurely dinner, watching the valley of the Hvítá submerge into darkness in front of them. They had walked back to Ingileif’s house along the smaller river that ran through the village, and then they had wound up in Ingileif’s childhood bedroom.
He smiled at the memory.
He was being ridiculous. He had been in Iceland for less than a week, and already he was beginning to understand that the Icelanders had a more casual attitude to sex than he was used to. He was just like, what’s-his-name, the painter, Ingileif’s alibi. Sure she liked him, just like she liked
skyr
or strawberry ice cream. Maybe less.
He had to be careful here. Sleeping with a witness was a definite no-no in America, and somehow he doubted that Baldur would be impressed if he ever found out. And could he be entirely sure that she was innocent?
Of course he could.
But the detective in him, the professional, whispered something else.
T
HIS TIME, THE
pastor of Hruni was in.
He came to the door, an imposing man with a large bushy beard and big black eyebrows. He frowned when he saw Magnus, but his expression changed when his eyes rested on the detective’s companion.
‘Ingileif? Goodness me, I haven’t seen you since your poor mother’s funeral. How are you, my child?’ The pastor’s voice was a pleasant rich baritone.
‘I’m very well,’ said Ingileif.
‘And to what do I owe this pleasure?’
Magnus spoke up. ‘My name is Magnús Ragnarsson and I am attached to the Reykjavík Metropolitan Police. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may. May we come in?’
The pastor pulled together his mighty eyebrows. ‘I was expecting a visit from you,’ he said. ‘I suppose you had better come through.’
Magnus and Ingileif took off their shoes and followed the pastor through a hallway thick with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. He led them into a study, crammed full of books. In addition to a desk, there was a sofa and an armchair covered in worn chintz fabric. Ingileif and Magnus perched next to each other on the sofa, while Hákon took the chair. Magnus was surprised to notice a small collection of CDs tucked among the books, including Pink Floyd, Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin.
No sign of any coffee. Which was pretty rude in Iceland. You
always gave your guests coffee and cakes, especially if you had some brewing.
Hákon addressed Ingileif. ‘I must confess I was expecting another visit from the police. But I don’t understand why you are accompanying them?’
‘Ingileif is concerned about the death of her father,’ Magnus said.
‘Ah, I see,’ said the pastor. ‘It is natural to have questions, especially since you were so young when the tragedy happened. Although I still don’t see why you would want to ask them now. And in the presence of the police.’
‘You know we have your son in custody?’ Magnus said.
‘Yes, I heard it on the radio. You have made a mistake there, young man. A terrible mistake.’ Deep-set eyes glowered at Magnus. Although an imposing man, the Reverend Hákon seemed younger than Magnus imagined. There was some grey around his temples, and some lines along his forehead, but he looked closer to forty than to sixty.
‘He is being interviewed at Police Headquarters in Reykjavík right now,’ said Magnus. ‘And I’m sure that my colleagues will want to talk to you once they have finished speaking with him. But in the meantime, tell me what happened on the trip you and Dr Ásgrímur took the weekend he died.’
The pastor took a deep breath. ‘Well, there was a police investigation of course, and I spoke to them at length. I’m sure you could look up the file. But to answer your question. It was early May. Your father and I had worked throughout the winter on a project.’ He glanced inquiringly at Ingileif.
‘Magnús has read
Gaukur’s Saga
,’ said Ingileif. ‘And he knows that my grandfather claims to have found the ring and hidden it again.’
This information caused the pastor to pause a moment while he collected his thoughts. ‘Well, in that case you know as much as me. Using my knowledge of folklore, together with the clues in the saga, such as they are, we drew up a list of three or four possible
hiding places for Gaukur’s ring. This was our second trip of the season, and it was a glorious day. We didn’t check the weather forecast, although we should have done, of course.
‘A few years before, I had read an old nineteenth-century history of Icelandic folklore, in which I stumbled across a little-known local legend about a ring hidden in a cave guarded by a troll. It was a variation on the old story of a shepherd girl meeting a hidden man or an elf and going off with him, despite the opposition of her family. That theme is quite common in these stories, but the ring was unusual. The location of the cave is identified in the story, so we took a tent and hiked out there.’
Magnus recognized the story of Thorgerd from the pastor’s old notes in the doctor’s papers at Ingileif’s house.
The pastor sighed. ‘It was more of a hole in the rock, really. And there was nothing in it. We were disappointed and we camped about a mile away, by a stream. It snowed in the night – you know, one of those sudden storms you get in May that come out of nowhere – and it was still snowing when we got up. We took down our tent and headed home. The snow thickened, it became difficult to see. Your father was walking a few metres ahead of me. We were both tired, I was just staring at the ground in front of me, one step at a time, when I heard a cry. I looked up and he had disappeared.