Sea of Stone (21 page)

‘I didn’t know Amma had Alzheimer’s.’

‘That’s why I came over,’ said her father. ‘Afi asked me to.’

‘Perhaps I can come up there at the weekend?’

‘I don’t know when the funeral will be,’ her father said. ‘Presumably you could come up for that, eh?’

‘That’s going to be a problem,’ said Sibba. ‘There’s a murder investigation. The police will want to hold the body.’

‘I thought the autopsy was supposed to be today?’

Sibba shuddered. She didn’t want to explain that the body would have to be kept in the morgue in case the defence lawyer demanded further evidence, especially since she was the defence lawyer.

Her father was right. Sibba was in a very awkward position.

The church in Stykkishólmur was seriously weird, like everything else in the country. Large for the small town, and painted white, it reminded Ollie of an ultra-modern reincarnation of some of the churches he had seen in New Mexico. It was isolated, on a rock on the edge of town. No one was about so he went inside. The painting behind the altar creeped him out. It was a massive picture of Mary and Jesus against a bright blue background staring at him. It was like they knew he shouldn’t be in a church.

He went outside and lit a cigarette. He
had
to keep his shit together. He’d figure a way out of this mess; somehow he always did. He just had to keep his head clear and keep talking.

A car pulled up into the lot. Ollie straightened up. The car stopped a few feet away.

‘Hi, Ollie.’ A man got out of the car. ‘I never thought I would see you back in Iceland.’

‘Uncle Villi.’

There was something almost comforting in his uncle’s deep Canadian accent, but Ollie wasn’t comforted.

‘Do you want to talk inside the church?’

‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ said Ollie. ‘Let’s stay out here.’

Villi looked around. There was no one about.

‘Have the police spoken to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘And I think I did OK. Don’t worry; I didn’t mention you at all. In fact, when they interviewed me I don’t think they even knew you were in the country.’

‘Good. I was thinking on the way here, if they check phone records they might know we have been in touch. Just say I am a concerned uncle, OK? Because I am worried about you, Ollie.’

‘That’s nice,’ said Ollie, his voice laced with sarcasm.

Villi turned away from his nephew to look out over the town.

‘Ollie. Now your grandfather is dead, there are only two people who know about your role in your father’s murder, and that’s me and you. Unless you told your brother?’

‘There’s no way I’d tell my brother that,’ said Ollie. ‘He’d freak out. He’d probably kill me.’

‘Good,’ said Villi. ‘I’m not going to talk and I really hope you are not going to talk either. Because if you do, you won’t go to that comfortable jail where they have sent Magnus. You’ll be back in the States in a maximum-security hell. Your life won’t be worth living.’

‘You’ll be there too, Uncle Villi.’

‘Ollie, are you trying to threaten me?’

Ollie tried to hold his uncle’s eyes but he couldn’t. He swallowed, turned away towards the fjord, and took a drag on his cigarette. The damned thing was jumping about in his hand.

Villi sighed. ‘Because actually, if I thought you were going to say anything, I might have to take what they call pre-emptive action.’

Ollie swallowed. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘You know what I mean.’

Ollie did know. His psycho uncle would kill him, that’s what would happen.

‘No need to worry about me, Uncle Villi.’

Villi smiled. ‘Excellent. So, tell me about this schoolteacher. He came to Bjarnarhöfn last night. He seems to think there’s a feud between our family and his.’

‘That is his theory. And he’s not entirely wrong, is he? But he knows nothing about you, I promise.’

‘Keep it that way, eh?’

‘The police have let him go. He went back to Reykjavík last night.’

‘Good.’ Villi turned back towards his car. ‘Now, enjoy your stay in Iceland. If I were you, I would get on a plane home as soon as you possibly can.’

‘Don’t worry, Uncle Villi. I will.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

S
T FRANCIS’S HOSPITAL
in Stykkishólmur was an angular cream-coloured building down by the harbour. It had been founded by the Catholic convent next door, as part of their mission to save backward Protestant Iceland. The hospital was now run by the state, and was really too big for the three doctors and associated staff who worked there.

Adam argued with the receptionist who wanted him to wait until the last patient was seen before he spoke to Dr Ingvar. The patient in question, a stout woman in her sixties, glared at Adam as the detective insisted on priority. When a girl of about sixteen emerged from the consulting room, Adam walked right in.

The first thing that struck Adam about Ingvar was the purple burn mark across one side of his face and his nose. The second was the frown.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

Adam produced his ID. The doctor took it from him and examined it.

‘Keflavík, eh?’ He handed it back. ‘Can’t this wait until I have finished my surgery?’

‘I’m afraid not, Ingvar. I have some questions I must ask you,’ Adam said, lowering himself into the patient’s chair. He was damned if he was going to let this doctor intimidate him. The Dumpling had gone down to Reykjavík, and Adam was pleased that he had been given this interview rather than Björn from Akureyri. He was determined to make the most of it.

He took out his notebook.

‘You should have that mole on your forehead seen to,’ said Ingvar.

Adam’s fingers flew to his brow before he could stop himself. A small misshapen mark had appeared there a year or so before. What did he mean, get it checked? It couldn’t be skin cancer, could it?

‘Please make it quick,’ Ingvar said. ‘I really need to get back to Bjarnarhöfn to see my mother. Aníta says she is deteriorating.’

‘She is,’ said Adam, recovering. ‘I want to speak to you about your father’s finances.’

Ingvar sat back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes?’

‘I understand that you had been helping your father with his investments?’

Ingvar nodded. ‘I had. I think I gave him some very good advice, actually.’

‘From sources at Ódinsbanki?’

Ingvar hesitated. Adam realized the doctor was no dummy; he would know all about the insider trading and market manipulation investigations going on in Reykjavík.

‘I think I have a good general overview of the financial markets. It’s true that I recommended that my father invest in Ódinsbanki. And again that I told him to sell just before the peak.’

‘Very impressive,’ said Adam. ‘And is it also true that you asked him for a loan as a result a few months ago? As an advance on your inheritance?’

‘Where did you get this information?’

‘Just answer the question please.’

Ingvar’s disapproval was obvious. He leaned forward and fixed his eyes on the young detective. ‘Very well. Yes, I did ask my father for a loan. Last August, I think. We have quite a lot of debt: a mortgage on our house here and another on our flat in Paris.’

Adam showed no signs of sympathy. ‘And what did your father say to that?’

‘He said no.’

‘Did this anger you?’

‘Yes, it did.’

‘Would you say that there was tension between yourself and Hallgrímur as a result?’

‘Yes, I would,’ said Ingvar carefully.

Adam examined the doctor. He was cautious, but not nervous. He seemed to be in control. And expecting the next question.

‘As a result of Hallgrímur’s death, can you expect to inherit a significant sum of money?’

Ingvar smiled. ‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No,’ said Ingvar. ‘Does that surprise you? Didn’t your informant tell you that?’

Adam ignored the question. ‘So what will happen to Hallgrímur’s fortune?’

‘He has no fortune,’ said Ingvar. ‘He sold when I told him to. The market fell a bit and one of his old buddies told him it was a good time to get back in. So he did. He bought a lot of bank shares, most of which are now worthless. Oh, he probably has some money, but not enough to bale me out.’

Ingvar shook his head in disgust. ‘
That’s
what really made me angry. Not that he wouldn’t give me a loan. I almost expected that from the old bastard. It was that he had been stupid enough to lose it all. He enjoyed telling me that the inheritance I had been counting on had disappeared. You can check this with my father’s lawyer. And his bank.’

Adam wanted to ask why Ingvar hadn’t told his wife about Hallgrímur’s investment losses, but the question wasn’t important. There were a dozen possible reasons, and he didn’t want to confirm to Ingvar that Gabrielle was the indirect source of his knowledge. But Adam could tell from the way Ingvar was looking at him that he knew.

‘I won’t take up any more of your time.’

‘Good,’ said Ingvar. ‘Now, please ask my next patient to come in.’

Adam felt a bit of a fool as he left the hospital. How was he to know that Hallgrímur had blown his profits? He hadn’t actually
been with Emil when Aníta had informed him of Ingvar’s money problems, but Adam doubted that either she or Ingvar’s wife knew about the old man’s investment losses. He would verify that with Hallgrímur’s bank, but he suspected that Ingvar was telling the truth.

The hospital was only two hundred metres from the harbour. Time to check whether Ingvar really was there working on his boat the previous morning when his father was murdered twenty kilometres away.

Emil had forgotten what a jerk Baldur Jakobsson was. He was in Baldur’s office at police headquarters in Reykjavík, listening to the inspector doing his best to belittle him. Baldur wasn’t being that subtle about it, either.

Emil was older than Baldur, and had been senior to him when Baldur had started in CID, but Baldur now outranked him. Baldur had stayed on in Reykjavík, whereas Emil had moved to Akranes to be near his wife’s family farm. That was why Emil’s career had been put on hold, yet here was Baldur acting like Emil was a failure.

‘So, you haven’t had any support yet from Keflavík?’ Baldur was saying.

‘Actually, they sent me a detective. A guy called Adam. Do you know him?’

‘I’ve met him,’ said Baldur. ‘But not Thorsteinn? I would have thought he would have the right level of experience.’

Thorsteinn was an inspector in Keflavík’s CID. Keflavík had more serious crime than Akranes, so Baldur was right, it would be natural for Thorsteinn to take charge. Except Emil knew he had the confidence of Snorri, his former colleague and the current National Police Commissioner.

‘Not yet,’ Emil said.

‘Soon, I expect,’ said Baldur.

‘We do have a suspect in custody,’ said Emil. ‘One of
your
officers.’

‘Magnús is not my officer. He just has a desk here. He reports directly to the Commissioner’s office.’

‘What’s he like?’ asked Emil. ‘I hear he has been quite successful.’

Baldur didn’t like that. ‘It’s true the team have had some successes over the past year. But it’s a team effort. Like the arrests we made on Saturday. A team effort. And Magnús isn’t really a team player.’

‘No?’

‘No. He likes to do things his way. Sometimes he gets lucky, but just as often he messes up the investigation. You should know something about Magnús.’ Baldur leaned forward conspiratorially.

‘What?’

‘He’s not really an Icelander. Sure, he speaks the language, but he’s a Yank through and through. And a Yank policeman at that.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means he is used to violence. And I mean extreme violence. When he was in Boston he was dealing with violent death all the time. It means he demands to carry a gun, and my guess is if we let him carry one here, he’d use it. It means he doesn’t ask the right people the right questions in the right way. It means he knows all these modern investigative techniques, but he doesn’t know good old-fashioned police work.’

Baldur shook his head in disappointment at the way things had come to pass. ‘He’s here because the Commissioner thinks that Iceland is beginning to suffer the kind of crime that places like Boston experience every day. But you know what? I think that when the police start behaving like Magnús, the criminals will start behaving like gangsters too.’

‘I see,’ said Emil.

‘What I’m saying is that an Icelandic policeman couldn’t possibly commit murder. None of us could. But Magnús comes from a more violent world. To him, murder is different. It’s dayto-day.’

‘So you think he killed his grandfather?’

‘I assume he did, which is why you’ve arrested him,’ said Baldur. ‘What I’m saying is, I’m not surprised.’

Emil felt almost sorry for Magnus. But maybe Baldur had a point. Maybe violent death was less extraordinary to Magnus than it would be to an ordinary Icelander.

‘Do you mind if I question some of the detectives he has been working with? Find out what they have noticed over the last few days?’

‘Not at all. He works with two of them, primarily. One is off duty, but the other is right here in the department.’

Baldur introduced Emil to Árni Holm, and then left them. Emil liked the young detective. He knew of him already – he was Thorkell Holm’s nephew. Thorkell was the chief superintendent in charge of CID, which was no doubt how Árni had got his job in the Violent Crimes Unit. Where Baldur had been disparaging about Magnus, Árni was gushing in his praise. Such innocent, blind loyalty was touching.

Árni took Emil through everything that Magnus had done over the previous week in the investigation involving the Italian tourist killed on the volcano. Emil couldn’t see a link to Hallgrímur’s death, but unless he asked the questions, he wouldn’t know for sure.

‘Did Magnús talk about his family much?’ Emil asked.

‘Not really,’ said Árni. ‘He is quite private. I met his cousin once, a lawyer called Sigurbjörg Vilhjálmsdóttir, and I knew he had spent time with his grandparents in the Snaefells Peninsula. Also his brother from America is staying with him, but I’m sure you know that.’