Edge of Nowhere (4 page)

‘Hi!’ It was Eyrún. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Just about finished for the evening.’

‘Are you staying at the guesthouse?’

‘I am. I’m just going there now.’

‘Do you want to join us for dinner?’ Eyrún asked.

‘I’d love to,’ said Magnus.

‘OK. Bring your bag and I’ll drop you at the guesthouse afterwards.’

It wasn’t far to Eyrún’s house, and the Mayor talked the whole way. Magnus recognised the road. They pulled up into the small driveway of a neat white concrete house with a lime green corrugated metal roof.

‘Do you know Arnór?’ he asked. ‘Arnór Hafsteinsson, the fisherman? He lives just over there.’ He pointed to a smaller house two doors down on the other side of the street. Lights were blazing inside.

‘Yes I know him. And his family. He’s your prime suspect, I suppose?’

‘He didn’t like Gústi very much.’

‘He certainly didn’t,’ said Eyrún. ‘But he’s a good man. His girls babysit for us.’

‘You didn’t happen to see him this morning, did you, about six-thirty?’

‘No. I left very early to go to a meeting in Patreksfjördur. My husband might have done. He often takes the dog out about then.’

She led Magnus to her front door and opened it. ‘Hi!’ she yelled.

‘Mama!’ came the answering cry, and much scampering of feet as two children, a boy and a smaller girl cannoned into her, quickly followed by a black Labrador. She fussed over them and introduced them to Magnus. The boy was called Pétur, and was aged seven, the girl, Lára, was four and the dog was called Prins. The girl in particular was angelic, with curly hair so fair it was almost white, bright blue eyes and a wide smile. Clearly her mother’s daughter.

Magnus became aware of a presence further down the hallway. The kids let go of their mother and stood still. Eyrún’s smile changed down a gear from joy to something else. Compassion perhaps. Or impatience. Or both. Even the dog’s tail stopped wagging.

‘This is my husband, Davíd.’

Magnus held out his hand to the dark-haired man with a scrappy beard who was staring at him. He was lean with a square jaw and high cheekbones. His eyebrows were knitted together in a twisted furrow in the shape of a question mark, which gave him a pained expression. An uncomfortable couple of seconds passed before he took Magnus’s hand and shook it briefly.

‘Darling, this is Sergeant Magnús, the detective from Reykjavík I told you about. I’ve invited him to dinner.’

‘Good, good,’ said Davíd.

‘You didn’t happen to see Arnór this morning when you were taking Prins for a walk, did you?’ Eyrún asked.

‘Yes,’ said the man.

Magnus smiled encouragingly at him. ‘Oh, good. What time was that?’

‘About six-twenty. He was loading up his pickup truck. When I came back ten minutes later he was still at it.’

‘Are you sure of the time?’ Magnus asked.

‘Quite sure.’ He turned on his heel and disappeared into a room off the hallway and shut the door.

‘Yes, well,’ said Eyrún, clearly a little embarrassed by her husband’s brusqueness. ‘That would make sense. Davíd has a routine – he takes the dog out for ten minutes about the same time every day. So he probably did get the time right.’

‘That’s very useful,’ said Magnus. Very useful indeed. It meant there was no chance that Arnór was two kilometres away starting a rock fall.

‘Come through and join me in the kitchen,’ said Eyrún. ‘It’s only spaghetti, I’m afraid. Would you like some wine?’

Magnus sat at the dining table while Eyrún poured out two glasses of red wine and busied herself at the stove. While on the outside the house looked like any other in Bolungarvík, inside it was furnished in the ultra cool minimalist fashion of the most stylish houses in the capital. The furniture looked Danish and expensive, and Magnus recognized an abstract seascape at least six-foot wide that adorned one white wall. Magnus’s former girlfriend had run a gallery in Reykjavík, until she had disappeared to Hamburg a couple of months before, and although hers wasn’t Magnus’s world, some of it had sunk in.

‘Do you think Gústi was murdered? Couldn’t it just have been an accident?’

‘It could have been,’ said Magnus. ‘But we found some objects at the scene, buried under the rocks.’

‘What kind of objects?’

‘A stuffed toy. A lamp. Some money.’

‘Strange,’ said Eyrún. ‘What were they doing there?’

‘Could have been bait,’ said Magnus. ‘Or possibly some weird gift for the hidden people. Either way, Gústi went over to take a look.’

‘And started the landslide?’

‘Or had it started for him,’ said Magnus.

Eyrún shuddered. ‘Speaking of the hidden people, I saw you talking to Rós.’

‘Yes,’ said Magnus. ‘She had a lot to say.’

‘Some people in the village listen to her, but I think she’s a fraud,’ said Eyrún. ‘Or she might be kidding herself, as well as everyone else. There was an old lady who lived here called Sigga who people were convinced was a seer. You know, could see into the future?’

‘And could talk to the hidden people?’

‘That too. She died about a year ago. She was a sweet old woman, and everyone treated her with enormous respect. I think Rós saw herself as her disciple. She claims that Sigga taught her things. Personally, I doubt it. All the dreams about the hidden people started just after Sigga died: I put them down to attention seeking. Although the construction equipment really did break down. It drove the company nuts.’

‘Well, I was very polite to her,’ said Magnus. ‘With luck she’ll leave the investigation alone now.’

‘It was she who insisted on that apology ceremony on Sunday. She somehow managed to get the pastor involved. I had to be there, as Mayor. You know Gústi tried to ruin it? Drove a digger right into the crowd. I had to persuade him to leave. Gústi didn’t have much time for Rós or the hidden people.’

‘I bet he didn’t,’ said Magnus.

Eyrún shouted to her husband and children and they all gathered around the dinner table. She chatted to her children about school and nursery and Magnus talked basketball with Pétur. Throughout all this, her husband ate silently at one end of the table, the question mark etched permanently into his brow. Eyrún and the kids ignored him, although Magnus was very aware of his presence.

Eventually, Eyrún let the children leave the table and poured Magnus and herself another glass of wine. Her husband wasn’t drinking.

‘Nice kids,’ said Magnus to Davíd.

Davíd grunted in response.

‘Thank you,’ said Eyrún. ‘They seem to have adjusted pretty well to life in Bolungarvík.’

‘And you?’ Magnus asked.

Eyrún glanced at her husband, who didn’t respond. ‘It’s been harder than we expected. Summer was great: there are some gorgeous places around here, and we are well out of the rat race. But the winter is difficult. And the wind blows in from the Atlantic, it never stops. You think the weather in Reykjavík is bad, you should try Bolungarvík. What about you? Tómas called you the “Yankee detective”. Do I detect an American accent?’

Magnus knew that he had established a bit of a reputation for himself in his eight months attached to the Icelandic police force, but he hadn’t realised it had reached as far as Bolungarvík.

‘I hope not,’ said Magnus. ‘I’m working on losing it. Yeah, I was born in Reykjavík, but I’ve lived in Boston for a while. And I do find it difficult to adjust to Iceland. On the one hand I feel that I am finally back in my home country, on the other I feel like a foreigner. Everyone seems to know each other, they all have their in-jokes. Maybe I am more of an American than I realised.’

‘Why did you go to America in the first place? Followed your parents?’

‘My father. He was a university lecturer in mathematics and he got offered a job in Boston. At first, I stayed here with my mother and grandparents. When she died, my brother and I went over to join my dad in America.’

Magnus found himself talking about the difficulties of being an Icelandic adolescent in an American high school, how speaking Icelandic with his father and reading the sagas were the only link to his home country. Then he told Eyrún about his father’s murder in a small town on Boston’s south shore and his determined but unsuccessful efforts to solve the crime when the police couldn’t. How he had joined the Boston Police Department as a result, rather than going to law school.

Eyrún was a good listener. She refilled the wine glasses, emptying the bottle. Although Magnus glanced at her husband at first, who was listening impassively, he soon forgot he was there. Magnus was relaxing in the company of an elegant, beautiful woman in this little piece of über cool Reykjavík.

‘Will you please stop flirting with my wife?’

Magnus turned, shocked by the interruption, to see Davíd staring at him. His brow was twisted, his eyes shining.

‘Davíd!’ Eyrún exclaimed.

Magnus felt a flash of anger, but he controlled it. This guy was clearly not stable. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said simply. ‘I didn’t mean to flirt. We were having a nice conversation, that’s all.’

‘I can see the way you are looking at her. I’m no fool. And Eyrún, why are you encouraging him?’

‘I’m not encouraging him!’ Eyrún snapped. Then, with a visible effort, she softened her voice. ‘Look, darling, Magnus is our guest. We should make him feel at home.’

‘I know how you want to make him feel at home.’

Eyrún reddened, but held her tongue.

Magnus pulled himself to his feet. He wanted to slug the guy. He wanted to slug him real bad.

A humourless smile had crept across Davíd’s face. Magnus turned to Eyrún.

‘Don’t Magnús,’ she said.

‘Why don’t you?’ said Davíd. ‘Go into a man’s home. Drink his wine. Flirt with his wife. And then attack him.’

A little voice of reason whispered to Magnus that beating up the Mayor’s spouse was not a good career move, no matter if he explicitly asked for it.

‘Thank you for a lovely dinner, Eyrún,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll be going now.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Eyrún.

‘Sure. Go right ahead,’ said Davíd.

‘Just to the door,’ said Eyrún.

‘Are you going to be OK?’ asked Magnus as she gave him his coat in the hallway.

‘Oh, he won’t touch me,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry about that. I should never have asked you. Davíd has been particularly bad these last couple of days.’

‘Is he sick?’ Magnus asked.

‘I think so,’ said Eyrún. ‘And I’m glad you realise it. He would never have done that a year ago. Even six months ago. I hoped leaving Reykjavík would help him. He used to work in a bank, but then he had a breakdown during the
kreppa
. He said he wanted to go somewhere quiet and this seemed the perfect place. And it was until a couple of months ago. Jealousy is his most recent thing, he doesn’t seem to be able to get it out of his mind. Which is absurd in a place like this.’

‘Can you take him to see someone?’

‘Out here? You must be kidding. But it’s a good idea; I’m beginning to think we should return to Reykjavík, but I’d feel really bad abandoning this job. And of course, it’s terrible for the children.’ She touched his sleeve. ‘Thanks for being so understanding. I shouldn’t have exposed you to all this. Look, I’m sorry I can’t give you a lift to the guesthouse, but I’d better stay here.’

‘I understand. And thanks for dinner.’

‘Not at all. I enjoyed it,’ she said. She smiled. ‘It was nice to talk to someone.’

The cold air bit into Magnus’s cheeks as he stepped out into the street. Bolungarvík at nine o’clock in the evening was dead. The wind had diminished to a stiff breeze, but not before it had ripped away the clouds overhead, revealing a clear night sky splattered with a million stars.

Magnus decided to walk through the town rather than go straight to his guesthouse. Icicles dangled from the corrugated eaves of the houses. He headed for the church on a low hill just on the edge of the village, threading his way through the soft pools of yellow thrown down by the street lights on to the snow. A traffic light blinked green, yellow and red, unnoticed by any passing car.

He felt sorry for Eyrún. No doubt a year or two ago she and her husband had appeared the perfect couple living the Icelandic dream: two high-paying jobs, lots of stylish stuff in a stylish house in Reykjavík, two beautiful kids. And now they were trapped in their own private hell. He could imagine how moving out of the fast city had seemed like a good idea, but it had clearly been a mistake.

Had it been a similar mistake for him to move to Iceland? He had enjoyed being a homicide detective in Boston. Over there, there were real murders, and they came thick and fast. And Magnus had relished clearing them up. He was good at it too. He smiled as he imagined what his old boss at the Homicide Unit, Deputy Superintendent Williams, would have thought of him chasing elves through the darkness and the snow. They would have loved that back in Schroeder Plaza, he wouldn’t have heard the end of it.

He still had the problem of what the hell to tell Baldur: whether to declare this a full murder investigation. He really didn’t want to get that call wrong. If he summoned reinforcements from Ísafjördur and Reykjavík and Gústi’s death turned out to be no more than an accident, he would look a total idiot. In an absurd way, the talk of elves and hidden people had raised the stakes. The bear and the lamp were suspicious, but he wasn’t convinced of Arnór as a suspect. He would sleep on it, ask some more questions and decide the following morning.