But not necessarily in Iceland, it seemed.
They crossed the street, back to the car.
‘What now?’ asked Gimli.
‘Do you know much about electronic surveillance, Axel?’ Isildur asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Listening devices. Bugging phones, that kind of thing.’
‘That’s illegal,’ said Axel.
‘So is jaywalking, and we just did it. All that matters is that you don’t get caught.’
‘Actually, jaywalking isn’t illegal in Iceland,’ Axel said.
‘Whatever,’ said Isildur. ‘I want to know what that woman knows. And if she’s not going to tell us, we’re going to have to figure it out for ourselves.’
‘I guess so,’ said Axel.
‘There’s obviously a risk attached to it. Which means you deserve to get paid extra. For the risk.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Arni drove back to his apartment. He was dog tired, too tired really to drive. He almost ploughed into the back of a van that stopped suddenly at a light.
His mind drifted over the case and what Magnus had told him. There was something that wasn’t quite right, something nagging at his brain. It wasn’t until he was actually in his apartment and making himself a cup of coffee that he realized what it was.
Oh, God. He’d made another mistake.
He was so tempted just to forget about it, crawl into bed, trust to Magnus and Baldur to figure everything out for themselves.
But he couldn’t. He had some people to talk to. And he had to talk to them right away. If he was lucky, he would be proved wrong. He probably was wrong after all, he usually was. But he had to check.
He needed caffeine first. As soon as he had finished his coffee he grabbed his jacket and headed back out to his car.
Diego was not happy.
He had spent the bulk of the day knocking around the Hlemmur bus station, directly opposite police headquarters. He hadn’t seen Magnus go in or out of the building. But then he didn’t know for sure that Magnus wasn’t in there, because in addition to the two entrances at the front, he was pretty sure there was an entrance in back, where the parking lot was.
Plus he stuck out like a sore thumb. This country was so goddamned white. Not Caucasian, not creamy brown, but honest-to-goodness white. The people were so blonde their hair was almost white as well. No sign of a tan anywhere, and certainly not any brown skin.
Diego was used to blending in. If you thought about it, you would probably say he looked Hispanic, but he could have been Arabic or Turkish or even Italian with a tan, or a mixture of all of the above. In any American city he fit right in. Even when he had offed that stockbroker in the cute little town on Cape Cod, he hadn’t really turned heads. There were people that looked like him in every community in the US.
But not here.
Where were the goddamn Eskimos? They had black hair and brown faces. But they sure as hell didn’t live in this country.
This was stupid. He evaluated his options. He had called the police headquarters to ask if a Magnus Jonson worked there. He did, in the traffic department. But Diego was pretty sure that wasn’t the Jonson he was looking for.
So what was the next step? He could just walk in and ask if there was an American cop working at the station. He guessed that was the kind of thing that would have gotten around; if the guy he talked to didn’t know the answer he could probably find it out easily enough. Problem was, Jonson would hear someone had been asking about him. Diego didn’t want to tip off the target.
He could go back to the Lithuanians. He knew they had been paid well by Soto to help him out. He understood that in a small place like this they wanted to make sure that they weren’t associated with the hit, but surely they could put him in touch with a third party that could help him? A PI or a crooked lawyer. Someone who spoke Icelandic. Someone who was whitey-white.
He didn’t have much time. Jonson could be on a plane back to the States at any moment. Once there it would be easy for the Feds to keep him safe for the few days until the trial.
He was sitting in the coffee shop at the station, on his fifth or sixth cup, his eyes flicking between the two front entrances.
A big guy came out. A big guy with red hair.
That was him!
Diego left the half-empty cup of coffee and almost skipped out of the bus station.
To work.
Magnus headed up the hill towards the Grand Rokk. It was eight-thirty and he had the impression he wasn’t needed at the station any more that evening.
Baldur had been furious. Any positive thoughts he had held earlier about Magnus had been dispelled. Why hadn’t Magnus called Baldur as soon as he realized that Hakon was Tomas’s father? Why hadn’t he stayed with Hakon at Hruni and waited for reinforcements to arrest the pastor?
Why had he let Hakon get away?
While the rest of the Violent Crimes unit ran around like idiots, Magnus was left standing around with nothing to do. So he left.
The barman recognised him and poured him a large Thule. A couple of the regulars said hello. But he wasn’t in the mood for chat, however friendly. He took his beer to a stool in the corner of the bar and drank it.
Baldur had a point, of course. The reason that Magnus had waited until he returned to Reykjavik before telling him what Hakon had said was hardly noble. It was so that he and not Baldur would crack Tomas’s story.
Which he had done. He had solved the case. Discovered not only who had killed Agnar, but also what had happened to Ingileif’s father. The moment of victory had been sweet, but it had only lasted an hour.
There was a chance that Hakon had just driven out on an errand and he would be back in an hour or so. Or that he would be caught by the police. He was an easy guy to spot, it was a small country, or at least the inhabited parts of it were. Magnus wondered whether Hakon would hide in the backcountry, like the outlaws in the sagas, living on berries while he dodged the law.
A possibility.
There was no doubt about it, Magnus had screwed up.
At least that meant that the National Police Commissioner wouldn’t demand that he stay in Iceland for the full two years that he had originally expected. They would be glad to be rid of him next week.
And he would be glad to go.
Wouldn’t he?
It was true what he had said to Ingileif, the memories of his early life in Iceland were painful, made more so by the chance meeting with his cousin. And clearly things were not going well with Baldur. But there were things he liked about his brief time in Iceland. He did have an affinity with the country. More than that – it was a loyalty, a sense of duty. The pride that Icelanders felt for their homeland, their determination to work their butts off to make the place function, was infectious.
The Commissioner’s idea to recruit someone like Magnus wasn’t a bad one. The police officers he had met were smart, honest, hard working. They were good guys, even Baldur. They just lacked experience in big-city crime and that was something he knew he could help them with.
And then there was Ingileif.
He had no desire to go back to Colby, and he was quite sure that she had no desire to go back to him.
But Ingileif.
He had really screwed that up. She had a point, their relationship was more than a quick roll in the hay. How much more, Magnus didn’t know, and neither did she, but that didn’t matter, he shouldn’t have made it matter.
