The conversation was animated but slurred. Arni and Magnus had moved on to whisky, but the women had been drinking wine all night. How many bottles, Magnus had long lost count. Vigdis was quizzing Sharon about what it was like to be a woman in the Metropolitan police, with Arni translating frantically and inaccurately.
‘It’s nice to get away for a night or two,’ Sharon said.
‘Have you got kids?’ Ingileif asked.
‘A couple. My daughter’s at uni, and my son has just left school. No job – says he can’t get one with the recession, which might be true. But he’s been getting into all kinds of trouble recently. He expects me to get him out of it, but I’ve had enough. I don’t know what I did wrong. He was a good kid until three years ago.’
‘And your husband?’
‘Oh, he can’t control him. He just sits at home now, watching golf on tellie all day.’
‘Is he retired?’ Vigdis asked.
‘He used to work in a bank, in the back office. He never got paid very much, and they made him redundant in March. He’s tried to get another job, but he’s too old, they say. Fifty-one. So it’s all down…’ She blinked and swayed alarmingly. ‘It’s all down to me.’
‘Are the police losing their jobs?’ asked Vigdis, in English. ‘They are in Reykjavik.’
Arni translated into slurred Icelandic.
‘No,’ Sharon said. ‘But they are going to screw us on our pensions, I’m sure of that.’ She blinked. ‘Hang on. You
Vigdis glanced at Magnus and Arni. She giggled. ‘Only when I’m drunk.’
Arni translated into Icelandic faithfully. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said in English, looking perplexed.
‘Why don’t you speak English when you are sober?’ Sharon asked.
‘Because everyone expects me to speak English,’ Vigdis said in a strong Icelandic accent. ‘Because I am black nobody believes I am an Icelander.’
‘I had noticed you look a little different from all these others,’ said Sharon. ‘But I didn’t want to say anything.’
Vigdis smiled. ‘Foreigners are OK. It is the Icelanders that are a problem. Some of them think that it doesn’t matter where you were born, what language you speak, unless your ancestors,
‘Let me guess,’ said Sharon. ‘One of yours didn’t.’
‘My father was an American soldier of some kind at Keflavik air base. I never met him. My mother never talks about him. But because of him people don’t believe that I am who I am.’
‘I believe you are an Icelander, Vigdis,’ Sharon said. ‘A very nice Icelander. And a good copper. That’s important, you know.’
‘Have you ever been to America?’ Ingileif asked. They were all speaking English now.
‘Not yet.’ Vigdis tried and failed to suppress a smile.
Ingileif noticed. ‘But?’
‘I’m going next week. Tuesday. To
‘What are you going to see?’ Arni asked.
‘
‘A guy,’ Vigdis admitted.
‘Not an American, surely?’ said Magnus.
‘No, an Icelander,’ said Vigdis. Her smile broadened. ‘He’s the brother of an old friend from Keflavik. He works for a TV company. I met him when he was visiting his family here over the summer.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Piper.
‘How are you going to deal with the language issues?’ Magnus asked.
‘She’ll be OK,’ said Arni. ‘As long as she stays drunk all the time, she can speak English.’
‘I’ll have to think about that,’ said Vigdis. ‘You’re right, it’s an important point of principle.’
A phone chirped from somewhere. Everyone glanced at each other, then Sharon reached into her bag. ‘Hello.’
She listened and straightened up. ‘This is DS Piper,’ she said, carefully. Magnus felt sorry for her. It was always tough getting a call from the station when you had had a few.
‘Yes, Charlie is my son… You are holding him for what?… Tooting police station?… He did what to an officer?… Did you call my husband?… The problem is I’m not in the country at the moment, I’m in Iceland… If I were you I would lock him up and throw away the key.’ She hung up.
‘Trouble at home?’ asked Ingileif.
‘Charlie is in trouble again. He thinks he can rely on me to bail him out, literally. But not this time. This time he’s going to get what’s coming to him.’ She leaned back into the bench and closed her eyes.
Her phone rang again. She ignored it. ‘Is she asleep?’ said Ingileif.
Magnus picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’
‘Can I speak to my mum?’ It was a young male voice.
‘She’s kinda busy right now,’ said Magnus, glancing at the woman lolling opposite him.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ the voice shouted. ‘Are you shagging my mum? I want to speak to her!’
‘One moment.’ He put his hand over his phone. ‘Sharon? It’s your son.’
Sharon opened her eyes. ‘You know what? Tell him I’ll talk to him in the morning.’ She closed her eyes again.
‘Night, night, Charlie,’ Magnus said. ‘Sleep well.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
May 1940
THE SUN WAS shining over Olafsvik as Benedikt rode Skjona out of the town back towards Hraun. He had been representing his family at his cousin Thorgils’s confirmation – his mother couldn’t afford to spend the time away from the farm.
The talk in Olafsvik had been all about the invasion of Iceland the previous week by the British. Opinion was divided. Some people thought it was better to be invaded by the British than the Germans. Others saw no reason why Iceland couldn’t be left alone, they had no part in a war fought on a continent a thousand kilometres away. But everyone was hoping for a boom to match that of the Kaiser’s war. Fish, wool and lamb prices were already rising, and people thought that with the British around, Icelandic exports would be protected.
Of course no one had actually seen a British soldier. They were all two hundred kilometres away in Reykjavik. Benedikt smiled to himself. He could imagine Hallgrimur preparing himself to fight off any British invaders that tried to cross the lava field to Bjarnarhofn.
Hallgrimur and Benedikt, now aged sixteen and fourteen, barely spoke any more. They were polite to each other, especially in front of others from their respective families, but they had stopped playing together that winter. Gunnar, Hallgrimur’s father, was a frequent visitor to Hraun. He was a good neighbour to Benedikt’s mother, in particular helping fix things around the farm. He was careful to teach Benedikt while he worked. Benedikt hated these times. He knew that there were a lot of important skills he could learn from Gunnar, but he could not bear to treat his neighbour like a helpful uncle.
He preferred talking to Hallgrimur’s mother, but she was much less often seen at Hraun.
Benedikt rode Skjona down to the beach, and set off at a gallop. Horse and rider thrilled as they splashed through the surf and the black sand. A few kilometres in front of them rose Buland’s Head, a massive shoulder of rock and grass that jutted out into the sea. A broad cloud draped the top of the mountain, and seemed to be slipping down towards the water.
Benedikt rode back to the road and the bridge over the River Froda. This was where Thuridur had lived, the beautiful woman whom Bjorn of Breidavik had wooed a thousand years before. The same Bjorn who had defied the great chieftain Snorri, and who had ended up in America amongst the Skraelings.
But Benedikt’s father hadn’t escaped. He was still lying at the bottom of Swine Lake, or at least his bones were.
