‘Well, Snorri was angry with Bjorn and had him outlawed so he had to leave Iceland.’
‘That was then,’ Hallgrimur said. ‘My father couldn’t have got your father outlawed. That doesn’t happen any more.’
Benedikt ignored him. ‘A few years later Bjorn returned to Breidavik and went back to seeing Thuridur. This time Snorri sent a slave to kill Bjorn, but Bjorn caught the slave and had him killed instead. There was a big battle between the families of Bjorn and Snorri on the ice below Helgafell. In the end Bjorn left Iceland of his own accord. He ended up in America with the Skraelings.’
‘Perhaps your father should have gone to America,’ said Hallgrimur.
Benedikt turned away from the altar to look straight at Hallgrimur. ‘Perhaps Bjorn should have killed Snorri.’
Friday, 18 September 2009
Magnus carried the two cups of coffee from the counter and sat down opposite Sigurbjorg. They were in a cafe on Borgartun. He had called her early, catching her just as she arrived in her office, and she had agreed to see him for a few minutes before the working day began in earnest.
He had woken up at four-thirty thinking about what Sigurbjorg had told him back in April, and had been unable to get back to sleep. Denial wasn’t going to work. He had heard what he had heard and he was going to have to make sense of it. The sooner the better.
The cafe was busy with office workers loading up on caffeine, mostly to go, so there were a few seats available.
‘I’m glad you called,’ said Sibba in English. ‘I didn’t think you would.’
‘Neither did I,’ said Magnus. ‘It was kinda weird seeing you yesterday.’
‘OBG is a good client of our firm’s, as you can imagine. Do you want to ask me about Oskar Gunnarsson? That might be tricky.’
‘No, no.’ Magnus took a deep breath. ‘I wanted to talk about our family.’
‘I wondered,’ said Sibba. ‘Have you seen any of them since you’ve been here?’
‘Only you that once.’
‘I can understand why you would want to avoid them, especially after the way Grandpa treated you last time you were here.’
Magnus had summoned up the courage to travel back to Iceland when he was twenty, just after his father died. He had hoped to achieve some kind of reconciliation with his mother’s family. It hadn’t worked: the trip was as painful as he had feared.
‘Have you been up to Bjarnarhofn recently?’ Magnus asked.
‘Yes. I took my husband and the kids to stay in Stykkisholmur for a few days in July with Uncle Ingvar. He’s a doctor at the hospital there. But we visited Grandpa and Grandma a few times.’
‘How are they?’
‘Very good, considering their age. They both still have all their marbles. And Grandpa still potters about on the farm.’
‘But Uncle Kolbeinn does most of the work?’
‘Oh, yes. And he lives in the farmhouse. Grandpa and Grandma have moved into one of the smaller houses.’
Bjarnarhofn was made up of a number of buildings: barns, three houses and of course the little church down towards the fjord.
‘Has he changed much?’
‘No. He’s pretty much set in his ways.’
‘The old bastard,’ Magnus muttered.
Sibba looked sympathetic. ‘You didn’t enjoy your time at Bjarnarhofn, eh?’
‘No. You were lucky growing up in Canada, away from them.’
‘I remember visiting when I was a child,’ Sibba said. ‘In fact, I remember staying at Bjarnarhofn when you and Oli were there. You were both very quiet. Like you were scared of Grandpa.’
‘We were. Especially Oli.’ Magnus winced. ‘It’s still difficult to think about it now. You know Oli and I never talked about it after we went to America? It’s like the whole four-year period was blanked out of our minds.’
‘Until I came along?’ Sibba said. ‘I’m sorry. I should never have told you about your father and the other woman. It just didn’t occur to me that you wouldn’t know, it’s all that the rest of the family ever talked about. But of course I was older than you: you and Oli were just little kids.’
‘I’m glad you did, Sibba. In fact, that’s what I want to ask you about.’
‘Are you sure?’ Sibba said.
‘Yes.’ Magnus nodded. ‘I need to find out what happened in my parents’ lives. It’s been nagging at me ever since Dad was murdered.’
Sibba’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with
‘I doubt it. But I’m a cop, I like to ask questions until I get answers. You are the only member of the family I think I could talk to. Grandpa has turned the others pretty much against me.’
Hallgrimur, Magnus’s grandfather, had three sons and a daughter: Vilhjalmur the eldest, who had emigrated to Canada in his twenties, Kolbeinn, Ingvar and Margret, Magnus’s mother. Sibba was Vilhjalmur’s daughter who had grown up and been educated in Canada, but had moved to Iceland after university, gone to law school and then on to a career as a lawyer in Reykjavik. Magnus had always liked her the most of his mother’s family.
She looked at Magnus closely. ‘So, fire away. I’m not sure how much I can help you.’
Magnus sipped his coffee. ‘Do you know who the other woman was?’
‘I did, but… no… I forget her name,’ Sibba winced, struggling to remember. She shook her head. ‘No. It will come to me. She was Aunt Margret’s best friend from school. She lived in Stykkisholmur. They both went to teacher training school in Reykjavik.’
‘Was she teaching at the same school as Mom?’
‘No idea.’
‘Did you ever meet her?’
‘No. But I heard about her. I could ask my father, if you like?’
‘That would be great. But do me a favour. Don’t tell him that it was me asking.’
‘OK,’ said Sibba, reluctantly. She checked her watch. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve got a meeting in five minutes.’
She stood up and kissed Magnus on the cheek. It was a nice gesture. Magnus was short of family in Iceland: there were none left on his father’s side. This was the closest he got.
‘Are you
Magnus nodded. Ingileif was right. ‘I’m sure.’
Bjorn rode his bike the short distance from Seltjarnarnes down to the harbour. Harpa had left early for the bakery, dropping Markus off with her mother on the way. Bjorn had told Harpa he was going back to Grundarfjordur to join a trawler that was going out for a couple of days. He had an hour or two to kill, so he went down to his favourite place in Reykjavik.
He parked his bike and strolled along the quayside. There were not many boats around: a large Russian trawler, and a couple from the Westman Islands, plus a few much smaller vessels. The Old Harbour in Reykjavik was of course much larger than Grundarfjordur, but these days it seemed quieter. The concentration of fishing quotas in fewer and fewer hands over the previous twenty-five years meant that there were fewer boats, and those boats that were around spent more time at sea. It was all much more efficient, and Iceland was one of the very few countries in the world whose fishermen made money rather than consuming government subsidies. But this profitability had come at a cost: boats scrapped, fishermen losing their jobs, sometimes whole communities shut down.
Until the
